Humphries triumph caught on video
Thankfully, Christmas shopping was a reasonably brief affair, at least this time out, due to gloomy weather. That Nice Lady Decorator does not do gloomy, but at least the dank weather took the heat out of the retail therapy urge and replaced it within sullen discontent. I don’t know which I like less, shopping or misery. I think it is shopping.
So just Next, River Island and Jane Norman, whilst I languished outside in the drizzle and, hey presto, we were on out way to Victoria to get the train back to Arundel. We had stayed the night before in order to witness camp pal and Currencies Direct client Neil “I’m free” Humphries deliver a very fine performance at his inaugural stand up comedy show, to a packed and partisan audience at the Laughing Horse at The Mitre in Lancaster Gate. There is a rather poor quality video of most of it which you can see if you click here.
Many had journeyed from far and wide and several had flown in from France specially, so it was also a social occasion. However, I forgot to take any copies of my book, The Valbonne Monologues, in which he features, so a massive sales potential was somehow missed and consequently the number sold remain stubbornly below the 150 mark. Why, I may have been able to flog two or three at least… It contains a memorable picture of him wearing a jacket for which he used one euro coins as buttons, after refusing to pay 4 euros per button for the ones he liked. He had carefully collected coins from each of the euro zone states and had put the Greek and Irish ones at the bottom. Make of that what you will.
I am afraid I had to ask this chap which character he was from James Bond at the recent Bond shindig – Pussy Galore of course! You have to look closely at the adornments to his jacket.
Returning to Sussex, I set out for my daily constitutional around the Norfolk Estate yesterday afternoon, mindful that today is a 5:2 decreed diet day, and that would mean no beer or wine, or, if one was determined to have a drink, then no food. With just 600 calories to play with, and with a pint of proper beer or a decent glass of wine coming it at 170, three and a half of either and you would be over the limit. Now I like a drink, but am also partial to food, so with no drink in the diet plan today, and with the discovery of Timothy Taylor Landlord bitter, the second best beer in the world, being a guest beer on draught at the Red Lion, we felt compelled yesterday to partake of some whilst the opportunity was there, and before a curious dinner of leftover that was actually very tasty.
Baked sweet potato, ordinary jacket potato, Goan chicken soup, spicy Italian sausage with Sussex mustard and a beetroot stir fry. That might sound like the basis of a menu for a week, but that was what That Nice Lady Decorator concocted last evening. I am not complaining, I am just remarking. She has taken to reading this daily missive, mainly to pick up typos she tells me, so I always leave at least one for her to finde. It makes her happy. I am also very careful about what I say about her excellent and inventive culinary skills. I find I get less bruises that way.
And so a calm depression will envelope me today. Work will come to the fore at least until lunchtime, which of course will exist only in name today. Thereafter I shall be too weak to do anything, so will retire early, write a depressed and depressing column and go to bed dreaming of breakfast.
Chris France
Laughs at the Laughing Horse
I was expecting Neil ” I’m free” Humphries’ gig at the Laughing Horse to live up to expectations and be free, but tickets were £5 (nearly 6 euros at today’s excellent Currencies Direct exchange rates) However it was worth it as Neil and his 8 fellow debutants, who had all been on a crash stand up comedy training course, all made us laugh. Some with them, some at them.
It could have been a crash and burn course, and for one poor chap from Luxembourg it was just that, It was still funny, but in a cringing, slow death sort of way, but the renegade from Are You being Served, our own Mr Humphries, excelled with a story about overdoing the fake tan. Now I happen to know that the story was not fabricated and came from his own personal experience, but it was still funny.
The fake tan is beginning to wear off for Mr Humphries
Amongst the luminaries that attended were a handful of chaps who had flown in specially from the south of France, and some who used to live there such as Mr Clipboard. Amusingly for one so anally challenged about being on time, he was late. It appears that someone had not checked the weekend engineering schedules for the railway line he wanted to take, a stunning oversight for a man who loves schedules and organisation almost to the pointing sexual gratification. I enjoyed his discomforture and made a point of tutting and looking at my watch as he arrived, flustered, some 30 minutes late for pre show dinner. For me that had started my evening off in an entertaining way. His other great love is food, and in substantial quantities, so clearly the thought that dinner may have to be postponed until after the show was almost too much for him to bear, but it turned out all right in the end, although it emerged, as he troughed out in his own peculiar fashion, that he has only finished lunch at around 4.30. Obviously more than two hours between meals for him is a bit Tom Jones for him. Correct, it’s not unusual.
Earlier, on the train up from Arundel, I had been concentrating on my new writing project, something that I will find easy to write, a weekly column extolling the virtues of living in the south of England as opposed to be marooned in the north of this island. It would be easier still to write about living in the south of France, but I have already written thrillinglyand fulsomely about that, as people who own either or both of my books will testify, so I need a new challenge. The “answer back” column will be written by northern supporter, Peachy Butterfield, who of course has enormous experience of the privations of life in the tundra strewn wasteland that lies north of the Wash. These columns are, rather bizarrely, being written for Onboard Online, a yachting website, but mine is but to do and write, especially as we are getting paid. I shall let you all know when the first of these are published.
