Drinkers are more intelligent – official
There was an article in the Times recently which revealed details of a study undertaken by the London School Of Economics about the link between drinking and intelligence. It concluded that the cleverer you are the more likely you are to be a drinker. It seems anyone with an IQ of over 125 were more likely to need a drink, possible because of days spent dealing with comparatively stupid non drinkers. This seems to me to be entirely consistent with my thoughts. Sober people are for the most part dull and boring and most of my friends are drinkers, which of course implies that I spend most of my time with more intelligent people. In fact now I come to think of it I know for a fact that I am more witty and become more intelligent the more I drink. It is another fact that generally, drinkers to do trust non drinkers. This apparently is no new trait, but is actually documented as early as the battle of 1066. Perhaps King Harold was keeping an eye out for those pesky teetotallers?
I found a den of intelligence last night as we were invited to a drinks, or should I say an intelligence, party with one-eyed Colin The Pirate (there is only one I in Colin) and Sandra, his sultry goddess. As it turns out, he was not very intelligent trying to drive back from East London at 3pm on the last Friday before Christmas, so we met him coming in from work just as we were leaving. Perhaps he should have had more to drink in his life? A poorer writer than my good self might conclude that today’s column is a bit one-eyed.
That Nice Lady Decorator showing some solidarity with my moustache
Earlier, I had been talked into dropping into The White Hart next door to witness a rare phenomenon; One of my Sprogs working. She was called upon by bar manager Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor to help serve some of the most intelligent people on Arundel, who were all seeking to improve their intelligence as a kind of Christmas presents to themselves. Yes, she was serving behind the bar and the first thing she did was to get me to buy her a drink. You see? intelligent.
Earlier still, in the hubris of some rare sunshine, and missing the turn off the A27 to The Dover, a parking area near Angmering where I can often be seen tramping about the countryside attempting to intimidate those bathroom scales, I ended up at Patching. It is sometimes the case, when I want to increase that intimidation that I walk back from where That Nice Lady Decorator and I have parked to ensure I get my full 4 miles of exercise. Yesterday I miscalculated the distance from Patching to Arundel and walked nearly 11 kms (according to my Ordnance Survey phone app), that’s nearly 7 miles in decimal. (The decimal bit is a joke – not the first time I have used it – but some amongst us missed it the last time and pointed out my “error”.)
The walk was thoroughly unpleasant because of the torrential overnight rain, which seems to be a theme that will run right up to Christmas. Those Tenerife brochures will be out again today. Those and the Currencies Direct brochures, so that I can calculate how much I will save in euros compared with using my bank, or worse still the Post Office whose rates are truly awful.
As far as I know, and it seems I do not need to know anything, we have nothing in the diary today, which is a bit strange this close to Christmas, but doubtless we shall find some intelligent people with whom to mix somewhere at some stage.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Christmas party abyss approaches
Unforecast sunshine made the morning walk a joy. Well, comparative joy in that I did not hate it like the past few days when I have been slogging around the countryside in drizzle and had begun to look on-line at winter sun breaks in Tenerife.
The result however of all that walking is that those bathroom scales have now gone up in my estimation. They have long been the bane of my life, having partially, a long time after I started my walking and two-day fasting diet, begun to be somewhat contrite. For a month at least they were (it was?) a treacherous, lying, deceitful device, hell-bent on making a misery of my efforts to regain that Adonis like shape for which I am justly unrenowned, at least in recent decades, but under careful rehabilitation back into the world of truth and light, they have begun to regain my respect.
In order to test their resolve to continue to improve their skill set, but only to accommodate Auntie Pam you understand, we decided to celebrate the unexpected morning sunshine by going to the picturesque village of Bosham for a pint at the Anchor Bleu. Then a pint at the Crown and Anchor in Dell Quay. Then a pint… Ah no, that is where the normal bathroom-scales-defying pattern was interrupted. However this was more to do with our planned dinner out later at The Bay Tree courtesy of my dear Aunt, rather than any sudden spot-changing, character-altering aberration.
Arundel Castle looking splendid in the winter sunshine
Dinner at the Bay Tree in Arundel was magnificent. It really is a very fine restaurant. I have now discovered garlic roast potatoes and my life is now complete. Adjourning from there at after 10, we found that although the White Hart closes at 10 on weekdays, there were still a few stragglers drinking up, and managed to persuade James “Desperate Dan” the landlord that we were so thirsty and had so far to go home that we needed a drink and I am glad to say that his goodheartedness came shining through. He will get his reward in heaven (if he is stupid enough to believe). Reverend Jeff, can you make his reservation? Also in the pub was his fiancé, the mighty and beautiful Omega, looking splendid in a black short skirt and leopard print top. This is notable because it is an unwritten but widely known rule of the jungle in Arundel that leopard print is normally the exclusive domain of That Nice Lady Decorator. However after what looked to me like a brief bit of claw sharpening, everything went smoothly and we were ushered out into the appalling weather for the dash next door and home.
