More fireworks in Cannes

I note that yesterday in the Sunday Times there was some controversy over J K Rowling, the writer of the Harry Potter series, being unmasked as the writer of an acclaimed debut novel under a pseudonym. This may not be the only example of an accomplished writer producing material in this way, indeed who can be sure that I have not done the same? You may think that Steven King’s novels may have been written by someone else, and you may (although I suspect many of you might consider this is a long shot) consider that these may have emanated from my pen. After all, some of my writing has been described a petty scary by some of my public schoolboy chums down here in Valbonne.

Talking of Public Schoolboys, it was my honour last night to renew my acquaintanceship with the probably honourable Anthony “Dock Of” the Bay aboard the Master Mariner Mundell’s splendid sailing boat L’Exocet. We were expecting to see some fireworks and we certainly did, although I have made a promise to keep these to myself. Amongst those being marshalled on board by the Master Mariner was Dancing Greg Harris, who has still not come to terms with why he was given this epithet. I had some discussions with his wife, the glorious Marion about how he gained this name, but did not let the cat out of the bag, but whilst I was in these deep exchanges he was fidgeting in a most satisfactory way. He is assured of my silence because not only was a sponsor of my book launch in his alter ego as head honcho of Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals, but he is a valued affiliate of Currencies Direct. Just how valued you will be able to surmise by the fact that he has failed to refer a single customer to the good services of this wonderful currency exchange company in over 2 years of affiliation. However, I live in hope.

Jostling for position in Cannes

Earlier, I had been forced to take a siesta after an extremely tense morning of Test cricket when Australia very nearly pulled off an unlikely win against England despite seemingly down and out. As they edged between to what would have been a famous victory, I took to walking about the place and sweating, in a manner that Peachy Butterfield would have said was like a paedophile in a playground, so close did it get. In the end the mighty England shaved it by the alarmingly small margin of 14 runs.

A few beers to celebrate, whilst I awaiting the giant Peach’s arrival, he having invited himself for a sharpener at 4pm, was put on hold as the great (bulk of a) man was clearly ruled out of order by his long suffering and gorgeous wife Suzanne, who must have decided that a few hours in our bar, the web, would not put him in good shape for their party in Cannes last evening. Thus at 6.30 we departed in Bluebell the Camper which was to be our billet last night at Port de la Rague.

My first thought as I boarded the boat was how on earth the Master had managed to get this finger nails looking so good. Then I saw that the lovely but impossibly gay Andrea was on board and at that moment the penny dropped and I realised that, by the look of it, perhaps the Master Mariner Mundane was wearing nail polish? I have to use the word allegedly because he denied it rather too quickly and then mumbled something about libel and his lawyers.

A thoroughly good evening culminated in us staggering back to Bluebell, parked in the port, to sleep it off before returning this morning to bring you this sparkling prose. Now I am off to bed to nurse the hangover.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News