Laying in tripe

In yesterday’s column, I wondered if Peachy Butterfield had laid in enough tripe for dinner on the boat in Cannes, and I would have said that by the look of beach shorts and the colour of him by last evening he looked like he had literally laid in it, however that nice lady decorator, who spent some of her youth up north assures me that tripe is white.

Yesterday was an epic day on board a 25 metre super yacht, especially chosen by Peachy for his 50th Birthday because it has patio doors, thereby betraying his northern roots. It is owned by the naked political figure whom I have previously featured, but whom I am prohibited from naming, and was enhanced by a load of northerners who were clearly excited by the prospect of sunshine and free drinks and food all day.

I have a deal with this unnamed political figure (who lived up to this epithet by streaking naked right around the guests for a bet) that I will not name him, in return for which I expect to receive regular invites to enjoy a day out on his boat, so Mr X, you have my contact details, so please ensure that the invites continue. I do hate the word bribery, and could not possibly ever countenance its use, however, at certain times in one’s life one has to give and take a little, and I am sure this will be properly understood in the world of politics. After all, I have the pictures, and a column to write that if it does not read well, is at least well read.

During the day, various topics were discussed; for instance it was noted that the north of England has waterways that the northerners considered were as good as, and had all the facilities offered by the French Riviera. Whilst it is rather touching that these unsophisticated but generous natured folk feel the need to defend any suggestion that their land is a desolate, damp tundra-strewn wilderness, I pointed out that the temperature of Lake Windermere was barely ever above freezing, even in mid summer, and that by way of contrast the Mediterranean was perfect for swimming naked, as had been illustrated earlier by the birthday boy, and rather inevitably, by the yacht owning secret politician who yesterday both had a skinny dip under the baleful eyes of the Cannes Film Festival police launch, that was keeping an eye on us. I asked if any of them had actually swum anywhere up north, but initially no one could recall actually swimming in the Lake District, although one of our happy group knew there are some swimming baths in Crewe.

I met a very friendly gynecologist who inadvertently offered more material for this column. He claimed at one stage that there are no trees in the north because they have burnt them all for fuel, and was rather upset that he was precluded from wearing his clogs on deck.

I have so many pictures from yesterday that I am spoilt for choice, but have plumped (the operative word) for this one which somehow seems to capture the spirit of the birthday celebrations.

Anyone remember Captain Pugwash? and especially Roger the cabin boy? and what is that mystery hand doing?

By way of contrast we also had a token Welsh Lady on board, in fact there were a great many very attractive girls on board, which, given the picture above depicted the typical standard of male physiques on board, was astounding, and perhaps is an indication that girls from up north like a bit of rough. Hailing from Anglesey, Alex, for that is her name, claims that Great Britain, is an island off the coast of Angelsey.

Of course, with such an unsophisticated clientele, there was not much scope to extol the virtues of opening an account with Currencies Direct, as they do not recognise or accept barter deals, and I imagine would have no use for whippets, pigeons, black pudding and whatever other products that contribute to the northern economy.

Chris France