As I write this daily treat from my bed at the Thistle Hotel in Marble Arch it is raining, and so, it looks as if my day will improve. That Nice Lady Christmas Shopping Operative had her eye on a morning of festive retail therapy in nearby Oxford Street, but rain, normally a very unwelcome bed fellow, may have come to my rescue on this occasion. In any event, the present I want is not available in a shop, oh no, that needs a garage.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Mother Theresa becomes Bond villain?
That Nice Lady Decorator spent the morning wittering on about going to the beach because of the sunny weather. It has been quite an innocuous November, with far more sunshine than one would normally expect for the most depressing month of the year, so to satisfy her, where better to go than to West Wittering? It could have been East Wittering but the sun sets in the west, and I know this analogy will not be lost on my readers, the majority of whom appear to be limerick writers.
On the way back from a very pleasant 4 mile walk around the foreshore, listening to the sounds of the Witterings, we managed to put a line through three pubs in the area. The very pretty Thatched Tavern at East Wittering looked very inviting, but with three people in the pub on a lovely Saturday afternoon, there had to be a reason why it was so ill attended. That reason was that it was situated next to a mobile holiday village. Static caravans, almost certainly inhabited by static old people escaping from up north, robbed the lovely old building of its charm. It is merely a pub for old people on holiday in summer.
It was however better than The Winterton Arms just off the A27 near Eartham. It was such a pit, with most of its real ales off, and such a run down, damp, unattractive atmosphere that we did not even have a drink. The same was true of The White Swan on the edge of Arundel. A swirly carpeted, unappetising, chain hotel, masquerading as a pub, it was a cold winters day on a weekend when walkers would have been at their most numerous, but the fires were not even lit! Avoid at all costs.
Blofeld, Largo and Mother Theresa enjoy a drink together
It was clearly time to watch the rugby and then retire for a pre James Bond siesta. Awaking refreshed, I dressed. I think I was looking very dapper. I say think, because I have realised that all the full length mirrors in the house are aligned for a short arse, meaning I had to squat down in order to take in my full glory, which in turn was compromised by having to squat. It did however confirm one thing that I have been told repeatedly over the years; That Nice Lady Decorator is right when she says I seldom look in the mirror. When I complained about this clear under sight, I was told that the reason was the low ceilings in the house, which was a good riposte and hard to argue.
And so to the Kings Arms for that Bond evening to meet , Largo, Blofeld and err…Mother Theresa, as my picture today shows. although I can’t remember in which film she was the villain. She was however at her villainous worst, charging 50p for a feel of her tits. She said it was for charity but I have my doubts. It was a thoroughly good evening, complete with roulette wheel and bent croupier, who did his best to extract money from all and sundry for charity, an evening which could only really have been topped by finding a new customer for the services of Currencies Direct, and, once time had been called, a number of characters from The Bond films continued the party at the Red Lion,which was open until midnight and was serving the second best beer in the world, Timothy Taylor Landlord. Before noticing that I had asked if they had any Australian Shiraz, and, upon finding they did not, asked for a glass of Rioja. When the barmaid returned she said she only had Rioja from Spain, which was a bit if a relief, but then I spotted the nectar in draft and it was a done deal.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Press the red button for relief?
Last night was the big night for Children In Need, the very worthy kids charity driven by the BBC. I find that having spent much of last evening watching it, I have developed my own need. For the uninitiated, it is an evening of TV infested with performers, actors and comedians all doing their bit to raise money for this fantastic charity interspersed with various filmed items. These are all very informative but after a period of time become irksome. My need is that, I think having given generously to support their activities, there should be an optional interactive button to be able to turn off the ever-increasing stream of filmed pieces about ill people. I want a Parents In Need button on my remote. I have paid my money and now I want it to stop. That should give the limericists something to work with today!
The Norfolk estate, in Arundel Park on a sunny day in November
Earlier, after a quick spin around the park behind Arundel Castle, we had explored the region around Pagham Harbour, made to look almost acceptable in the unexpected winter sunshine. Once the sun has gone however, which will be soon, it will return to being a drab, inhospitable, mobile home and shingle infested wasteland. Chilled by the wind, we sought a pub and found a Fullers house, The Lamb, on the borders between Pagham and Nyetimber, the latter being renowned for the production of a sparkling wine said to rival Champagne. With the fire lit and a decent menu on show in a very comfortable pub we were almost sucked onto lunch, but as breakfast had been so late, we settled for a pint and headed back to Arundel. It was a close run thing.
Being a Friday afternoon, The White Hart was busy and so it seemed perfectly natural to pop in for a glass of wine ahead of Dunch, as I have just decided to call a meal taken between lunch and dinner. With no potential Currencies Direct clients in sight, too many white vans parked outside, it was not long before we headed back next door for Pudsey Purgatory on TV. We did however get the chance to talk to the Mighty Omega, the tall and enchantingly gorgeous beau of James “Desperate Dan” the landlord, and to be invited to lunch at Shoreham On Sea one Sunday soon. This is an invitation that has been floating around for about a year, but has yet to land. I suspect that this could well be another aborted landing.
