Benny Hill lives?

As the police arrived close to 11 pm, presumably to break up the party, lunch was beginning to come to an end. Some 20 revellers enjoyed spare ribs and meatballs in formidable heat before those with the least stout determination and constitutions began peeling off at around 6pm. But it is about the hardcore that I shall mostly be writing today. There are always those that are the last to leave and usually I count myself amongst them, but staging an event at ones own house allows one to be the last to leave, well, stay in fact.

One of the first to leave was the Currencies Direct affiliate, the Cornish Tsunami aka Fred Scuttle himself, Matt Frost. His carer and wife the lovely Viv decided, once the heat has abated a little, that the heat was too much for him, clear evidence of which in shown in my picture today. I said yesterday that I expected Tsunami to reveal which way fashion was going. This he did impeccably by heading in the opposite direction you can see. Yellow framed sunglasses? No, no, no. It is just wrong.

Anyone remember Benny Hill?

It was with his guitar in hand that the Wingco – sporting a splendid pork pie hat that would have suited anyone who did not look like Josef Stalin who I think interested the gendarmeres. It was perhaps a clue for the two Inspector Clouseau’s as to from whom the main noise was emanating. I think they must have both been closet air guitarists. The suitability of the Wingco’s headgear was questioned by all as we have made clear to him that we think he is a dead ringer for this Russian dictator. But even Stalin could not have better regimented the weak musical forces in front of him into giving such a sustained quality performance of songs, old, new and made up on the spot. There was not a great deal with which to work. A dozen or so sozzled old hippies and dreamers who could not remember the words to many a classic song, were rescued in equal measure by the combined forces of the wonderful mouth organ of Jeroen Zatt and the internet. Getting the lyrics up on a screen enabled hearty renditions of several Edith Piaf songs amongst others, and, in retrospect, may have been the initial reason for the police appearing. Perhaps they were so moved they wanted to join in? It was a thought, but their countenance suggested otherwise.

Did I mention the internet? It’s founder, Tony “I invented the Internet” Coombs, was present and managed to get the wireless repeater to work satisfactorily, by telling us all that his invention sensed his prescience and would behave impeccably whilst he was there. The trouble was, as he drank more rosé, his prescience waned.

Earlier, as was almost inevitable with the writer of, and the gorgeous Marina Kulik, the inspiration behind the cover concept for The Valbonne Monologues both present, some discussion of the book and this column was to occur. Another irresistible reason is that the Wingco has consistently described both as “ghastly” and because this topic riles him so much I can never resist. He told the assembled multitude that a definition of a gentleman is someone who can write about the south of France but chooses not to.

A tense day lies ahead, as the third cricket test between England and Australia is poised for a result, weather permitting. It is rather too finely poised in the convicts favour for me to be too critical of the English weather. What was the name of that old song with the lines “let it rain, let it rain, let it rain”?

Chris France