Sunday roast shock

We lasted until 4pm. By this stage it had been almost 48 hours since we had been lured onto a pub, (with the notable exception of my meeting with Hakuna Pesa) but as it was approaching holiday time for that Nice Lady Decorator, and serious work time for me in Cannes, to where we are travelling today,  we decided that it was time to take off the restraints. We headed at first to The Bridge in Amberley for a restorative pint of the second best beer in the world, Timothy Taylor’s Landlord. Whilst there, huddled inside by the very welcome log fire sensing the snow grow ever more crispy outside, I noticed that they are offering a Sunday roast and took this picture.

Is the meaning clear?

There seems to me to be something rather obvious that they are missing here. A Sunday roast seems to have a vital element to it, indeed it has only two elements; Sunday and roast. This, to a pedant with too much time on his hands, and a pint of beer in one of those hands and a camera phone in the other, represented just the kind of thing that this column loves to discuss.  What indeed is the point if stating that a Sunday roast is for Sundays only? Is a Wednesday roast different? Would a Friday roast involve fish? Upon returning home, we were intercepted by the lovely Omega, the betrothed to James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord of the White Hart as we walked through the garden intent on dinner, and it was only a short matter of time before we found ourselves back there in celebration of Harvey’s of Lewis, having “eaten up the fridge”. This is a process in which I am forced to involve myself before we leave to go on a trip. Everything perishable in it must be consumed. After We had enjoyed the  last of the snows in the South Downs in the morning  – it will be milder in the next few days – I returned to my kennel for a contribution to the dog’s life I have, explaining the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct, and then to pack. The first thing was to ensure I have sufficient cigars for the trip. The smoking of Monte Christo no. 2’s looms large at MIDEM. That Nice Lady Decorator has made rather a rude inference that I may not be able to squeeze into my kilt for the Burns Night celebrations this evening with Roly and Poly Bufton. This is a scurrilous slur although perhaps with all the walking and cycling I have been doing recently perhaps, she might have been referring to extra muscle development, however, the guffaw she let out when I suggested this indicated that she held a slightly different view. I think she erroneously believes that the problem may lie with over consumption of English beer in the, frankly, awful winter weather. I shall prove her wrong this evening, unless it has shrunk in the wash. Cannes at this time of year can be wonderful. All of the beach restaurants are open and although it is not quite shorts weather, unless you are Peachy Butterfield, it is often possible to sit on the sand in shirtsleeves and have a proper lunch. This of course is all in support of the crusade of spreading music around the world, and one to which I have dedicated myself for the last 30 odd years. Any suggestion that it is now just an excuse for dinosaurs of the music industry to eat, drink and testiculate (verb meaning to wave ones arms around and talk bollocks) is not a description that this dinosaur recognises. Chris France @Valbonne_News