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Whirlwind in Arundel

April 6, 2013

How can a man like myself, arrive home from a range of pubs, having drunk himself close to standstill and then want more wine when he finally gets home?

I blame John Otway. He is dangerous. Like a whirlwind he blew into Arundel last night and four hours later he was gone, leaving a trail of damaged people in his wake. His intention was clear. There is a time-consuming and tricky music clearance job he needs doing and unfortunately he has me in his sights to undertake the work. I have resisted the suggestions and entreaties that have gradually increased over the past six months but these have now built up into a crescendo of pressure. The only good thing is that a rabbit in the headlights does not get time to negotiate, whereas I, a consummate negotiator knew the threat before me and had worked out a strategy to get the most out if being run over.

John is one of my oldest friends and, over the years, has provided me with a great deal of entertainment whilst he has undertaken a life long series if mad cap schemes to promote his career. Most music artists rely on a modicum of musical talent to drive them to success. John does not because he does not have any musical talent. You might think that this could impede his ambition. It does not. His talent lies in his ability to entertain. He cares not a jot if you are laughing with him it at him, as long as you are laughing. Couple that with blinding, unswerving ambition and a certainty of self destiny and there you have it. He was determined to rope me in and he has. Last night was less about me striving to avoid the inevitable, more about crisis management and attempting to be run over in a financial rewarding way.

Arundel castle

Calm before the storm, Arundel Castle at dusk

It started at the White Hart for a couple, the opening skirmishes so to speak, and then degenerated into the Kings Arms where a curry was ordered and about eight people partook. For once it was not I who was paying. Sprog 1 has a friend, Denzyll, whom lived with us for months in France, on a short holiday to the UK from his job on a super yacht, breezed into town with Sprog 1 and insisted on paying. Why then, after this, they came back to the house and insisted on cooking defeats me. Also, I had to ask why and how the kitchen pedal bin had partially melted and a dishcloth had been used in a futile effort to mop up the molten plastic, but, quite reasonably. it seems the Nice Lady Decorator’s horror dog Banjo is to blame.

That dog is so ill-mannered and resistant to training that we have had to resort to leaving the bin atop the cooker to stop him raiding it every time we go out. My counter argument, that one might have expected it to be clearly visible on the top of the hob, produced blank looks. Children; you can live with them and you can’t kill them.

Thus this morning I feel wretched but the bright blue sky should get me up and out to the South Downs to recapture normality, after which I hope lunch somewhere nice will a beckon. No selling the services if Currencies Direct because it is the weekend and it would not be fair to spend time explaining how much money can be saved by opening an account with them for all your foreign exchange requirements on a day of rest, so I won’t.

Chris France

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