Now I know I had taken on board a pleasant sufficiency of wine, but I was in need of a cigar and one simply cannot smoke a fine Havana without a drink in ones other hand. It could have been worse, it could have been the vintage port that I have stocked for Christmas, but instead I settled on some fine Muga, a surprisingly good Spanish wine I happened across a decade ago and recently discovered nestling in the Majestic Wine Store.
So it is with a sore head that I write this daily missive, dedicated to the promotion of the good services of Currencies Direct, and steeling myself for the inevitable acceleration in the Christmas party abyss, which continues with a drinks party this afternoon at 5. Colin the Pirate and Sandra the Sultry Goddess are our hosts, so it will not be a quiet one…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Carols in the rain
There is one down side to living next door to the pub and that is when the brewery decide to deliver the extra festive barrels of beer required for Christmas at 7am in the morning. Modern barrels are made of metal and have to be clangingly dropped off the lorry before being rolled into the cellar. It is a cacophony with a silver lining. It is that wonderful commodity beer after all, and although Harvey’s is not my favourite pint, it is very decent. As the late great Larry Grayson might not have said; “what a dray day”, or maybe “Shut that door (to the cellar)”.
As my dear Aunt had to be collected from Elstead, and that require driving past the Stonemasons Arms at Petworth, the seat of landlord Fearless Feckless Fricker, pictured today at the No Parsley Lunch last week, we thought that we should give the pub the once over, and very pleasant it is too. A lovely old establishment with wooden floors, and a restaurant of some repute. There are however two downsides as far as I am concerned, Firstly it is about 9 miles from Arundel, and secondly, it has the worst Christmas decorations adorning the front door it has ever been my misfortune to see. Had he not had his beautiful wife serving behind the bar with him, I would have remonstrated with him there and then. You cannot have an old style traditional pub with Merry Christmas in tasteless coloured lights surrounding the entrance, otherwise you will incur the displeasure of this column and its columnist.
Fearless Feckless Fricker pointing to the dreaded parsley. You just can’t be too careful where parsley is concerned
Returning to Arundel, we partook of a very light lunch at The Swan Hotel, before adjourning for a short siesta ahead of the evenings festivities at The Bridge at Amberley. The promised storm was right on time and had the effect of ruining the Christmas event. The band manfully performed outside beneath an awning flapping away madly, whilst a few hardy individuals stood singing with umbrellas almost horizontal to try to keep the tempest at bay. These intrepid carol singers were replaced by others in relays almost after every song to go and dry off and recover in the bar. The more sensible amongst us had booked a table inside where we enjoyed a lovely convivial meal, but hardly saw the band or heard a Christmas carol. The weather was too intemperate even to consider attempting to open a window by even the smallest amount. One could say that there was not a window of opportunity, but as one is a dedicated writer and promoter of the services of Currencies Direct, one would not consider such a crass remark.
In the end Mr Otway was not able to join us from London, so the business of rock and roll will have to wait for another day. I am not sure he would have enjoyed it as I doubt very much the silver band would have been performing any of his songs, not even the official BBC’s 7th best lyric of the last millennium “Beware Of The Flowers ‘Cause I’m Sure They’re Gonna Get You, Yeah”. Perhaps not quite festive enough.
Today, after my now normal 4 mile constitutional, I need to prepare for dinner this evening at the Bay Tree in Arundel, courtesy of my lovely Aunt Pam. I shall be lined up at 7.30 pm sharp, washed and scrubbed and ready for pre dinner inspection. The descent into Christmas madness has begun and will not stop until early next year.
Chris France
The bible, a carpenter, Julie Andrews and football
At this time of year it is worth remembering that according to that work of fiction, the bible, Jesus’ father Joseph, was a carpenter, who reputedly had a big interest in and wanted to play football. His first big step forward was to make the bench. That reminds me of why in my teens I called my dog Carpenter. It was because he was always doing little jobs around the house.
I did manage to avoid Christmas shopping but was still dragged into helping transport most of the contents of many of the stores in Brighton from the train and into the car. To my mind, no two people, That Nice Lady Decorator and Sprog 2, could possibly have carried all that booty to the station. Anyway, phase one seems complete, but it seems that there is a plan similarly to denude the shops of Worthing in similar fashion in a day or so.
Astoundingly, after yesterdays shopping and That Nice Lady Decorator weakening whilst on that shopping expedition and slipping into a pub near the station for a pint, there was no further back sliding and the second back-to-back diet day was completed successfully. This is the direct contrast to England’s mission to beat Australia in the Ashes cricket campaign, which ended as expected in ignominious defeat, the first time in 7 years. Hopes had been high, expectations higher but in truth we look a spent force, with several internationally renowned players now fighting to maintain their careers. That defeat would to my mind have been another valid reason for a breakdown in beer resistance, but with the festering season nearly upon us and social occasions now festooning the diary, I will awake this morning with a smug sense of satisfaction that the two-day campaign was successfully negotiated, and a raging thirst. It will be partly slated in early evening as we travel to The Bridge at Amberley, weather permitting (and on current forecasts from the Reverend Jeff’s daughter, Holly Green one of the weather presenters on BBC South – – born out-of-wedlock I may add – that permission may be withdrawn). It seems that a winter storm may engulf us but it is our intention to partake of roasted chestnuts and Christmas carols at their traditional Xmas celebration. We might even see Mr John Otway for a spot of Christmas cheer as there is film business to be done on Otway The Movie, and he is also a customer of Currencies Direct. Thus the taking of beer will only be in order to help ensure the smooth functioning of the music and film business world I inhabit from time to time. I do hope we she sing the lyrics below to These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things.