Escaping from any more children in need, I decided on an early night as I need to be looking my best when I impersonate James Bond this evening at The Kings Arms Bond theme night. I have made the mistake once of referring to That Nice Lady Decorator as Moneypenny, but do not want another slap so will watch my tongue from now on. There will also be no mention of Pussy Galore, another Bond character, because that also seems to elicit an angry response, for reasons I cannot fathom.
Then Sunday, we shall be heading for the smoke. A trip to London is planned to witness the first stand up comedy routine of Neil “I’m Free” Humphries at the Laughing Horse in Lancaster Gate. An early evening dinner is scheduled with Mr Clipboard, Slash and Burn Thornton Allan and there respective and much prettier wives, so that we can plan a concerted campaign of heckling, just to help Mr Humphries along. I am sure he will appreciate the thought.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sell your soul for a bowl of porridge?
That Nice Lady Decorator was researching the Cissbury Ring, where we had walked the day before, and came across a similar but smaller Roman settlement called the Chanctonbury Ring, a few miles to he north, near a village called Washington in West Sussex. Her research also revealed that there is an old legend that if you run around the Ring seven times, then the devil will exchange a bowl of porridge for your soul. She expressed distaste at the proposed reward, describing porridge as phlegm and grit in equal measure, but countered that by saying if the reward was something like a bowl of spare ribs, then she could see the temptation.
Many of you will know that the Reverend Jeff is a regular reader of this column, and usually finds out what us going in the world by reading it as he takes breakfast around noon as is his habit (!). I do hope that he did not choke on his ecclesiastical cornflakes as he reads this today. He claims that my soul has already been sold to the devil, but I consider it is merely heavily mortgaged. But then I think a lack of a soul is something that any decent cobbler could fix.
The dew pond at Chanctonbury Ring
Anyway, after an abortive attempt from the north, we climbed into the ring in the late morning, in order to create a pre lunch thirst. That thirst was first slaked, as I has hoped, by the finest beer in the land, London Pride. We were on our way to lunch at Butlers and found The Swan Hotel, a Fullers house, selling my favourite beer was directly in our path, so what was a man to do?
And so to the long-awaited Arundel Luncheon Club for, err…lunch. Apologies were received in advance from Colin The Pirate who had some poor excuse such as having his eye patch changed of something equally pathetic, and then we were 4. Charlie “Pistorius” Malcolmson, landlord of The Kings Arms had not yet attended to his squeaky prosthetic leg, to which he had promised to administer some WD 40 yesterday, on the spurious grounds that “you always know where the landlord is when you want a drink”.
He was accompanied by his beautiful wife, the angelic Alison Griffin, who, apart from guiding the careers of Amanda Holden and Russ Abbott, (both of whom could no doubt benefit from opening an account with Currencies Direct) has looked after Ben Fogle for some years. She is lovely and gorgeous on every way except for the fact that she is a vegetarian. I am always suspicious of vegetarians because it is so, so….wrong. However, she did not complain when both Pistorius and I ordered bloody steaks. Anyway, Ben Fogle was the chap who was filmed being marooned on an island for a year to fend for himself. I can’t quite recall how it emerged that he had sustained himself in part on road kill, but it seemed a paradox that a man living in such a way should be represented by a vegetarian, but I let it pass.
As the luncheon degenerated over more than several bottles of a cheeky Rioja, discussions turned to the James Bond themed night being staged at The Kings Arms this Saturday evening, and to which we are seemingly due to go. It is rumoured that several of the locals are likely to be there in the guise of arch Bond villain Blofeld, however one of them, clearly with cross dressing tendencies, also wants to be a villain but has hired a golden catsuit. If he does appear dressed like this, might he be called Blondfeld?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Thermal the merrier
“He will need thermals for that” said That Nice Lady Decorator innocently as we walked around the grounds of Arundel Castle in a late “dog emptying” exercise. She was referring to the para glider who was braving the cold late afternoon air, high above the Norfolk Estate. I agreed that he was probably jolly cold all that way up, and I think it was the cheeky smirk I was exhibiting as she realised there was another meaning, that I had deliberately misinterpreted, that irked her. He must indeed have experienced some thermals to remain aloft that long. Without them he would sort of, well, plummet.
And plummeting from the dietary moral high ground is high on my list of intentions today. Having now lost half a stone in the last three week period since returning to drudgery in England, I am so malnourished I feel I need to do something about it, after I have completed my work in respect of Currencies Direct. That goes without saying, although I am saying it.
That something is the meeting of the Arundel Luncheon Club, this time at Butlers in Tarrant Street in Arundel this lunchtime. I have been but once before and formed a decent impression, but have since received mixed reports, so what better way to ascertain if it should be on my recommended list of eateries in and around the town, than to go and sample their wares? Of course, some pre-lunch lubrication will be necessary, a small ticture of some kind, and as a stalwart founder member of the said club is a pub landlord, Charlie “Pistorius” Malcomson, the landlord of the Kings Arms which is located precariously nearby, I suspect and hope that a couple of pints of London Pride may be mine before the scrutiny of Butlers commences in earnest.
