Duran Duran in danger from flame haired beauty

Yesterday afternoon then, we boarded the train to London for a bit of rock and roll history. We were at the launch of the book by Dennis O Regan called Careless Memories, covering pop icons Duran Duran on their 1984 tour. I had used my influence to secure an extra ticket for flame haired siren The lovely Carolyn after she had told a crowded pub the weekend before how much she loved the group, and made some inappropriate comments about moistness that, as a chap,  I did not quite understand. I thought it could be interesting for her to meet some of her childhood heroes, just to see what happened and I was right, it was notable.

On the train up the launch in Foubert’s Place in the heart of the Carnaby Street, she was clutching a birthday present for her daughter, which she told me she had purchased at Roly’s Punch Fantory (as opposed to the less spoonerismly and more likely Factory which I thought might be a manufacturing unit for politically incorrect marionettes, but on reflection I think she meant the local Arundel confectioner Roly’s Fudge Pantry). However, as we had necked a sharpener at the White Hart before the off, plus the fact that she was excited and fidgeting in what may have been a moist way, she is forgiven, and I promised her that not a word of her faux pas would appear in its column, so if you could ignore that last sentence I would be grateful. I am not very worldly-wise, so I may have been wrong. She did utter one more classic as I asked her what was in the present, and her answer, in part, she asked me if I wanted to smell her fudge. Manna from heaven for a columnist such as myself who helps make ends meet through the ruthless exploitation of innuendo, and promoting the benefits to you of opening an account with Currencies Direct.

I asked her what would happen to the present if she pulled at the launch, and she told me frankly that she had said to her daughter that if that happened, she would have to wait for her present. For how long was not discussed.

Now I have no idea how her evening finished because That Nice Lady Decorator and I eventually tired of the free wine, nibbles and media scrum and went in search of a pint of beer. We left the flame haired beauty with her arms rather embarrassingly locked languorously around a well-preserved Simon Le Bon. It will not have been long before she was either ejected or arrested or both.

Simon Le Bon puts a brave face on an assault by the flame haired siren herself.

Earlier, I had marched around the chilly and blowy Sussex countryside, attempting to get those bathroom scales on my wave length, but as happens far too often, we are often clearly on different astral planes. They have this innate ability to deny the obvious. I am thin and that is an end to it.

This morning we shall journey back to Arundel and may go walking but I may go to a First Friday, a local networking group, which meets, as its name suggests, on the first Friday of each month at the faded, run down but potentially magnificent Norfolk Arms, an old coach house in the High Street of the town. I have been meaning to go for about a year, but somehow something has always intercepted me, usually the need for beer, wine or good or a combination of all three. Perhaps today I will make it.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News