The new alternative Julie Andrews version
Auntie Pam the former school teacher is also coming as she is our house guest for a few days, so it will be a varied and motley gathering, with an age range from 19 (Sprog 2) through 37 for That Nice Lady Decorator, on to myself in sight of his seventh decade, Mr Otway now firmly entrenched in his, and culminating with my dear Aunt who is 86 going on 40. She will be the last to leave and the last to retire to bed. She will be razor sharp in wit, fall upon bad English or grammar like a whirling dervish, but will take us out to dinner at The Bay Tree on Thursday evening, so she will be forgiven everything. She is only for a few days after which I shall need a rest. There is still a lot of partying lined up and I need to pace myself.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A surfeit of wind jokes
Another day like yesterday and the tour brochures will be coming out. Rain and wind, the latter probably as much to do with beer as low pressure, were as about unpleasant as it gets in the UK . But things livened up in the evening with the arrival of Sprog 2 back from University for Christmas. The term ended a week ago, but it seems it was necessary for her to divert to France for a week on her way home from London. Frankly, I wish it had been me for the most part spending some time in sunny Provence, except for the bit where she sleeps with her boyfriend. That is something I could easily do without.
The masochist in me had me sitting up until 2.30 in the morning to watch the almost certain disappearance of the Ashes to a very chirpy and irritating Australian cricket team. At the time of writing though, England are at last showing a bit of fight although almost certainly too late to hang on to the urn. I spent the hours before the final day of the third test started by catching up on the Sunday Times which quoted Clement Freud. He was always good for a one liner and once said something along the lines of giving up drinking, good food and loving did not make you live longer, it just seemed like it. It is a quote that is dear to my heart.
So Sprog 2 and That Nice Lady Decorator are going to Brighton today to do some Christmas shopping. Retail therapy has been raised to a new higher art form when they get together, but there is a silver lining; I don’t have to go with them. So I shall be left to my own devices for the day. What bliss!
Mucky scrabble
Whilst searching my phone to find a picture for today’s column, I stumbled across this one. It is a photo I took on Sunday at the Kings Arms and was the actual scrabble board of a game in progress after a bit if a liquid lunch between a young man and woman. It is not staged. I thought the word “fannywind” was inspired but think if it was played against me I may have challenged it.
Already I can sense the big wind down before Christmas is beginning to start. Telephone calls not returned, recorded messages saying that the office Christmas party has closed the office, but one organisation is still working all the way up to Christmas to ensure anyone with a foreign exchange need can be saved from the voracious grasp of their banks. I am talking about those fine fellows at Currencies Direct.
Of course my mind is seldom diverted from anything except work, oh, and the appreciation of leisure, good wine, good beer, cricket, golf, tennis and good food. So not much work then. I think the thing is about work, and this is something I have long argued; if one works at the intensity that I do, then one does not have to do a full day.
After an attempted double bill diet day today (I say attempted but there is a decent chance Sprog 2 will demand a feed at a local hostelrie, which will be a provocation too far), we are set for a visit by my favourite aunt, Pam. Still able to strike fear into your heart with a withering look despite her 86 years, she is as sharp as a knife and often the last to bed. We have in mind to go tomorrow tonight to The Bridge at Amberley for their Chestnuts and Carols event, where, unsurprisingly, we may expect to eat roasted chestnuts and sing Christmas carols. However, as it is an event staged largely outside, and the weather forecast made mention of 80 miles per hour winds and rain, I suspect that might be a Bridge to far. Don’t you just love it when a cliche just kicks in like that?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Pink Pony
Being a Sunday and deciding once again not to go to church, the same decision I have made every week of my adult life, we went to the pub. After an irksome drive back from Berkshire in mist and rain, and a wet march around the Downs in further dreadful weather, I was ready for a pint, particularly because today has been designated a diet day.
It is normal on a Sunday for me to try to wind up my old pal, and this columns most prolific Limerick writer, the Reverend Jeff. He desperately wants me to seek solace through religion which of course will never happen. Not even on my deathbed will I read the bible looking for loopholes. He really wants to save me, but as I may have told him in the past; “do I look like a green shield stamp?”
I was thinking that, as this diet is still going on despite getting near to the Xmas season, and is based on calorie intake, could I call the calories I do get to consume over the festive season Christmas Carolies? It is the type of pun that puts a song in my heart, as does this picture which came into my hands recently.
