Literary success story watered down
“Tired and shagged out after a long squawk”. So said a line from the old Monty Python parrot sketch. That is exactly how I feel. It has been a long summer and at last there are some days ahead with no social occasion, yet. Today, however the squawking will continue with lunch in Valbonne with the Cornish Tsunami himself, Matt Frost and his lovely carer and wife the willowy and wonderful Viv.
So called because, frankly, the Cornish Tsunami is a very large unit and is so referred to in this column due to his unwise revelations about some furious love-making on a beach in Cornwall in his youth, (in which his wife was apparently involved although with no memory of the event), he does like to lunch, and in me he has found a normally willing co participant.
Yesterday however, was taken up with feeling utterly jaded, some work on my music empire (rare but it does happen) and setting Sprog 1 on course for a job. A haircut a shave and a boot up the arse were all required and hopefully will have their effect. The real world for him starts now.
Feedback from one of the best nights of the summer at Paloma Beach in St Jean Cap Ferrat continued today. It seems my two wading trips into the sea to rescue the copy of my book, which had twice been flung into the sea by Mr Clipboard, were seen as some of the comical highlights of the evening. Having not seen them as I was err… doing them as it were, It seems I had underestimated the impact. I have a picture of that event I feature today, but it does not look very funny to me.
The gallant rescue of a damp copy of The Valbonne Monologues by the author
I have received an email from Chad the New York lawyer, who was with us at Paloma Beach the night before. Apparently he is still trying to ease his arm joints back into their sockets after the arm wrestling, and attempting to come down from the symptoms similar to those of an acid trip after the naughty boy availed himself of one of my Cuban cigars. The American establishment is still in an embargo situation with this Caribbean country, and, as such, I think the consumption of one of that countries cigars by this doyen of the law would be frowned upon at the Bar. Of course, my contention is that they are best smoked in a bar or with a drink in the other hand.
An epic summer has had a number of highlights, so that Nice Lady Decorator and I sat in the web, our outside bar, with a glass of wine last night, to consider the highest of highlights. Leonard Cohen in Lucca, the inevitable evenings in Valbonne Square, a curry party with Roly and Poly Bufton, almost surpassed by the seafood celebration at the same venue, Currencies Direct customer Tony “I Invented The Internet” Coombs and his beautifull flame haired wife Pat’s anniversary bash, the test match at Lords, the Arundel festival, Paloma Beach, fireworks in Cannes, The Bays birthday bash and other boat trips are all memorably engraved in our minds collective season review.
But, just when you thought it might be all over, consider what lies ahead. A Grimm trip to Germany to find Sleeping Beauty next week, cruising around Naples and the Amalfi coast in Italy at the end of the month, and the 140th sale of my book. Actually the last of these may be some way off as I seemed to have got stuck at 137. Clearly I need a wider circle of friends and acquaintances with no literary taste.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Bad behaviour at Paloma Beach
Dubbed the “loser cruiser” by his children, Mr Clipboard proudly drove his Renault Kangoo up our drive to pick us up for yesterday’s birthday celebration for the serenely beautiful Maryse, aka Mrs Wingco. We were on our way to Paloma Beach at St Jean Cap Ferrat, probably one of the most exclusive and expensive peninsulas in the world, let alone the south of France. I would have been slightly embarrassed to have arrived in my old Bentley, when I had one, but it is the true mark of the man that he was unmoved, or probably unaware, of the squirming potential of being seen arriving in such a vehicle. I had previously advised him that I thought using the valet parking was not a good idea.
His excuse, which I do not accept, is that he is seldom down at his house here and, so needs a cheap run about to get him from a to b, and if the cars doors get dinked, which is part and parcel of driving and parking in France, it does not matter. I do not accept that, mainly because it will give me a chance to harp on about it regularly.
So setting off in late afternoon, in a cloud of smoke and righteous hope that we would arrive at this delightful beach restaurant unscathed, we eventually reached our destination in time for an early evening snifter. A gin and tonic each and 46 euros later (that is around £40 at today’s very generous Currencies Direct exchange rates) we were ready for the evening to commence, but our fellow diners seemed to be stuck aboard L’Exocet, the sailing boat skippered by the Master Mariner Mundell, who had transported the birthday girl, the Wingco, the lovely and talented painter Marina Kulik, Blind Lemon Milsted, Dangerous Jackie Lawless and the rest of the party around the coast.
That we had declined the invitation to arrive by sea , and chose delivery by Kangoo, tells its own story, and an extremely loud and raucous evening, even by our standards, eventually got under way. When discussing the relative merits of owning either good cars, yachts and the like, Mr Clipboard expressed the opinion that “If it flies, fu*ks or floats, rent it”.
Paloma beach for dinner. before the trouble started.
