A star is born

If you never watch another video ever, I urge you to click here and witness Blind Lemon No-Surname at the peak of his ad-libbing powers accompanied by the Wingco on guitar, who had just had his customary Josef Stalin haircut.

He has been given no surname for reasons that will become obvious once you have viewed the clip. He has a professional career that he would like to continue. It is an impromptu adaptation of Bob Marley’s “No Woman No Cry” in a south of France version of Jamaican patois recorded on an Iphone after the Bistro Rally from Port de la Rague on Monday. Truly inspiring. I have not seen such inspired rapping since I was actively involved in running my err…rap label I co-founded, Music Of Life.

Blind Lemon has seen it and, on the basis that in his opinion that it will not go viral (he is wrong), and with the added precaution of disguising his real identity, he has approved it. I predict 1 million hits within a month.

That nice lady decorator has had babies. Three baby tortoises have hatched in the wild in our garden in Valbonne and I have a picture of one of them today alongside a blackberry to give it some scale. She was less pleased than when faced with similar events in the past, she has had babies most years since 2004 when she transported her tortoises to the warmth of France, and they began breeding. It is now probably because it is now an annual event, she has tired of the work involved  and I believe £50 may secure ownership if one of these reptiles.

Blackberry beside tasty snack?

Deciding on the venue for lunch on the way to the airport in Nice yesterday was a bit tricky, because we were due at the airport at 1pm, but success was attained at nearby St Laurent Du Var, where we were served with an excellent Moules Marinier, or if you were Peachy Butterfield, a vein sapping, fat infested, cheese covered Cordon Blue.

With the recent rains, the swimming pool has one again taken on the appearance of an infinity pool which required some attention. This reminded me of the time in early summer when the pool required some technical attention, and that nice lady decorator, who, to be fair, had imbibed well, was on one afternoon a little unhappy with the pool services company who had failed to appear at the appointed time to effect repairs. Her repeated refrain of “Quest que ce votre problem?” Will live with me until I die.

Gatwick was dry when we arrived, but from the look of the surroundings it was the first time in several days when it had not been raining. It was of course important to pop into the pub next door to ensure all was well, and it was as it was buzzing due to Goodwood revellers who had tired of the horse racing and raced instead to the bar of The White Hart.

There is no rest for the indolent. After a frantic morning dealing with my ever more complicated business empire (I thought I had semi-retired?) Including finalising a couple of new clients for Currencies Direct, we shall one again be exposed to the joys of Gatwick Airport as we head to Ireland for the Galway Bay Oyster festival which starts tomorrow. We are flying to a place called Knock. Those of you amongst my regular readers who expect me to make some reference to knock-knock jokes know me too well. You can’t knock a knock-knock joke in Knock. Who’s there?

Chris France