The previous managers of the Pink Pony?
I took this up with Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson, landlord of the Kings Arms in Arundel over a pint of London Pride. His largesse in the form of a wonderful cheese and pate in abundance on the bar is one of the main reasons Sunday at Kings has begun to become traditional. He told me about a character who used to frequent his pub who was called Jim and Tonic, who sounds just like the sort of character I would have live to have met. It could have applied to another chap on the strength of yesterday’s experience.
He is a legend that I did meet briefly at the No Parsley Club, also known as the Old Codgers Lunch on Friday and again yesterday, when I was able to spend some time talking to him. His name is David Goulding DFC. He won his Distinguished Flying Cross as a navigator in the Second World War, flying mostly Liberators and other bombers in Africa, the Far East and Europe. He was most active over Japan. He is a brilliant character, who even at 91 was able not only to engage in some and engage in serious conversation, but was also able to down at least 4 Gins and Tonics over the course of a couple of hours. He told me that he is now one of only three survivors from the Second World War living in Arundel.
He is also a huge cricket fan, as was I until last night when the wheels finally came right off for a hapless English team in Australia. England has been comprehensively outplayed and humiliated by a team we were beating just 6 months ago. I never thought it was going to be a walkover in their own back yard as most of the professional pundits did, I would have been happy with a drawn series, but pulverised is a word that could describe it.
Anyway, as I left the pub I got into a conversation with a couple of chaps considering buying houses in Spain and France, which have me the opportunity to press the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct. Work never ceases for us working class chaps.
Finally, I did hear about The Black Horse in Amberley , which has been closed for a couple of years but will apparently reopen next year. It seems it was once run by a couple gay chaps and was dubbed locally as The Pink Pony. As good a place as any for a babycham.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Bird in the concrete fist
In the gathering murky dark that is the typical nasty grey damp mark of December, we cranked up the Merc and set sail for Waltham St Lawrence. I had booked to stay in the nearby Bird In The Hand, which according to its website suggested that it was a 14th century coaching inn, just the sort of thing for a winter’s evening in the run up to Christmas. Imagine an ancient, cozy and intimate pub tucked away in the country in deepest Berkshire. That was what I did imagine. What they had sensibly omitted from the website was that it was on the A4, the Great Bath Road, and that every nook and cranny of charm that might once have been there had been surgically removed by the most unsympathetic architect, with no eye for colour, sophistication or charm. He would be the type to have designed a concentration camp and been pleased with its clean lines. Perhaps Sir Richard Rogers was involved? I do not consider a concrete and brick jungle to be “cozy”.
The beach at Rustington
Swirly carpets were, until last night, my least favourite floor covering, now it is tartan carpet. The sort of tartan that one might find adorning the rug one might put over ones knees if one were Scottish and suffering from terminal gout. However the problems did not end there. Apart from its proximity to a major trunk road that the owners had thoughtfully forgotten to mention, the huge uninviting red brick extension robbed the building of my intimacy it once may have had. My least favourite Xmas decorations – flashing Christmas tree lights were adorning a plastic tree in the middle of the main room off the bar, flashing away like a peeping tom, and the beers were all execrable. How can you have 4 real ales available, two pale end two dark and not a normal bitter in sight? The choice was so poor that we were forced into drinking a not very good pint of Guinness, so you can see that I was in a hurry to leave.
Thus we were delighted when our lift arrived to bring us back into civilisation. Our driver Clive Panto (real name, Oh yes it is) and soon to be Currencies Direct client, can be amusing and irritating in equal measure. A comedian by trade, pretending to be a team leader and builder, he is funny in a way that you are often laughing at him rather than with him, but I guess he makes a living doing what he is doing and does not seem to work very hard, so perhaps he has it right. Anyway he was supposed to be our driver but when we got to the car it was being driven by his saintly wife, the lovely Catherine. When I questioned this, because one obviously wants to avoid being driven by a woman at night in the rain, however beautiful she is, Clive reminded me that he is unable to reverse. Quite what that had to do with driving at night eluded me at the time and still eludes me now. It seems that he cannot look backwards over his shoulder without feeling sick and so delegates the driving duties in his family for the most part to his long-suffering spouse. I must remember that ploy.
A microcosm of the ex pat drinking classes of the south of France were gathered at the home of a BA pilot whom I cannot name for professional reasons, for a party. It was a raucous affair and that is the reason I shall draw a discrete veil over proceedings. Suffice to say that I shall expect my flight to Barbados in March next year to be at a considerably higher standard than that for which I have paid.
Chris France
Parsley fights back
“Careful they don’t put you in the pot as well” said That Nice Lady Decorator as I dressed in readiness for the No Parsley Club luncheon at Butlers in Arundel yesterday. She was referring to my bright green slacks, which I had decided to wear to show that, with the exception of parsley, I am as one with green herbs and vegetables, well, at least those not used for decoration or garnish. The pot to which she was alluding was the one that we had asked the restaurant to place on the table in case any parsley sneaked in without our knowledge and was there for it to be collected up and summarily torched should that occur. As it turned out there was a parsley conspiracy.
