The idle rich at play if I remember correctly

When one is at play amongst the idle rich of Valbonne, and of a certain age, one can ask forgiveness for less than 100% recall. That is my position and I am sticking to it. Thus the pictures that I discovered on my phone this morning may or may not have been taken by me. It is not that I deny taking them, it’s just that I cannot damn well remember.

That I recall retiring to the Wingco’s terrace on Monday, after lunch at the Auberge St Donat, to drink brandy and listen to him play accompanying guitar to some obscure Mississippi blues artist at considerable volume cannot be denied as I reported on it yesterday, but I cannot remember taking the pictures on my phone of him being joined by the naked politician.  There are other photos that I cannot show here which fall into the same bracket.

The wingco and the naked politician get on down

I am all for the pursuit of knowledge, even knowledge of the weird and wonderful customs that are prevalent in the frozen wind-swept desolation that epitomises the north of England. Mr Peachy Butterfield is unfortunate enough to have to return periodically from his dream existence in the South of France to look after his investments in property nestling in the moribund tundra that exists north of Birmingham. His property empire, consisting as it does of several houses in various states of construction represents a considerable portfolio running to perhaps as much as several hundred pound in value. Food production up there must be very difficult (although from the size of the man mountain one would hardly believe it) and techniques to sustain food production have clearly required considerable development to survive the harsh weather that is the norm in this deeply uncivilised northern outpost. Thus expressions such as to “puddle your collies” have entered into the daily vocabulary of these hardy folk. It seems that this expression means to water ones cauliflowers, although it is often used colloquially as a euphemism for going to the loo. Sayings of this nature according to Peachy are widespread and apparently known as “allotment slang”.

This got me to thinking about what other expressions one could come up with in the same vein; what about “to tickle your tripe” or “strumpet your pigeons”? maybe “frolic you ferrets”? I would hesitate to use the expression whacking my whippets, but can we be sure this phrase does not exist?

By the time you are reading this, I shall have been on the road most of the night, heading for Mike Lorimer’s financial seminar in the deepest Var at the St Endreol Golf Club. To go to a golf club and not play is anathema to me, rubbing salt in the would that is work, but the happy smiles and tears of joy exuded by those happy clients who have been weaned away from the over charging banks to use instead the gentle and relaxing services of Currencies Direct are touching and rewarding and make it all worth while.

Well, it had to happen, the big literary launch has sold out. All tickets have been snapped up almost 4 weeks before the big event, I am sure that Mr John Otway who launches his movie website this week and Mr Stephen Frost will be forever in my debt for attracting so many people to an event for their benefit.

I shall be back in time for tennis, although Greg Harris is once again in danger of receiving a white feather as he has concocted another excuse for not being available this week or next. Phuket he said, and whilst I can understand the occasional release of invective when missing tennis, this is simple not good enough. He may shortly be receiving a brown envelope from the secretary.

Chris France