Trouble with pigs?
So tennis did not take place today due to the unreliability of the man with no job, Blind Lemon Milsted. His footling excuse was that he is in England looking after a sick parent. Does he not know where his responsibilities and allegiances lie? Surely, if one has to depart on an errand like this, one asks one parent to stay in, watch TV and one will be there as soon as one can? I have checked the Easyjet schedules and I know there is flight availability this afternoon, so this is not an excuse that can be accepted.
Lunch however was convened and attended by the reliable three-quarters of the tennis four at the traditional post tennis venue of Auberge St Donat, for what will almost certainly be the last time for me this year. Currencies Direct customers The Wingco and Master Mariner Mundell were both under some kind of weird misinterpretation that I was paying. I was able to disavow them of this theory over a very fine lunch which was a pre cursor for an excellent siesta.
Before retiring, I had a conversation with the cadaverously slim Nick Peeeeerrrch, as he likes pronounce it, who had joined us for lunch. I say slim as he has substantially less body weight than the three other gentlemen at lunch. He is having trouble with pigs. Wild boar, which are quite prevalent down here and very scary if you come across one in the forests, can be enormously destructive to lawns, tearing them up in much the same way as a rotovator. They have been routinely breaking into his garden which backs onto the forest. He was asking whether any of us had a roller and seemed a little put out when I told him I had once had a Bentley. It seems he wanted a garden roller. The only pig trouble I had was with the andouillette from yesterday’s menu pictured below.
Auberge St Donat menu
After being awoken from a blissful slumber, I was dragged by That Nice Lady Decorator to the Queens Legs for an early evening pint of Guinness. This is another wonderful establishment to which that is probably my last visit of the year. There we bumped into The Cornish Tsunami himself, Matt Frost and the comely Gerald from Blue Square estate agents who has just sold some land for us at a ridiculously high price. He was accompanied by the lovely Pippa, head hunch for Currencies Direct France, who was singing my praises for my work with them. She even invited me to lecture new recruits at The France Show at Earls Court early next year. I said that should I accept I imagined there should be a large fee involved, but it seems my imagination has run away with me. Apparently a good dinner and a free ticket is more likely.
This evening we are invited to the Wingco’s abode by his wife the lovely Maryse, who had joined us at Auberge for a post luncheon drink. This was where I read out a limerick penned by The Reverend Jeff which had appeared in the comments section of this column yesterday. It was about the Wingco and his assertion that this daily missive is “ghastly”. How long can it be now before he takes a sneaky peak, especially as his beautiful wife is a regular and avid reader?
After a final Sunday lunch, on, well Sunday, we shall depart this fair land on Monday morning and trek north. We need to get within spitting distance of Caen if we are able (did you see what I did there?). From where the ferry will whisk us to Portsmouth on Tuesday afternoon. I can almost feel my arthritis beginning to kick in, my nose begin to run and the cold and damp seeping into my bones. That proposed trip to Australia for the first Test will be under serious consideration after the first week of rain.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Don’t be nasty to fat people
“Don’t be nasty to fat people”, screamed the headline in the Daily Express, being read by the very fat person sitting opposite me in the executive lounge at Gatwick airport. I decided not to take the advice and nicked the last cake from under her nose, just as her dribbling became too much. Perhaps I was actually being kind, keeping her from getting even fatter.
I think that is the reason I have accumulated some extra weight during the summer. It is being nice to fat people. Like eating something to stop a portly person from indulging themselves, or accompanying That Nice Lady Decorator to restaurant after restaurant and party after party, when really I would prefer to be out jogging, in the gym or just dieting. The selflessness of it all is astounding but I guess you all know that about me now.
The River Arun in Arundel on Wenesday evening after the downpour had relented
Take today for instance. I shall be dragged to the Auberge St Donat after tennis, not because I want to go you understand. It is just the tradition, and anyway, my fellow tennis players would miss my constant self promotion, those self-satisfied references to my being a writer and gratuitous mentions of the benefits of Currencies Direct and this column, especially for the Wingco, who as regular readers will know, considers it “ghastly”.
It has been a long two days, flying thousands of miles to prop up the international music industry, but the job is done and music is safe for the time being. With meetings over, there was just time for lunch before the return trip to the airport. I decided to go and have a look at the newly refurbished George And Dragon at Burpham, with a view to having lunch if something took my fancy in the menu. It didn’t, so after a really good pint of Sussex Gold, served by Nearly Hairless Nick, a self-confessed regular reader of this column, I headed to Paperdelle above Osteria in Arundel High Street, and very good it was too. I managed to secure the best seat in the window overlooking the Market Square but, astonishingly, the restaurant remained empty except for me. I cannot understand why, as the moules were excellent and the Italian duck confit just as good, and, of course the service was excellent. I think the waitress was just glad of something to do.
Flying in to Nice from Gatwick last evening courtesy of Easyjet, the flight arrived some 25 minutes early, exactly as it has done a few nights earlier when That Nice Lady Decorator had arrived on the same flight. At thattime was I was suitably admonished for being late for picking her up, even although I arrived 5 minutes after the scheduled landing time, and despite the Easyjet live arrivals website saying it was on time, it was obviously and clearly my fault that she had to wait 15 minutes. Similarly last night, it was my fault that the flight early and I had to wait 25 minutes to be collected. I never did understand the apportionment of blame in our family. Just like Dinsdale Pirahana in that Monty Python sketch; I had transgressed that unwritten rule, about which I had never been told.