It is sometimes an interesting ice breaker – not that it was really required by the by type of party that, I think it is fair to say, was somewhat less reserved than their normal evening clientele – to imagine what ones porn star name might be. This is done by taking the name of your first pet and adding it to the name of the street you grew up in. Mine for instance would have been Scoobie Hendrick. The one I did not believe was Long John Cockermouth.
On Friday at Cinquante Cinq we had met a charming American couple Chad and The lovely Shelby, when they kindly asked us to join their table whilst we were waiting for ours. There were 10 of us but they were unphased. It appears that he is a well qualified lawyer, a partner in a renowned law firm representing high-profile clients in New York. They also joined us last night and were involved in some or all of the following antics which failed to endear us to the other, rather quieter diners; arm wrestling, throwing the waiter off the end of the jetty, an ad libbed rap throw down, but the most serious crime of all, which he witnessed, was seeing a copy of my book being thrown into the ocean by Mr Clipboard, twice. I am considering hiring him to lead the case for the prosecution. I have made the down payment, he took the water logged copy in liue of a retainer.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Corkscrews and anchors
The trouble with having a bad experience aboard a boat is that the next day one is still there. I have dreamt before about the corkscrew action, but usually in the past it involved opening a classic wine, maybe a Chateau Petrus or the like, but never before have I dreamed of corkscrewing through water on a yacht, and I don’t like it.
Getting up so early to play tennis , it was almost like getting up before one has gone to bed, and with a brain going around in circles. Having to partner Mr Clipboard was a similar kind of nightmare. He who is famous for the failed mid court volley was deemed to be my partner for the day, to our joint chagrin. We both like to be on the opposite side so that when I win victory is sweet. It falls to neither of us naturally to have to encourage the other. Anyway, we overcame the adversity, which on this occasion comprised the Wingco and an amiable banker from Monaco, with whom I have played before but have been unable to name because he had a serious career, and, is still working. Such is the power of this Currencies Direct inspired column.
Mike the Banker, as I shall call him, feigned injury at the start, claiming he could not run because of, get this; “wearing the wrong shoes to play golf the other day”. Would you trust your money with such a chap? Neither would I. Serving like a man who had worn the wrong golf shoes the other day, we proceeded to rout our opponents in the first set before Mike found his err… feet and started serving like a man. It was a close run contest but in the end Clipboard and MOG junior held away and were able to claim boasting rights over a beer before lunch.
That Nice Lady Decorator on a calmer day
With lunch some equanimity returned. We went to Auberge de Provence in Plascassier, an old favourite which we had somehow forgotten to frequent, run by old smoothie Patrick. He has a pleasant terrace and a slightly limited menu but the food is good. My king Prawns and St. Jacques was very good and the girls (Mrs Clipboard and that Nice Lady Decorator, both of whom we had graciously allowed to join us despite the presence of the Wingco, who does not always approve of women being invited to post tennis gatherings) both expressed enormous satisfaction at the Salad d’Auberge.
I was beginning to feel slightly closer to normal but a siesta brought back that corkscrew dream and I awoke groggy and disoriented before setting of to dinner with Barney Rubble lookalike Tony “I invented the Internet” Coombs and the flame haired beauty, Pat, who has the misfortune (which, to be fair, is not how he sees it) of being his wife.
Also at dinner, an excellent Rogon Josh, served beneath the stars overlooking the terrace upon which Tony promised to build a swimming pool several decades ago, were Gruff John and the lovely Anthea Buck. Gruff is an old sea dog, whom I would guess has sailed close to the wind for much of his life. He was telling us that he was once the owner of two anchors (rather than Antheas) and that, having decided to rid himself of one, took one down to the bins, where his neighbour promptly picked it up and gave it pride of place in his garden. I asked Gruff if it was a difficult decision as to which of his anchors with which to part company. In other words had he “weighed” up the pros and cons, and he had the good grace to laugh despite being unamused.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sun sets on sailing career
Given my lifestyle living amongst the idle rich in Valbonne and Arundel, one would be entitled to think that I would be completely at ease with a corkscrew. However, when one applies that term to the motion of a boat on choppy seas, things can be very different as I rediscovered yesterday on the way to St Tropez on Currencies Direct client the Master Mariner’s sailing boat L’Exocet.
As a special treat for my house guests, I had arranged for this trip over to this famous flesh pot, to go to lunch at the famous Cinquante Cinq restaurant on the equally famous Pamplonne beach. It was on the way out of the harbour at Port de Le Rague near Theoule that I had my first misgivings. What the Master described as a “slightly lumpy sea” was in fact a maelstrom of waves all going in different directions and send the boat for much of the time into a crabbing corkscrew like action.
