Beard reduction interferes with Internet development

It is amazing how creative one can become over a couple of pints. This was illustrated perfectly last evening when, after early doors at The Bridge at Amberley, now considerably diminished in my view due to their very short-sighted decision to abandon Timothy Taylor Landlord bitter, we popped into the Kings Arms in Arundel on the way home.

A fifteenth century pub is an unlikely setting for Internet inspiration, but it happened. Over a few drinks with some of the locals including the Sultry goddess Sandra, One Eyed Colin and the beautiful and petite Corkscrew Ali, a brilliant Internet concept developed based on the simple idea…. But that would be telling. Suffice to say that a couple of hours research today, half an hour to formulate a plan to monetise (a lot of people do not like that word, but it is one of my favourites, because it always reminds me of the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct) the concept, and, after another brain storm this evening, finalise the offering ready for sale on Monday. Expect a float on AIM within a year.

Two things should stand out from that last paragraph; firstly, that we are inevitably going to make very quick and very large fortunes, and secondly we shall need to go to the pub again this evening for some fine honing of the project. Part of the reason we were unable to compete the plans last night was that a chap in the pub was having his luxuriant beard cut off for charity, as my picture today shows, partly because of a surfeit of London Pride and partly down to the fact that we could not find a pen to write down what was discussed and agreed. I fear that some of the sub strands of our deliberations may not have made it home with me.

I too have suffered a beard cutting event, as Mr Clipboard, aka Mr Clipbeard knows only too well

You should also be able to work out from events covered so far, that the dastardly diet is on the back burner for a few days. The last 24 hour marathon 600 calorie diet period ended at 6. 10pm last night and I was poised with a pint in my hand for the final countdown. That Nice Lady Diet Enforcer is already unconvinced that a 24 hour period can be interpreted in quite the way I claim, despite my discovery of some internet research to support my contention, but she still joined me in a pint at the allotted time.

As I write, rain is lashing at my window, but I am not downhearted as Cannes and Valbonne beckon on Friday, so less than a week to go before the joyful return to France. This trip cannot be construed as a holiday as I shall be at the Cannes Film Festival in a semi official capacity as a roving ambassador and banquet organiser for John Otway. My swingeing expenses will therefore be submitted the following week to my accountant, and the ritual argument about what is allowable to claim against tax is what is not will recommence.

If you have been paying attention to the content of today’s column, you will know that today is no day of rest for me. On the contrary, I expect to put in a full day’s work (some 3 hours I expect; if one works at the intensity I do, then one can undertake a days work in a trifle – although I suspect that could also come to a sticky end… How did I get from work to trifle and where am I going with that sticky mess theme?… But I digress), but that is what happens when you are a pillar of commerce, a slave to endeavour, or is that a TV detective programme? (I morse get out more). Suffice to say that the concept of a weekend break for me is an alien concept.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News