So, back nestling in the tender embrace of Valbonne, after tennis today, it will be one last weekend of fun and frivolity, before reality crowds in and we set of on Monday morning with the skip (the Decorator’s wheels) groaning under the weight of the winter clothing stuffed into it, and head for a winter of discontent in England.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Rain sodden Gatwick or Juan les Pins? Hmmm…
So whilst I braved the wild windy and wet weather at Gatwick, and struggled through the rain in England, That Nice Lady Decorator decided to go to Juan Les Pins to have lunch on the beach in wonderful late summer weather. Such are the trials and tribulations that are the daily menace faced by senior music business executives such as myself. She delighted in sending me pictures of her with a glass in her hand whilst I huddled in a bus shelter waiting for a gap in the weather, a gap that did not arrive until the ten minutes after I arrived back soaked at the house in Arundel. In fact I have a picture of her today on the beach with the lovely Currencies Direct client Tracey Belazaire, who was helping her enjoy the sunshine and the rosé. I was going to use a picture I took from the train in the gloom and wet, but this, I think you will agree, was slightly more appealing.
Gatwick Airport in the rain, Oh sorry, I mean Juan Les Pins in the sunshine.
But the music business must endure, and I shall endure with it, or perhaps more accurately it has to endure me. Having completed the tasks planned for yesterday by early evening, and with a pub next door, and being a man denied proper beer for several months, what was that man to do? The White Hart, The Swan Hotel or The Kings Arms? It was a quandary, so, unable to make a decision I decided to visit them all. First stop next door to the White Hart to gain sufficient sustenance to make it the 400 yards to the Kings Arms. Then the plan was to visit The Swan on the way back, but as I left the first venue, that evocative smell of fish and chips wafted across the road and, with that in my nostrils, instead found solace in The Trawler, the fish and chip shop. In normal circumstances, English fish and chips are a terribly good way to get even fatter and die early, such is the amount of stodge in each serving, but I can tell you that, after a long day travelling, no lunch, and doing my own trawling through files up to 25 years old, I was so ready for that most traditional English meal, and mighty fine it was too. At least, until you have finished it and the gastric juices begin to churn the mixture into methane heaven of Fukushima proportions. Like events in Japan, I am not sure whether it was the earthquake or the tsunami which was more destructive.
On the way to methane heaven, I encountered James Desperate Dan the landlord at the White Hart and bar manager Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor, who seems at last to have stopped growing. Nowadays the only thing about him that is expanding is his air of disrepute. They tried to persuade me to go back to the Kings Arms, but I had that aroma had a vice like grip on my taste buds and the autopilot could not be turned off.
it was very good to get some proper beer inside me; Harvey’s and London Pride, but, coupled with fish and chips, on top of three full months of excess in Valbonne, I sense a realignment approaching, and that means addressing and dealing with extra weight I seem to have collected over the summer.
Anyway, this afternoon, music commitments satisfied, I shall be back on Easyjet this evening, ready for one last gasp grasp of French culture for the weekend, before the end of season pack up and go. Back in blighty by the middle of next week, but I know it will not take too many rainy days for me to be looking for loopholes in the plan to spend winter in England.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Local bum causes a stir
There is a weird sub culture going on in the comments section of this column. Day after day some very talented people are spending time writing limericks and publishing them to ensure an enormous readership for their ditties. Do they not have jobs? Well, I know that in the case of the Reverend Jeff, he has being avoiding real work for over 40 years, but the rest of you, what is your excuse? I don’t even like poetry, so, apart from the obvious quality of the writing and the enormous readership, what can be the motive? I am prepared to wager that someone with limericise about this tomorrow.
My picture today was taken at one of the worlds greatest sites. This however is a different kind of sight, a sight for sore eyes. It was overlooking Herculaneum in Italy a few weeks ago, and I swear I heard her say something about “does my bum look big in this?” It certainly did dear, in fact that bum would look big in anything. I am myself a lover of curves, but this is a bit of a curve ball, as they probably never say in the States.
An old relic paints an old relic
Clearing the house, as we are at present ready for the expedition north back to England, one finds many things one has lost during the summer. Sometimes you may not want to find things and, yesterday for example, it was the discovery as to where that half packet of chocolate truffles had gone that I lost last year. I do not recall putting them in the drawer of my desk, and at first I did not recognise the concealed mess into which they had turned after a hot summer, but at least it was a mystery solved. I did find some things I wanted as well, such as some rather nice Currencies Direct literature and mouse mats, for those of you who have well trained mice.
So yes, cleaning and hoovering have been ongoing and will continue so to be for the rest of the week, which is why I have to go to the UK tomorrow. I have told That Nice Lady Decorator that I am mortified that I could not stay and help, but my presence is required for far more intellectually stimulating purpose, namely the march forward of the international music industry. I tried to plead “preparation time” yesterday afternoon and had got away with it until she came into the lounge unexpectedly as I was watching TV. She did not believe my protestation that it was part of my research. Perhaps it would have been more convincing if I had been tuned into a music channel rather than watching cricket.
