Jilted John or Stunted Nigel?

One of the limericks from the Reverend Jeff yesterday suggested something quite premature might result from my wearing the kilt on Saturday evening (if I can get into it). Nothing of course could be further from the truth. Twice in two minutes is not premature, it is lightning quick, just as are my reactions are when I spot a possible client for Currencies Direct.

My reactions were however little slower yesterday after a diet day but quickly picked up in the evening when a couple of pints of London Pride at The Swan Hotel sped me on my way to the Thai night at the White Hart. We had decided that it was not fair for the management at the hotel not to be warned about the possible, no probable, excesses of the raiding party this weekend. I believe that 7 of their 8 rooms are booked for people arriving to dine with me on Saturday evening, and if you are a regular reader of this column, you will know the sort of people with whom I tend to associate. Rock and rollers or bon viveurs or both. It may not be pretty.

Warning delivered, barricades, goggles and hard hats ordered, ready for the first arrivals today, we treated ourselves to some Thai food next door. Not having had much spicy food in the past week in Tenerife, and having to be satisfied with nasty gassy beer, it was nice to be able to make progress on both fronts last evening. It was also a vital piece of pre preparation for a rather large weekend. I shall not be sixty until the middle of next week and I am afraid to say that I expect some of my friends to do the most they can to ensure I do not get to the promised land of free prescriptions.

The food at The White Hart was exquisite. The restaurant was packed with a number of the usual suspects, including flame haired siren, The beautiful Carolyn who was smouldering in a corner, thoughtfully sharing a table with a couple in a gooseberry like fashion. Later on in the bar, Nearly Hairless Nick came up with a most excellent piece of blogging content. For some reason, rather deeper than I would like to probe, he was trying to remember the name of a one hit wonder from the 70’s, and, being the local music business guru, asked me if I could identify him from a lyric he provided. When, to my surprise (as many of my closet friends such as Mr Clipboard and The Wingco contend that I know nothing about music) I managed to help him out with a name that came from the deepest recesses of my memory, Jilted John, he said it was on the tip of his tongue but he kept thinking it was something like Stunted Nigel. In some ways that may have been a better epithet.

Stunted Nigel, or a Spanish horseman?

James “Desperate Dan” the landlord was there, as you might expect, with his fiancée the stunning Mighty Omega, who excelled herself by telling me in all seriousness that I should be proud of how good I looked for a man approaching 70. I must explain that I have been spouting on about approaching the beginning of my 7th decade, which means I will shortly be 60, but she had clearly not understood. It was only when everyone else around her laughed that the penny dropped. She was however wonderfully contrite, and was showing this to me in a most satisfying fashion, until I sensed the brooding presence of Desperate nearby and let go of her quickly.

Ok, that’s it, we are off. Downhill from lunchtime. Let battle (with my liver) commence.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News