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Undergarment shocker

May 22, 2013

It was on the way from Valbonne to Nice airport that a question popped into my mind; If Peachy eats souris d’agneau, (knuckle of lamb, ) is that like taking a lamb to the slaughter?

I had spent sometime early in the morning deciding on exactly which embarrassing picture of the great (sized) man, swapping clothing with that Nice Lady Decorator at Tahiti Beach in St Tropez. It was when I started to go through the photographs on my phone, and discovered a range of pictures of events only half remembered, that I was thinking that any opportunity to make a clown of himself is accepted with alacrity.

There was a curious break in continuity. Peachy had started the day in his white Vilbrequin shorts festooned with tiny lobsters, but some of the pictures of him dancing later on in the afternoon, showed his lower half (a very big half) covered by some material of a different colour, as my photograph today reveals. I have had to arrive at the inevitable conclusion that he had stripped down to his underpants before joining in with the dancing on the tables.

What is that Nice Lady Decorator attempting to do?

What is that Nice Lady Decorator attempting to do?

Inevitably after a big weekend and a really big finish to a big weekend on Monday, yesterday represented something of a balancing out. It is a measure of how damaged were we both that neither of us took any alcoholic sustenance either in the executive lounge (where drinks are free) or on the plane back to Gatwick.

However, with Sprog 1 arriving back in the evening, a modicum of normality sneaked back in and we went for a couple of pints with him at the Kings Arms, and then a takeaway at the Magna Tandoori. It was only after the second pint that I began to feel normal. We did have a reasonably early night, because I have work to do today, which involves driving up the wilds of the north west, through the tundra strewn wilderness to a particularly strange area almost on the border of unexplored Wales. There are several targets for me wearing my Currencies Direct hat, but I cannot reveal of whom I speak because some of them who will be at a dinner tonight in Chester, also read this column, and I don’t want to alert the potential targets.

One night in Paris sounds alluring, but I dare to suggest that the concept of one night in Chester is not for the faint hearted and may not get the taste buds salivating in quite the same manner. It perhaps could be argued that the culinary excellence exuded by Paris could be matched by the culinary daring of this northern outpost. Fois gras versus pigeon purée? Fillet de boeuf versus rump of whippet? or marinated olives versus sheep droppings? (OK, that is a bit cruel, but they are the same shape and size, and I would not put in past them to sneak in a little joke). But that us our lot tonight, and the suspicion about what we shall eat will be counterbalanced perfectly by the fear of what we shall be given to drink. I am hoping that a couple of pints of the second best beer in the world, Timothy Taylor’s Landlord, will be sufficient to be able to bear a Chester Chardonnay or a Macclesfield Merlot.

Back to Arundel tomorrow with just a couple of days of rest before the weekend will not only be very welcome, but almost certainly a requirement to be able to function properly. At least that Nice Lady Decorator has pulled a muscle so we may be spared her dancing on tables, but that is not something that I can guarantee.

Chris France

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