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
Warningcamp; A warning?
So what does the word Warningcamp mean to you? Are there army warning connotations or do you think it could be construed as a caution against rampant homosexuality? Well, those that know this column or the writer well, or are aware of how much he scratches around for material on diet days, when nothing happens, will know which way this one is going. There was even a house of possible ill repute, if my interpretation is correct, which is featured as my photograph today.
Hmmm…
I had thought I was only on a diet-supporting brisk 5 mile jaunt around the picturesque Sussex countryside, on yet another dismal and dank November day, and perhaps I was, but there was the beginning of a nagging doubt. Now I don’t know why the expression nagging doubt puts me in the mind of a certain Wonderful Decorating Operative, and of course it does not. She never nags and has clearly no doubt about my determination to regain something of my youthful figure, but after two days on starvation rations and after marching around an area fraught with homosexual danger – if it’s name is anything to go by – I could feel my mind wandering. It was time to hang on to reality, achieved by focusing on the very real good service offered by Currencies Direct.
The village is inhabited by err…village people, as you might expect, but as far as I know there is no obvious connection to any pop group that may it may not have sung “YMCA”. There is however a youth hostel in the village but I don’t know where I am going with this except in the wrong direction, which after all could be a subjective description of a straight persons view of same sex relationships. Ok, I am rambling.
It is a most beautiful part of Sussex, off the beaten track (there I go again) so without beating about the bush, let me finish the cliches and turn to Christmas: advent calendars; have you noticed that when one door opens…
This morning, after the most enormous breakfast, unless my stomach has shrunk, we shall be preparing to board the train to London to commune with another pop group, this time Duran Duran. The plan is to check into the hotel and then find a pub selling proper beer. It is a good plan and one that I am looking forward to implementing later this afternoon. I was going to be filmed for a piece be by Nerd TV (I kid you not!) for a production looking at ex-pat lifestyles in the south of France, but this was mysteriously postponed after I sent then a copy of my latest book The Valbonne Monologues, which is either a coincidence, or more likely – having delved into its salacious contents – they have gone off to rewrite the programme in order to make my depiction of life down there the focal part of their offering. That is my opinion and nothing will change it.
I had not factored in that last night was the start of the second Ashes Cricket Test in Adelaide when I agreed to spent another day on 600 calories. Normal procedure on such denial days is to go to bed early as I have explained in recent days, however the start of a vitally important cricket match commencing at midnight robbed me of that refuge, allowing the symptoms of emaciation, so clearly in view my for anyone to see, to become exacerbated and make the evening a misery. As I write this, we have lost the toss, and it is going to be a long drawn out affair.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Theological or illogical?
A bloody theological debate! That’s what is happening in the depths of the comments section, hidden way below the main text, and me, a committed atheist. As if a loquacious litany of limericists living the literary low life (alliteration) in my column is not enough, now they are all spouting about religion. On the other hand, even religious people may need to move foreign exchange from time to time, so I suppose it means that the word of Currencies Direct can be spread further, and as we should all know by now that this is the original raisin d’être for this daily missive. That and a good gossip and hopefully a laugh or two.
So a quiet day yesterday, which paradoxically after the storm of the last 4 days of mayhem and enjoyment was, in a weird way, quite welcome. The 600 calories diet regime is now refined down to a fine art; a slice of Nimble, no butter, half a can of Heinz baked beans and a few mushrooms for a late breakfast, chicken and roasted vegetables for early evening dinner then fruit and a couple of Virgin Mary’s for dinner, then get to bed before you start chewing the furniture. The trouble is that, due to a late scheduled lunch on Monday with an Evoque driving northerner, we have to do it all again today. 10 pounds has gone since returning catastrophically corpulent after an excellent summer in Valbonne though, so even the bathroom scales are beginning to cooperate, but the teeth marks in the table are a bit of worry.
The Chunctonbury Ring, where we may walk today
I need to be looking svelte for my Thursday evening date with the stars. Faded stars perhaps but Duran Duran, Intense Books and Denis Regan, have invited myself and That Nice Lady Decorator to the launch of their new book ” Careless Memories – Duran Duran on tour 1984″ on Thursday evening at a secret location in the West End. Well it’s not secret to me of course otherwise I would not be able to go.
I say the group have invited me but really it is my lawyer, who is probably feeling guilty about the swingeing fees he has charged me in the past. I am hoping that his alter ego, Al Yiddley, the Jewish lawyer from Allwoodley, the famous Jewish area near Leeds, will make an appearance, usually after a surfeit of champagne, but as the event finishes at 9pm, I suspect he will not, as his appearances tend to be later in the evening than that. There is always the possibility that we may go on after the party and exhibition, at which I am hoping the Duran’s might play, if they still can.