So an early night before a ridiculously early start this morning, which is why this column posted so early, and by the time most of you are reading this, I shall be in Seat 1A on the Easyjet Dreamstealer to Gatwick. I can almost taste that first pint of London Pride that I have promised myself for being a good boy, not drinking too much the night before, and getting up whilst it is still dark. I think I deserve a medal.
It is a short trip, I shall be back in the bosom of Valbonne by tomorrow night, all things being equal, ready for a final jaunt on to the tennis courts at the Vignale on Friday morning. There has been some comment inferring that the reporting of last weeks tennis match may have been a little partisan, but nothing could be further from the truth. In fact the reporting was very partisan and always will be while I am in charge. It is what my readers expect. If you want fair and balanced, find a blonde women tight rope walker.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A C in car theft?
A call in late morning lead me into disrepute. By that I mean I was invited to the house of the Master Mariner Mundell in Valbonne for lunch, on the way to which I took today’s picture. I say disreputable because, I am a respectable council house and grammar school boy, and I risk disrepute by associating with the likes of the Master who had to slum it at Gordonstoun, the same school Prince Charles attended, whilst according to the Master, I studied car theft and petty crime at a something akin to a reform school.
I say invited for lunch, and on the surface it seemed a perfectly plausible invitation, but with the Master there is always an ulterior motive. He wanted copies of the photos and videos I had taken aboard L’Exocet at the Bistro Rally, and was under the impression that he could gain unrestricted access to these valuable copyrights in return for a free lunch. Let me return to the copyright issue shortly, but I want to delve into lunch. As a man who lives alone, I was understandably wary about eating lunch in such circumstances. He has never struck me as a practical man, emanating as he does from Alderley Edge, a very affluent part of Cheshire now much sought after by Premiership footballers. He was probably brought up by a nanny and a gamut of servants and was probably never require to learn how a kettle or toaster worked, so the idea of him cooking lunch sent alarm bells ringing.
It was a curry, (just what I needed after two curries at the weekend at Le Kashmir in Valbonne), which, under pressure from me, he admitted was made from a left over chicken which he felt compelled not to waste, and to which he had added ingredients because “it did not look or smell right”. Hence the invitation. He also agreed that he had only invited me because it was either that, freeze it and hope it looked better when it was defrosted, or throw it away, but the Semitic spirit burns bright and the idea of exchanging some dodgy food for something he wanted, appealed to his inner self.
Cat on a car in the streets of Valbonne
Arriving at a little after one, I was distressed to see a box of Uncle Bens 10 minute rice, so no saffron rice or delicately flavoured basmati, no, we were getting bog standard boil in the bag plain rice. He then said that he had added tomatoes, because “it wasn’t tomatoey enough” when every right thinking man knows that tomatoes are the spawn of the devil. I was able to amuse myself by twice picking him up on grammatical faults, a fact that will surprise many of my readers, but a split infinitive must be exposed. I feel it is my job to properly expose them whenever I see them.
Now to copyright. These rights can be very valuable, and clearly there must be some consideration to the owner of them, but it was a concept he was un willing to embrace. I bet he was the type to download material from illegal sites, but I did not labour the point as he is a valued Currencies Direct client.
Later on, it was my duty to collect That Nice Lady Decorator from the airport. I was exactly on time, but because her flight was early, obviously I was late and to blame. I had been thinking of taking some roses to the airport with which to greet her, but had figured that two glasses of the local wine might spill on the way in the car so had decided against it,
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Driving to distraction
Sunday, the favourite day of the week for the Reverend Jeff, was a very quiet affair, with no luncheon invitation, so I had hoped to spend it in melancholic contemplation of my impending return to the UK. Wednesday will see me in the tender embrace of Easyjet, then, again on Thursday as I will fly back for a final weekend in France. I think the church might say “don’t let worry kill you off, the church can help”. I think I know what they mean.
You may think that without That Nice Lady Decorator present, then calmness, peace and quiet would reign, but that hope did not factor in the mobile phone, or more especially, her ability to use her own very effectively. I usually bank on her been utterly inept and impatient with technology, in much the same way as I am inept with tools, but she has almost mastered the iPhone 5, at least well enough to call me every hour on the hour. There is illness in the family, Sprog 2 in England with a fearful cough, and Max, the proper dog, in Valbonne with a similar complaint. For women, I have heard of a drug called Damitol, which I am led to believe will treat most ailments, especially when combined with Nagament. For the dog I think we have Wooferin and Barkimore, which of course are also entirely fictitious. In any event, my hopes for quiet day of reading the Sunday papers and generally doing very little were in tatters by 3pm.
Spotted on the way to get the Sunday papers in Valbonne
As it was Sprog 1’s last night at home before he is evicted to the yachting hostel in Antibes, at huge expense, I took pity on him and we went for a pint of Guinness at the Queens Legs and a take away curry from Le Kashmir. It is a revelation what you can find to eat without a decorating dietician standing guard in the kitchen. Two curries on the trot …oh, I just used that fateful word, excuse me a moment. Right I am back. What was I saying?
