Fat people harder to kidnap?

So despite almost no warning at all a very decent contingent of revelers arrived in the early evening to take advantage of the early evening sunshine, and then a feast of ribs and meatballs to celebrate the median between the birthdays of Peachy Butterfield, freshly arrived from Liverpool, where he must have looked at the very least a bit of a dick in his green Vilbrequin shorts and short-sleeved shirt whilst shivering on the tarmac of Liverpool airport, and that nice lady decorator.

As is usual when there is a gathering around food and wine in the south of France stories unfold and as so often it falls to me faithfully to record these events for the edification and delight of my good self readership.

The first story emerged before the party on the way back from the airport.  I was cursing the fact that I had to divert for the third visit of the day to the supermarket to ensure we were sufficiently well stocked with food and wine to be able to survive a sustained attack on mine and my guests sobriety. My task? To fetch toilet rolls. Peachy, pictured today wearing one of his birthday presents was thus reminded of a story about a plastic surgeon friend of his who was sent to the supermarket by his wife. When he returned home she was stunned to find him in possession of around 50 bread rolls. When questioned he said he had purchased 50 because he thought 100 was too many whatever was the purpose. He had misinterpreted the shopping list which had listed loo rolls.

He has a point, picture taken by Slash and Burn Thornton Allan of the Big Picture

Who was it last night who claimed to be wearing bottom flossers, seemingly a kind of female underwear requiring very little material? Were they male or female? Once I have consulted my lawyers I will let you know if I can name names.

As I write it is just after 7am and as predicted I have a horrendous hangover, the last stragglers leaving around 1am. The garden is a mess, the web is a bigger mess but the pav is humongous mess but the biggest mess was the kitchen. The evil hound that blights my house (and especially now the kitchen) Banjo had thoughtfully managed to get past two doors and then redecorated the kitchen with rib bones and the general post party detritus which was waiting in a plastic bag ready for the garbage run this morning. I would love to kick his arse. Whose idea was it to have a party the night before we leave for misery? As soon as I have finished this there is some very serious clearing up to undertake before confronting something even more unpleasant but, I suppose, also self-imposed, a trip up north. I do hope Jet2 live up to their name and there is not some ancient turbo prop propping up Nice airport later this morning.

Any airline flying to Leeds is probably required to serve mushy peas as part of any in flight meal and I have to tell you frankly that if that is the case this morning then vomit will be unavoidable.

Amongst those celebrating was Peter Bennett from Blue Water Yachting who kindly brought round the outstanding payment for some pieces I had written (yes I am a paid writer nowadays) for his brochure for the Antibes Yacht Show and revered Currencies Direct client and friend Slash and Burn Thornton Allan who took today’s picture and for whom this was something of a last supper as he too, along with that steely eyed goddess of a wife Lisa, who is far too young for him, has to spend more time in England with his money children who are now schooled back in the UK.

Chris France