The restaurant kitchen staff must have got wind of the event because I have never seen so much parsley on one table at any stage in my life. It was not so much a pot that was needed but a bucket. As ubiquitous as grass on a cricket field, the entire Arundel stock of this wicked green organism must have been on our table, which had extended to 15 by the off. It was a much better attended event than I had been led to believe. Obviously parsley is deeply unpopular and the good people of Arundel had decided that enough was enough and took a stand,I took a number of photographs on the day of some of the parsley protesters but this one stood out. One can hardly tell these two apart. The must be identical twins.
Ted the moustache and Fearless Feckless Fricker enjoy their similarity
From what you have seen, you may accurately surmise that the potential to talk seriously about the benefits of using Currencies Direct and foreign exchange in general were somewhat limited. I would have been better off talking about pirates. Fearless Feckless Fricker had taken to doing his Robert Newton pirate expression all afternoon. It involves pre-cursing every phrase or sentence with a long piratical “arrrrr, Jim lad” and then later, as the wine took effect, dropping the Jim lad bit.
So despite, or paradoxically because of the surfeit of parsley, the lunch was a splendid affair which did not break up until around 4.30 I think – I know it was dark outside – and I think we may have adjourned to the Kings Arms for a brief pre siesta sharpener, but frankly by that time, I had become a bit tired and emotional.
It had started in the Red Lion, where we spotted Timothy Taylor Landlord, the second best beer in the world after Fullers London Pride, on sale as a guest beer. It was there that we met some of the protagonists destined for that lunch and things started to accelerate towards the almost inevitable messy conclusion later. I think there was a bit of that Christmas party, end of term feeling pervading the gathering. The year is winding down to a close.
The problem sometimes with a late siesta after a skinful is that you don’t wake up until 2am the next day, but in this case it was perfect as the third Test Ashes Test Match is taking place against Australia in Perth so when I awoke I was refreshed enough and brave enough to watch the game swing in England’s favour, but probably not enough to keep The Ashes. To do that now would take a bit of a miracle and will probably need to involve Australia’s leading strike bowler, Mitchell Johnson, to suffer some grievous injury. However, I shall not be downcast. i will leave that to the English team.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The No Parsley Lunch awaits
I managed to plead pressure of work or I would have been dragged metaphorically screaming to the hideous spectre of Christmas shopping in Chichester. It is not that I dislike Chi, as the locals call it, but I detest shopping of any type, especially of the Christmas variety. I would prefer even the dull and tedious job of preparing royalty statements, which is in fact the job I got.
Bored by this task very quickly, my mind wandered first towards the wonderful Currencies Direct exchange rates which have been close to £1 = 1.20 euros (find out how to open an account with Currencies Direct) and then to today’s No Parsley Lunch at Butlers in Arundel. Being a diet day yesterday, it was perhaps inevitable that my mind would focus on food so I should not have been surprised. I might even have been tempted to munch on a bit of parsley last evening, that is an indication of how hungry I was. I have seen a bit of support for parsley in the comments section, but only from a herb loving Reverend, but it is his job to love all living things. The problem here is that the parsley, when it makes its unwelcome entrance aboard your plate, is already dead. There is a joke here about the dearly deparslied, but I dare not make it here.
There will apparently by 9 of us at this lunch today at Butlers and I shall be proposing that a No Garnish Lunch should follow this ground breaking experimental statement in garnish avoidance. It is rewarding to think there are at least 8 other people in the world that share my dislike. Parsley, tomatoes, oysters and garnish. There should be a law against them all. I am looking forward to meeting my fellow culinary travellers.
Amongst them are pub landlords Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson and Fearless Feckless Fricker, but the others will be welcome new acquaintances I hope. It is the time of year for the dreaded Christmas party, and I guess this could have the same potential, where you inevitably end up snogging someone inappropriately and I am looking forward to it. In the old days it was sometimes the case that it would get out of hand to the extent that one could wake up the next morning with a wolf arm ( a girl you do not recognise and whom is so ugly you would rather chew your own arm off that wake her up) but luckily I am older and wiser now. Also, I am not certain That Nice Lady Decorator would approve.
The mist rising on a winters day in Sussex
Before lunch I shall be on my usual march around the hills of Sussex, as per my picture today, seeing if I can get to a stone (14 pounds for you non decimal types) in weight loss since starting that diet when I arrived back from France in October, following a long summer fattening up under the Mediterranean sun. I have been telling those bathroom scales that I have bought them something nice for Xmas and am hoping they will believe me. Clearly they will want to reciprocate.
We are on our travels this weekend again. Waltham St Lawrence in Berkshire is the scene for a gathering of a load of ex ex-pats from the south of France. It involves a hotel, a pilot, a Right Honourable, a slim and beautiful girl who likes to do naked hand stands, but only after a few drinks, a comedian and Panto star, a painter and a Lady Decorator. In other words a microcosm of the varied and wonderful characters I have met in the flesh pots of Provence over the years of living down there. Should be fun and provide some decent copy for this missive…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Worthy Electrical advice?