Talking of the north, I believe that we shall shortly see the launch of my new weekly column for Onboard Online, in which I shall be setting the record straight on the north/south divide. I shall be batting for the civilised south of England, whilst the Trott like presence (cricket fans will know what I mean) of man mountain Peachy Butterfield will be scribbling away defending the indefensible; life up north. I will be arguing that Hadrian’s Wall was a good idea, it was just built in the wrong place and nowhere near high enough, and expounding the virtues and the rewards of living in the south of England, whilst Le Grande Peche will be seeking to defend, amongst other things; pigeon fancying, whippets, dog trials, roadkill barbies and mushy peas, amongst a plethora of all nasty things northern. It should be fun and as soon as it is launched you will read about it here. It will be a walk over.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Double dip diet diatribe
As expected, northern git Steve “Trouble Up T’ Mill” Jackson arrived to take us out to lunch yesterday at my expense. He did drive us to the George at Burpham, where we were ably looked after by Nearly Hairless Nick, but the problem was the transport. Even the gits’ god children call it Papa Smurf, and that is being kind. Obviously, being from up north it is unlikely he could afford such a vehicle, but who oh why would he steal a Range Rover Evoque? particularly as it is bright blue. He seemed to be under the impression that the Spice Girl inspired abomination is somehow cool. Anyway, after I had stopped laughing, I realised I had to get in it, and that I would be recognised at the pub, so I had him park it way around the back, and hope not to be seen.
It was a lovely lunch, with the home-made scotch eggs, still runny, being sensational, and I know our northern friend must have secretly enjoyed his beer because quality like that afforded by Arundel Sussex Gold is hard to find in his neck of the woods.
Returning to Arundel, we popped into the Kings Arms for a late afternoon refresher, to find Charley Pistorius Malcolmson, the landlord, in deep discussions with Fearless Feckless Fricker, the landlord of the Stonemasons at Petworth, about the Christmas “No Parsley” lunch. This will take place sometime next week, and That Nice Lady Decorator and I have been honoured to be invited to attend. I think my fulsome embracement of the ideal that Parsley should never again adorn my plate was the clincher to have been invited into the inner sanctum of such a worthwhile organisation. I mean parsley; what is the point? I had thought that the lunch would take place in Petworth, but I was wrong, Butlers in Arundel is the intended target for the misuse of parsley.
Obviously I have had too much fun over the last 4 days, eating and drinking, so there has (apparently) to be a reckoning. Today is the start of a new intensive and extremely concerning phase of the 5:2 diet that has so laid waist (!) to my waste line over the previous weeks. Two days of consecutive restriction to 600 calories. It has reminded me that I must sign my will.
Cricket fans will quickly recognise this cricketing legend, whom I spotted at the London Palladium last week.
Something weird is happening in the comments subsection of this column. From being the platform for a number of talented limericists, encouraged not at all by me, over the weekend it has suddenly become some kind of theological playground. This is curious because I have long held the view that religion is responsible for most of the ills in society, the majority of wars, and that the intolerance that often seems to emanate as a result, particularly in some sections of the more overtly religious world, and that it should have no part in the lives of balanced reasonable people, amongst whose numbers I count myself. So why pick on my column to have this discussion? I am deeply wounded and thinking of praying for guidance. That should help redress the balance back towards the far less destructive pastime of Limerick writing.
With the Christmas festivity schedule beginning to hot up from Thursday onwards, I should be happy to spend the next two days in quiet contemplation, including the deepest contemplation of the benefits of having ones very own foreign exchange services in the form of Currencies Direct, but instead I shall be yearning for the Christmas madness to begin, without the religious element of course.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Marlipin dilemma
12.00 sharp at the White Hart was the arrangement so we arrived at 12.20 sharp, as James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord may have known. That Nice Late Decorator has turned being late into an art form. She has no end if innovative and often brilliant ways to ensuring she is never on time, a habit that infuriates me as, believe it or not, I like to be punctual. Much like the Wingco, she does not seem to understand the concept keeping to an arrangement where a time frame is involved. She should have been Dr Who to enable her to go back in time for any appointment. With me standing dressed and ready to leave, “I’ll be 2 seconds” is a sign for me to put the kettle on and sit down “I’ll be 2 minutes” is code to go over to the Co op and buy a paper and settle down on the sofa for a quarter of an hour, 5 minutes and I may as we’ll go for a nap and dream about new customers for Currencies Direct.
Anyway, eventually we got to the pub, ready for the trip over to deepest darkest Shoreham On Sea for lunch with James and the beautiful Mighty Omega. Before sitting down to lunch we had planned to take in Shoreham and a few of its pubs. A horrid industrial shell surrounds a really pretty and quaint town centre with a cozy feel of being back in the 1950’s. First stop was the very pretty and particularly low ceilinged Marilipins. I asked what a marlipin was, and got some garbled nonsense about it having some nautical associations, perhaps not surprising seeing as we were on the mouth of the River Ader where it meets the sea, but no one could tell me what it was. Googling it on my phone was no more enlightening except to reveal that there is a Marlipin museum in the High Street, but it was closed being a Sunday so I still no wiser. It was however a nice little pub, serving a decent pint of London Pride but ruined by the recent addition is screens on every wall.
