Rhyme but no reason
This limerick nonsense is getting out of hand. It seems I have at least half a dozen people leprechauning away at limericks in the comments section of this column, mostly about Billy Brown Tail, an anachronism for err…unstable bowels. At the moment, in the enforced absence of strong drink for medical reasons, I am anything but (butt?), but that is the way of the world. I saw the wind was getting up last evening and I admit to a pang jealousy. It seems that an easterly wind presages a wet weekend, in more ways than one, and normally this would not be welcome but as I am having a day off the temperance wagon on Sunday, it will be wet one way or another.
So having gone through the limericks (the motions?) for much of the day, I sat in the web in the early evening nursing a Virgin Mary, whilst watching a bottle of wine being guzzled thirstily by That Nice Lady Decorator. What is really galling is that glass for glass, pint for pint, pound for pound she drinks far more than me despite being a short arse (she calls it petite), and yet her bloody blood test readings were all normal. How can that be fair? If there was a god I would make a complaint. As there is not then I will have to complain to his self styled representative on earth, the Reverend Jeff.
I am looking forward to seeing the limericks on that one. Whilst we are on the subject, this is the first line of my favourite: “there was a young curate from Birmingham”…. And the last line is “and pumping his Episcopal sperm in them”, but I cannot remember the bit in between. I am sure the Reverend Jeff, one of the most ardent and continually irritating limearacists, will have some ideas. By way of extra raw material, I give you today’s photo of a bronze moulding of a dog with some rather unnecessarily obvious testes rather too much to the fore. Skin me alive if I am wrong.
Limerick fodder, the dogs bollocks
Now, this will be my fourth day in succession without a drink and the hallucinations have started. I had the impression that I had received an enormous bill on my American Express card, run up by Sprog 1 and Sprog 2 during the summer, but obviously I must be mistaken. However the sweat won’t die down, and I don’t know why. Having children nowadays is a very expensive hobby and one that I am hoping to give up very soon. It is time for the scales to turn back in my favour. They have both expressed the wish that they will one day earn enough money to keep us in the manner to which I should like to be accustomed, but as Martin Luther King used to say “I have a dream”.
Today I have been given the job of tree surgeon. It is a sort of anti Swampy thing (for those of you remember that that famous eco warrior for the 80’s and 90’s.). Swampy was the name given to a greasy looking but engaging protester, unhappy about the ancient woodland that had to be cut down to make way for the Newbury bypass. He was a tree hugger who caught the imagination of large swathes of the public after he was interviewed on the news. He is is probably now using that very road to get to and from work. Anyway, I digress, my orders are that several of swampy’s mates need pruning and, without Currencies Direct client Slash And Burn Thornton Allan to hand, I am going to have to upset a few of them myself.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The ultimate provocation
I managed it, the ultimate provocation, but I did not waver. I always knew that it would be a tall order for me, the man who would go to the opening of an envelope, to be able to resist a social occasion. Moreover, I was acutely aware that anyone turning up at the snacking hour, and entering the web, our outside bar at aperitif time, would be a particularly weak moment with which to deal. Furthermore, when that person is the redoubtable and determined Peachy Butterfield, I knew I was in for a fierce test of resolve.
As we are leaving our house in the tender embrace of the lovely and lithe Currencies Direct client Debs Frost for the winter, we need to move things out and generally start the preparation. Firstly though, our previous guardian, the above mentioned man mountain, had to move his stuff out of the house and garage. This required a visit, and he has a well entrenched habit of ensuring he arrives at a socially acceptable time at which to have a drink. On the odd occasion when the timing is not socially acceptable, he rides rough shod over acceptability and has a drink anyway, even when it is not offered. You see, he knows where all the fridges are, having been in residence last winter. Anyway, with his Volvo stuffed to the gunwales with the sort of detritus that only a man from up north might have as his home comforts (animal pelts, left over peat, petrified tundra, pigeon coups, bits of salted road kill, the odd stags head, whippet training manuals – in pictures – etc,) , he demanded a drink in time-honoured manner. I told him that I was on the wagon but, as he quite rightly remarked, he was not and what the hell did it matter what I was doing?
Day old tortoises. that is a 2 euro piece for context
At least it was only a drink and some crisps, I hate to think what might have happened if he had seen these little fellows that have hatched in the wild in our garden in the last day or so. He might have asked for some Branston pickle to go with the miniature pork pies.
Thus the provocation began. Whilst he noisily and thirstily tucked into an open double magnum of rose, I poured myself a large virgin Mary, blathered with as much Tabasco, celery salt, pepper and Worcester sauce as is humanely possible to stand, in order to make it seem like a real drink. It was after the third one of these when I was feeling a trifle bloated, that the saintly and gorgeous Mrs Peachy arrived. I must now refer to her in this way because of the power of this column in the Google rankings and her new career as an estate agent seem to have become mutually incompatible. Anyway, I managed to get through without my temperance diluted (good word, every drink will be diluted for the next fortnight. even water, with one notable exception). This coming Sunday however, I allowing myself a day off from my alcoholic fast as I shall be joining Simon Howes and the lovely Sarah for lunch with Peachy and Mrs Peachy.
