There was snow hangover

I was told yesterday that I was drinking port until the early hours of the night before, but have no recollection of such profligacy. I also had an entirely unconnected headache and hangover of monumental proportions. The blame for these happening must be laid entirely at the feet of our guests, Steve yeah yeah yeah Jackson and his high-powered wife, the lovely Rowena.

From The White Hart to the Kings Arms for a pint of London Pride before going to the Bay Tree, all was well and then as we left we bumped into Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor. He was on his way to the Eagle where there was a band playing and before we knew it we had joined him, and that is where it all started to unravel.

I thought a walk on the South Downs in the snow would help but it did not. I even turned down the suggestion that we might stop for a pint and even sitting and enduring a ceaseless stream of Miss Marple meets Poirot in Midsomer Murders last night on TV was insufficient to tempt me back to the alcoholic dark side.

South Downs in the snow

Regular readers will have surmised that Friday night was epic. Three pubs and a restaurant, dancing (not by me) great food and even greater entertainment at the expense of my friend, the grinning northerner ended allegedly in the dribbling of some of a vintage year of Portugal’s best.  Being so committed to all things northern makes him an easy target for me. His contention that northern beer is superior to southern beer is childishly easy to expose, and he saw no irony in drinking copious quantities of the southern version, there being little of the inferior ale available in Arundel.

He was however rightly dismissive of the southern trait of refusing to or making excuses not to drive in the snow, but when you live that far north, it must be second nature, even in the summer.  In fact this moment of comparative lucidity persuaded me begin to tell him of some of the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct but it was when he started to dribble again I realised that it was not going in. Some fell on stony ground. It was different with his wife the lovely Rowena. As CEO of a decent sized company and the breadwinner in the family, she understood the advantages immediately, I think she is very kind to him and looks after him like one would a small poodle. I think she also must like a bit of rough.

So last night was a very quiet one without a drink to be seen or indeed desired but today we have a treat in store. We have been rounded up, deputised you might say, by the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, the sultry Kathryn, to go to lunch this afternoon, thus I intend to try to get back on the horse that bolted yesterday. I am not sheriff (ouch) that’s all the cowboy jokes for today but I know you hope so.

Thereafter I intend to be a hermit this week in training for MIDEM, the annual music business junket in Cannes starting this coming weekend. It is also coming up to Burns Night so we have been instructed to buy some haggis to take down to Valbonne in case the opportunity to celebrate is offered, as I believe it will. My kilt is still in France so it may well get dusted off for another go. When I wear it I am sometimes asked if I have Scottish antecedents, but I tell people that I am still using the ointment and I hope they have now cleared up.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News