Nope, no idea
Next up was The Bridge, a Fullers house with nothing else but the beer to recommend it except its commanding position on the river and attractive outside sitting area, however as it was about 6 degrees Celsius, breezy and dreary, we drank up and left quickly. Next stop, I think, (the beer was beginning to work its usual magic) was the initially rather unprepossessing and recently renamed Piston Broke (it was until recently known by the far more appropriate Lazy Toad) but had a surprisingly large selection of real ales on tap. No Pride though so I was forced to try some Bishops Finger, which sounds like a type of ecclesiastical abuse. I wonder if the Reverend Jeff has ever (can I say this?) come across it? Anyway once I had been properly fingered there was just one more place to visit on the way to lunch, where we were joined by the cook herself. I think it was called Suters Yard and was another nice pub with a lovely atmosphere, although it is fair to say that I had become quite mellow by that time.
Then back to the Mighty Ones fantastic rooftop flat with views out across the river to the sea in one side and up to the Sussex Downs on the other. Now I understand why she keeps it and has refused to be drawn when I have been rude about Shoreham. I take it all back, the centre of Shoreham is lovely, but there is still the problem of getting to it through the industrial wasteland that encircles it. Once in though, it is charming and a lovely lunch ran on into the evening in a haze exacerbated by of a magnum of 2007 Medoc.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A Shoreham it’s OK?
On the train from Victoria early yesterday morning, I thought back to the splendid show “Eat Pray and Laugh” the Barry Humphries Farewell Tour (before the next Farewell tour as he put it) we had witnessed the night before. I was surprised by the number of gays in the audience because I think it could be said his character Dame Edna is not entirely sympathetic to homosexuals. The Dame was in top form, picking on anyone in the front rows. I particularly liked his comment to the hapless girl in the audience, who was one of a string of people he picked on; “Did you have an argument with your hairdresser before you came out tonight?” Ouch.
Barry Humphries finale at the Palladium
His other major comic character invention, Les Patterson was at his projectile phlegm launching and farting best. This is another reason not to sit anywhere near the front. I liked the clearly gay man of the cloth character with an electronic tag and a penchant for young children, massively politically incorrect, who unaccountably reminded me of our own dear Reverend Jeff. I wonder why? However i think the Reverend’s tastes were for older women, if my memory of your youth together is anything to go by.
Last night, we headed our for a drink at The Eagle, a favourite of Sprog 2 who was in town to extract food, money, and whatever else she can eat, drink or carry from her doting parents, but a private party meant a diversion to the Queens Legs, where we availed ourselves of their splendid idea of getting a take away and eating it over a drink in the pub. They even supply plates, napkins and cutlery, which is about as far-sighted and intelligent as opening up an account with Currencies Direct for your foreign exchange needs.
Today we shall journey over to Shoreham On Sea to be cooked lunch by the beautiful and Mighty Omega, commonly known as Meg, and her bit of rough betrothed James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord, not just for lunch but also a pub crawl, not necessarily in that order. A heart of gold exists under then brooding menacing exterior, (Desperate that is, not the Mighty Omega) and I will not to let any thoughts of cavemen crowd in as we see what Shoreham is all about. The town does not have a great reputation; for instance I heard a comment in a pub recently which went along the lines of “What to you get if you cross Shoreham with a bike?” The answer was “mugged probably”. At least it seems to have a different character to nearby Littlehampton, where you have to keep a constant 360 degree look out for out of control mobility scooters. No, it has a younger, more thrusting and less crusty reputation, so I will take my pepper spray and my stun gun and rely on the imposing presence of Desperate for security.
The planned diet day on Monday has been scuppered and it was nothing to do with me. For once in my life I was glad to hear from the original misguided northern git Steve “Trouble up t’ Mill” Jackson, who has escaped from his beloved north of England and will be in Arundel tomorrow. He must have escaped as he would never get time of for good behaviour, as he does not understand that concept. I will not have a word said against him though, as he has offered to take us out to lunch (doubtless at my expense) and to drive, allowing the tight embrace of the drink driving laws to be relaxed, well in my case anyway. Hurrah!
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Wayne Sweep and the cobwebs
In need of a chimney sweep, That Nice Lady Decorator has secured the services of one Wayne Sweep. I wonder if he changed his name by deed poll? Also I want to ask him if his career choice was down to a the refusal to fight the inevitable association with his surname and became a chimney sweep. When he comes, dare I ask him if it is his real name? If I do, then can I expect the brush off? His nickname would have to be “sooty” n’est pas? After all, one cannot have sooty without a sweep, surely?