When one lunches with Mr Howes, there is a very decent chance that one might be treated to several bottles of one of the great wines, Chateau Gloria, and to the finest Havana cigars, and I am afraid that will be a provocation too far. My planned 14 day period of alcohol denial will last instead 15 days, with a day off for good behaviour, not a concept with which I am readily identified I admit. Sunday? I hear the more attentive of you say. Yes, indeed, Sunday was the day that I had expected to play cricket, but in fact it was moved from Saturday to Sunday due to the promise of bad weather, but I thought it was to be on Saturday, but Peter Bennett from Blue Water Yachting, who organised it can’t make Sunday, so I am having lunch instead. I hope that is all clear.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Indolence, debauchery and excess on hold
It seems that I left the Bistro Rally winners celebrations at a timely moment. The first beer had been cracked at around 11, just after the start on Monday and by 7pm, following a hearty and heart-felt celebration aboard L’Exocet, which included some rip roaring rock and roll, I felt I had celebrated enough and headed for home. Already, blood had been drawn when our leader and captain, and Currencies Direct client the Master Mariner Mundell had fallen and damaged that very Jewish nose of his, but it seems harp player Jeroen Zaat (crazy name, crazy guy) was also injured later on in the evening, much later and more blood was shed. I have not got to the bottom if exactly what hope happened but I have heard that it involves running after a car in a thoroughly inebriated state, and I seen a blurred photo of the injured parties and it is not a pretty sight, certainly not pretty enough for this column.
So today, what? Well, I need to a clear out my office ready for the all too soon return to dear old Arundel for the winter, there is some gardening, I must clear the garage and I have some music work to do. Do you see how incredibly tedious life has become without a drink?
I shall have to rely on events that have taken place during the summer for much of the copy for the coming two weeks as I have decided to take a two week sabbatical from alcohol. I know that you will not believe me, in fact I can hardly believe it myself, and I know I have form when it comes to failing to avoid strong drink, especially when I have been in print explaining my intentions, but an alarmingly high liver count, the only real cloud on the blood test horizon, tells the obvious story and even had me calling Dr Ireland, that almost excellent fellow in Valbonne, for guidance. I thought that at the very least I would be looking at a liver transplant, but it seems that two weeks off the pop will see me recover, and when I consider the events of the summer I should not be surprised.
The problem is that when there is no party and nothing happens, then this column, about living amongst the idle rich, has no foundation for its copy. I thrive on the indolence, excess, debauchery and high living of my friends and it is this upon which the writing of this column depends for its fuel. Thus memories will have to be pressed into service. You can already see the signs: today’s post is not about yesterday’s events, it is about those of the day before. I shall no doubt regress from here.
No, I cant go on, nothing is happening and I feel naked…
I think the statue above, photographed late last week in Naples (you see, we are already going further back) says it all. I am stripped naked of material and pretty unhappy about it and this statue sums it up perfectly. Lets see you limerick writers, who have been hard at it in the comments section, make up something happy about that!!
I see there is a Braderie (a French term for an end of season sale) in Valbonne this weekend, but thankfully I have been chosen to play cricket instead. Cricket? In the south of France? I hear you say (hallucinations are common in these situations), but yes. There are several teams in the area and I once played for Cabris, who’s cricket pitch is actually at St Vallier de Thiey just north of Grasse, the perfume capital. It has been instigated by Peter Blue Water Bennett, apparently at the drunken behest of myself and the Wingco at some time during the summer, and which I do not recall.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Aaah Bistro
It is such confusing terminology that one hears when aboard a racing yacht. Yesterday I had the pleasure and honour to be invited aboard L’Ecocet, the lovely racing yacht captained by the Master Mariner Mundell. The occasion was the 12th Bistro Rally from. port de la Rague to the islands off Cannes. I questioned him when he raised the ensign as this would be frowned upon in yachting circles when racing, but he retorted that it was a rally and so socially acceptable. This we rallied rather than raced to another great victory in warm sunshine, slight winds and flat seas. I think this is the ninth year on the trot that he has won, but perhaps playing “We Are The Champions” by Queen at full volume on board and piping it through the VHF radio frequency was a touch provocative? Although no more so than in the previous 8 years I suppose.
But back to that terminology. There was a lot off talk amongst the crew (which I was alarmed to discover included me – I thought I was there in either a decorative capacity or for a sensible head or to ensure a continuing flow if alcohol) about whether or not to put up the spinnaker. Then there was talk about a Genoa, which I learned was not the dreadful Italian town in which I spent 2 days at Ikea in the summer. Not being a sailing person, nor gay, I was also interested as to why they wanted to head towards the buoys. There was talk of jiving, roger the cabin boy, corkscrewing into a nose dive – something our glorious skipper did to himself later after surfeit of celebratory Pastis and rosé, culminating in blood being spilled – and reeding the main sail, none of which made the remotest sense. These sea faring types do talk a lot of cobblers, which is probably something to do with scratching barnacles off your bottom or another ailment equally in need of the application of ointment. I mean, “splicing the mainbrace,”? what can it all mean?
The race itself was marked by some outrageous cheating by two boats who, when it was clear they were being beaten, reverted to using their engines on the final run to the finishing point between Les Iles Des Lerins, something to which they were happy to admit at the traditional post race tie up. This is where all the boats tie up together, people move from yacht to yacht eating each other’s food and drinking their drink. At least that is what we did.
