Fathers day not recognised

As it was Mothers day again yesterday, which seems to be celebrated on different dates in UK and France, it was decided, why not celebrate both dates? That was the conclusion reached by a democratic vote (1-0) after a big night out in Cannes on Saturday evening.

For Fathers Day though, there appears to be some confusion; when I suggest to that nice lady decorator that there should be some “perks” in the bedroom department on Fathers Day, I was told that the English Fathers Day had already passed, and that she did not recognize the french version, and not to be so silly.

But first, Bloody Mary’s were necessary  after the previous evening revelry, and were taken on the beach at the Majestic Barriere Hotel in Cannes, and were a mere snip at 21 Euros each (about £17 at today’s exchange rates). The setting was however some recompense as my picture below of the nice crudities they provided as well, I hope, illustrates.

First of the customary 5 a day

So after a big night out, and Bloody Mary’s to start the day, what next? To the Cafe Marche des Fluers in Cannes of course for some rose in the sunshine. This is the Sunday morning fruit and vegetable market which also has the most buzzing wine bar in the town, where we meet Bruno the caterer who regaled us with tall stories about catering for Russian oligarchs and the great and the good around Cannes. He introduces his catering friend who is a French comedian and also has a company called, and I jest not  Sex and The kitchen.

Sexandthekitchen is a catering company, based in Cannes which I think would be better named sexinthekitchen, but maybe it is me getting it wrong? After all there is the old saying about the way to a mans heart is through the his stomach. Sex and food pretty much does it for me. Of course any mention here of that nice lady decorator is too dangerous even for me to contemplate. She does not read this column at the moment, but one can never be sure about the future.

So having successfully avoided almost all contact with the boy racers down the road at the Monaco Grand Prix, we took the train home and then got sticky in the web bar until after sundown. However later my daughter texted to say that her and some friends who had been invited to the naked politicians’ apartment in the Principality to watch the Grand Prix on TV with the apartment doors open to get the atmosphere, had, with a mixture of climbing through windows and over terraces, managed somehow to gain access to the drivers area and had been happily ‘chilling with drivers” as she put it.

This caused that nice lady decorator to begin to reminisce about her earlier days when she had managed to gain entrance to gigs by Dr Feelgood and Mott The Hoople, in one case by impersonating a journalist that was on the guest list, and only being discovered when being invited by the manager to meet the band for an interview. A number of lurid details began to emerge of her relationships with some of the great and good of rock ‘n roll in those days, which seemed like a good cue to head to bed.

Today, I must get up almost before I had gone to bed in order to deposit my first-born (that I am aware of) oo the other side of Valbonne as he has secured some gainful employment. Thus particular activity is still something of a rarity after losing his gardening job due to “playing Jeddai Warriors with lawn rakes”. That’s my boy.

Chris France