Last night then to the smoke. London in all its Christmas glory. Arriving at our hotel in the poorly named High Holborn, That Nice Lady Beer Drinking Person expressed the thought that she “was gagging for a beer”. It crossed my mind to say that did she not think she had partaken sufficiently the night before? when we had planned a quiet evening and an early night, but had instead seen the inside of 3 pubs and Arundel Jailhouse to see some live music, but somehow I did not fancy the risk.
The reason was to bear witness to the Farewell Tour of Barry Humphries, famed for his characters, the spittle spewing louche Sir Lez Patterson, mythical cultural attaché for Australia, with as much culture as a 6 week old yogurt, and Dame Edna Everage, the bizarrely bespectacled Australian socialite, if that is not a contradiction in terms. He was appearing at the London Palladium and we were lucky enough to secure two tickets. I say lucky because we were able to afford them, but only just. A little shy of £100 a ticket after booking fees and the like, but cheap compared with the Monty Python tickets for the 02 that I bought this week and that I may have to mortgage my house for, I was expecting something good. It was magnificent, review will follow tomorrow.
Banjo disobeying the signs as usual
Up and out of bed just after we had gone to sleep, the alarm call at 8am this morning was an utter insult to receive on a weekend, in fact any day when one is advancing on ones 7th decade, so it was with bleary eyes, a sore head and grumpy disposition that I found myself on a train from Victoria back to Arundel just after dawn. The reason for the early start us that Sprog 2 is coming for the weekend, no doubt to apologise for the continued and continuing assault on my American Express card (strictly for emergencies only… I do not consider a Macdonald’s as an emergency). Doubtless she will arrive, contrite and with money to repay me. Can you tell that I live in cloud cookoo land? The bank of mum and dad is fast running out of funds. Luckily I have some new customers for Currencies Direct which may help liquidity.
Talking of liquidity, I feel some more beer coming on today. This will be in celebration of the fact that the early start at least removed me from the scene of one of my worst nightmares; Christmas Shopping. Being in London at this time of year is dangerous for that very reason.
Then on Sunday, unless arrangements go awry, we shall have a little jaunt to Shoreham-On-Sea for lunch with the Mighty Omega, and a tour of the town with James “Desperate Dan” the landlord of The White Hart, and of the pubs he managed in the town from way back when. He will be on the look out for Harvey’s, whilst I shall be hoping for some London Pride.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Jailhouse rock
My first reaction told the story. I thought someone had stolen all the pockets in my waterproof walking jacket, as I prepared to head out on my walk. In the deluded state I have reached now that I have lost so much weight, I had not realised that I was wearing my oilskin inside out.
But I must stop complaining about my lot (or rather little). I was admonished yesterday by one of the coven of limerick writers who has have taken up literary squatting rights in the comments section of this column. The limerick implied that I was failing to be amusing about the 5:2 diet, and she is right. It is a recipe (there I go again with the food references) for misery. I shall try to be upbeat from now on.
But yesterday was a non diet day, Hurrah! So normal service has resumed. Being another horrible murky miserable day in November in England, we decided to pop out for a pint before an early dinner, wanting to get an early night before tonight’s foray into London to see Barry Humphries at The London Palladium, and all the eating , drinking and partying that such a trip inevitably entails. The first mistake was, on the way back from the Red Lion where I had quickly stored a couple of pints of the second best beer in the world -Timothy Taylor’s Landlord – to pop into the White Hart. It was here that we discovered that there was a blues night at Arundel Jailhouse taking place last night, so after careful consideration, concluding that it would be stupid to get wasted before such a big night,dinner we went.
My he evening started to accelerate down hill with a bottle of wine but after enjoying some music, in the way home for some unaccountable reason, stopped in at the Eagle, just to ensure a messy end to the evening. So instead of being up quite the lark with a song in my heart (bloody hell that sound like part of a limerick. It must be contagious), I overslept and have a mouth that tastes like bottom of a parrots cage.
It is a fantastic old jail, as its name suggests, which is used as a venue for music, theatre occasionally, murder mystery dinners and stand up comedy. What a fantastic discovery in the middle of Arundel! Gloomy and intimate, with the old jail cells still sporting the old locks and cots, now proving extra seating. Very atmospheric.
It is not good planning to go to see an Australian comedian just after England were thrashed in the first cricket Test in Brisbane. The Auzzies love a bit of “Pom bashing” as they like to refer to to English that visit (they tend to do the colour of pomegranates after going out in the midday sun). I am expecting “heaps” at tonight’s show. I shall feign ignorance of our recent defeat, which will be reversed this coming week in the second Test which starts on Thursday in Adelaide.
Hiorne’s Tower, on a rare splendid winters day in Arundel
Before that I shall be on my route march which will today take me past Hiorne’s Tower, a folly built in the grounds of Arundel Castle, which provided the backdrop to an early episode of the iconic cult science fiction TV series, now in its 50th year, Dr Who. Having just looked out of the window, I can see that the weather forecast is correct, so it will look nothing like this.