When the second beer of the day in beautiful weather failed to hit its customary spot, and the first glass if rosé did not go down at all quickly, I began to feel uneasy. Being a non swimmer and a committed non sailor until about 3 years ago, when the Master cured me of my fear of seasickness, I would never have ventured aboard a boat smaller than an aircraft carrier. He had taken me on a race, the Bistro Rally, and I had enjoyed it so much that I had become a fan of sailing. Albeit of the fair weather kind, with the vague unspoken feeling that it could all go horribly wrong. I had taken to standing legs apart, sea dog fashion, and enjoying saying things like “splice the mainbrace” , “lets keelhaul him my hearties” and “Jim lad, lets Roger the cabin boy” and other nautical expressions, the meaning of which completely escaped me. There was one about a spinnaker that I thought I partially understood although rumours that I thought it in some way referred to Shane Warne are wide of the mark.
We got to St Tropez without incident, unless, dear reader, you are prepared to accept that two beers and one unfinished glass of wine constitute a fair warning that things were not right. I love the ambience of Cinquante Cinq, with its pine trees and sails on the beach, its lime washed wooden beach furniture and white linen sofas, but it is a fact that was brought home to me yesterday that it is overpriced, has poor service, is cramped and frankly vastly overrated. The Master was right, the food is considerably better at nearby Tahiti Beach. Club 55 achieved fame in the 1950’s when Bridget Bardot was making a film there, and it became a centre of media interest over the years, expertly exploited by the management and the press machines, and is still a magnet for stars to be seen dining. It had sucked in a celebrity yesterday in the very considerable form of one Lebron James, a huge (in all senses if the word) US basketball player and husband to Kim Kardashian, basically a sort of bohemian south of France Hollywood style eaterie. Well, frankly, they have got away with it for too long. I do not like the concept of queuing for a table that had been booked.
Sunset on the way back from St Tropez
Anyway, given my slightly fragile state, and the gnawing knowledge that there was inevitably a return boat trip, I scrutinised the menu to make sure that whatever I ate, it contained no diced carrots, because we all know that is what makes you sick. At least they are always in evidence when you chunder.
Still failing to enter into the spirit of the occasion in the lovely beach bar after lunch, I should perhaps not have been surprised that some 20 minutes after we set out for the return leg, that seasickness was return to my life in an explosive, projectile fashion. Someone must have introduced some diced carrots into my Moules Marinier when my eyes were averted because, damn, I gave those seagulls a special treat.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A quiet day by the pool?
Coffee and croissants were demanded by our house guests yesterday morning, so where better to get that quintessential dose of French life than Cafe Latin in Valbonne, where Nigel “Medina Palms” Rowley consumed “the best raisin croissant I have ever tasted”. Then, with a large female contingent, as usual with shopping upper most in their minds, we ventured to the market at Mouans Sartoux. Well, I drove there and back but was unable to indulge in my least favourite hobby as I had invented some work that needed to be done there and then. Smart phones have so many uses. The world of foreign exchange, as beautifully exemplified by those wonderful chaps at Currencies Direct, waits for no man (or woman if she wants to go shopping with me). Thus emails answered, work complete, I was ready for lunch, this time at home.
Now here is my lesson for today. Duck rillets; avoid. What a nasty concoction I had bought, thinking it would be a little like pate. Instead it was like greasy and sour shredded meat with the consistency of snot. Of course our friend from up north loved it. Probably akin to road kill surprise, the surprise being if you survive the meal without being forced to find a bathroom quickly or vomiting in the flowers, then that constitutes enjoyment. Having been unfortunate enough to taste it, and after an agreeable couple of glasses of Pimms and a small glass of wine, I retired to my pit for the customary siesta and to try to eradicate the taste from my mouth. What a wonderful invention that is, if you do not have to work in the afternoons, I mean the siesta not the pit.
Ben “Adidas” Dobson with swimming aid being watched by Banjo the lifguard
Stirring in early evening for a sundowner, I was moved to open a magnum of a 2007 Medoc, barely old enough to be out on its own, but very agreeable nonetheless. The house guests decided to visit that tourist trap, old Mougins village, whilst we prepared for a barbecue. Let me say this; I do not do barbecues myself because that is cooking and therefore women’s work. Nigel decided to be the honorary women for the evening and, after cursing the fact that our Weber barbecue had a missing bit, which he found lurking in the garden, managed to create enough smoke to relive his famous smoke signals antics in Yorkshire of 20 years ago, although this time without the benefit of a new Armani jacket.
He did however amaze me, cooking splendid steak on the barbecue, which, with the garnish of a béarnaise sauce straight out of a jar from local supermarket, Super U, was a triumph. I was so impressed that I was persuaded to open several bottles of my secret stock of St Emilion Grand Cru, so secret that everybody in the house knew exactly where to find it.
Today will be big. The Master Mariner Mundell has suggested we take his boat over to St Tropez and lunch at the famous Cinquante Cinq on Pamplona beach, and, weather permitting, that is what we shall do. One does like to accommodate one’s friends wishes, despite the hardships that this may entail. Before that, business needs to be done and myself and Nigel will be hard at it at the break of dawn with a 9.30 meeting at Cafe Latin with Dutch harp playing estate agent Jeroen Zaat. Crazy name, crazy guy.
