Help for heroes

So yesterday afternoon off up into the hills of Bar Sur Loup for a delightful afternoon quiz in aid of the worthy charity Help For Heroes. It was staged in the gardens of the lovely Fiona Macleod, co-founder with Karen Hockney of Premier Mardi, as my picture today shows.

In deference to this cause, I decided to offer copies of my book for sale with the entire sale price of 10 euros (about £8 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) being donated to the charity.  When I told that nice lady decorator of my decision her reaction was “are you trying to get rid of them?”. She can be so hurtful. To sell 11 books on the day taking the total to 193 was a very rewarding event for both myself and the charity. I do hope my accountant is reading this and will prepare the relevant tax deduction for this charitable donation. Perhaps his input here could be described “help for hero(s)?

Some garden hero helpers

From there we adjourned for dinner at the house of Man Mountain Peachy Butterfield in Valbonne. Also present was the Naked Politician who dropped the bombshell, he is no longer a politician. There was however no mention of any curtailment to the naked part of his epithet, although thankfully, and mainly because his “handbrake” in the lovely form of his wife Dawn, precluded any disrobing on this occasion, at least while we were there.

I was also introduced to a charming visiting plastic surgeon, chairman of BAPS (the British Association Of Plastic Surgeons; you couldn’t make it up) Douglas “Mack The Knife” McGeorge who made a number of incisive comments, cutting to the heart of any discussions, and not putting the knife into anyone. Ok that’s enough surgical jokes. He did look a little embarrassed when Peachy announced again the his penis reduction surgery had been a great success and that as a result he can now wear shorts. Perhaps Mac’s “staff” had undertaken that particular long operation. By this time Le Peche Enorme was deeply into his stride having spent much of the afternoon paying massive respect to a bladder of the freshest Macclesfield Malbec, still steaming from whatever vile process they use to produce the obnoxious liquid. Quite how the conversation turned to circumcision eludes me as I write this, perhaps it the presence of “Mack The Knife”. Anyway, my notes are hazy as by this point I had managed a few glasses of a rather nice St Emilion Grand Cru that I had sneaked in when his back was turned. I cannot quite recall in what context but he contended rather too loudly (especially if any of our new friends were Jewish) that circumcision was a procedure designed to impede masturbation (although the mechanics of exactly how this might be achieved leave me a little mystified) but he said to be certain perhaps doctors should cut their arms off. As I say, I was a little hazy by that time.

Later he told an utterly tasteless joke about why a girl had two black eyes (because he had to tell her twice) and it became clear it was time to leave. We were sharing a taxi with Roly and Poly Bufton and after being dropped off and whilst having a last nightcap under the stars on a balmy evening in the web, we heard the taxi return. Roly had left their gate bleeper behind and was incurring the shrill wrath of Poly, so beautiful when she is aroused. He did his case no favours when he fell over and made a Roly-sized indentation in a large thyme bush. Perhaps I should not have said “time to go home?”

Chris France