So there has been a lot of history, culture, science fiction, scenery, ghosts and jails featured in this weeks output, but not nearly enough mention of the fine foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct.
Chris France
Haunted by a lack of food
Anyone remember Biafra? It was a very poor part of Africa which had suffered a terrible drought and hundreds of emaciated kids were dying of malnutrition. If was about 30 years ago and was, I think, the first time TV pictures had captured the scale of the problems of famine like this and mobilised the world to help. Anyway, any suggestion that I could be mistaken for a Biafran child after another day of the 5:2 diet, are as disgraceful as they are true in my own mind. The phrase “running on empty” sprang to mind as I trekked around the damp and unappetisingly, drizzle-obscured Sussex countryside yesterday morning, dreaming of finding new clients to enjoy the foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct.
They are not wrong, I look like a ghost
I have a picture taken a few days before of Hiorne’s Tower, on the Arundel Estate, which provided the backdrop to an episode of Dr Who, featuring the Cybermen, which in was going to feature today, until it was as I popped into the Co Op, just to look at the food, that I spotted the headline in the local paper, which I decided to feature in today’s column instead. It seemed ironic that I should see this on the day when I was being haunted by a lack of food, and had no idea that Arundel was so similarly haunted. I must look a little like a ghost myself at the moment so I should fit in, and talking of fitting in, I shall be needing a smaller wardrobe at this rate. That does not mean a smaller storage area.
At least those pesky bathroom scales are beginning to see some sense, with progress on their rehabilitation into the honest world beginning to commence. So what do you do when faced with a miserable situation, miserable weather and no chance to go to a pub and drown your sorrows, and looking at food does no good? You start looking at holiday brochures. We have not had a holiday since October when we returned from three months in France, so planning something is well overdue.
Today then, joy of joys, I can eat real food again, but more importantly, imbibe beer and wine again. I have missed them both. After all, the last time I was able to indulge was Tuesday evening. Thursday as any civilised person knows is the start of the weekend, and am determined to help reduce the stocks of London Pride somewhere today. Unless it all goes hideously wrong, we will be dining this evening on some goose breasts procured at the Arundel Farmers Market last weekend, if not then I fear they will be in the dog.
Tomorrow sees us in London again, this time to commune with Sir Lez Paterson and Dame Edna Everage at the London Palladium on Barry Humphries’ Farewell Tour. Any suggestion that I chose this particular theatre show when on a diet day is entirely founded. The tour is called the “Eat, Pray, Laugh”. Eat when you can, pray for food and laugh when you get it. Not being a fan of late night trains, full of drunk people returning from theatre shows, we shall stay in London again, this time in the depths of High Holborn, which is not a bit like trying to describe a place truthfully. It is barely 20 feet above sea level for the most part. Other examples of inappropriate names might be Scintillating Scarborough or Rocking Rochdale (can you tell I have been writing my northern baiting blog column for Onboard Online? Due to hit the ethernet shortly).
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Cheese eating surrender monkeys?
Breakfast was a banana and an orange. After a diet day? I ask you if that could be construed as mental or even physical cruelty? Obviously a man in my weakened state would not be able to cook for himself and anyway, when one has a wife, might one be entitled to expect a cooked breakfast when one is returning from starvation? Why have a dog and bark yourself? You see how stupidly brave I can get when delirious?
So after another gruelling (as in gruel, obviously) 5 mile walk around the Sussex countryside, the day took another Twist (did you see what I did there?) when the Bridge at Amberley hoved into view, just as I was considering that there was something positive about Dignitas and that it might be the way forward. Lamb shank and a couple of pints of Tribute restored some equanimity, but I was still sufficiently drained to require a siesta afterwards, one way of making it through a November afternoon in England.
Awaking to be told we were going to the Red Lion to see if they still had Timothy Taylor Landlord in tap, which they had, It was when I asked what was for dinner that the trouble started. It appears that as we had taken lunch, we were not expecting to have dinner. That was the royal we of course, and with another diet day in prospect today I needed something to keep the wolf (or Dignitas) from the door.