I got home exhausted, drawn, shaking. I had been out at work since an impossibly early start of, I can hardly think it let alone say it, 09.30 in the morning. Can you imagine? I was surprised that it was not still dark. No self-respecting lush like myself should be seriously expected to depart his pit at such an early moment, it is an outrage. Then, having driven to the northern edge of civilisation, Beaconsfield, was in a continual meeting until 4pm, although it did continue through a very convivial luncheon, made considerably less convivial as I was unable to indulge in almost any ale on account that I had to drive myself! (Could that be described as small beer?) Where is ones chauffeur in such circumstances?
It gets worse. Fog blighted part of the journey. December fog. In England. Far enough north that the sun barely gets above the horizon at noon. Then having to drive all the way back in the dark and the mist, I arrived back in Arundel at nearly 6pm, very late, well after gin and tonic o’ clock, quivering with fatigue. There was only one thing for it: a couple of pints at the Kings Arms to rejuvenate and restore some sanity and from where I took this photo. Wise words indeed.
A worthy thought
I know of no man who could have stood up to such a debilitating day better than myself. Obviously I shall need a month or so of rest and recuperation before I shall be able to claim full recovery, but I am strong in mind and body and I will bounce back, albeit that being a very slow bounce. Now I know how Sir Ranulph Fiennes OBE feels after one of his treks into the Antarctic or wherever.
But like our intrepid explorer above, one has to balance the achievements against the personal hardships and if I think about what has been achieved, then I suppose, in the fullness of time, it will all have been worthwhile. At least there have been no symptoms of frostbite yet visible, so I may have escaped such a destiny. Anyway, talking of destiny, the future of the global music industry is now safe for the time being, so the OBE cannot now be far behind. Dare I start thinking about how Sir Christopher might sound? If our sideboard-endowed cycling wonder, Sir Bradley Wiggins, can be knighted, I feel I must be near the top of the list. After all, I too have some exaggerated and remarkable facial hair. If not for services to popular music, then perhaps services to the foreign exchange sector as a result of my sterling (did you see what I did there?) work with Currencies Direct, helping people who need to move money around the world out of the cloying and expensive grasp of their banks?
I shall deserve a lie in this morning, but there is no rest for the hardworking. I shall have to drag myself from my bed again this morning, although not at such extreme an hour, as I have business to do in Arundel before midday so another early start. How do I do it? I think clean living is in part responsible.
In the pub last evening, we encountered Fearless Feckless Fricker, the absent landlord from Petworth, who seems to spend more time in the Kings Arms than his own pub. He was keen to remind me about the No Parsley Lunch on Friday. Talking of which, one of the limericks in the comments section of this column yesterday seeks to make the case for parsley, but of course there can be no defence.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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
Billy Bunter or Penfold?
My red wine cellar may be about to receive a huge boost. Someone in my household has decided to give it up. When one finds an opportunity to protect ones red wine stocks, one must hope that there will be no change of heart. I cannot reveal, for fear of physical assault, who in our family may be considering such a path, and if pressed will deny any knowledge or even suspicion that such a path might be contemplated, but if it were to happen, the potential effect on the preservation of my red wine stocks would be pronounced.
What is actually meant by “a period of time”? A matter of a few days will have little effect, but if it were, say. A year, then the impact would be significant. In summer, tastes tends to turn towards white wine, often a much cheaper option, but in the winter it tends to be red, and that affects my cellar, so any real reduction in its denudation would be welcome, if indeed anything that I have hinted at above, but not confirmed, came to pass.
Yesterday then, to an excellent lunch at the Swan in Chiddingfold with Mr Clipboard and his lovely wife Ashley. Bizarrely he has taken to wearing some new glasses which remind me of Billy Bunter, the unfortunate fat boy in those books he no doubt read at his school, Wellington, unless he is older than he claims and the books were inspired by him. His stature, appetite and popularity would make it easy to believe the latter. This is not to be confused with that other character with whom I associate him in Tom Browns Schooldays in which some poor “fag” was roasted over a fire and the like. If you have ever seen Mr Clipboard slave over a hot barbecue you would see that he is a natural.
He himself alluded to a character in popular TV cartoon character from the 70’s; Dangermouse. Penfold was a fat ugly short bespectacled character in this popular children’s animated series, but Mr Clipboard is far less attractive than him. He was however in good form and another amusing lunch transpired before heading back to Arundel, and a late pint of London Pride at The Swan.
That Nice Lady Decorator investigates a possible parsley sighting
After 4 lunches or luncheon events in the past 4 days, I am almost looking forward to a diet day today. The 5:2 diet has been at the heart of my transformation into whippet like slenderness, at least that is the impression I have gained in my own mind, but such an extended period of debauchery has inevitable taken its toll on my waistline and must be addressed before it gets out of hand, or more graphically, over belt. Thus I shall sit quietly in my office today diligently working on all the things I have neglected in the past week, especially spreading the word about the benefits of using Currencies Direct to effect payments and receive monies from abroad.