The Wingco in god like rock and roll pose
Amps were set up and the Wingco plugged in and together with Jaw Jaw Jeroen on mouth harp at very high volume went through his usual repertoire of blues Hendrix and Smoke On The Water in a less than subtle dig at the cheats, with a brilliant ad lib from Blind Lemon Milsted, gathering most of the contestants from the other 4 boats onto L’ Exocet. It was so crowded that it reminded me a bit of the recent Americas Cup competition, but then I do have a vivid imagination.
Mention should be made of the honourable contributions of limericks which have been coming in thick and fast on the comments section of this column. I have no idea why this trait has developed, but there have been some remarkably good ones, illustrating perfectly the high quality of the readership, now with over 115,000 hits in total, and that does not include my own visits because they won’t count them, dammit. It gives me hope that I am tapping into the rich seam of very intelligent people who have not yet come to terms with the benefits they can achieve by applying for, and opening an account with Currencies Direct, indeed I do not need to tell them that they merely have to click in the link (that’s is the highlighted text above) in order to start this rewarding process.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Billy brown tail alert
My determination not to have a drink yesterday was utterly unshakable. With a three and a half month party, culminating in a wonderful cruise along the Italian coast, coming to an end after today, it was clear to me that after a lot of clear blue water last week, there needed to be some clear blue water between the summer of fun and the winter of discontent which lies ahead. It will only be discontent because, when I am based in the UK, there are fewer opportunities for me to sign up new customers for Currencies Direct, which, after all, is the main reason I write this daily missive.
Anyway, I digress. As I say the teetotal tendency was an unshakeable imperative. There was nothing of which I could conceive that would break that iron will to remain in its grip. A light and healthy salad for lunch after a brisk walk and I had settled down to a glass of pineapple juice to watch the last of the violent thunderstorm, that also seemed to underline the fact that summer is coming to an end.
Then, just as that storm was abating, the skies darkened again, but this time it was Slash And Burn Thornton Allan, hot foot from the Monaco Yacht Show where he had just dismantled the Blue Water Yachting stand, thirsty and vibrant. He found a bottle of wine in the kitchen and filled himself a generous glass of a very nice Cru Bourgeois Medoc. Still my implacable determination remained intact. It was when he spotted the pineapple juice that he became truly animated. “How can I sit her and drink alone?” he said and that was when I realised that I was being inhospitable and selfish, and the dam was breached.
One thing led to another, then the sun came out both metaphorically and physically and before I could fully comprehend what was happening we were in the pav enjoying a splendid convivial Sunday afternoon, together with more, considerably more of that Medoc.
The pav in Autumn sunshine taken by Slash And Burn Thornton Allan
I suppose that it was inevitable as he had not eaten, and I was ravenous after rabbit food for lunch, that we would end up at the Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne for an early dinner. This was just what I needed (not) the day before the Bistro Rally which takes place today, and for which we are instructed to be on Port de la Rague in Mandelieu by 10am.
The Bistro Rally is a (dis) organised annual sailing boat race from the Port to the Iles Des Lerins, about 3 miles off the coast of Cannes. It has been won for the last 9 years by the Master Mariner Mundell at the helm of L’Exocet and he intends to win again today, There is, however, a fundamental change this year in that he has relented and allowed girls on his boat, a previously inconceivable concept, but perhaps time is at last catching up with him and he is mellowing, or more likely, he wants someone to be serving the drinks.
So instead of being bright eyed and busy tailed this morning and ready for the bully off or whatever they call it, I am red eyed and suffering from billy brown tail, as an old pal once described the symptoms, which I do not plan to go into in this daily column. However, the more astute amongst you may be able to guess. The Master is hoping for some wind this morning, I am hoping for no wind at all if you get my drift. Actually drifting is just what I need.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Tentacles or testicals?
That Nice Lady Decorator hates waste and so, if ever there is anything substantial left over after a meal out, she asks for a doggy bag. This is seldom a great idea because what looks appetising when it goes into the bag often looks anything like edible the next morning. Two nights ago, she insisted that the remains of her mixed fish dish were taken back to Sea Breezes, the wonderful Fleming boat upon which we had been staying for the last few days, until our departure last evening. As the lovely Poly, the joint owner with the cuddly Roly Bufton pointed out, opening the fridge and seeing two-day old greasy tentacles looking back at you is not the best way to start the morning. It could have been worse, one letter changed and that could that have read testicals. So not a typical Italian breakfast, by which I mean breakfast with the fishes, for us. Just the unwelcome aroma of rotting sea life. I am glad that meat balls were not involved.
And so it is over. 4 glorious days of cruising around Naples and the Amalfi coast have come to an end and we are now back in Valbonne for a rest, but only a short one. The Bistro Rally is due to be staged tomorrow.
The harbour at Santa Lucia at Naples
That Nice Lady Decorator is not always at her most accommodating when we are travelling, and so it transpired last evening when, going through security, my boarding pass and passport got a little ahead of themselves so to speak and ended up on the wrong side, i.e. through security, before the authorities had time to check them. That Nice Lady Decorator, despite being air side by this time, appeared unwilling or unable to make any effort to find the missing items, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I, on the wrong side of security, was unable to solve this particular problem. An impasse developed to the point where I was about to return to the town before the security chappies did the right thing, and found the missing passport and boarding pass on the security carousel and let me through. As I heard yesterday, one often is offered sound advice by ones other half, however it seems that often 99% is sound and 1% is advice, and so it was graphically, or should I say sonically, illustrated last night.
