Goodwood deadwood?

After the kangol kastastrophe over the last two days, sleep the night before last was a welcome release from noisy hell. It did not last forever because as I was dreaming of quiet solitude all I could hear in the background was this infernal hooter, the kind you find on an Austin Healey from the 1960’s and then I awoke to that exact sound. Mr Clipbeard, aka Mr Toad of Toad Hall had arrived early, on his way to breakfast, with my tickets for the Goodwood Revival Festival which started yesterday and runs until Sunday. He was aboard this splendid vehicle with a couple of pals. Mr Clipbeard thought he was being jolly daring wearing a rather fetching red bowler hat as can be seen in my picture below today. I wonder what my style guru, Mr Humphreys would have made of that if he was free.

Picture of the co-op.

Just after he left when I was contemplating returning to my pit for a few more zed’s there was a knock at the door. It was Acker the log man whom I remember meeting in the pub last weekend. What I did not recall however was ordering a massive delivery of logs which, although welcome, were not welcome yet with the yard where they were to be stacked looking like Hiroshima as a result of the day before’s fireplace removal.

It did not stop there. Once again electricians and builders arrived seemingly with the sole intention of destroying the relative calm of the household, so after a very wearing morning lightened only by laughing at the copy of my next book I am currently editing (you could take that the wrong way: I was laughing with it, not as many of my public schoolboy chums will no doubt be doing, laughing at it) we made a late decision to pop next door to the White Hart for a spot of lunch. That’s when the trouble started.

A number of renegades from Goodwood, some resplendent in Veuve Cliquot yellow sunglasses, which were free with any magnums purchased, gave me the rare sniff of potential custom. There was quite a gathering in the pub garden in fitful sunshine. The services of Currencies Direct have not been widely sought by the people I have met in the village, indeed I would suggest that some have never been abroad, some possibly having never been as far as Brighton but magnums of champagne being bought and drunk pointed to a more sophisticated clientele.

I found amongst the group to whom I was talking that there were fellow cigar lovers amongst them so I broke open the humidor and brought out some of Havana’s finest as this called for a cigar. It was a master stroke as it led to my discovering three new clients for their excellent currency exchange services, a triumph for cigar networking. It is the kind of success that sends the non smoking brigades self-righteousness up in smoke.

Pleased with my days work I celebrated with a few more glasses of wine but by 6pm that nice lady decorator retired hurt, emotionally drained she called it, and disappeared. I seem to recall I batted on in the pub for some hours but do not fully remember why. I do hope I did not order any more logs.

Being a Saturday no builders or other workmen are expected so the house will be calm, so a perfect day to go out then. All week I have been aurally assaulted at home and the one quiet day we shall be out. It seems that 95% of people attending the Goodwood Revival will be dressed in clothing from the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s but having little advance warning I have nothing suitable to wear unless I find an old tweed jacket at the charity shop down the road this morning. If only I had access to my style guru Mr Humphreys back in Valbonne. He would have had a solution if he was free.

As you see if you are a regular follower of this column (which you can do by selecting the “follow” button below) you will know that our attempt to have an alcohol free week is in tatters after a bright two day start, but there is always next week. Except for Wednesday when I shall be lynching with Clive Panto (oh yes I will), then Tuesday is live music at the Eagle and then….

Chris France