Pistorius gets the once over from That Nice Lady Prosthetic Inspector
He is known, at least to me, as Pistorius due to the mechanical leg he has had ever since a motor cycle accident in his teens. Rather than cover it up, his habit is to wear 3/4 length trousers on every occasion he can, showing the mechanics of his movement to all and sundry. He does, however, have a problem at the moment though, a problem identified by That Nice Lady Prosthetic Inspector. He has developed a squeak. As he walks there is a discernible noise which was brought to his attention in a recent Decorating inspection, when we were at the pub for that game of Scrabble on Tuesday evening. I was trying to head her off at the pass, as is my want when she is looking like she might say something out of turn, and I could see a metaphorical thought bubble emanating from her mouth before the words were out. A clear case of bubble and squeak one might say, if one were not an accomplished and not sought after writer such as myself. Unable to intercept her imparting the squeaky news, I left her to it.
Pistorius is a strong-minded chap and is obviously not easily offended, as his response, that his MOT was coming up and anyway, he had some WD 40 in the shed that should sort it out, was delivered without hesitation. He will be accompanied at lunch by his lovely wife, the PR for Amanda Holden, Russ Abbott and more, the gorgeous Alison. Any attempts at humour by those omnipotent limericists, having so much fun in the comments section of this column at the moment, at making any suggestion that he may want to get legless will be dealt with harshly.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Scrabble wars
Thanks god (or the Reverend Jeff) for a non diet day. After a 7 mile mini marathon up hill and down dale in the wilds of the South Downs, I was like man in a desert, desperate for water, but in my case it was a pint of London Pride. Securing just such an animal at the Kings Arms in Arundel, after That Nice Lady Decorator had casually asked if I had any plans for lunch, rather late in the afternoon, I found my oasis. After then finding many of the restaurants unable to accommodate us, as their chefs all seem to have the afternoon off, we decided to go to The Black Rabbit, a beautiful building, idyllically set on the River Arun.
We had tried Prezzo, located in the High St beneath Paparedelle, but when their special of the day, mussels and chips, which we both fancied, had run out we decided on setting the pigeons amongst the Rabbit, as The Bay Tree and the Townhouse were closed.
I have found a brewery whose beers I do not care for, and that brewery, Hall and Woodhouse, are the landlords of The Black Rabbit, thus, until the real ale bug that lies deep within me is sated, I find myself reluctant to go there. This is stupid however, because the food, although a little too massed produced for my taste, is decent, and now, under pressure from my good self, they offer a very decent 2008 Bordeaux for just over £20. It is also a wonderful building, tastefully redecorated, the staff are nice and the service good. They are also open all day so a late lunch on a weekday is possible.
Perhaps I should instead say weak day in place of weekday for two reasons; weak after an epic walk in the morning and a more general weakness for beer and food, especially on a day sandwiched (what a terrible verb to use in this context) between two diet days.
views from the Cissbury Ring
So in the evening, I was lying down, resting, and quietly writing today’s prose, whilst she watched Poirot, Frost, Morse and Marple investigate Midsommer Murders, when understandable boredom overtook that Nice Lady Bored Person, and she suggested a game of Scrabble at The Kings Arms. The pub has thoughtfully made available a raft of board games for bored people. This game is often a dangerous source of tension between us, especially if I win, so being mellow and in no mood for an argument I allowed her to win. It helped than she got the Z, the Q and the X and was able to place these on triple letter scores after I had helpfully opened them up for her, and being the proud owner of 6 vowels for much of the game also helped my plan. When I mentioned all this and that I had generously allowed her to sneak a tight victory, that old tension that I had been trying to avoid resurfaced, and I was assaulted on the walk home. She is very competitive, whereas for me it is just a game, to be enjoyed at leisure and the result is of no consequence. I wish she saw it that way. Thus bruised and battered and sad that my magnanimous gesture had not been appreciated, I retired to bed to dream of new Currencies Direct customers.
So the other slice of the sandwich is in prospect today, the second of the 5:2 weekly diet days, a day of misery, starvation and denial, but at least it is forecast to be dry so more marching around Sussex is not such a daunting prospect. I suspect a visit to the Cissbury Ring, pictured today, may be on the cards.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Spenser and the Laughing Horse
One more day of this and I will start looking at holiday brochures. Seduced by a glorious day on Sunday, with sparkling winter sunshine all around, it was down to earth with a bump yesterday as we were afflicted with my least favourite weather of all, sideways drizzle, all day. It just made the diet day that much more miserable. I know you are supposed to get light and dark in your life in order to appreciate the light, but if someone could please tell the rain gods that I know exactly how miserable it is on a wet day in November in England with nothing eat or drink, I would appreciate it. Tenerife looks nice, and I am beginning to regret my decision not to go to Brisbane for the first Ashes Test against Australia next week.
So still feeling a bit weak and shabby after that massive bout of gastroenteritis yesterday, For which incidentally, the plague of limericists infecting the comments section of this worthy column, were, almost without exception, rude about, decided to spend my time gainfully and get on an organise social occasions for those brief interludes during the week when I am allowed to eat and drink. First up is the inaugural winter meeting of the Arundel Luncheon Club, probably at Butlers in Arundel on Thursday. At present, at 5, this will be a good turnout, rivalling the number on our first outing, when lunch was fraught with disaster when the train failed to stop at Amberley, our chosen venue. An hour later and £20 for a taxi down from the first station at which the train had stopped , the event was eventually rescued to finish strongly, if a little behind schedule.