Before we left, there was time for a last lunch in Napoli before the taxi ride to the airport. We had to return to the boat one last time in order to collect our luggage, and in my case, leave behind the tablet computer upon which I rely to post this daily column when travelling (extolling as it does regularly, the advantages of having an account with Currencies Direct). It was an omission about which I was reminded later, more than once, and in a manner that it is fair to say contained some expletives. It was my fault and when I am wrong, I am prepared to accept that fact without question. This is not a trait that runs widely in the family. It had meant two more perilous voyages in the rickety smelly boat with the rickety smelly Italian to and from the pontoon, and then into the equally dangerous, but longer drawn out, tender embrace of Tony the Taxi Driver for the hair-raising trip to the airport. There is no suggestion of the supposedly Italian trait of surrender on Napoli’s crowded roads. He has a charming aroma about him, garlic certainly, brylcreem? a more than vague suggestion of fish? perspiration without a doubt, but there was something else I could not put my finger on, or in but I am sure I would not have done so even if I had worked out what it was.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Herculaneum effort
The radio in the taxi was playing Pavarotti and Frank Sinatra’s version of “My Way”. It was as Frank intoned “and now, the end is nigh” that I knew were all going to die. The taxi, in which we were holding on for dear life, was sensibly fitted with sound sensors indicating when the taxi driver was too close to other cars. It was sounding off so much that I thought we might be listening to an Italian bleep mix of the track.
It was not just the driving, which involved the previously described game of chicken in which all Italian motorists appear required to take part, but at the advanced level also involves texting whilst driving at 50 miles an hour in heavy and weaving traffic. Oh no. The taxi driver also managed to have an argument on the phone in very loud Italian, presumably about whether the Pope was a Catholic, and also sorted out with his father how he was going to get hold of some pounds sterling for his trip to London this week to see Napoli play against Arsenal in the Champions League. Had I had the Currencies Direct account opening application forms to hand, then I reckon I may have had a new fat smelly Italian customer, but as I was hanging on for dear life with my fingertips and with my eyes mostly closed, I think I have lost a potential client. But no matter, I am alive and after the sensible application of some restorative medication, mainly in the form of red wine, I am still able to tell the tale.
Herculaneum was such an effort
We were on our way to Herculaneum, pictured above, for a dose of torture culture, which was fascinating for about 10 minutes, but the guided tour for which lasted an hour. I bailed out early and went on an unsuccessful search for a cold beer, but found only a grotty shack selling ice cream and e additive laden snacks.
Once the interested members of our party had hung on until the bitter end, We returned to the charming harbour at Santa Lucia, close to the centre of Naples where we had moored after setting off from Amalfi at 7am, and had a late lunch where I had to stock up on red wine to get enough Dutch courage to board the rickety boat to take us to where Sea Breezes was berthed.
Let me explain. We were parked on a pontoon which none of us realised had no contact with dry land. Thus to be able to go anywhere, and here I include bars and restaurants, one. had to take ones life in ones hands and board the oldest boat known to exist in Christendom, in the tender hands of a fat indolent Italian whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to scare tourists who were marooned on that pontoon. He was magnificent. Three times I had to board and then get off this vessel and each time I had to consume more alcohol in order to face it,
So let me recap; not only are Italian taxi drivers psychopathic lunatics, but they have some close and equally psychotic cousins who drive boats in harbours. If I could swim I think I would have jumped in of my own violation in order to reduce the risk. I think one always knows when one is scheduled to die.
After dinner Roly Bufton suggested cheese which I believe must be a god idea, but I refused on the grounds that to eat more would be like facing parmageddon. Cheese with attitude. Why is everything in Italy like a ticking time bomb?
Chris France
Ford and Capri, a marriage made in heaven?
The Isle of Capri, where clearly, Ford produced arguably their most iconic car of the 1970’s, is a dramatic volcanic island which juts out of the Mediterranean, just like the erection I used to get when I first saw the Capri Ghia. The island is almost as beautiful as the first time I set eyes on that car, but the difference is that the island has retained its great beauty, whilst Ford’s creation now looks aged and outdated. Any comments suggesting that there is any connection between that statement and an aged and successful writer, responsible for this daily column, will be edited and trashed.
We motored out on the fabulous yacht Sea Breezes, our home for the next few days, from the beautiful Italian Coastal resort of Sorrento after breakfast, and anchored before lunch by some very impressive rocks and an archway through which smaller boats than Sea Breezes could pass. I took this picture of the rocks and the arch, and was struck by the rock on the right which looks a like some giant crouching prehistoric animal. Ok, I will try to stay off the booze for a few days.
Pre historic animal or Loudmouth Largy?
Lunch was served aboard the boat, and at one stage I seemingly misheard an instruction to get something from under the sink. I was informed by that Nice Lady Decorator that she did not think I knew the meaning of the word sink, but trust me, as a non swimmer aboard a boat, I do, and I get nervous when the word comes into the conversation. Anyway, I was able to rid myself of that sinking feeling and enjoy a few glasses of a nice Italian red, when suddenly we saw a wasp, despite the fact that we were some 200 yards from land. I had earlier seen a fly swatter in the galley (I know all nearly all the terminology now, although the poop deck has me guessing) and was given it by That Nice Lady Decorator so that I could deal with, as she put it, “anything small and irritating”. Perhaps I should not have swatted her, but the opportunity was too good to miss. The stitches will come out in the morning and I am sure the swelling will go down eventually.