Then just a dinner on Saturday evening and a big birthday bash on the boat in Sunday, for the gorgeous Maryse, aka Mrs Wingco, again with Master Mariner Mundell at the helm and then a week of doing nothing. I do hope he steers us into some calmer waters but, as is so often the case, I live in hope, often when there is no hope.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Ducks off
A glorious late summer day in Valbonne was marred by having to tidy the house after Sprog 1 had told us he had left it spotless. If that was the case then I want to know who dumped all that detritus on the living room floor, who filled up all the bins with rubbish, who was cruel enough to fill up the recycling bins with empty bottles of my beer? I expect it is the same individual who failed to water the flowers as directed, failed to clean the house up before he left, failed to walk the dogs as instructed, failed to put chlorine in the pool and is now sunning himself on Sweden. The only thing that was cleaned out diligently was my drinks fridge. Boy, a rude awakening beckons, and I know you read this…
Yesterday was notable for cleaning and scrubbing, well obviously not I, a renowned author, at least in my own mind. No that was left to That Nice Lady Decorator, who is gradually emerging from her illness. My job was hoovering, and even if I say it myself, mighty fine hoovering at that. Yes, some earrings were sucked up and yes the rolling dice are nicely snuggled down in the depths of the Hoover bag, but I think the expression is “a clean sweep” and it is so precise don’t you think?
The reason for such frenetic activity was the impending arrival of Nigel Medina Palms Rowley (who tells me he is no longer mad, merely mildly eccentric – only time will tell, actually, no I just don’t believe it) and his serenely beautiful wife the luscious Leslie, together with amusingly dour and taciturn northerner Ben Dobson, and his voluptuous and gorgeous wife Mary. Ben tells me he is no longer as taciturn as he was, but again, I don’t believe him, it is endemic in anyone born north of Coventry.
He is however, the most generous of souls, and his job at Adidas where he has responsibility for rugby and cricket (tell me that is not a dream job?) ensures that I shall always be polite and respectful when he is in residence. He was the reason that I was able to be at Lords for two days, one of them in the corporate box, and there is no doubt in my mind that my presence contributed hugely to the eventual outcome of the match. I do so love it when England thrashes Australia.
It was vital therefore, that as my guest, I should introduce him and his spouse to the delights of Valbonne Square. I think the overall objective was achieved, before we adjourned to the pav for a nightcap, and some cheese.
A “Duck With A Dick” a present from Mr Clipboard
Today will be considerably more relaxed. A chill out pool day, where I shall be able to get out my new toy, pictured today, a kind and tasteful gift from Mr Clipboard, is on the agenda, but in the south of France one can never look too far ahead. There is always the propensity for a swivel in fortune, a change in the wind, an impromptu scenario, ready to blow one off course, and frankly that is just the way I like it,
Whilst in Valbonne we did happen across Currencies Direct client the Master Mariner Mundell, and did our best to persuade him that he needed to take us all out on his yacht to St Tropez on Friday, and as I write, I believe that such a possibility exists. I am just ready now for a stupid lunch at Tahiti beach. It will sort the men from the boys.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Grimm whichever way you look at it
Parking the car in a puddle was the first of Sprog 1’s mistakes, the other was to leave the key on the back axle of his car. Let me explain. We were flying into Nice airport yesterday, and he had flown out the day before, so it was decided that he should leave his car at the airport and we would collect it when we arrived. He will no doubt claim that the was not a puddle when he parked it, but the fact that it was, and it is fact that the only way to retrieve the key was for someone to lie in the puddle and reach into the dark recesses of the axle before we could go home. His allowance will now be subject to review and harsh scrutiny, and he will be washing my shirt and shorts when he gets back.
Ironically, after the rains of Sunday, which ruined the Arundel Festival Bathtub Challenge, this morning was bright, sunny and lovely, a typical English weather response to the end of a bank holiday weekend. For us it matters not a jot because apart from the odd storm like there was this morning, we should have at least another month of fine weather to enjoy down here in Valbonne.
We shall not be alone either this week as madman Nigel “Medina Palms” Rowley will be here and will no doubt find some mayhem for which he will be to blame, he will be accompanied by the serene Lesley, his wife, who appears to be able to ignore his excesses and take all his madness in her stride. The lovely Mary Dobson will also be staying for a few days along with her rather less lovely husband Adidas Ben, to whom I shall be very nice as he secured my Lords test match tickets and I shall be relying on him to do the same again next year.
This all adds up to a likely explosion of wild social interaction which will no doubt begin some time this evening when they all arrive fresh from Beaune where they have been staying in the way down from England. I believe Valbonne Square, that rich seam of new clients for Currencies Direct, could be visited in the coming days.