After the effect of that dodgy beer, I was still hallucinating a little, as you can see by my choice of picture today.
How heavy was that plant,? And why was it working, or more importantly what was it doing in the beach? Should we call the biology police?
Today is mercifully not a diet day, and as I missed my power walk yesterday, I shall be punishing myself by doing a little more than usual today. After putting to bed some business, writing a column for Onboard Online and signing up another lucky customer to Currencies Direct, I shall be on the look out for lunch and, with That Nice Lady Decorator expressing boredom with the weather, I expect her to be pliable when due consideration is given to the idea. We can discuss some upcoming events, such as the James Bond evening at the Kings Arms in Saturday evening, or the Neil “Are You Free” Humphries’ first stand up comedy show at the Laughing Horse in Lancaster Gate on this coming Sunday, to which we are scheduled to go. I have long thought of him as funny but for the most part I have been laughing at him rather than with him. Let us hope it will be the latter come Sunday night. He has revealed that he is very nervous about it so perhaps it was cruel of me to start the heckling several days ahead of the performance. I told him that I had arranged for my mobile phone to ring during his show, that I would answer it and call out “your taxi is waiting”.
I also wanted to ask him if “Spenser”, a local from Valbonne well known locally, and who was mercilessly caricatured in Neil’s book “Dairy Of A Somebody”, was likely to attend. It is almost certain by now that he will have read the offending chapter. On a completely different and unrelated note, I wonder if The Wingco will be there?
Chris France
See Uranus on your phone!
That Nice Lady Decorator has a new app on her phone. It is called Night Sky and it triangulates your position by satellite and shows you what stars and planets are in vision. Of course normally in England it would be entirely useless as it is nearly always cloudy, so although the screen might show you where to look you never see anything.
Yesterday however was a departure. A beautiful crisp clear sunny day greeted us we awoke in the enormous mansion of Nigel Medina Palms Rowley and we enjoyed a fabulous walk along the Iron Age ridge above his house, where there is the most important discovery of the age. Lime kilns, the position of Roman villas laid out on the top of an escarpment and splendid views on a brilliant day, delayed our return to Arundel until afternoon, after which, you will be unsurprised to learn, we took lunch.
It was in the way back from lunch with dusk approaching, when that Nice Lady Decorator noticed a light in the sky and, it remaining clear, she was able to identify it. “I can see Uranus” she said, and I must say I fidgeted a little and made a mental note to examine my trousers when we got home.
Lunch was taken at The Bridge at Amberley, and was wonderful, and not only because I was not paying. A Greek chef lends an interesting slant as he weaves Greek culinary techniques amongst into the more traditional Sunday roast, and we both went for the Greek lamb, which, with roast potatoes rather than the suggested rice, was a triumph. Before that, we had stopped at The rather unprepossessing George at Eartham and, underline this, bought a pint that I could not finish. Goodwood Sussex Ale is now at the very bottom of my real ale list, and I am certain that it was the cause of a gastric malaise that overtook me in the early evening. Frankly, it was either off or dreadful or both.
some New Forest horses from last week.
Now I am not ill very often, but when I am it is catastrophic. With my hearty constitution, I hardly notice ailments in normal circumstances, indeed I have probably had flu recently and not noticed it. Yesterday was one of the catastrophic days. The application of a paracetamol and a cup of tea from the deeply unsympathetic Decorating operative was like setting off to climb Everest with some stout boots and a walking stick. No good at all. I needed a stomach pump and morphine. Indeed, for a time I was concerned that I would be unable to compile this daily column, full of wit, repartee and diarrhoea, but in a testament to that indomitable bulldog spirit for which I am not renowned, have rallied at the last moment, so the promotion of the services of Currencies Direct will continue for another day, as it has unbroken for the last 44 months.
What would you do if with your life partner was clearly close to death, and you received a text message invitation from the flame haired beauty Carolyn, to go to the Eagle for a glass of wine? Admittedly, I think I can remember through the haze of hallucinations, sweat and, well, other things, her asking me if I would like to accompany her, but there being no mobile intensive care facility available, I declined. She did not appear to understand the hint that her duty was at home, ministering to my every need. She went to the Eagle.
Being empty, after the various evacuations last night, I have applied for a postponement of the scheduled 5:2 diet day today, but expect the same unsympathetic response as that I received on my death-bed.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
What happens if you give your Birdlip?
England, November, rain. Get the picture? There are bits about living in England that I love but I did not love it yesterday as we drove down to Cheltenham to stay with Nigel “Medina Palms” Rowley and his beautiful and far better half Leslie. Apart from owning a huge chunk of Africa, Nigel also owns most of Gloucestershire and has a splendid house atop the Iron Age ridge near Birdlip with splendid views, or it would have had, if the weather had not been so foul.
Birdlip reminds me curiously of That Nice Lady Decorator but for safety reasons (my safety that is) I will not break this down further, for fear that the expression “breaking down” might be applied rather too literally to myself. For the first time in a fortnight, I did not complete my customary 4 miles of power walking, due almost entirely to he weather and the mud. Stopping just short of our destination in a brief dryer interlude, we set out across the fields of Gloucestershire from a pub called The Good Heart, hoping that we would work up a decent thirst, but mud and swamp combined to send us back to the pub for a pint instead with under a mile covered.