We were going to continue our circumnavigation (which sounds like a description of a Jewish chap going around in circles) of Capri after lunch, but with Amalfi calling, there was not enough time to do both, so we drove there instead. Driving is what you do on a motor yacht. Amalfi is a beautiful old Italian port and we managed to secure the next to last berth in the cute and tiny harbour.
At dinner, the subject of Loudmouth Largy, who had been a guest aboard Sea Breezes the week before,
reared its loud and ugly head and I was heard to say that we were on the Amalfi coast but thankfully not in the company of a mouthy oaf (ok, I accept that is a bit contrived, but you cannot expect quality every day, indeed any day in this column – no, but you can get quality when it comes to foreign exchange transactions if you sign up for an account with Currencies Direct here).
As we had entered the port, I was asked if I could be ready with the fender, but as I explained, I have just sold many of my music rights and anyway I never played guitar.
We had just settled down for an early evening drink, once moored, when a the nastiest loud gaudy super yacht backed in to the last berth beside us. If this boat cost less than £50 million then I would be surprised, but money does not convey taste. Green and purple LED lights and techno music blaring out, parked in a quintessentially ancient Italian Port was as nasty and inappropriate sight as Loudmouth Largy with a lager sized Limoncello.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Jolly boating weather
Everything was going fine until, after going through the rigmarole of getting ready to board, we were held on the air bridge of the Easyjet plane from Nice to Naples for 15 minutes. “No good can come of it, this plane is not taking off tonight”, I said. I like to be a beacon of hope when all around is doom and gloom. When we were herded back to the departure lounge it looked worse. There was apparently a problem with the plane and that Nice Lady Decorator, who gets very restive when restricted, opened a door and headed out back to the airport, to the consternation of the airport staff, who promptly confiscated our boarding passes and told us to stay close by.
Experience says that when you have a problem like this, very often you hang about for a couple of hours and then the flight is cancelled, or at the very least there is a three hour delay before you get away. It seems that we were only allowed out under the erroneous impression that she was pregnant, which, despite her claimed age of 37, would have probably made medical history if that was the case. What was initially surprising was that Roly Bufton, with whom we were travelling, was allowed to accompany her, presumably on the basis that he looked pregnant as well. Of course, my magnificent physique could not possibly be mistaken for one that had been impregnated, so I was challenged, but was allowed to escape as well on the basis that I was her husband. Perhaps they thought Roly was her dad? Anyway, with an expected long-term delay, I headed to the bar to secure some beers to help keep the wolf from the door, and spirits high. Literally the moment I arrived back from the bar, some 300 yards away, reboarding commenced. Some of us, and by that I mean That Nice Lady Decorator, had glugged her nasty plastic glass of beer but Roly and I held firm and managed to board the plane with beers in hand. I love Easyjet.
Earlier, we had made our way into Cannes for lunch on the beach at Rado Plage. This was the venue for the signing away of my record company rights to an old pal who should know better, but still retains his enthusiasm for a record business that I loved but no longer exists in the form I enjoyed. I shall miss the control but not the grief, and have maintained an interest should anything exciting happen with someone else at the helm.
Naples from the port
Talking about the helm, from which I took this picture, (ok, I am not nautical, unless that involves noughts and crosses, so I may not have the correct terminology here) arriving late into Naples, we headed for Roly and Poly’s boat Sea Breezes, which will be our home for the next few days. On the flight we discussed what we should do. Sorrento? Naples? Herculaneum? Vesuvius? Pompeii? Amalfi coast? and decided that we should do them all. But first there was the matter of a late dinner to be dealt with. Italian food is not amongst my favourites but we had a fine meal, my seafood risotto being very good, and I think I chose more wisely that That Nice Lady Decorator who, having chosen the tasting selection menu, was presented with a stream of bigger and bigger dishes, almost all of which are now safely stowed aboard Sea Breezes in doggy bags and which we shall no doubt continue to enjoy through today.
So where shall we go first? Well, to the supermarket as it seems that Loud Mouth Largy has been a guest over the last few days and there is not a spirit left aboard. Nor is there much wine, beer, food or, well anything. I also think that it was a timely disaster that he should lose his wallet also early in the trip, and feel certain that he will shortly be honouring his debts to all and sundry. Yes, even sundry had to take a hit.
So off into the Mediterranean sunset in the next few days, in search of an idyllic life style which must surely involve the services of Currencies Direct? As always, I live in hope.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Blue Water at Monaco
Bloody hell, I had to turn down lunch because of work! Whatever next? I had a load of stuff to do ahead of a major deal I hope to conclude today and so when Peachy texted, my heart sank. I knew I would be missing a lunch which I would dearly have liked not to.
Tennis though was in the diary and starting at 5pm, and I managed to complete these irksome tasks in time to meet up with Mr Clipboard, the Wingco and Blind Lemon Milsted. Milsted was late, left early, did not have a post match beer and failed to pay his share of the cost of the court. Very poor, see me afterwards. He also contributed massively to what I fear may have been a reverse at tennis, letting down his partner (me) time and time again with lame dabs at the net. If it were not for the fact that he is a valued Currencies Direct customer, he would have received a tongue lashing.I say reverse but in actual fact, I cannot recall the exact result although I am nearly certain that we won.