She who must be obeyed will be flying back this afternoon via broomstick Easyjet, and will expect the house to be on the perfect order in which she left it, which is a bit unfair given the fact that there was the football on Saturday night, with all that such an event entails, and two guys living together, drinking and eating for several days, and there have been no women in the house (certainly none that I will admit to) and so there has been no one that understands the mechanism of washing up, or how to use that nasty noisy old black thing that sometimes infests the lounge (I do not mean the Reverend Jesse Jackson) which I think it is called a Hoover. In fact you might think we have been Dyson with death but that would be the sort of terrible pun that this column will always avoid. So unless I can find some contract cleaners at very short notice, Sprog 1 and I will this morning be embarking on a steep learning curve about how to clean a house. It’s all right for him, he is moving out today, so guess who will get grief if anything is missed? Well him of course. I am a past master of delegation, especially when it comes to delegating blame.
Just one more thing I need to mention today. I have made no sales pitch today for the fine services of Currencies Direct, because they are closed on a Sunday, but please don’t be put off from making that application to open an account, they will be back at work this morning.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The art of Valbonne
A brilliant sunny crystal clear sunny day was in no way marred by the fact the Nice Lady Decorator was languishing back in UK. She needed some “mummy time” with Sprog 2 who has gone to university to study film making at Ravensbourne near the O2 in London. This equates to spending a vast amount of money to make Sprog 2’s life even more comfortable. She has at least got a part-time job as a barmaid at the O2, job being a concept that has so far eluded Sprog 1.
I received a call during the afternoon from the Mumsy Decorating Operative, who was using my car in England. She wanted to know how to put petrol in it. I have had that car 5 years, and it is the first time she has ever found herself short of fuel. I am well versed in finding her car with the fuel warning light on when I drive but it, certainly once a month at least, but it is the first time in half a decade where I have been able to turn the tables. However, thinking about it, she probably use my Amex to fill it up. There is no justice.
The scene of yesterdays sun bathing and reading
Sunbathing and reading a book eventually became boring so in late afternoon I preened and prepared to go to the Pure Nature painting exhibition in the church annexe in Valbonne, mostly for the free wine but also in the hope that the exhibition may have some erotic images to make an old man happy. The exhibition, which is open now and will remain open until 27th October, was very well attended and there are literally hundreds of paintings on show, but free wine was limited to yesterday, hence the timing of my visit.
Amongst the local celebrities in attendance was fellow local author Neil Humphrey’s who, like the gay character of the same name in classic TV series “Are You Being Served” was free. By chance he revealed that despite selling many more copies of his book “Autobiography Of A Somebody” than I, he has still not broken even. If the benchmark of a successful author is to make a profit on one’s book writing, then I am successful author whereas he is not. Suffice to say that this is the benchmark I employ and perhaps, in retrospect, I should have been a trifle less enthusiastic in espousing this conclusion. He is also my style icon and I can tell you that the well dressed author about town was wearing a collarless leather jacket, which in no way could me called camp. We discussed, as we always do when we meet, a certain chapter in his book, which alludes to a not quite mythical local character we both know very well, and Neil admitted that he now has to avoid the target of this very funny and accurate character assassination, as that target may well have read the offending chapter.
Also in attendance was the lovely Marina Kulik, who was keeping a close eye on her partner, Jeroen Zaat, to ensure there was no repeat of the unfortunate accident that befell him some weeks ago after the celebrations at winning the Bistro Rally. I promised him I would not mention that again, so I won’t. He introduced me to a chap called Thomas Bucknell, a commercial lawyer from Seattle who has seemingly followed this column for several years after buying a holiday home in Valbonne. He is, of course, the perfect potential customer for the services of Currencies Direct, a fact that I mentioned in passing, but from his countenance I could tell straight away that he was guilty. Guilty of not taking on board the clear message, hammered home in this column every day, that your bank will fleece you on foreign exchange transactions. I have his sworn promise to look again at the benefits and, whilst he is on parole pending receipt of his application, I have promised to be nice to him.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Mr Ever Reddy
There was a lot of talk at lunch about the possibility that the tennis match yesterday morning might go unreported, but nothing could be further from the truth. The fact is that, at a crucial time in a 5 set context, lunch intervened in a most pleasant fashion. Regular readers will know that, whilst winning is important to me, it is as nothing compared with some nice exercise and a game of tennis between grown ups. Obviously, I prefer it if there is a clear winner, and that winner is me, usually with the impediment of an errant partner, but if there is a drawn or undecided outcome then that is also fine with me. Such an outcome occurred yesterday when, two sets down, lunch called before we (the Wingco and I, aka the MOGS) Were just beginning to gain the upper hand over Blind Lemon Milsted and the Master Mariner Mundell.
The Master was playing particularly well and in a very aggressive fashion, which we put down to his attempt to give up, or at least reduce, his smoking habit. 220 euros spent on some upmarket fake cigarettes by a careful spender smacks of a kind of desperation which is difficult to reconcile with his very masculine persona. Some of us have spotted, and indeed remarked upon, the softening (not a word with which he is entirely comfortable) of his male credentials in recent times, and some of us have our own theories about why this is and what has caused it, but this is not a matter to be discussed here. Suffice to say that there may be a malign or benign (depending upon your viewpoint) influence coming to bear. I for one like the new Master.