A period of relative calm is now on the horizon, with another diet day on Thursday and no social occasion crowding in on Wednesday at this stage, indeed I find that I must drive up close to London tomorrow to keep the wheels of the music industry turning, precluding lunch, but such a period of quiet reflection and recuperation is vital ahead of the No Parsley Club luncheon on Friday. It will take place at Butlers in Arundel and it seems there will be close to a dozen people making that vital stand against this insidious herb. I am told that there will be a receptacle in the centre of the table in which any bits of parsley that escape from the kitchen and inadvertently appear on any of our plates, can be summarily dismissed and hopefully torched. It such a useless adornment, a bit like garnish. In fact I think I will suggest a spin-off gathering; The No Garnish Club. Vegetarians wishing to join either should be closely vetted in both instances. One does not want any parsley or garnish being introduced by and salad eating fifth columnists.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Fanuary; Beating about the bush?
Over the first pint with Simon “who ate all the pies” Barrett, I recall discussing music. I wondered if a DJ who had once played at Glastonbury, but no longer did so, might be able to claim that he no longer mixed in those circles? It was the precursor for a very fine Sunday lunchtime, where the only food on show was the spread of cheese, crackers, sausages and pork pies at the Kings Arms.
Proceedings had commenced at The White Hart, but with That Nice Lady Decorator rediscovering her dislike of local real ale Harvey’s, and expressing this discovery rather too loudly, we decamping to the Kings, which was one of several options, the decision swayed by its outside area where cigars could be smoked. It was the kind of day when cigars will always be smoked.
Before setting off, Simon the Pieman, so called because of a marked increase in his waistline (and every other line) of catastrophic proportions over the past few years, committed an error of judgement of the type much beloved by a self styled columnist such as myself. The doors between our kitchen and living room are just that; doors. In normal circumstances and with people of normal girth, only one is required to be open to allow passage from one room to another. Yesterday however, the second door had to be opened to allow the Pieman to enter.
Larger people can be extra jovial, and so it proved yesterday lunchtime. I did not stop laughing for about 4 hours, after which I still had a smirk on my face as we returned home to regather for lunch today with Mr Clipboard and others at Chiddingfold. I cannot remember the exact point at which discussions began to go downhill, and enter a smutty but nonetheless amusing area. Perhaps it was the revelation, made to me in confidence, that as it was the Pieman’s birthday, certain extra items of clothing (none of which were designed to provide extra warmth if you get my drift) were secreted in his wife’s suitcase ready for some kind of birthday treat last evening. I had earlier questioned the lovely, willowy and beautiful Debbie as to the exact nature of this clothing and what precisely she wished to achieve by wearing it, but I am afraid to say that In my opinion I did not get a full and honest answer. Even when I suggested that given the paucity of information, and a readership depending upon me for lurid details, coupled with my renowned sense of invention, the truth might be easier to see in print than anything she might reveal to me, the arch blogger and promoter of the foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct, but she still refused to reveal what she had in mind and what in entailed.
The Fanuary discussions commence
I blame this conversation for the genus of the following discussion. It began with references to my very fine handle bar moustache and whether, now the Movember has finished, I might consider reverting to something more normal in terms of facial hair. I blame That Nice Lady Decorator for the rapid downwards (literally) spiral of the conversation into areas into which I would usually like to delve; Fanuary.
For those unprepared for a trip into the world of private female hairdressing, which has nothing to do with the hair on ones head, please look away now. By this time we had been joined by several other gorgeous young ladies, including flame haired siren Carolyn, and, fuelled by rather too much beer and wine, I am afraid to report that discussions became rather louder and lewder that The landlord Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson’s other customers might have hoped to have overheard, especially on a Sunday. It seems that the term “Fanuary” has similar connotations in terms of the grooming and styling of hair for females in the month of January, as Movember does for men and moustaches, and although some of my recollections are a a littler hazy, I believe that there is now a plan, hatched yesterday, to have some kind of exhibition of the results from the girls of their efforts at the end of that month . It will be an unshakeable date in my diary, except of course for the fact that when they all awake this morning, it will be quietly cancelled and put down to excessive alcohol consumption. However, the whole concept sent me to sleep happy last night.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The lady town cryer
The ancient tradition of having a Town Cryer, a medieval way to make announcements, is alive and well in Arundel, except for one thing; Arundel has a female town cryer. I came across her yesterday during the warm up for “Arundel By Candlelight ” which got under way at lunchtime yesterday. Now I am a bit of a traditionalist at heart, and although she looks the part in her outfit, and she uses her bells well, it is it not the voice that us a crucial here? In my opinion It needs balls rather than bells. If you want to announce stuff in the traditional way, you need a deep baritone, not something that is reedy and shrill. She is a lovely lady but it is just wrong.
