Tennis and a naked politician

Tennis is a game that requires a certain commitment. Some of us have become utterly committed (or we should be) and the more committed one is, the more likely one is to overcome an opponent, even if he is nearly a decade younger.

So I greeted the invitation to play tennis with the naked politician at the very salubrious Sophia Antipolis Country Club yesterday with an air of a man with a greater commitment to the cause than his opponent. That my opponent did not have that the same despite his considerably more tender years sent out a message to all us oldies, but exactly what that message is, is not clear to this country bumpkin, I just know there is a message.

Life has its winners and losers. Some of us are winners, some not so fortunate. From this information the more perceptive regular readers of this column may be able to guess the result, I myself am, as you know by now, far to modest to reveal the winner or the exact size of the thrashing administered, but if you see the naked politician in the next few days, you may see some grazes on his knees which were sustained during one of the two games he won.

My picture today is, well, a picture that requires little explanation. You may think by publishing it, there may be some link to the naked politician, but I could not possibly comment.

Guess who?

To celebrate or in some cased to commiserate over the result, lunch was taken at the fabulous Lou Fassum, a Michelin star restaurant about 100 metres from the very different but equally good it its own way Auberge St Donat. We we’re joined by Peachy Butterfield, his lovely wife Suzanne and that nice lady decorator whose enthusiasm for lunching at Lou Fassum is matched only by her antipathy for lunching at the Auberge St Donat.

I have often gently wound him up about that part of Peachy’s life spent in the north of England and his fondness of whippets, ferrets, tripe and pigeons in this tundra strewn northern wasteland. So it was a shock to discover that he had, on occasion, ventured down to grimy civilisation in London to find out how the other, more fortunate half of the English live. I was even more surprised that he had eaten at one of Gordon Ramsay’s restuarant somewhere near the Thames, but not at all surprised at his admission that he had eaten pigeon breast at this worthy establishment.

Furthermore, he revealed that it was his dream one day to open a restaurant (probably so this man mountain of an eating machine could sample its delights), but with the codicil that the vegetarian option would read “fu*k off”.

After a sumptuous lunch it was back to the pav to make serious inroads into my store of Rioja and that nice lady decorators Chablis wine lake. I know that my more sympathetic readers in the UK reading this whilst huddled close to their radiators (or peat fires further north) will have been thrilled for us that we were able to sit out until after dark in shorts and short sleeved shirts on another spectacular autumn day.

Today I must steady the ship however as there is a minor World Cup Rugby match on tomorrow morning and I have been warned by that nice lady decorator that I shall be attending some cafe in Roquefort Les Pins to view this spectacle except to satisfy the whim of some Welsh person, who is or will soon be a new customer of Currencies Direct.

Chris France