Returning home in the evening I found some more poor chickens with beer cans stuck up their areses and languishing in the barbecue. It seems that That Nice Lady Decorator had so enthralled the petite, saintly and gorgeous Julie Bennett, wife of the even more saintly (as long as he gets Sprog 1 a job) Peter Blue Water Bennett, with the idea of “beer can chicken”. But in a depressing indication that summer is coming to an end, after drinks in the pav, we ate inside, and I saw at least two pair of long trousers amongst the assembled troughing gathering.
The San Bernardino Pass in Switzerland where we were last week
A late arrival was Slash and Burn Thornton Allan, who, along with Sprog 1 has spent the last two days building the Blue Water stand at the Monaco Yacht Show which opens tomorrow. It seems there are already 130 yachts of more than 25 metres already at anchor around the port with up to 200 more expected. Of course Peter is far too regal to get his hands dirty, whereas Slash and burn has dirt written all over him. All I can say is that I am glad he managed a shower before he turned up.
Today, I must journey to Cannes to meet with the great and good of the global music industry to complete an agreement which, when signed, will see me relinquish control of a part of my music empire. That there is a small consideration involved is not denied but I shall retain control of major tracts of the music industry whilst at the same time see my immense workload decrease so that I can spend more time with my money.
In celebration of this realignment of my life, but entirely coincidentally, we shall be flying to Naples this evening to board Sea Breezes for an eagerly awaited cruise along the Amalfi coast in Italy. I have never before slept on board a boat (unless you count a siesta on the way back from St Tropez once) so it will be an interesting experience. I am told that the boat has very efficient stabilisers and that the most movement I can expect is akin to being rocked to sleep. We shall spend 4 days aboard and, as Internet access may be patchy when one is at sea, it may be that this column, your vital daily part of your news gathering on the information superhighway may be delayed. Rest assured that there will still be a daily column but it may not always appear on the day in question. For those of you sighing with relief, tough.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Owl missing in Valbonne?
With no formal arrangements in place for that most sacred of social occasions, Sunday lunch, we were delighted to receive an invitation to meet for just that in Valbonne Square. That the invitation emanated from local Irishman John “800 hundred years of repression” O Sullivan was not that welcome, until I focused on the fact that there was a decent chance he would be accompanied by that most wonderfully endowed wife of his, the statuesque Jude. There was always the chance he had left her at home, but that was as likely as Jude announcing that she would Never again attend one of “Paddy The Wanker Warwick’s” (as Peachy Butterfield refers to him) boot camps of which she is an avid fan. It is a well-known fact, covered in some detail in this column for some years, that she has a soft spot for Baileys, that disgustingly sweet glutinous liquid that masquerades as an after dinner drink. I say after dinner, but for Jude, there is no set time or occasion to partake. Anyway, I did remark that the bad news is that if Jude comes, then so does Johnny. Make of that what you will.
Anyway, with no other option seemingly available, I steeled myself for the usual load of Irish republican claptrap, loaded up my travelling cigar wallet (it being a racing certainty that he would have “forgotten” to go the tabac to buy his own, – he did -) and headed for lunch at Cafe Des Arcades, back in favour now that the hoards of holiday makers have thankfully left the area for the summer, relieving the pressure on their kitchen. On the way I spotted this cat In a boat in a side street in Valbonne. Cab owl be far away? and where is the pea green paint?
Where is the owl?
It was actually a very good and extended lunch. Perhaps we should not have shared 3 bottles of a cheeky little Provençal red (the girls were drinking white) but the arguments about republicanism and the domination, or even superiority of the English, depending upon your view-point, were so enjoyable that time stood still. I only wish the bar bill had done the same.
At one stage, Jude claimed that she was not a big drinker and that she would be on her knees after 3 drinks, and had the temerity to blush when I said that’s just how I like her. This caused Johnny to remark that this was an accidental offside,
Johnny also reminded me of a story that the Currencies Direct client The Wingco had once told against himself. In his youth he had been in Thailand for a period of time, backpacking. He was amongst a group of Thais one evening and one particular beauty took his eye, and seemed very interested in him, so being young free and single he decided to make a move. His Thai friend kept saying “she like you”, “she like you” and the Wingco said he knew. Later on when things had developed to the extent that a bedroom was located, he found that she, or rather he, was indeed very like him. It was not discussed what happened thereafter.
Obviously after such a long and invigorating lunch, a siesta was required, but the whole idea is that you have a short rest and then awaken and are back in the room. I was awoken by Slash and Burn Thornton Allan who was hammering on the front door and demanding a glass of wine in the pav, That Nice Lady Decorator awoke briefly, made a couple of barely comprehensible remarks and then retired for the evening, not to be seen again until this morning . A poor show I say.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Evolutionary abomination
It seems my remarks a couple of days ago about the after life has a stirred up some murky waters. I had suggested that I may experience a religious choice change before my death in case the 70 odd virgins were waiting for me, and The Reverent Jeff was moved to suggest if he was ever to waver in his faith and make tht decision, that with his luck, most of them would be men. I asked him, given the high-profile problems the male clergy seem to experience with the same sex, if that might not be, quite literally, a blessing in disguise? So far I have not had a response.