Lunch was taken at the Caviar House at Gatwick Airport, to discuss and plan how to head Nigel off at the pass, but no conclusion was reached. It will just have to be the usual crash helmet, goggles and the acceptance that he will leave his usual trail of destruction in his wake. As WC Fields once noted, visiting friends are like fish. after 3 days the begin to smell. I am being disingenuous of course, we will have a great wild time for three says and then I shall sleep for a week.
Looking further forward in September, we have several jaunts lined up. I have been told that I am going on a grim tour in a couple of weeks with some brothers. With me looking puzzled, That Nice Lady Decorator, still seriously under the weather – now she has the faintest idea of the scale and severity of man flu – had to explain that we are going to Germany to do the Grimm’s Fairy Tale tour and stay in the castle, reputedly the one in which Sleeping Beauty was rescued.
This is also pretty grim. Mr Clipboard goes all Clockwork Orange
I was unwise enough to suggest that she may be bereft if I fell asleep in the turreted room we have reserved, and was “rescued” and she made some suggestion about a frog which I did not fully understand but sounded derogatory. It seems we have 4 Grimm Days and then a party in Hanover. I have just downloaded Fawlty Towers onto my IPad, but suspect it will be decreed as too dangerous for me to take it with me when we go.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
John Otway takes stock
After some serious discussions about Otway The Movie with its star, I decided that John Otway should take stock of the situation, as today’s photo shows, at the Kings Arms Old English Fete in Arundel yesterday. I had half an idea to volunteer myself to go into the stocks at the fete with all proceeds going to the Snowdrop Trust, the idea being that I should donate half of the of the sale price of my book to this worthy cause, for anyone willing to pay £10 for a copy and to have the opportunity to show their faith in my writing by showing their appreciation in the stocks. Wisely, I decided that, on balance, anyone with the foresight and taste to want to buy my book would baulk at the idea of abusing the author, so a quick stock take resulted.
Earlier, my old pal and madman Nigel “Medina Palms” Rowley and I had gone for a walk around Arundel which took in the Iconic Arundel Castle Cricket ground, before meeting up with Currencies Direct customer John Otway for a pre fete pint. I think Splat The Rat was the other highlight of the event (although to be fair, perhaps not for the rat) before, with the fete duly officially opened by Mr Otway, we heading back to the White Hart for a late lunch. A less accomplished writer than myself may have made a joke about it being a fete worse than death for the rat, but as regular readers will know my now there is very little chance of my mentioning any joke like that.
Otway in the stocks
So today, the brief sojourn in England will come to an end, sadly not enjoyed by that Really Not Very Well Nice Lady Decorator, who has struggled through flu like symptoms throughout. Gatwick calls and the delights of the south of France await.
I have sent the Madman from Medina Palms ahead, loaded down with Pimms and Salad Cream, as he will be arriving in Valbonne on Wednesday. Anyone with any taste knows that the French version of Salad Cream, a vastly inferior concoction known as mayonnaise, is a pale and unsatisfactory substance which cannot hold a candle to the real thing, but as it is very expensive to buy in France it is always advisable to have people driving down to Provence with vehicles, load up with their valuable merchandise. The same is true of Pimms, especially as That Nice Lady Pimms Drinker now has a dedicated new container with a tap for serving it.
So this is farewell to the UK for a few weeks, and thus it was vital that I should have one last evening communing with English beer. Several pints of Harvey’s were sent to meet their maker last evening at The White Hart. I had planned to be at the last night of the Arundel Festival as Screamin’ Lez was scheduled to appear, but seeing around 40 local musicians on stage, and faced with a crowd 4 deep at the bar, my resolve crumbled and I thought fish and chips and a pint would be a fitting end to the English section of summer, and so it would have been had the chippy been open after 9pm. What utter commercial stupidity! Many hundreds of hungry festival goers had to throng the Co-op, which had sensibly remained open until its normal 10pm closing time, because of the commercial ineptitude of the chip shop owners. Perhaps they did not know it was festival night? Maybe the owners are French? It is the sort of commercial suicide one might see over there. I would have said they could have sold 100 meals had they remained open for an hour.
Ok, rant over, and I promise to take the tablets.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Festival festivities continue to fester
Last evening, very old pal and semi reformed lunatic Nigel “Medina Palms” Rowley arrived in Arundel from his estate in Cheltenham where he owns most of the county, to stay with us in our tiny house in the town. I say reformed because earlier in the day we had met up with some other old pals who remember Nigel as he was, an amiable madman determined to make a spectacle of himself. Until reminded of the event some 20 Years ago by Simon “who ate all the pies” Barrett, at lunchtime, I had forgotten about the porpoise impersonation on the wet lawn in Yorkshire, and the sending of smoke signals by using his new Armani jacket over the barbecue. He claims that the signals would have been picked up by his wine merchant and that more wine would be delivered forthwith. I am afraid to report that perhaps the had been some translation problem, unless the the concept was all smoke and mirrors, as no wine was forthcoming so we had to go to the pub instead.
