New Year Blog Alert

Just as the tail follows the dog, smelling ever so slightly of poop, cometh the new year, cometh a new blog.

Regulars readers will be delighted to know that the weekly attempt to play tennis followed by a Gentlemen’s lunch is still in effect. Tennis has been rare in the last few months due to injuries, holidays, age and indifference, but lunch is eternal, and usually takes place on Fridays at Auberge St Donat, when it is not closed (twice in the last year for a fermature annual?). The major protagonists are The Wingco, who is still proud of his title of Complete C**t earned several New Years Eves’ ago when burning a hole in That Nice Lady Decorators ski jacket (long story…). Then there is the class obsessed – at least by my lack of class – Master Mariner Mundell who claims that my “O Levels” must be in Car Nicking, Burglary and Street Graffiti.  There is Dancing Greg Concorde Harris from CD Villas (Seedy Villas? Surely not?) sporting his new nose job (one would have thought the surgeon would have wanted to make it smaller rather than bigger?), Hop Along Nick “Fallen Off His” Pearch, resplendent with a new hip and Mike “Grunter” Macmillan, so named due to his Monica Seles impersonation, former banker and fellow author. Almost without exception these are clients of Currencies Direct for which they should be eternally grateful, but seldom are.

The sun going down on life in the South Of France

It is a sad indictment upon the average age of these gatherings that most conversations now start with a declaration of injuries incurred, illnesses endured and pension arrangements. In fact my picture today, which some of you will already have seen, is of a sunset in Cannes late last year,  a metaphor perhaps for this twilight period in life.  In my case it is a dicky heart, dodgy sinuses, a damaged knee, a groin strain and the fact that I will get my state pension in a little over 3 months time, sufficient to make me want to live to 100. Yippee! The humour is almost entirely black, mainly aimed at me, my upbringing and accent, my not speaking properly, my silly moustache and my dashing (my description, not theirs) wardrobe, but as they are clients, what is a man to do?  I have nicknamed this group as the “Silver Spoon Brigade”, mainly due to their public schoolboy background or their foppish assumption of those characteristics in order to score points.

Most lunches are ribald, involve copious quantities of wine and, in the worst cases such as just before Christmas, an alarming number of cognacs. In those instances I know I have been entertained but have little recollection of in whichcontext.

We had played tennis that morning but my groin strain has slowed me from whippet like speed and agility to something a little less mobile, but I was able to steer my partner on this occasion, Nick, to a famous victory, and one that I was keen to discuss over lunch. Needless to say, the losers were none to keen and quickly reverted to type, i.e to take the piss out the working class boy done good. Another irritation for the Wingco is that he is an accomplished musician who dreamed of making a living out of playing music and failed, whereas I, with no musical ability whatsoever, have made a living from it. Such fun!

An occasional diversion from tennis is walking and there exists a (lack of) organisation called the Andon Ramblers Association (ARA) with a President For Lift (it should have been President For Life but an unfortunate typo intervened) in the shape of Dancing Greg. I am not a member of this Disorganisation and have no wish to become one, which suits everyone as when a vote was taken to invite me to join, it was unanimously rejected. However, that does not seem to preclude me from joining their rambles or enjoying their rambling lunches and there is one iminently. I shall be bringing you a full report shortly, assuming I can remember anything about it.

Chris France