Art in the toilet

I have invented the concept in tennis of the dream scenario. It is a rare animal that involves me serving to win the set. These are rare enough moments, but a double dream scenario is even rarer and is where I am serving for the set and the match. Imagine my delight then about the Moustachiod Old Gits, comprising myself and the Wingco, achieving a never before witnessed, unique, triple dream scenario last night against Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villas and his batman, Blind Lemon Milsted.  Two sets up and with nothing more than pride to play for (and the lord knows they have little enough of that), our opponents slumped to 0-2 down in the third set. It was at that stage that I worked out that if we won the next 3 games we would be 5-0 up with me to serve. I may have mentioned this to them, it may have been discussed, loudly, by me, and I may have predicted such a scenario out loud, repeatedly as we won each game in turn, and so it came to pass. A triple dream scenario, winning all three sets, the match and the last set 6-0 on my serve. I now know what Christians believe heaven will be like if it existed, which of course it does not.

Earlier I thought I had smelled fear. The Wingco is of course habitually late, indeed I have measured a unit of time also known as a Wingco which is approximately 7 minutes long. This is the minimum amount of time he is behind schedule. Last night for instance he was a full 3 Wingco’s late. However when both of our opponents were similarly delayed I began searching in my tennis bag for that white feather, the tradition mark of the coward that I keep there for situations like this, in readiness for their eventual arrival.

As we sat with a beer outside the Vignale’s now open bar, a very good early sign from the new owners, to discuss this momentous occasion, I sensed that our opponents were a little less willing to enjoy the moment. It was just a slight feeling, a nuance if you like. I can’t quite put my finger on it but perhaps the expression “for f*cks sake shut up” was what enlivened my senses.

I changed the subject, well no, that is not strictly true, as it was once again all about me, to the painting competition staged at Marina Kulik’s painting class ( a picture of the “art” in the toilet I feature today). All present, with the obvious exception of the Wingco who refuses point-blank to read this daily column, “ghastly” he calls it, had seen some or all of the paintings, and whilst admiration for the artists was expressed, it seems that in some people’s mind the subject matter left something to be desired. The general opinion, in which I did not share, was that they had all performed marvels with so little with which to work. Jealousy can be so destructive.

A friend in the toilet?

Dancing Greg and his beautiful willowy wife, myself and Mr Clipbeard the adjourned to Valbonne Square for dinner and art. As I was the first there and was waiting for my table I espied a table nearly full of beautiful women, with just one seat left. Amongst the coterie of beauties were the lovely Lin Wolff from the English Book Centre who was very keen to know how the new book was going, and the willowy and wonderful Viv Frost, the girl who played a vital part in my new career as a successful author (not a concept that Mr Clipbeard was able to come to terms with later) by being the first to suggest this column could be adapted into a book. Alas, as I settled in, my dinner companions arrived and I was dragged away. There is so much more to tell that this will have to be continued tomorrow.

Chris France