England is fine for a few days. Log fires, cozy pubs, proper beer and even some decent food nowadays are things to be savoured, but when I see pictures of friends down in Valbonne in bikinis and by their pools (and that’s just the men) I know where I would rather be. Not in England in November. In fact my picture today is of Durdle Door on the Jurrasic coast, when we visited last week in exactly the same weather. My case rests.
We thought it would be a doddle to walk to Durdle Door. This is just for you limericists
Last night then, still feeling the effects of that lunch with Colin The Pirate the day before, we were at a private dinner party in Cheltenham. It was enlivened even before it had started as That Nice Lady Decorator had omitted to pack the sandals that she had expected to wear and was left with some black 4 inch heels as her only footwear. That would have been fine had she chosen anything other than white cut off jeans. I was asked if I thought she could get away with it, and, as she had no other choice of clothing, I lied and told her she would be fine.
Over dinner, and at our age, with 30 years of shared experiences upon which to draw, conversation tended to veer towards reminiscing. Nigel and I used to play cricket for various teams, one of which was the Hampshire Mercenaries, whose season highlight was a cricket tour to Jersey, which provided a great deal of material for those discussions. I shall never forget Nigel, putting on his wet suit, then donning cricket pads, bat and gloves and doing a dying dolphin dive across the cricket ground when a downpour had spoiled the match.
There was also talk about an old friend, whom I cannot name, with a dental problem, having buck teeth, which one person claimed looked like he had hung his teeth out to dry. That reminds me, we need some new clothes pegs.
This morning we shall return to Arundel after a big breakfast and a walk in the sodden Gloucestershire countryside, during which I shall be pondering just how best to collect up some more clients for Currencies Direct. Surely people must be considering moving abroad given the typical November weather?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Colin the pirate; a birthday
He wanted a “pissy” lunch for his birthday, and that is exactly what he got. One eyed Colin The Pirate, who has already had far too many birthdays for comfort, seemed to want to bring on another heart attack to add to his collection at a splendid lunch at Pappardelle in Arundel yesterday. Before the starter had arrived, I noticed that the white wine, which he had ordered, exclusively for himself it seems, the sultry goddess Sandra and That Nice Lady Decorator electing to partake of Prosecco, was unaccountably empty, whilst the Barolo in front of me had several more wonderful glasses to go before the decision to order another became an imperative.
We had earlier, at pre lunch drinks, presented him with some pieces of eight, as befits a pirate, in the form of Christmas chocolate money, and with which he was more delighted than the very fine bottle of Chateau Musar I had retrieved from my wine cellar. Perhaps I should remind regular readers of the reason for his epithet in this column. His habitual use of an eye patch is la gift for a blog writer such as myself, and, as he quite rightly points out, there is only one eye in Colin. It is not something to which I can turn a blind eye.
Basically, it is always wet in England
I had earlier put my business empire, including the promotion of the services of Currencies Direct, to bed for the weekend, after a brisk stroll (try 4 miles at a startling walking pace) in the full knowledge that nothing of great import commercially was likely to follow that lunch, and I have to say that it was an enlightened decision. Let me give you some scale to the event. Perhaps it was a bit cheeky, after 4 bottles of wine, for the chaps to don coats and brave the rain in a quick dash across to road to Pallants, the excellent delicatessen, in search of a decent Sauterne, lacking on their menu, to accompany desert, and the over exuberant purchase of three half bottles will no doubt be recalled eventually by the piratical one, when he awakes with a hangover the size and scope of Hiroshima, probably some time later today. Then there was the vintage port, which I certainly recall, but doubt that he will. In any event it seemed a perfectly reasonable decision to adjourn afterwards across the road to the pirates lair, and listen to German marching bands on his ancient wind up gramophone, a lovely piece of equipment playing appallingly distorted “music” from a by gone age. His impromptu conducting of the orchestra was a particular highlight before his crashing and burning in spectacular style. I think it was as the gramophone slowed down, that he slowed as well, and when mercifully (for non fans of German military marching bands), it came to a complete stop, so did he.
We had invited him to see local sensation, Hakuna Pesa, who were appearing last night at the Red Lion, but were unsurprised to note his absence. That Nice Lady Decorator and I however are made of sterner stuff. After a rather longer than normal siesta, we regathered and headed for the pub where the future of modern music were performing. Talent and organisation are not always contented bed fellows, and so it is with this group. If I can find a way of harnessing their undoubted abilities I shall die a rich man, however, have you ever attempted to Sellotape smoke? This is work in progress for me, but progress assumes moving forward and as far as their recording sessions for which I have paid are concerned, progress is somehow not the word that springs to mind.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Global warming; a solution?
Those bathroom scales and I have fallen out. How is it possible that I spend two days out of three on a starvation ration of 600 calories, march 12 miles in 3 days at 4 miles an hour up hill and down dale, clad in 10 pounds of wet weather clothing, to lose no weight whatsoever? There are only two explanations; either the scales are lying cheats, and were made in Germany after all, or my body is such a finely honed fighting machine that there is no fat to lose. I prefer the latter explanation, although it is not a view shared by many, if any if I am honest. In fact I don’t even believe it myself.