I bought some cheese from the Co-Op across the road (note that there was no reference to the Reverend Flowers) which suddenly That Nice Lady Cheese Eating Person decided that she would like as well. It was cold and unappetising as is normal in UK. In France cheese is never served chilled, it is severed at room temperature or above, as was intended by the producers, and is far superior, but apparently this offends the EU food inspectors, who act like and are obeyed like the Gestapo over here, but act more like an amiable uncle in France, taking a sensible view there on what is effectively a mouldy product. The mould is an integral part of the process, a fact conveniently ignored by the food police in England. The French are very good at ignoring the stupid EU rules that occur from time to time. Indeed, at one establishment in Valbonne, they keep the cheeseboard behind a curtain (obviously to obscure it from the French cheese police) ensuring that it is served properly, rather than frozen to a near tundra state. Luckily, this is a view we share and so I have a picture today of the lengths we have to go to in order to get cheese served at the correct temperature.
heating up the cheese on the grate
More misery will have enveloped me by the time you are reading this, and I will be wondering how I will get the ubiquitous mention of the wonderful foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct into this daily limerick strewn column. I shall have paid my respects to a slice of Nimble (58 calories – no butter), half a can of Heinz baked beans (60) and some mushrooms (10) and will be on my usual route march around idyllic sun kissed Sussex countryside whilst you, dear reader, are considering whether to get out of bed or not. This is of course a dream rather than reality, which will have me in galoshes and Wellington’s braving the worst that the dreary English winter can conjure, trudging around the muddy countryside in pursuit of the ridiculous concept of regaining the body shape I left behind when I was 19.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Taking someone up the Oxo Tower ?
The lovely flame haired siren Carolyn took me to task yesterday on a high scoring typo day, claiming that she was not flame hired, as my keyboard, which had misinterpreted my words yesterday, had said. No, she is flame haired and feisty and I was put in my place. I do so love a woman with spirit, and this one is spirited all right. She is however also stunningly beautiful and a Duran Duran fan, so I have managed to get her a ticket to their book launch next week, which I think has placated her, at least for now.
I had been at the Kings Arms in Sunday afternoon with another feisty individual whom many of you know as That Nice Lady Decorator. Woe betide any chaps that cross them when they are together. No pubs for me yesterday. Not on a diet day, so do not expect uplifting and amusing today, because that relies on a full stomach and a glass in my hand. All you are likely to get is downtrodden and depressing, except, of course, when I consider the joys that befall anyone with a foreign exchange need that chooses Currencies Direct for it to be satisfied.
The Sussex Downs march today took us up Kithurst Hill, which reminds me of a conversation I had this morning with Mr Clipboard about him taking his wife up the Oxo Tower, however I think if I continued with that theme I might be going a bit off message. In an ideal world, a 4 mile trek in chilly winds should have been followed by a couple of pints and a nice lunch. Instead it was the pre-cursor for a mug of tea and roasted vegetables. I did manage to save enough calories from my 600 to have a Virgin Mary layer on, just to make myself feel like I was having a drink.
The Chunctonbury Ring, where we may venture today
This morning I received a communication from the electoral roll chaps about being registered to vote and it reminded me that I have not heard from The Naked Politician about his launch of his new properly constituted political party, the Party Party, for whom I want to be considered to represent Arundel at the next General Election. I must call him for an update. I was thinking that The Reverend Flowers, the former chairman of the Co Op Bank that has been linked to any number of activities that ill befit a banker and or a Reverend, might be an ideal candidate for such a party. I think, if elected, he could be head of the drugs unit. At least he may know where to get them.
Actually the Reverend Flowers and his alleged antics throws up a number of questions, one of which I would like to address to our own excellent limerick and poetry writing contributor, the Reverend Jeff. It appears that, if the allegations are true, and at this stage they are unproven (one must tip ones hat to the libel laws of England), the cooperative good Reverend clearly sees nothing in his faith that would preclude him from drinking to excess, snorting various substances, enjoying the services of rent boys and fiddling his expenses. I may have underestimated Christianity. Perhaps it is something at which I should at look again? What say you Reverend?
Several options are open to us today, the diet being on hold, this being the day sandwiched between the two dreary foodless and drinkless days. Lunch or quiz night? I am up for doing both, but I saw rumblings of discontent when my idea was mentioned earlier. That Nice Lady Decorator has a friend with whom she sometimes goes walking whose name is Catherine Panto (oh yes it is!) so she thus is uncertain of her movements today. I was much the same on Sunday, uncertain of my movements that is, but that was mainly down to an ill-advised and thoroughly debauched night out in London with Mr Otway on Saturday night. I must make a mental note; I am too old to do that any more.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Roasted Bambi at Gatwick
So it all went wrong because a deer decided to commit suicide in front of a train near Gatwick. That Nice Lady Decorator was due to board a train to join me in London for brunch at The Canteen in phlegm encrusted acres or Spitalfields as it is sometimes known.
The deer managed not only to get run over, but in a thoughtful last gesture, as it was a Sunday, decided to cook itself on the live rail as the train carried on to Gatwick. Roast venison, how lovely, although I hear it was a bit overdone. This has the effect of destroying the train timetables, so the carefully laid plans for That Nice Lady Decorator to travel up to London (where I had stayed the night before) to meet for lunch we’re err… derailed as it were. Thus lunch was abandoned and some 4 hours later, after they had no doubt mopped up the last of the venison, I managed to get a train back to Arundel myself.
