Political correctness anomoly?

It is said that political correctness is rife in England, and it is an opinion I held but last night when we traveled over to East Sussex for a business meeting (on this occasion not in respect of the worthy services of Currencies Direct) in the early evening,  and where I was to be temporarily disavowed of this opinion. Of course, more business is done in the bars and restaurants than offices nowadays, so, in keeping with the modern way, we decided to meet at a point equidistant between us and stage the meeting in a pub. Which pub was only decided en route, so we ended up at the Blackboys Inn at Blackboys near Uckfield.

In a world where even children’s books have had references to gollywogs and sambo removed by the over sensitive racial equality brigade, who incidentally have made no attempt to expunge references to Pinky, from Pinky and Perky, this is an astonishing oversight and one that I expect they will address shortly. May I help them out by suggesting that perhaps the village should be renamed Rentboys? And the pub The Rentboys Inn?

I want to state now that our business did not involve supplying my public school friends with slave labour or of much-needed new blood for their delectation and delight, although given some of the dubious stories I have recounted in this column about them in general, it could perhaps be a conclusion one could jump to. Oops there I go again.

BlackBoys is a very pretty English village, beautifully green and moist from the inevitable shower, but when the sun comes out there really is nowhere to be in the world like an English country pub nestling on a very green village green. That it was too cool to sit outside was a given, we are now deeply into August and the nights have begun to draw in, but it was a delightful view that I would have featured today had my infernal blackberry not died on the way to the meeting. Instead I give you this shot of modern water delivery techniques.

Pump up the jam?

Earlier in the day I had thought that gravelling was one thing I had left behind in sunny Valbonne, but as it transpired, I had been left some to do in Arundel. Good news though, they were called river pebbles, all 24 sacks of them which, much heavier and harder to deal with than gravel and needed to be manhandled through the pub garden, other than the front door, the lounge and the kitchen, into the cottage garden.

The more perceptive of my readers will have spotted that this exercise would have entailed going into and out of the pub garden on numerous occasions without stopping for even one drink. This is purgatory and cruelty of the most unpleasant kind, but I took it like a man. Was I down hearted? Yes. Was I thirsty? Yes. There is a joke here about black boys, slavery and denial of basic human rights but I cannot quite put my finger on it.

I have begun the countdown to my last full week in Valbonne at the end of August. In the meantime there are a number of events to look forward to, and to keep my mind from dwelling on the forthcoming winter in the UK which I will be forced to endure, at least in part. The Arundel Festival starts on 17th August for 10 days, but I shall miss the opening day as I have pressing business at Lords, for which I have tickets courtesy of an old pal. The event to which I am most looking forward is “The Bathtub Challenge” which seems to involve a race along the river Arun at high tide in boats constructed from bathtubs. What could be more English?

Chris France