With tennis interrupted by lunch, and after a very hard time was handed out the Master who was “smoking” one of his new and very expensiveness e cigarettes, our combined focus turned towards the man with a fishy name who had joined us, Currencies Direct customer Nick Perch (pronounced peerurrch according to him). He was talking about this column, and so it was my duty to listen. However, it seems that he was saying that he would prefer to go shopping to having to read my blog. This of course elicited some disagreement from me, although it is fair to say that the rest of the luncheon party seemed unaccountably to have some sympathy with him.
It did not take long for the Wingco to get into his usual grammar school baiting mode and to trot out one of his favourite put downs, that one of the subjects at my school was the hot wiring and nicking of cars, which according to the Wingco was also my favourite school pastime. I must see if I did get O level in car theft.
A cravat with a sports shirt? you decide.
We were also joined for lunch by Loudmouth Largy, resplendent in a cravat above a sports shirt on the basis that is was cold this far north of Cannes, where he lives. He is bereft of female company at present and asked me to include this advert in my column: “Debonair Old Harrovian seeks female company for fun, 36-50 years old, need sense of humour”. Well, one would need a very well-developed sense of humour to be able to contemplate such a liaison.
After a siesta, it was up and ready for the football where England, after a shaky start, held away. It was after this that, when watching the news with the Wingco, who had gatecrashed my watching of the match, that we watched a report about a huge typhoon which is about to hit India. I am sure that the population of India will be pleased to know that the Indian government department in charge of coordinating the evacuation response is a Mr Reddy.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Wind a problem?
Wind was a problem yesterday for many. No, not that type of wind, although that is often more of a problem as I reach towards the beginning of my seventh decade early next year. No, I mean the mistral. It was blowing yesterday at a good 40 miles per hour, which was about as fast as my mum ever drove. It was as strong as that day two years ago when it blew some sand into my rosé on the beach, so clearly it was a serious matter and merited the yellow weather warning issued by the French Meteorological office, Meteo France. Wine drinkers need to be warned when danger of that extreme nature lurks, and to this end any attempts to cut the budgets of this worthy organisation should be scrapped immediately.
With That Nice Lady Decorator heading to the UK early this morning for the weekend, I shall stay in until Monday, without a drink and in quiet contemplation of my misdeeds and in atonement for them. I would suggest that nobody believes that, and they would be right. Tennis is a very real possibility this morning, and, if it goes ahead day, then there will be a luncheon at Auberge St Donat. I believe that the usual suspects, Blind Lemon Milsted, the Wingco and Master Mariner Mundell will comprise the heart of the gathering, which may perhaps be augmented by more miscreants as it is Friday. I shall leave it until tomorrow to report exactly in which manner I swept to victory.
Then there is the football. England is playing Montenegro in a World Cup qualifier in the evening which will need to be watched, and will require a beer in the hand, and Sprog 1 is suggesting something called a house party this evening after England have won. I have heard about these, but when I told him that I wanted something more lively than a game of bingo, he looked at me blankly. I like a big generation gap (“nice to see, to see you nice”). Now I am getting really obscure, anybody still with me?
My picture today, taken on Wednesday, depicts the view we had from our table at lunch. It is a tough life down here in the south of France, contemplating the fine services of Currencies Direct. Perhaps I should submit the bill for lunch to then for reimbursement?
A calming bottle of wine, thankfully secure from the wind later. Clearly it was best despatched before the mistral took hold.
Now to Saturday. I have been invited to the opening of an exhibition of paintings from the artists who frequent The Hangar, where the lovely Marina Kulik also does painting classes, and where, I need hardly remind you, the painting that graces the cover of my book, the Valbonne Monologues was painted. Because the standard of the paintings produced in that competition was so high, I shall be down at the exhibition, called Pure Nature, when it opens at 2.30 on Saturday. The fact that they are offering free wine has absolutely nothing to do with it. It is open to all and will be staged at the hall attached to the Valbonne church at the lower end of the village, which should appease the Reverend Jeff, although he would probably contend that it should have been built on the higher end if the village, in order to claim the moral high ground no doubt. If you can’t get down tomorrow, it is open until 27th October from 10 until 6 each day.
Ok, that’s enough about art, I am off to lunch and let the party begin.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Train strike, quelle surprise
Today’s picture was taken from a doctor’s surgery, where I was waiting to have what turned out to be an all clear on my knee. This is the kind of surgery view I like, somewhat different to what one might expect when gazing out of the steamed up windows of the health centre in Arundel I’ll warrant.
The view from the knee specialists surgery in Mouans Sartoux
Packing was again an irritating pastime yesterday, and during the drudgery I was asked by That Nice Lady Decorator what I would like to do with the hitherto unsold copies of my book, The Valbonne Monologues. She implied that the sales total, a magnificent 143, which admittedly has changed little, in fact not at all, in the past two weeks, suggested that sales had stagnated (not a word I would like to entertain in close proximity to my book). I replied that, as it was about to be presented widely by my agent at the Frankfurt Book Fair this coming week, that they should be put away carefully as they would undoubtedly become valuable collectors items when the major publishing deal is signed, and film rights are sold in the scrabble that will follow the exhibition, as is almost inevitable in my opinion. I think It is fair to say that this is not an opinion she shares and she had a nasty little cackle when she made the comment “never mind, when we get back in April, we will have something with which to light the fire”.
