Grinding the faces of the poor

At the tennis lunch yesterday, there was a small baby sitting on the terrace of Auberge Provencal in Plascassier. Its mother asked me wind it, but I thought that was a bit harsh so I gave it a dead leg instead.

The MOGS (mustachioed old gits) in the form of my good self and the wingco, extended our unbeaten tennis run, destroying all before us in the world of crusties tennis in Valbonne. MOG mania cannot now be far away.

Over the victory lunch, where once again Mr Clipboard took advantage of my generous nature by failing to pay his share of the bill, discussion ranged over the events at his soiree the night before. I had forgotten that the police arrived at around 11.30, due, I am certain, to the wingco’s bellowing laugh, much in evidence when laughing at his own jokes. I do not recall the police joining in with the laughter however.

Mr Clipboard, from his lofty perch supported by an education at Wellington and a successful career as a builder, although he prefers the term “developer”, enjoyed the building boom of the 1990’s where he first learned how to grind the faces of the poor. These deeply instilled traits, exacerbated by a sadly misplaced sense of superiority, are clearly much in evidence, and he is now becoming well-known as someone who only pays his gambling debts when it cannot be avoided. He also took great delight, earlier this week, in further grinding the faces of the poor (me) by intercepting my tip, left for hard-working waiters and waitresses at lunch, on the grounds that service is included. I suppose back at that grandiose public school, he probably treated his fag with the same lack of humility.

Perhaps it is the fact that my own career has been marked by my widely renowned very careful attention to the financial basics that upsets him so. In the minds of the public schoolboy fraternity, and especially Mr Hindle, Mr Clipboard and the wingco, this marks me out as a “barrow boy”. Some may believe that this description bestows upon me unworthy praise, indeed John Otway once described me in print as his “personal banker and loan shark” and it is true to say that I did have a little sideline going, aged 17, which stirred my entrepreneurial juices, allowing me to take a cut from work undertaken by my friends, including the said Mr Otway, before he found fame and, well infamy rather than fortune.

So the class war rumbles on, those of us who were born with plastic spoons in our mouths must eek out a living, close to the bread line, whilst rather garrulous builders live the high life on the proceeds of the hard work of the poor.

It is a good idea, when buying new tennis balls, not to leave them unattended in the garden

My picture today was taken just before Max, the faithful old family retainer, took to the swimming pool to fetch a tennis ball. As a confirmed non swimmer myself, it appears that I pay for the pool as a private swimming facility for the dogs, and although Banjo, the heinous hound is banned from the pool as he is far too smelly, it is as if he does not understand plain English.

So after the tennis triumph of yesterday, I am looking forward to the golfing triumph which awaits me this morning at Le Provencal Golf Course, where once again I shall attempt to remove some of those ill-gotten gains from the pockets of Mr Clipboard, and will be keeping an eye on any tip I may decide to leave after lunch.

Chris France