I found her at the Kings Arms, where she has been for several hours in bad company. The beautiful flame haired siren Carolyn was mostly to blame, as usual, but the sultry goddess Sandra and one-eyed Colin The Pirate (there is only one I in Colin) were also culpable. The piratical one was sporting a very fetching sweater which he claimed came from C and A, but would not have looked out of place at the V and A. One might say it was a jumper too far. I have a picture of him today, using a paint roller in a very piratical way.
Colin the pirate on a roll
Also in the pub was Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor. For some reason a theme running through some of the conversations was bingo. He related a story about his mother who, some years earlier, had developed a passion for bingo bordering on the obsessive. When TT tried to wean her away from the game, she admonished him by saying that Picasso had been through his blue period, and she was going through her bingo period. He also said that bingo had interfered with his opportunity to befriend Mark Knopfler in a pub on Tyneside. Mark has just walked in to a small pub with only a few people at the bar, and after a brief chat, TT said he couldn’t stop because he had to keep a previous appointment at the local bingo hall.
It was yesterday that I was invited to the Old Codgers lunch otherwise known as the No Parsley Club luncheon on 13th December. I have never consciously thought about it before, but they are right. Whenever a meal is served with that ubiquitous sprig of parsley, we all subconsciously think “what is the point of that?” then you have to pick it out of your meal and dispose of it. I like the whole concept of a No Parsley Club, and I feel I may encounter some like-minded free spirits at this worthy event, maybe even some new customers for the foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct.
Last night then, after a certain Decorating Operative had crashed and burned (in not quite the same way as Bambi, above), and having failed in her plan to burn cook a roast lunch based on some goose breasts she had bought at last weeks Farmers Market, replacing it with baked beans and eggs on toast, I was persuaded to go to The Eagle where some kind of music quiz was taking place. I think TT ( for it was he who did the persuading) thought I would be his trump card, assuming I must know something about music, rather than the music business which I do know about, and I fear I did not live up to his expectations.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Otway talks about Otway, so no change
So last night alone I went to London to see Otway The Movie at the Apollo in Piccadilly. My oldest pal, the master schemer and subject of the piece, John Otway, was introducing it and then doing questions and answers afterwards. I was tempted to ask when I might be expected to get my money back for his first recording that I paid for in 1972, the first in a long line of unwise investments in this errant genius, but decided not to press it because I have had so much fun with him being involved with him ever since.
As I still have some business with Otway, we had agreed as usual to meet in a pub to discuss it over a few pints. As is also usual, we then have rather too many pints and forget the decisions we have made, so we need to meet again to discuss those matters, again in a pub and so it goes on. It has been like that for about 40 years and I still don’t recall what we have decided.
I do know that he has now satisfied several levels of criteria to be able to have his film about himself eligible for a BAFTA nomination, and is scheming as I write to try to ensure it does. Best film, best debut, best director, best writer, cinematography, you name it, he wants it.
Otway holds court
I had considered not watching it again, and instead heading out into the west end for some food, but in the end I relented and watched it for the 4th time and it still made me laugh. It is a bit daunting to see ones self on a very large screen, perhaps that is why I had developed an appetite, but that was slated later, after the questions and answers, by a very unwise trip into China town for some late dinner.
Things are a little hazy this morning, but I woke up in what appears to be my hotel room, at least I think it is, so I must have found my way back there all by myself in the early hours of the morning. I have come to one conclusion; I am now too old for 8 hour social occasions.
Later this morning, in fact nearer midday I am scheduled to appear at The Canteen in Spitalfields for brunch. Who in their right mind would want to set up a restaurant in such a moistly named place? One has to think how it got its name? I do hope there is not too literal an explanation. I suppose it could be worse, it could be the Killing Fields. Actually that about sums up how I feel at the moment.
That Nice Lady Decorator kindly phoned me three times at 7.30 this morning, just to see if I was up. I was after the third call. Could she not just have left me in peace for a few more hours? Answer; no. She was horribly lively and refreshed, having not done all the stupid things I did last night, Now I am in a quandary. Breakfast is included at the hotel, I have hardly eaten all week due to this infernal diet, I am also lined up for brunch and yet the whole idea of food is anathema at this moment. It’s like buses; you wait ages for one to come along and then two turn up together. I will be going back to bed to consider the options as soon as this column is delivered into your loving and demanding arms by way of the internet. I shall be dreaming of finding some new customers for Currencies Direct.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Woman with man flu?
“I am too ill to go to lunch” said That Nice Lady Decorator when I suggested we might hit a local pub for some sustenance. Talking of ill, which I am not, I had earlier been at Chichester Hospital, ensuring that the operation of The National Health Service was up to the standard I have come to hope for, and, rather surprisingly given recent events in the news, it was.