Paradoxically, yesterday, after a sumptuous lunch in Kingston Upon Thames, including a couple of glasses of the most wonderful Chateau Musar, the only Lebanese wine of any repute, a few pints and a bottle of wine last night, I have lost a pound. I think what the fat gods are trying to tell me is that eating and drinking is good for weight loss. Again, it is not an opinion share by That Nice Lady Decorator.
I have maligned dear old Lenny Peters from popular seventies singing duo Peters and Lee. I had suggested yesterday that he had refused surgery to cure his blindness, on the basis that his income might be reduced as a result of a reduction in the sympathy vote. However, I was informed yesterday that he did indeed have that surgery, but that he undid the good work of the surgeons by getting out of bed to help a fellow patient who had fallen out of bed. A more suspicious chap than I might suspect that he had the surgery, could see perfectly well, but allowed this story to circulate in order to increase the warm feeling in the eyes of the public, a case of seeing his cake and eating it, one might say.
A rare sunny day in winter
I have discovered that eating lamb shank at lunch time has a volcanic effect on my gas emissions. After a lovely lunch yesterday chez the stately and wonderful Helen Blackburn, widow of Bryan, who wrote the lyrics to Welcome Home and a plethora of other songs such as Love is Blue, covered by scores of famous artists, and a string of TV shows and sketches, I was in the Merc on the way to my second meeting of the day. It was a journey that was a punctuated on a regular basis by the enforced opening of the car windows. I am sure drivers behind me must have thought that the electric windows were faulty.
I have long been a major source of methane production, and have contributed mightily to the myth of global warming caused by greenhouse gases, so it should not have come as a surprise to That Nice Lady Decorator. She had unwisely chosen to accompany me on the trip in the hope of getting a nice lunch (she did) and some retail therapy (she did not). Her claim that if she could have found a shop selling pegs and corks she would have bought a supply and used them to arrest the aroma and solve the global emission problem, was a slightly hurtful sentiment, but she did have a point.
Anyway, the result of the day was that I have talked myself into doing a great deal of work in respect of the late Bryan Blackburn, for what may end up being a meagre reward, and then found a new customer for Currencies Direct, when I was trying to organise a Steve Marriott box set release. One of my duties is to his estate, and it is perhaps a sad reflection of my age that most of my clients are dead. The good news is that one is no longer awoken at 4 in the morning by some errant artist one represents, and dragged to the police station to bail them out. Also there is no compunction to pay their coke dealers, but that will all have to wait for my autobiography.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Confused, feak and weeble
Confused, feak and weeble was how Mr Clipboard predicted I would feel by last evening after 2 diet days within 3 days as part of my 5:2 weight reduction programme, and he was not far wrong. In my weakened spoonerism induced state, I had still managed to drag myself around the 4 mile circuit through the Norfolk Estate and on the way back I saw that the tide on the River Arun was even higher than the day before. I took this picture which states the bleeding obvious, that the bridge is not navigable.
A bridge too far?
This time, the water was actually flowing over the terrace of The (under) Waterside Cafe and into the towns drains, much to the consternation of some of the locals. With the spectacle over, and talking of spectacles, I managed to make it to my office to continue the research into my new project, the works of the late Bryan Blackburn, co writer of such classics as Welcome Home and Love is Blue. I mentioned this to an old school friend who popped round and he claimed that the blind chap from Peters and Lee had been offered surgery that could have restored his sight, but he refused, believing that his income as a blind singer might have been adversely affected. (Did you see what I did there earlier with the references to spectacles?) I caught myself saying that he should have seen sense before realising that it was a bit inappropriate, and resolved then and then not to make mention of it in this column.
I also thought I should avoid mentioning that I also secured another, soon to be happy, customer for the services of Currencies Direct yesterday, the second in two days. They seem to be like buses, you don’t see one for ages, then two come along together. So far I have not been able to think of how to link that to Peters and Lee.
It is in this regard that I must venture north today, as far north as Kingston upon Thames. Much further north and I would probably experience vertigo, as opposed to horizontigo, which I think might be the same, but on a different plane. Then I must further venture to Weybridge for yet another meeting. It’s that bloody bus syndrome again, they all come at once when you have waited for one for ages in vain.
So, still feak and weeble as I write this having collapsed into bed at 10pm, I am planning my trip but must remember not to go near any drains this morning in case I slip through the grill, and be very careful if ever I am sideways on, as I think my shadow will disappear, so thin have I become. Help will shortly be at hand though, a birthday lunch on Friday at Papardelle in Arundel with Colin The Pirate and the lovely Sandra, his sultry goddess. I have yet to determine his age, as his hair, what little of it that remains, is a curious grey colour. I am guessing late 70’s but as he still works for a living, well I use the term loosely, as he works in management in the health service, I may have over estimated a tad.
Then, the combination of a trip to Cheltenham on Saturday for a dinner, after which it will be back for Sunday lunch locally, should surely undo any privations that have attacked my frame in the last few days. I know That Nice Lady Decorator and I are not in full agreement on this one, but I know this can be reconciled. I just need to start the diet again on Monday.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Dragon has gone, long live The George
After an hour-long slog up the beach and back from Clymping to Elmer Sands walking on shingle, I was fairly sure that The Nice Lady Decorator would crack and require a pint and some lunch, but for a time, like our walk, there was a lot of stony ground with which to contend.
