Otway: “clown prince of rock n roll”

Flashbacks from Sunday are still arriving. At my age it is normal not to remember events, which were stunningly important at the time, and which only re-enter the conscious mind a few days later. In I think my unconscious mind was trying to erase the image of Peachy Butterfield in speedos from the memory banks, but the discovery of several empty bottles of Sparkly Staffordshire in the corner he made his own by the bar, brought the terrible memories flooding back.

Then there was the story about the girl whom the naked politician thought was a hooker and whom he chatted up in a in a bar in Monaco, and who he next met a few days later in her job as a senior executive with a  reputable wealth management branch of an international bank shortly afterwards.  I wonder if he regretted anything he said?

I see my old pal John Otway was described yesterday in the Telegraph on-line as the “Crown prince of rock n roll”, a fitting tribute to the author of “Rock n rolls Greatest Failure”, a book I must point out, in which I am seriously libelled. He is famous for signing almost every piece of merchandise he has ever produced, to the point where an unsigned piece is a collector’s item. Here he is last May signing another book and thereby destroying any intrinsic collectible value.

Otway reduces the value of another piece of merchandise

Talking of journalistic achievements, my new happy Mondays blog for angloinfo was published yesterday but they found the need to edit it rather furiously. Apparently the phrase “they all deserve to die” when referring to loony local motorcyclists is not the kind of language they want me to use despite agreeing with the general thrust of the rant.

Tomorrow I must venture out to find a new fan belt for Terrance the Tractor whose belt has stretched. I am in much the same position myself having lost around three kilos last week with that bug, but my attempts to feed myself up into the superb shape (in my opinion) have met with some resistance from that nice lady decorator, who clearly favours my new “wasted” look. ( I can almost hear Peter Lynn sharpening his pen to make a comment on that statement).

Mr Clipboard is arriving one week hence, but that is not too early to start receiving logistical questions, such as am I available between 9.30 and 11.15 next Tuesday?”, I don’t know that yet, it  is next week, miles away. Ask me what I am doing this afternoon and I am not certain. However, I know he will keep on until he gets a decision so I just say yes.

On Wednesday I must journey to Villefranche sur Mer on important business for Currencies Direct, which I promise I will not plug today, then on Friday, the day of the Monaco Royal Wedding, when it is apparently forbidden for any Monegasque office to open on that day, only shops, we have dragged hard-working (in Monaco) former Friend In France joint supremo Janie Ritchie out for lunch in Antibes. Do not expect it to be a short or reserved one. The last time that nice lady decorator was out with her was in London in the spring, and after 7 large gins and tonic each, several bottles of wine and nightcaps, an international incident was narrowly averted, although I am sworn to secrecy as to its nature.

I almost avoided having a drink last night, but with sunset approaching and with lips dry and brittle from the searing sunshine (this bit just for you chaps marooned back in the fetid UK at the moment) I confess I weakened when asked if I should like a beer.

Chris France