Facial hair and the festive season

With the imminent approach of the festering season, thoughts not unnaturally turn towards Christmas decorations. The tree is up, decorated and looking splendid, the living room is now adorned with the accessories of the season but I think it is high time that one decided on a personal statement of ones commitment to enjoy it all, despite the alarming religious under current or rather projection of guilt emanating from all those god bothering hoardes, which seems to be lurking in every corner when you want to enjoy yourself. I do not want to refer specifically to our own kindly Reverend who seems to be the most prolific of the limercists, who are still daily infecting the comments section of this otherwise poetry free column, but he knows who I mean.

On Sunday, at the gathering at the Kings Arms at lunchtime, I had the idea of using my now well formed Dali moustache to make just that statement. I had suggested that something subtle would be my preference, perhaps a little laminetta woven into the moustache hair, but flamed haired siren and beauty Carolyn took the idea a stage further than good taste as my depicted in picture today, showing what she thought should be done with my luxurious Mo. I had considered making a joke about her having her hands on my baubles, but decided, on balance, that standard should be maintained so made the decision not to mention it. I should not like to see comments about this column being a handful.

Christmas decorations face a new future.

Today I must journey to the far north of the home counties, to Farnham Common in fact, which I believe is close to Hadrian’s Wall, for important music industry discussions, so I will have to forego my walk and fitness campaign for the day, and by the time I return it will be close to darkness, and there is no time to undertake the normal punishment before I must leave. That is my excuse and I shall be sticking to it.

It will mean my leaving the cozy warren of my sumptuous office (read old shed in the garden) and being unable to concentrate on the benefits of having a foreign exchange account with those lovely chaps at Currencies Direct. However, sometimes sacrifices have to be made, as Peachy Butterfield always says when the road kill gradually blackens on his barbecue. Talking of my old card Bordeaux swilling chum, reminds me that the launch of our respective column praising either the south of England (easy) compared with the north of England (a problem), should commence at Onboard Online as early as this week. Of course, had I been called upon to compare the sultry south to the south of France, then my task would have been much trickier, but the north? simples.

A diet day means no going out and an evening catching up with the weeks of recorded TV shows. one of which was the Jonathon Ross show with guest Keith Lemon. What a prospect; two poorly dressed men with speech impediments, trying to out do each other. This after having to sit through the execrable One Show on BBC, beloved by That Nice Lady Decorator, which is almost as bad as the kids magazine show Magpie that I always did my best to avoid when I was  kid. In those days we had three channels but there always seemed to be something to watch of an evening. Now we have 300 channels, the ability to record programmes from all, and cannot find two hours of new programming worth watching. Thus an evening of repeats forced to my bed early. Beer tomorrow, hurrah!

Chris France
@Valbonne_News