With the alarming prospect of having to return to England in 10 days time, and with the sun out, I suggested that given the short time we have left in France, we should make the most of the opportunities and take the train to Juan les Pins for lunch on the beach. It was a suggestion accepted with alacrity by the Decorating Operative, who was feeling decidedly jaded after a girlie night out in Cannes during MIPCOM the night before. However, we had not factored in the propensity of the French train drivers to strike more or less weekly, I think because their snails were undercooked on the staff canteen or some equally ludicrous flimsy excuse, and so, with no trains running and Sprog 1 available to drive, we decided to got to the restaurant at the St Donat golf course.
Two bottles of a rather splendid Haut Medoc were dispatched over a very nice three hour lunch in delightful weather, which is forecast to come to an end after today. That is why we made it an extended lunch, it may be the last one we enjoy outside together this year.
Back in the pav for a sundowner was another delight that we may not be able to repeat on this trip, especially as, later on, it became clear that the world of music requires my presence in the UK next Thursday, so I shall be subjected to the vagaries of Easyjet in the very near future. This has the effect of reducing by two full days the time I have left here, a very sobering thought.
The more eagled eyed of you will have noticed that there has been no mention of the wonderful foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct yet in today’s column. This is because there have been some laudable attempts at limericks on the comments section and I did not want you all to be over faced, with the exception of Christine, who has still not made her application as promised. Christine, I know where you live. expect a visit.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Vegetarian pasta shock
Lets not make an issue of it but I was dragged out of my pit, in front of the fire on a cold and damp Tuesday evening, ostensibly for a bit of fun and a decent meal, to be served vegetables.
That Nice Lady Decorator was off on her annual wild goose chase to MIPCOM, this weeks Cannes convention, for a girlie night out and I , having been left to fend for myself, and with a cooking history little better than Manchester United’s premiership form this season, I needed something fulsome to eat, like a big steak to help me through the evening. So how does vegetarian pasta sound to you? Probably wonderful to the very few vegetarians who dare to read this column, who are probably all gay.
Look, I like vegetarians, but I don’t think I could eat a whole one. I went last night to be fed by Peachy Butterfield and Roly Bufton, who together had promised a pasta delight. That should already have had the alarm bells ringing. The delight would have been the expression on the faces of those amongst us who do not eat meat. It was all very pleasant but I am sure you have all been to meals where you need to have a McDonald’s on the way back home?
Anyway, there it is, I was an enforced vegetarian for the evening, as long as you ignore the Parma ham and the pate, neither of which I did. We did however enjoy some nice red wine and some amongst us “enjoyed” some Chardonnay out of a box. He calls it “wine poncery”, the appreciation of a good wine, whereas I have had to learn to appreciate a good whine from Peachy.
Max the dog has a paddle
Talk turned to cars and the theft of one that has been suffered recently by people close to me. It was a VW Golf, but apparently it had a nice interior, which probably means fluffy dice and a nodding dog. Anyway, we were discussing what normally happened with cars stolen in the south of France where they often end up in one of the eastern states or get shipped off to the Middle East. I called this car laundering, but Peachy, failing to understand the joke, wondered if they would be better off putting them in a car wash, which I admit, literally, is a good way of laundering them. God give me strength, actually, not god, the Reverend Jeff give me strength.
The limericks at still bubbling away in the comments section, two decent ones yesterday from the Reverend. So far no one has come up with one that uses the expression Currencies Direct, even though it rhymes with erect, but I Iive in hope.
You may have noticed that there has been a lack of tennis in my life recently and this is because I am injured. I have pulled a fetlock or something and am hoping I don’t need to be shot after seeing the specialist today. A less accomplished writer might have made an asinine joke about not being able to get one’a leg over but you know the high standards to which this column regular fails to adhere and so there will be no mention.
Apart from a trip to Mouans Sartoux to have my leg amputated, I have very little on my agenda today, but am hoping to invited to lunch in Friday with the able bodied tennis players with whom I associate, unless they are going to spurn me as a cripple. It will be the penultimate time I shall be able to enjoy a Friday lunch at Auberge St Donat this year as the time for the departure back to the cold wastes of England is nearing and the dreaded packing has begun. I shall be taking my summer heat with me due to possible visits to Australia and the Caribbean which I have planned for when the weather gets too much to bear.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Panic over, normal service has been resumed
Panic over, I can drink again! After consultation with a host of the most highly respected members of the medical profession in Valbonne, and the handing over of 23 euros, I now have sufficient information to enable an informed decision to be made and made by me. I have made that decision and I am no longer on the wagon. Whilst I shall scale down my intake, I shall, after all, be able to remain jovial and funny rather than boring and morose, had the advice gone the wrong way.
It was all going to get rather difficult had circumstances not changed. Golf without a drink at the 19th hole would have been difficult, a post tennis beer harder still, but lunch at Auberge St Donat without being able to enjoy the full menu (wine is included) would have been unthinkable. My whole life would have been turned upside down. The economics of Valbonnes’ restaurants and bars would have been in tatters.
In celebration of these changed circumstances, and in support of one of those restaurants, we accepted a late invitation to dine in Valbonne Square last evening with Peachy Butterfield and Roly Bufton, who flew back from his cruise along the Italian coast to deal with some issues surrounding his “water feature”. This is how Peachy describes the alarming discovery that the local council have the right to build a huge underground reservoir on Roly and Poly’s property. Even a man with a water feature the size of a football pitch needs to eat, and it was perhaps apt that he should choose to eat with a man who is already the size of a football pitch.