Now I ask you to think carefully about the word “ill” and more especially that word in the context of That Nice Lady Decorator and failing to attend a social occasion. “Too ill” was such a momentous, some might say precipitous expression that my first thought was that man flu had at last managed to jump the sexual divide. Can I use the word jump in that context, I know I would like to jump the sexual divide, as long as that doesn’t make me gay? Anyway, for That Nice Lady Decorator to turn down any social occasion is a worrying and almost unprecedented scenario to contemplate for those who have knowledge of her.
It was a hammer blow and the result was that, after my spending two of the last three days effectively on hunger strike, by way of the 5:2 diet, attempting to get those errant bathroom scales to see sense, and sustaining myself only with hopes and dreams of a lavish lunch yesterday as a start of the weekends frivolity, we’re dashed. Those were not the only hopes and dreams that were shattered, as anyone watching Englishman with any interest in the Ashes cricket in Australia will know. Any suggestion that England is a world-class side, with the fortitude and mindset to match any side in the world. were similarly consigned to the rubbish bin of history in Brisbane on the second day of the First Test.
Arundel Castle on a splendid winters day
I had arisen late after wasting much of the night finding this out, and had to put up with brunch at home instead of lunch out. I did not get my first beer until after 5, when her cold (it turned out not to be as serious as man flu, merely something along the lines of a bad fever) relented sufficiently for us to see if any of the Timothy Taylor Landlord bitter remained as the guest beer at the Red Lion. It did not, so we were allowed to secure a couple of pints of the best beer in the world, Fullers London Pride, at the Swan Hotel, where I had a bit of a one-sided conversation about the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct. I like to think that it was only the effects of her malaise that caused her attention to wander.
Worse still, it seems that the Debilitated Decorating Demon will eschew the opportunity to accompany me to meet with John Otway in London this evening, leaving me dangerously exposed to the rampant hoards of young ladies, that at least exist in my mind, who seek my company, and don’t come near if she is around. It may also mean that she will miss the Spitalfields brunch scheduled for Sunday morning, unless she stages a miraculous recovery this morning. I did make one discovery whilst amidst the organisation of the hotel for this evening; the Thistle at Marble Arch does not have Sky Sports, so I will be unable to watch the cricket later tonight, What a relief.
So a weekend in the smoke beckons and if I am alone, I will certainly not be venturing out to do any Christmas shopping, which would not have been the case if I am not. Sometimes clouds do really have silver linings.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Smirnoff Ice one of your 5 a day?
I have an old note on my phone that says That Nice Lady Decorator thinks a lemon flavor Smirnoff Ice is a fruit juice, and therefore one of her five a day, but even a fruit juice is too calorific for consumption on a 5:2 diet day such as yesterday. 80 calories for a decent glass of something fruity is a luxury too far when under orders.
So those that have not been with me in this column over the past few days (where have you been?) will know that yesterday was the second diet day of the last three. I have been discussing the integrity of the bathroom scales, which has risen a small amount over the past couple of weeks, from outright perjury through to dishonest and now merely to disingenuous. Looking at my physique it is almost impossible for me to identify an area that is not highly toned, and not “as fat as you can get without splitting your skin” as I have heard from the mouth of one well-known decorating operative. But by the time you read this it will be all over for another week, and I shall be free to over indulge in all the things I love, well, food and drink in any event until Monday at the earliest.
Look! food!
My malnutrition has been exacerbated with the Ashes test being staged in Brisbane at the moment, where England has made such a great start, and my resultant nocturnal habit. One simply cannot resist staying up (until 4 in the morning the evening before) even to see England grovel, but that has the effect of magnifying the effects of the diet. Without the greatest cricketing spectacle in the world taking place, I would at least be able to seek solace and relief from the hunger pangs, by way of sleep. Being awake, means more time to think about the privations.
But on to happier things. Beer, food and wine. I am expecting to partake of all three to the point of collapse over the weekend, which starts today. I think lunch would be an obvious start, but That Nice Lady Decorator does not do obvious. If I have my way, we shall find a pub, and have a bit end a pint.
Saturday I know we have a plan. It is to go to London to commune with the great man himself, John Otway, who has sensibly become a Currencies Direct customer recently, who is introducing his film, Otway The Movie, now eligible for a BAFTA, at a sold out cinema in Piccadilly. He phoned yesterday to finalise the arrangements, and good though the film is, I have already seen it 4 times, so I suggested that if he had need of our tickets for guests or press, we would be content to give them up and instead go out in London. I had forgotten that he has also seen the film a few times (try around 50) and jokingly said he might join us. At least I think he was joking. That reminds me that I must book a hotel that has Sky Sports. One cannot allow those Auzzies to get on top, which could happen if I don’t keep watching.
Next week looks like the calm before the storm of Christmas gets underway. The Reverend Jeff knows that I love Christmas except for all that religious mumbo jumbo. Why can’t we have Christmas without all that religious claptrap? Anyway, one more week or so of November weather and the festering season will be upon us and all that good work on my shape will be undone.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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