New lease of life for Village People?

The Village Gate is a pub that used to be called The Marquis Of Granby.  It is just outside Weston Turville and is where many of the villagers who have deserted The Chequers go to eat and drink. This seems a strange name for a pub, and I am not sure whether I would be content with being a regular here as one may consider ones self one of the Village People. Does it mean I have to wear a Red Indian headpiece or get a porno moustache?

Talking of porno moustaches, after my recent restaurant “accident” in which my luxuriant long beard was hacked off by some jealous public schoolboys one lunchtime at The Auberge St Donat in Plascassier, I have been nurturing a splendid handlebar moustache which is curling nicely a la Salvador Dali. I do hope it is not an impediment this evening when I am amongst the Village People at the Village Gate. I also fervently hope that it gets up the noses (not literally you understand) of the many public schoolboy acquaintance I have accumulated when I return to France next week. There are of course no public schoolboys left in Buckinghamshire. I have a picture of what the original Village People might look like now which I publish today.

I always said that low carb diet would end in tears

So having attended the Village People pub, and enjoyed the delights of battered fish and chips with the unwelcome addition of green pea puree of mushy peas made into a much smaller serving by liquidising the horrible green concoction to within an inch of its life, we adjourned to our English house to drink a quite agreeable 2005 Rioja, the bottle of which was covered in chicken wire, a sign, according to that nice lady decorator that the wine was of superior quality, although superior to what was never fully explained.

I suppose I should be glad the pub is not called The Village Bike, otherwise my sabre sharp sense of humour would have been wheeled out and had a field day. This be-spoke column could have ended up as a true tour de France force with a chain of comments about my handlebar moustache. Ok, I am now tyred of the bike jokes.

I think the discovery in the afternoon whilst clearing the Stygian depths of the old barn of the collection of miniature bottles of everything from brandy, Cointreau, Armagnac and old malt whisky was sufficiently frightening for me and had the required effect of ensuring I was in bed early, nursing my moustache before the inevitable sampling by that nice lady decorator probably commenced to begin writing today’s missive. I have realised that I like writing but its the paperwork I don’t like.

My thoughts are returning to events in France and Valbonne in particular. The new South Of France English Theatre company must now be working on the second production which will be performed next month, details on their website. I must also regather the tennis troops as I have not played for ages. The house is being looked after by the Wingco but I made the mistake of leaving several magnums of Barbera d’Alba on the sideboard so I suspect that there will be some cock and bull story about them falling off and smashing to cover up the inevitable consumption thereof. Then on Friday next, I may look into Cafe Latin to hear all the gossip and grab some of it for this column. In the meantime I will suffer the  indignities of England, where I have a cold, my first one for years. I do so love the old country with all its benefits.

Chris France