This conversation took place at The Moorings, the temporary champagne and wine bar set up on the opposite bank of the River Arun to the site of the Jubilee Stage, the main venue for the music at the festival. We had found it necessary to use this establishment as a pit stop on the way into town from the jumping off point at The White Hart.
Another picture from the Bathtub Challenge
Nigel wears this cloak of respectability uneasily, in fact it is only a few short years ago that there was an unfortunate incident with windsurfer and a garden chair inn my pool in Valbonne and some nakedness, none of which I can touch on here. He is now a respectable businessman and that’s an end to it.
That Nice Lady Flu Sufferer was bed ridden for much of the day, making only token appearances for the benefit of guests, and appears to be suffering from an ailment that is so serous it could almost be compared with a mild dose of man flu, which all men know is worse than childbirth or having limbs removed without anaesthetic. I am expecting a better effort from her today.
The customary tour of the shopping emporiums of Arundel had caused that thirst but that phase is now over and I must concentrate my last resources on getting through. It has already been a very long social summer, but there is no let up in sight at the moment. Take today for instance; old pal and Currencies Direct customer John Otway is due in Arundel today to open the Kings Arms Olde English Fete, part of the final day of this years festival celebrations. One of the “attractions” at this event is (are?) some old fashioned stocks, the medieval type where people who had committed a crime or an anti social act were locked into them so that locals could throw rotten fruit and the like to show their displeasure at their misdemeanour’s. I am told the mayor of Arundel is scheduled to appear and, if he does not get the parking right in the town, may be the first customer.
Last night, after just one too many, I suggested that if people were to buy a copy of my book The Valbonne Monologues for its usual price of £10, I would donate half of the cover price to the Festival charity. I fear that this suggestion was accepted with such enthusiasm, I may have made a fatal miscalculation. I would like to believe that no one would wish to demean this fine piece of work, a copy of which has now been lodged at the British Library following a request from them, by paying in order to humiliate the author, but I may be wrong. Still a sale is a sale and so far there have been 137 of them.
Chris France
Bathtub challenge in grisly weather
Just a few days ago, I was cursing the 32 degrees of hot sunshine in the south of France, but we would have loved to have had some of that yesterday for the annual Arundel Festival bathtub challenge.
Lets start at the beginning. An excellent cooked breakfast was consumed by 11.30 and a tour of the shops in Arundel followed. Regular readers will know that I am less than enamoured with the whole concept of shopping as an entertainment but in this town, it is a very different proposition. Rather than and Primark, specsavers and various charity shops, Arundel offers such delights as the widely diverse as Sparks Yard, a very interesting and far from usual department store, where one can buy such items as leather handled champagne buckets, through to a walking stick shop, the contents of which I have long coveted. That Nice Lady Decorator tells me I am too young to contemplate owning a silver topped cane, but I have a very significant birthday coming up next January, and in the expected absence of a Rolls Royce Corniche Convertible or a Bentley Azure, and probably more realistically, I covert a silver topped walking stick. he fact that it could used to beat me may be the clincher.
A less than brisk walk to The Black Rabbit in scudding drizzle followed, the torrential rain of the morning having cleared. There was however the promise of heavy showers, and sure enough, just as we positioned ourselves for the start of one of the highlights of the Arundel Festival, the Bathtub Challenge, the forecast proved irritatingly accurate and the heavens opened again.
Bathtub Challenge at Arundel Festival
Some of us, and by that I mean the male contingent, braved the worst that England can produce on a summer afternoon, whilst the female contingent headed for home. Even That Nice Lady England Loving Decorator, who has a filthy cold and a vicious sore throat, must surely have seen the irony in her complaints that the summer in France has been too hot.
Arriving back we were treated to a visit by the comedic Clive “Oh Yes he Is” Panto (his real name, well without the punctuation marks) and his beautiful wife Cathryn, who had managed to arrive after the start time and three hours later than scheduled. Very funny in his own mind, Clive makes his living as some kind of entertainer and team builder in the world of top corporate management. He thinks he is amusing and so do we, although often we are laughing at him rather than with him.
Having despatched our guests, and put That Nice Lady Flu Sufferer to bed, I popped around to the White Hart for a debrief, where I ran into Arundel’s token Iranian, Naz, a charming and engaging chap I had met a few times before, who was nursing a loose tooth, which he blamed on the fantastic performance last evening of Screamin’ Lez and The Mindbenders. It seems that, overtaken by the moment, Naz had unaccountably decided it would be a tribute to the group for a pair of knickers to be thrown, Tom Jones style, onto the stage. He decided to take his own off without removing his trousers, but when the elastic proved to be a problem, he had tried to bite through it, loosening a tooth. This is yet another example of the dangers inherent in rock and roll.