Pressure of space today means I have been unable to dedicate quite as much space to the game of tennis that took place yesterday morning at the Vignale Tennis Club. Indeed sadly I do not even have enough column inches to mention the result, which I cannot recall anyway. I do remember that we all enjoyed a beer in the delightful mid September sunshine.
Arriving back for what I had hoped to be a spot of lunch and a siesta, I was disavowed of this plan by That Nice Lady Decorator who decided she wanted to go out to lunch. That was no problem in itself, but she wanted to go to Antibes on the train from Mouans Sartoux. I knew immediately what that meant; shopping, and a very late lunch, the train ride is actually very rewarding as it goes to Cannes and then picks its way along the beautiful Mediterranean.coast, past the late summer sun bathers at Golfe Juan, Vallauris, Juan Les Pins on its way to the bustling yachty town. The problem is that there are a lot if shops in the way to the restaurant quarter, so by the time we sat down to eat (at 4.45!), we were laden with such items as a coffee cup set and a napkin holder, all vital pieces of merchandise, of that I am certain.
After a rather good lunch, we were faced with a longish walk back to the station carrying all her goodies and by the time we got there my knuckles were dragging along the ground under the weight. There are those amongst my readers who would be tempted to say that this ape like gait sums up my position in the evolutionary scale, but let us not dwell on that.
Why would you have this on your table?
Talking of the evolutionary scale, where dies the little critter in today’s picture fit in? It is not my style and I am afraid there is no accounting for taste.
Returning to the pav to watch the sun go down made me think of all the poor people who do not use the services of Currencies Direct for all their foreign exchange needs, and I made a pact with myself to redouble my efforts to seek out these poor misguided souks and enlighten them.
Today is Sunday, the traditional day of rest, but tradition plays no part in our household if That Nice Lady Gardener has a project in mind, and, as I am sure you will not be surprised to hear, she had one in mind today. It appears to involve the removal of a number of bushes, which are on the receiving end of her ire as apparently they do not produce enough flowers to justify the maintenance of them. It seems that they must be cut down, dug up and poisoned. There is a worrying theme developing here; What if she were to apply the same criteria to an ageing but successful author? Anyway, in a misguided weak moment I volunteered to help and so I am partly to blame for what I am about to do.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Lamb to the peroxide slaughter
It was lucky we did not play tennis as I was in a weakened state. Two days without a drink and then the clinic taking most of my blood out of one arm, my serving arm, (Tony Hancock would know what I mean), was enough to make me determined to enjoy a good lunch if I could get to the restaurant unaided.
This was taken at Auberge St Donat, to where I eventually managed to get thanks to Sprog 1, who helped me into and out of the car and helped me into the restaurant. Thus it was important for health reasons for me to eat and drink sufficiently to repair my constitution and I am glad to say that this enterprise was a success.
I was joined by Blind Lemon Milsted, the Wingco and the very fishy Nick Pearch, who has, so far, not succumbed to the pressure from me to buy a copy of my book, on the ridiculous pretext that he was not in it. A small oversight I admit, but grounds for not purchasing? I am afraid not. Whilst we were preparing for lunch, the joyous news arrived that I has sold 3 more copies of that self-same book, The Valbonne Monologues, via the Kindle, that wonderful digital book reading invention this month, taking sales to 143, a magnificent achievement, if only in my own Currencies Direct addled mind.
Perhaps, given the undeserved antipathy with which this sterling publication has been greeted by those who appear in it (minus, it appears, one Pearch, N) this wonderful news, which the excited part of me could not resist passing on to the assembled luncheon gathering, was greeted with slightly less enthusiasm than it was by my good self. I admit to having been overcome with emotion, and perhaps a lap of honour, with arms held aloft, was not the appropriate mode of celebration one would expect from an aged and now even more successful author.
This spontaneous outpouring of emotion was regarded by the Wingco with a jaundiced eye. He has long been of the entirely erroneous opinion that my writing is “ghastly” and even the more obvious commercial success of my publication venture was insufficient to affect his opinion. In fact, it seemed to entrench it. Jealousy is such a cruel taskmaster don’t you think?
Lunch was a great success, filled with laughter, anecdotes and, for reasons I never understood, limericks. Having some Irish blood in me, I have always been well disposed towards Limerick humour and I wish I could remember the best of them, but that is age and drink for you.
Last night after the customary siesta and with That Decorating person out somewhere, I sloped up to La Kavanou, the charming wine bar in the back streets of Valbonne. It is close to the Kashmir Indian restaurant and the aroma, as I sat outside, was sufficient to lure me there for a late dinner. I was going to have the lamb, but today’s picture put me off.
Don’t you just hate when peroxide does that?
It seems that our planned luncheon today has been postponed due to illness, yet I find myself perfectly well. So where is the justice in that? Instead I fear that some gardening duties may befall me, so things can hardly get any worse, unless I can think of something that might divert That Nice Lady Gardener. Rest assured I shall be spending the morning thinking and with my gardening gloves to hand. There must and will be an alternative. It is the weekend and I am determined to enjoy it after a very successful week.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
I love a cow in red boots
Astonishingly, we managed it. Two days without a drink. Boy am I going to make up for it at lunch today.