The lady town cryer of Arundel
After a brief, but still too long for me, stint of retail therapy at the Christmas market, we eventually gave in to the temptation to have a festive Christmas drink at about 3pm. First up was the Kings Arms where Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson, the landlord, and co-founder of the No Parsley Club, was outside in a short sleeves shirt serving mulled wine. It was about 7 degrees but he did not seem to feel the cold. Inside, he was launching his own real ale called Chazza Metazza on the inside. I stuck to London Pride in the warm interior.
The lights were switched on by the Duchess of Norfolk and so we had adjourned to the Red Lion which looks out on where the tree is located, in order to witness the event but in the hubris of beer, we missed it. Literally thousands of people had flocked to the town for the event, with the High Street closed and parking free from 1pm, it seemed that most of the inhabitants of Sussex were there.
This in a strange way was anti climactic. I don’t know what I expected, perhaps it is a victim of its own success, but everyone said it was such a good event last year, but with the town packed, with rather too many snotty nosed kids in pushchairs clutching luminous toys, waiting to sit on the knee of a corpulent man dressed in a red suit and with a shiny nose, who is heading for the sex offenders register, it was hard to find people we knew. We did see the flame haired siren, the beautiful Carolyn, at her retro clothing stall, where I was able to brighten her day by showing her a copy of yesterday’s column. For some reason she was not best pleased. I just a don’t understand it.
An old cigar smoking chum from Buckinghamshire will be in Arundel this lunchtime, doubtless intent on denuding my sticks of Monte Christo’s finest, Simon Barrett will be accompanied by the gorgeous Debbie, who is now in a senior position at broadcaster BFBS, who is as much his carer as his wife. Never one for an active life, I wonder if he will arrive in a bath chair? Their arrival will signal that it is time for a drink and I believe the Kings Arms will be the lucky recipient of our largesse, at least to start with. I shall be talking to him about why he has not yet become a customer of Currencies Direct. His probable defence, that he has no need of a foreign exchange service, even if it is the best one around, will not be accepted. It is plainly common sense to be prepared for any eventuality, so I shall have the forms to hand so that he will be ready.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
First Friday failure
Arriving back in Arundel in rare bright sunshine, I had time for my normal 4 mile trek around the countryside before thinking about going to the run down, but quaintly charming, Norfolk Arms Hotel for a networking meeting under the auspices of Arundel First Friday. You never know where you might find people who can benefit from the services of Currencies Direct.
On the train back That Nice Lady Decorator enquired by text as to how flame haired siren, the beautiful Carolyn, had fared the night before when she had met her heroes, Duran Duran at a press launch, a treat I had arranged for her. Her response: that she was in bed, prompted my enquiry “with whom?”. She replied, I assume in jest, that she had both the Taylor brothers with her. This seemed a slight anti climax (can I say that?) as there are three Taylor’s in the group. My answer, suggesting that surely if she only had the two, one of them must be gay, was met with the riposte; “but which one?”. Just to avoid any interest from libel lawyers, I want to make it clear that this conversation was merely for fun and there is no suggestion that any of the group are gay. Now let’s move on.
Facebook tells more of the story, with various pictures of both That Nice Lady Decorator and the flame haired siren both being seen in inappropriate clinches with Simon Le Bon, lead singer with the group. I think the comment from one Peachy Butterfield was the most illuminating, asking if That Nuce Lady Decorator realised that he was not the bass player, a reference to her particular taste for bass players from her youth. Highly strung you may think, and I think most of them should be.
Because it was sunny, and because That Nice Lady Luncheon Person wanted a walk in the sunshine and then a couple of pints, followed by lunch, I am afraid that once again I failed to attend the Arundel First Friday networking meeting to which I alluded above and to which I had almost decided to go . A sunny day in England in winter is such a rare animal that one most be light on ones feet when it comes to prior arrangements (which are nothing to do with the burial of England’s wicket keeper), so, not for the first time, work was abandoned for lunch.
The Seven sisters and Beachy Head, viewed from the Cissbury Ring
This was taken at The Gun at Findon, after a frenetic walk around the Cissbury Ring,(pictured today) and I have to say it was extremely good. Delicately fried pigeon breast told the story of why those chaps up north so covert this bird. I must say, why do they use them to send messages when the are so much more rewarding when being eaten? Beautifully rare and tender, it was followed by a duck confit of the highest order,
I was all for a sleep before stirring for the overnight cricket against Australia, which is not going well and will test the nerve of any English cricket fan, but after returning to Arundel I was over ruled and told to prepare for a late afternoon pint at the Kings Arms. I am obedient at heart, so I obeyed the command, just to support my wife you understand. After that I seem to have had a recall malfunction, awaking on the sofa as play in the cricket started.
Today is a big day in the town. “Arundel by Candlelight” is an annual event that we missed last year as we were in Australia. The town is closed to traffic and parking is free, there is a procession, the lights on the Christmas tree in the High Street get turned in (a bit like a flame haired siren of my acquaintance?), there is apparently a market and I believe that all the towns pubs will be open. It is fair to say that I am expecting to enjoy the whole occasion.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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