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Barking? well he is Welsh

September 25, 2011

He said “Good Morning” and then proceeded to show me on the golf course why it wasn’t. Chris Bark Jones was his name and I think it says a great deal. I had been chosen to captain a team at the International Club Of The Riviera annual golf tournament at an impossibly early hour yesterday morning and was given a team that included him. Charming man that he was, he is still Welsh and always will be and with something close to barking in his name, well, need I go further? A lumberjack working through the day with a chainsaw probably inflicted less damage to the forest around the Victoria Golf Course that Mr Barking, who, by his own admission had a bad day, and by the end of the round I swear that every tree within a hundred metres was ducking when he got to his back swing. The reason for my chagrin? I had made what turned out to be an unwise wager with the captain Australian captain of another team, who rather conveniently for an Australian was called Bruce (aren’t they all?), unwise in that I had failed to consider the possibility of captaining a team with, shall we say, unrealised potential. This meant that I had to buy drinks for them, which, as regular readers will realise, is not something that I enjoy doing. The situation was rescued a little later when I managed to persuade Bruce to become a customer of Currencies Direct, so clearly the expense will be admissible as a justifiable expense to set against my tax liability? I shall talk to my accountant on Monday.

A good lunch did much to restore good humour, until Mr Barking managed to distract me and steal a full carafe of wine from under my nose. I jest of course, it was a thoroughly good morning and a wonderful lunch marshalled by George the Curry, but sadly without a curry dish in sight.

My picture today was taken when camping in Bluebell the camper at Castellane last weekend. I retain a glowering resentment against Banjo, the hapless hound that the nice lady decorator foisted upon our household (and with my money to pay for him I seem to recall) last year. He is a thief, disobedient, smelly and dribbly and I am only happy when he is in prison when we are away for a few days. Imagine then my distress when walking around this pretty town when she drew my attention to the mangy mongrel in this picture and suggested that I should be kind to Banjo and perhaps we should buy him a pram too. I am certain it was a deliberate attempt to wind me up and do you know what? it worked.

I wonder if the little chap is comfortable?

Today we are off to Peachy Butterfield’s in Valbonne for lunch. He is renowned for ability to barbecue anything, particularly such northern delicacies as  road kill. I think I will suggest that the little chap above might be better dealt with in this gruff northern fashion. This event is only one for people with strong stomachs. I have already seen the smoke rising from the vicinity of their house and suspect that he is even now building up the pyre for whatever northern delicacy awaits us. Can you make sausages out of ferrets and pigeons? if so, then I have a shrewd idea that we may be the lucky recipients of something similar this afternoon. You shall have a full report in this column tomorrow, before I trot off for a mornings work in Antibes.

Chris France

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