So far today, I have not mentioned the wonderful foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct. The reason is that it is a bank holiday weekend and I thought you all deserved a bit of peace, so you have been let off.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Screamin Lez and the Mindbenders
The second best gig I have witnessed this year unfolded before us in the Jubilee Stage at the Arundel Festival last night. The immense Screamin’ Les And The Mindbenders were a sensation. Second only to the great Leonard Cohen in Lucca last month, the log man and his band snapped and snarled in good-natured rock and roll pastiche. Even funnier than AC/DC in Nice a couple of years back. Personally, I love to hear a great rock band but the necessary posing and posturing that a really great performance entails always makes me laugh.
Screamin’ Lez lets rip
It was a big and long day. With Mr Clipboard, Slash And Burn Thornton Allan, both contented Currencies Direct customers, and their much prettier wives in town for the festival, a few drinks at lunchtime developed into lunch at ours. Instead of the planned walk to the Black Rabbit, lunch was served in the garden, on a glorious English summer day, by those charming chaps at Boco Nuevo. It is so handy having the pub next door, and an inspired idea to ask the attached restaurant if they would serve us in our garden.
In late afternoon we ventured 50 yards or so across the river to the Jubilee Stage to take in some of the festival events, the first of which seemed to be some kind of dancing competition, spiralling towards the comic with a line dancing demonstration. However, the bar was open and what better way to spend a warm afternoon in England beside a river with a well stocked beer and wine outlet?
For some unaccountable reason, us chaps were at one stage discussing exactly what would make our respective wives particularly unhappy, and given that all three are very much into interiors and interior decorating, and here I include, of course, That Nice Lady Decorator. Exactly why we should stray into such dangerous ground escapes me, perhaps the heady mix of beer, wine, champagne, sunshine and music had gone to our heads, anyway, the conclusion reached was that wiping ones manhood on the curtains after sex would undoubtedly upset all three in an equally spectacular fashion.
This led a downward taste spiral in which discussion developed about embarrassing events which have occurred when staying at friends houses. The lovely Ashley Clipboard has recent form in this area, with some spectacularly bad behaviour by one of her dogs on a new carpet whilst visiting, meaning that now the dogs do not travel. Mr Clipboard highlighted the issue of stained sheets in general and had some particularly gory details of several incidents, none if which I want to delve into here in this column. He did relate one that I feel I can mention, in which he was the innocent protagonist. He had been to a themed James Bond party and had painted one of his fingers gold as in Goldfinger. When removing whatever substance he had used to create the effect, he had unwittingly a left a nasty stain on a towel, which bore a resemblance to something that might have been mistaken for something else, if you a get any drift, and it seems his explanation to his host in the morning as to how this nasty mess had come about was accepted only in a disdainful and disbelieving manner.
Slash and Burn and I are big cigar smokers, and by that I mean we both love a big cigar and can bore for England on the relative merits of Cohibas over Monte Christos. Mr Clipboard is not so well versed in the world of Havana tobacco, so it was perhaps understandable that he mistook mention of another great cigar name, Partagas. His genial agreement that he also often suffered from Party Gas was either the symptom of ignorance, a sign of his increasing deafness, or a weak joke. Knowing him as I do, I favour the latter.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Get ready to duck
Two days back in England and I have a cold. How can that be? I had thought the headache was beer induced but then the other symptoms developed during the afternoon. We had ventured into the sunshine, which arrived very much later than forecast at lunchtime, to take in some of the acoustic acts on the Jubilee stage, part of the Arundel Festival and had enjoyed a couple of pints of Sussex Gold, and a very nasty hot dog, which was the best of the food available. I know what Peachy Butterfield would have said about the vegetarian falafel option. Even his road kill pannacota might have been superior.
Seen From the Jubilee Stage, this boat has little margin for error at high tide
Last night then, dosed up with paracetamol, we ventured into the town to catch Abba on the Hill, on the incline outside the Kings Arms. A poorer writer than myself might be tempted to make a joke about the group going downhill, but not me, no sir. That would be an Abbaration.
Several of you, my loyal follower, emailed yesterday to point out that I did not include the customary link to the very fine foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct yesterday, so there it is now. Just click on the link (that’s the highlighted bit). I apologise for this oversight and promise it won’t happen again. In fact you can have two links today, to make up for your denial yesterday, and don’t forget, there is a free copy of my book for anyone signing up. Second prize is two books.
Tiring of the Abborant (!) evening (not really, it was quite fun) attendance at which tends more towards enjoying an event than the music, and having extracted nothing embarrassing from the flame haired siren Carolyn Brice, who usually provides such good copy, we supped a couple with Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor, before venturing back to the Jubilee Stage, but something even more abhorrent, a northern soul evening, was in full swing, so we adjourned to the White Hart for a nightcap.