It was a game of chicken. A successful meeting about a land sale at 6pm at home would normally have inspired the popping of corks, if they had not been popped already. But as That Nice Lady Decorator reached for a bottle of Dandelion and Burdock and then mixed it with lemonade, I realised that she was serious about not having a drink, and so was I, apparently. This can have nothing to do with the annual blood tests which are planned for sometime this morning? Could it?
In the end, the prospect of Loudmouth Largy being the fourth at tennis at the Vignale Tennis club before lunch was sufficient to scare off most who would normally been able to play, and so it was universally decided just to have lunch instead. As it turned out, Loudmouth could not have made it because of being taken to find the grave of his grandfather, who fell Anzio. I am not sure that his grandfather would have appreciated the gesture, but I live in hope.
OK you psychologists out there, explain this?
Another blissful day of warm sunshine had me longing for a beach lunch but it was not to be. In its place, I had a nice healthy salad and a glass of pineapple juice. If this is how the other (sober) half live then they can keep it. In fact in the afternoon I began to hallucinate or have flashbacks. I kept seeing a spotted cow wearing red boots, but it must have been a pigment of my imagination (did you see what I did there?).
I was even seduced into doing some gardening, which, if it had not involved killing something, I would have detested even more. I am in the Jeremy Clarkson camp when it comes to destruction. Give me a hammer in an axe any day.
With destruction wrought over everything I had been told to destroy, I spent the rest of the afternoon considering how best to project the benefits to you, dear reader, of the opening of an account with Currencies Direct, and finalising a deal to sell some of my music interests. It is time for a younger and more motivated a person to take the reins (and pay me a great deal of money for the pleasure). Yes, nearing the start of my seventh decade, it is a time to consider what one wants to do with the rest of ones life, and I want to live it, not gradually turn into an old man and eat salads and drink fruit juice, so i can hang around writing this unbalanced prose for a few more years. Again like Jeremy Clarkson, when I go, I want it to be backwards in a Ferrari at 160 miles an hour, in a cloud of smoke and fire. The reverend Jeff believes that something similar is what is waiting for me on the other side, whereas I consider the idea of seventy-odd virgins is a much more appealing scenario. Perhaps, if I am ever diagnosed as terminally ill, I should consider my religious options?
The bucket list has commenced. 100 things to do before die. Most of mine involve travelling, but also the owning of a classic convertible car like a Rolls Royce or Bentley once again. As I have a significant birthday just 4 months away, I have been dropping less than subtle hints about what presents I should wish to receive. So far she has failed to mention the classic car magazines which I have routinely spread about the place. I have even taken to circling the desired beasts in brightly coloured luminous felt tip pen, but perhaps she is playing a canny game? Again, I live in hope.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
No drink all day – doctor called
I think the Washington Post, which organises a competition for readers to add a letter to an existing word to make a new meaning, have hit it on the head today. Sarchasam describes the gulf between a sarcastic comment and a person who does not get the joke. I wonder if there is a town in Germany similarly named?
British humour is often obscure and must be doubly so in a different language, and although my German friends have done their best to understand, I fear that the obscure and politically incorrect observations I have been making in the last week whilst I have been staying in the country may remain a mystery to them. I have a picture today of a cloud that looks a little like the hand of German sensibilities which is about to strike back at me.
Weird cloud over Valbonne
In the end lunch was postponed and instead, I did some work. Can you imagine just how hard that was to deal with after the weeks, no months of partying we have been doing? So with the whole months tasks undertaken, and feeling exhausted after a week of driving and German baiting, I partook of a siesta. Later. a strange and incomprehensible thing happened. I had a Virgin Bloody Mary, and even after dinner, did not feel like having a drink. Something is wrong, I shall be making a doctor’s appointment this morning. Look, you don’t understand. There is a bottle if 2004 St Emilion Grand Cru in the wine rack, and it needs drinking. I take my responsibilities seriously. Medical help will have to be sought. I have a daily column to write about the idle rich in Valbonne. If I come over all teetotal, what will become of me?
So, will the first day since early July without a drink be followed by another? There is no reason why it should not, except for the extreme contrariness of the whole idea, antisocial in the extreme, and, with That Nice Lady Decorator asking me last night whether The Queens Legs, the pub in Valbonne, has (have?) reopened, I suspect there is a decent possibility that I shall be commanded to take her for a pint of Guinness this evening. If not, and no drink passes my lips for a second night, I shall be in unaccustomed good shape for tennis on Friday.
Now to that tennis. Poorly organised to take place at the Vignale by Currencies Direct client The Wingco, the usual shambles of a Friday tennis gathering will be followed, as night follows day, by lunch at Auberge St Donat. I am hearing worrying rumours that Old Harrovian, Loudmouth Largy, has been invited to join us and I want to know whose idea that was. Someone has to pay, preferably for lunch, for such a gauche invitation. His tennis playing abilities are not in question. His social graces after a few glasses if rose most certainly are. I am told that, realising that the invitations to anything have been a little sparse to say the least, he will be on his best behaviour. The trouble is that we all know that even his best is marginal.
Until then, I intend to enjoy the glorious sunny September Provençal weather. It is my favourite month down here, the restaurants are no longer bulging with tourists, the intense heat of August has gone and one can actually sit out in the sunshine and the sea is still warm, probably at its warmest of the year. This it is my self appointed duty to seek out and enjoy the best the region has to offer and to report back to you, my reader, with the details.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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