A gaudy boat arrives at Amalfi a few weeks ago
Over a convivial dinner inside at Cafe Des Arcades, due to some very English rain, we discussed an app (a phone application to those of my readers who are over 50) called “fit or fugly”. It takes a picture of ones face and then pronounces that the subject is one or the other. It has been a source of enormous distress for one of my close family, an operative of the decorating kind, as the correct result was not forthcoming, I, however, braced for the possibility that the technology may be unreliable and may have produce a less than fit result, but I was surprised and delighted to find myself pronounced anything but fugly. This is a clear triumph for modern technology.
Later on, before the pear liqueur was offered as a gesture from the lovely staff at the restaurant, Peachy was discussing whether it was possible just to sip wine, and swiftly came to the conclusion that it was, however, as he pointed out, One man’s sip is another man’s glug.
There was talk of a recent event aboard D5, the enormous and fabulous boat owned by the Naked Politician, aboard whichever we never seem to get invited nowadays, probably because of “that” picture in my book The Valbonne Monologues. It seems that, just after the passengers had disembarked for lunch on the islands, close to Cannes at the weekend, there was a squall, which was so intense that one could not see D5 from 50 metres away on shore in the restaurant, (pity there was not a squall when the boat in my picture today entered port) and Peachy (who unaccountably was invited) at last thought he might have gone blind. His comment, that “it’s going to happen eventually” can only hint at a life of juvenile bad behaviour of the most basic kind.
So far. Christine, of whom I spoke yesterday, has failed to submit her application to open an account with Currencies Direct, but I am prepared to accept that she may have been tired after an epic Sunday lunch. However, there will be no excuse if that application has not been received by close of business today.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Party Party
He said it was chicken, that he had bought them and cooked then himself, but I have seen an alarming dip in the local pigeon population in recent days. Man mountain, the original idiot abroad, Peachy Butterfield, guided ably by his delicious wife Suzanne, presented a wonderful Sunday lunch at one of Roly and Poly Bufton’s splendid houses yesterday, and I have to say there was not a pigeon feather in sight. I broke my self-imposed exile from alcohol, as previously agreed with myself, and got properly stuck in to the much anticipated Chateau Gloria, supplied from his vast stock by Simon Howes. he had also produced an excellent 2006 Haut Medoc, trumping my 2009, although I think I was heard to say that the one I had brought was a little fresher.
I managed a short discussion with Peachy about why I was avoiding his card Bordeaux. I was of the opinion that it consisted entirely of the dregs one may find in any half decent bottle of wine, but he would have none of it (well metaphorical at least, in fact he had a great deal of it) and claimed it was very drinkable, in fact one could say he sediment it.
Peachy Butterfield in celebratory mood after a fine whippet and pigeon offering was somehow mistaken for chicken.
The afternoon passed in a satisfying haze of Cuban cigars, fine wine, and wonderful conversation, about which I remember very little, before the pleasing and comfortable descent into oblivion, I do recall that i discussed politics with the Naked Politician. He confirmed to me that he is in the final throes of setting up an official political party, of which he will be leader. It will be called the Party Party (I am not making this up, he really is doing this officially with the electoral commission). I have never before considered entering politics but I think I committed yesterday to being the Party Party candidate for Arundel in the next General Election. It is amazing the stupid things you do after a few glasses of wine.
He seemed a bit light on policies when I pressed him but I am sure it is no work in progress. I wonder if he will ever get to make a Party Party party political broadcast? and where might be the Party Party party headquarters? and what would happen when they had a party?
With politics over, discussion turned to exchange rates. No social occasion in the south of France is work free for me, as i am always on the look out for customers wasting money using their banks for foreign exchange transactions, and I have targeted a potential customer for about three years who was unlucky enough to be present at that lunch and feel the full force of my laser sharp sales patter. Christine, you know who I mean, you can download the Currencies Direct forms here and then there would be no need for me to badger you any more. if not, then expect me to turn up later in the week. In fact anyone can download the form and find their way through to foreign exchange heaven, and make me happy as well.
So now, it is back to abstinence and a dull week ahead. Dull because I am expecting another 5 day stretch without a drink, with perhaps a bit of backsliding on Friday when I must surely lunch at Auberge St Donat for probably the last time this year. England is looming and I have but two Fridays left before the drudgery and reality of an English winter will crowd in.
chris France
@Valbonne_News
The good, the bad and the ugly?
Walking in the Valmasque yesterday morning, with the good the bad and the ugly, that is to say Max the dog, that Nice Lady Decorator and Pesky mutt Banjo, (not necessarily in that order – in fact the only one you can be sure about is Banjo is either bad or ugly or both) was a surprise give the dire weather forecast, but in actual fact it was quite pleasant. I am not willing to enter into any other speculation except to confirm, obviously, that the Decorating person is the good. I was as fresh as a daisy having now gone 4 days and nights without a drink. At this rate, by this time next week I shall resemble a whippet.