Taking in another high tide is best done by going to the beach, which we did in late morning, in a short window of half decent weather. Blowing a bit, both the wind and myself, we had arrived back at the car, and I suggested that we go back to Arundel to watch the Waterside Cafe become a little too waterside for its own good again. It was closed, probable because the water from the River Arun had once again spread across its terrace. If the place was mine, and I knew a high tide was coming, I would have treated it as an event and made it into a wellie party or something, but I guess the thought police, who inhabit that peculiarly ridiculous killjoy health and safety area of society, would have had something to say about that. Obviously on the one hand, if one tries really hard, one can drown in 3 inches of water that is in evidence for about an hour 4 times a year, but on the other hand, one could also be hit by a meteorite at any time, so perhaps we should all live in caves?, but, not for the first or last time, I digress.
High tide at Clymping
Perhaps it was the water making her thirsty, but she relented and suggested we walk to The George at Burpham, for a pint and a bite to eat, a suggestion I welcomed (after a suitable period of fake hand wringing angst, aimed at underlining my barely existing commitment to lose some weight, and at the same time mumbling about some work I had to do, later safely completed, to welcome a new customer to the services of Currencies Direct. Maurice, you know it makes sense). However, that English weather had the last say, and with it closing in again, we decided to drive, so all good.
This lovely pub has recently been refurbished inside with far more sympathetic furniture than hitherto was the case. It has recently be taken over by the local villagers in some kind of cooperative, and describes itself as “of the locals, by the locals, for the locals” which is all well and good except paradoxically, it is closed this Saturday for a wedding. Perhaps all the locals, except myself and That Nice Decorating local, have been invited? Anyway, the pub is much improved inside, perhaps benefiting from the release of the Dragon’s influence from when it was called The George And Dragon? Anyway, initially slightly underwhelmed by the menu, with rather too many pastry dishes, pies and the like, and with the only fish other than broth arriving in batter, I settled on the baby ribs, just to keep my red meat-eating nesting credentials and quota up to the minimum required for continued good health. After all, who wants, to look like or witter on like Morrissey? and it was very good. That Nice Lady Decorator also expressed praise for her chicken breast stuffed with mushroom on a bed of curly kale, and with a pint of Arundel Sussex Gold on board and a glass of a very good Italian wine to the good, The George, with bar manager, Nearly Hairless Nick working hard to please, the George has elevated itself in the local pub/restaurant stakes, as dictated by That Nice Lady Decorator.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Depression scales new heights
In a diet weakened state, and after my customary morning power walk of 4 miles, I settled back into my work with Currencies Direct barely able to lift my pen. I had purchased some new bathroom scales recently and was expecting them to do the decent thing last evening and tell me how much weight I had lost. According to my calorie counter app, the walk should have burnt 350 calories and I had only taken in 600 against a normal male intake of 2600. So how much did I lose yesterday? I will tell you, 1/4 of a pound, or lets put it another way, just under 30 euro cents at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rate.
At first I thought the scales would have to be German, because they normally disappoint, but no, they were made in England, but clearly they must be faulty. That or my constitution needs to be examined and cloned as the secrets it appears to hold should be able to solve the worlds starvation problems if it can be harnessed. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. Then I remembered that beer makes me laugh, and that is disallowed on this diet, so crying it was.
I was going to go and take part in the seniors tennis this morning at the Arundel Lawn Tennis Club, which I have joined in the last week, but as I write this on Monday evening, the weather forecast is dire, so will probably instead go and witness one of the highest of tides, even higher than today’s when I took this picture of the waterfront cafe in the town, invaded by the River Arun. Blustery they said, so that should make it interesting at the coast.
Waterfront Cafe in Arundel lives up to its name
If I had my way, then today, I would walk over to The George and Dragon (this pub still has its dragon unlike the Former George and Dragon at Burpham, which is now just the George) for a spot of lunch. I wonder if she will remain in the kitchen or pop out to breathe fire over the customers? But of course I don’t often get my way, I was never a big Sinatra fan. Oh look, don’t forget I am in a diet weakened and depressed state. You cannot, and do not, expect to get good jokes in this column, and if you do, you are way then more deluded than my new bathroom scales.
Later this week, I must fire up the trusty Merc and set course for London, for a series of meetings (try 2) which could change the course of the development of popular music. They could but they almost certainly will not, but I do like a challenge. Before that there is but one more diet day to tip the scales in my direction. Yes, tomorrow is yet another diet day, to be followed by a day of work. I must have been truly wicked in a previous life (the pagan version , not the Christian version before the Reverend Jeff gets to excited), to deserve such a burden, and it is raining, and I have just seen a picture of the delectable Suzanne Butterfield relaxing in her bikini floating on a blow up chair in a pool in Valbonne this week. What with the weather gods against me, the diet gods, the scale maker gods, the work gods and of course the rain gods all juxtaposed against my contentment, can the Reverend not see that I don’t need any other negative gods in my life? At least I still have my good looks, charm and sense of humour left, at least in my own opinion.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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