Talking of whippets, that breed of dog much loved by those northern chaps, we are invited to man mountain Peachy Butterfield’s for a “home cooked” Sunday lunch today. His size might allow some to speculate that he is more keen on eating them than whippetting them, or whatever they do up north for entertainment. His emailed invitation contained references to wine in cardboard boxes and the Naked Politicians’ bare buttocks. It was not an invitation one would want to show anyone who knows the meaning of the word etiquette. In fact I think Peachy might think that is a penalty imposed for illegal parking.
It seems there is quite a gathering although as far as I can see, no Currencies Direct clients, yet, and I shall be allowing myself a one day holiday from my self imposed fortnight of temperance, (in a desperate attempt to allow my liver time off for good behaviour). I feel I deserve it after accompanying a thirsty decorating operative to the Queens Legs, La Kavanou and Le Kashmir in Valbonne on Friday night and not having a drink at any of them.
The Valmasque
Amongst those on the luncheon list is, as I have suggested above, The Naked Politician. He gave up politics a few years ago after, well, he gave it up, but now I have reason to believe he will be making a comeback and I hope to extract some details at lunch. Another guest is Simon Howes, who is a great friend of UKIP leader Nigel Farage, so we may even have some interesting political debate underway, as long as our senses are not too dulled by the application of Peachy’s card Bordeaux. But what am I saying? Simon almost single handedly keeps Chateau Gloria in profit, so I shall be staying near to him, or at least his bottles.
The lovely Poly Bufton emails to say she does NOT read the Daily Mail, but the Swampy article she sent me, and which I featured in this column, was from that self same publication, and I have first hand experience of her attempts to get the Mail online on her IPad whilst aboard Sea Breezes, so, methinks she doth protest too much, as someone with a poor grasp of English may once have said.
Last night, we stayed in, after the That Nice Lady Decorator’s big night out the evening before. We were feeling a little jaded it seems, and with the weather beginning to turn, we lit the log fire for the first time this autumn. It is nearing the time to go back to the UK, just over 2 weeks to go before getting the snow chains out and heading north to hunker down in Arundel for the winter. It is when the first fire of winter is in the grate that my thoughts turn to what the lies in store, apart from the misery of an English winter. I am still toying with the idea of going to Brisbane later next month for the first Ashes cricket test, but it is a fearfully expensive venture and unless I can find deal I may be forced into spending 5 early mornings glued to the TV to watch events. Then, after Christmas, there is the small matter of a 50th birthday party, which is sensibly being staged in Barbados, so I may be able to struggle through.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Swampy lives!
After my piece yesterday about famed eco-warrior Swampy, I was sent a link to the Daily Mail by the lovely Leslie (Poly) Bufton, confirming that he is alive, and has a job as a tree surgeon. Now call me old-fashioned, but he spent most of his formative years hugging trees and doing his level best not to allow anyone to touch the them, but now he is out there like Currencies Direct customer Slash And Burn Thornton Allan, dismembering them for all he is worth. Is he trying to make up for lost time? Does he resent the time he misspent in his youth? However, there is a far more worrying aspect to all this. It seems that some of my readers actually read the Daily Mail. This is far more serious and has made me realise that as a writer, I have a long way to go.
I branched (oh yes) out and did a bit of tree abuse myself yesterday, having been designated Head Lumberjack (acting) with responsibility to prune two fruit trees. Orders had been barked (sic) at me from That Nice Lady Decorator, so I took a leaf (did you see what I did there?) out of Swampy’s book and gave them both a fearful haircut, on the basis that if I gave them the full shaving (oh, I get better and better), they may not need to be done again next year. At one stage I did break into the old Monty Python Lumberjack song, but stopped short at the line “dress up in women’s clothing and hand around in bars”, although I did get a little schism when I saw some ladies underwear on the line (that’s no lady, that’s my wife…). That should get the (many excellent) members of the coven of limericists, who seem to have taken over the comments section of this column, something to get them to log (!) on. Given the theme, today’s picture is of an old cork oak tree that I took when walking in the Valmasque yesterday.
Cork Oak
Last night was marked by a ferocious electrical storm, but earlier in the evening, I had created a storm of my very own. That Nice Lady Decorator was gagging for a pint of Guinness, but of course, I am on the wagon. Thus, when the landlord of the Queens Legs had recovered from my jaw-dropping request for a non alcoholic beer, which incidentally and entirely reasonably they don’t stock, I ordered a tomato juice (with loads of tabasco). Given how widely read this daily missive seems to be read, it was inevitable that I should hear a number of sarcastic remarks about my temperance, a theme that continued as we passed the Master Mariner Mundell in his village house, popping in for a glass of wine or a cup of tea in my case, then at La Kavanou, the much improved wine bar in Valbonne village where, even before I had ordered, one adoring and very beautiful reader (Bev, you know who I mean) had said “You are not supposed to be drinking”. Perhaps I should not have brandished my pineapple juice in such a triumphal manner, but my feeling of self-righteousness overcame me. The Reverend Jeff will know that feeling of being certain you are right when all the evidence is against you.
Last stop was the ultimate challenge. Le Kashmir is the Valbonne Indian restaurant in Valbonne and a curry on a Friday night after a pub crawl always ends up injudicious ordering of drinks, and so it was with that Nice Lady Drinking Person, but I sipped water, which went very well with an excellent lamb Madras and some of the best spinach I have ever tasted. 10 more days and I will be back in the real world.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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