Earlier, we had happened upon the lovely Kathryn, whom I have promised faithfully I shall never again refer to as the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, who had in tow one of her brothers. To date I think I have met at least 17 of them, but then one is much like the other, so I may have met this one before. He was very charming, just like the previous 16,
Eventually however, With the drugs wearing off and a big day ahead today, we sidled off for a lemsip and bed before 11pm, something that regular readers of this column will know is something of a departure. I want and need to be fresh for Screaming Lez and the Mindbenders, who will be the headline act at the festival this evening. I know you know as well now, that by day Lez works for Acker the Log, the man that supplies logs for many houses in Arundel, and has such a yokels accent that very few can understand everything he says. Acker is however, as sharp as a knife, and the one thing that he ensures I always understand is the price of a log delivery, and it is cash, he is very clear in that. Everything else is smothered in West Sussex vowels and consonants, but I kind of like it that way.
Before that rock and roll treat, we shall be joined by Mr Clipboard and Slash And Burn Thornton Allan with their much prettier wives and will walk to the Black Rabbit for lunch. As I look out of my window from my pit where I am writing this daily drivel missive, I can see that there has been a departure in the weather forecasting area, in that it is sunny as forecast. Dare I hope that it will stay fine all day?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Back to the beer
The first problem was getting the key to our house in Arundel, as it was at the pub next door. Most people would be able to just go there and collect them then open up. We are not most people. Add to that a thirst caused by a 7 week beer denial period and you have a recipe for a lost afternoon. I can’t go to an English pub for the first time in weeks and not have a pint of ale, and then another. Then sense begins to evaporate and all the little tasks that were vital to undertake gradually become less pressing, then unimportant and finally vanish in a haze once the wine replaces the beer.
Arriving at Gatwick in early afternoon, in surprisingly pleasant conditions with temperatures in the early 20’s (Celsius not Fahrenheit) and shorts the order of the day, until the evening when, as I had expected, long trousers were required, Arundel Festival was in full swing and we had a plan to walk the 50 yards to the Jubilee Stage to see what was going on, but we found the beautiful Mighty Omega in the White Hart and did not manage to escape. She is a wonderful talker and always has a turn of phrase to capture your attention, or, put another way, is a great source of material for this column. We were talking about the festival and we said we were looking forward to seeing the hot air balloons but she said they did not take off last year. Hot air balloons not taking off? Whatever next?
She further excelled herself later on when the conversation had moved on, for reasons I cannot recall, to Greek Islands. She was convinced that she has a visited one called Alimony, which, given that she has been married in the past seems apt. Perhaps they offer a wedding package including a pre nup? Anyway, everyone knows that is in Mexico.
That I am back in England was brought back to me as soon as I opened the window and instead of sunshine, there was drizzle. Welcome back. The last forecast I saw for the week had no mention of rain? It was last year that we sat in the grounds of Arundel Castle and saw Shakespears play The Tempest in a tempest, so I do hope there are no outdoor activities if its raining this year. Actually I think it is mostly staged indoors except for the music which is predominantly on the Jubilee Stage right beside the river and within sight of the champagne bar which opens on Friday. But tonight, outside the Kings Arms is Abba On The Hill, as opposed to the more accurate Abba over the hill, an Abba tribute group which was great fun last year. Weather permitting I shall be there with a pint of London Pride in my hand, or even a pint of Trooper, the ale produced by heavy metal group Iron Maiden and on tap at the Kings Arms. Actually, I have just thought of a weird fact; the pub in Valbonne is called the Queens Legs and here we have the Kings Arms. Nope, I have nothing to say about it.
Pet goat tucks in at Auberge de la Source
Tomorrow the festival moves into a higher gear for the weekend, with the champagne bar opening in time to witness Screaming Lez and the Mindbenders. Whatever did they do with Wayne Fontana? Coming to visit for a few days to see that and take in the festival in general will be Mr Clipboard and his beautiful wife Ashley, and Slash And Burn Thornton Allan and his steely eyed goddess Lisa. I believe wine will be drunk and cigars smoked and I will be keeping a close eye on my luxuriant handlebar moustache to ensure it does not get hacked or indeed set fire to, as was the case in Valbonne recently.
Chris France
German sausages are the wurst
In September I must venture north to Germany. However, when I eventually head up to the Fatherland for the 50th birthday celebrations of the lovely Fräulein Marika, I plan to promise that I will refrain from making any jokes about Germans or their sausages as they are the Wurst.
Meanwhile, I am today on my way back to Blighty for some cooler weather, rain and the Arundel Festival. Some of my friends will be descending upon us during the coming 6 days to enjoy said festival, the highlight of which may well be the Bathtub Challenge, which involves races up and down the Arun River in converted bath tubs by loads of people old enough to know better. I fully intend to witness this spectacle whilst sitting comfortably in the riverside champagne bar overlooking the water course. This event does not happen until Sunday, but there are loads of other attractions, and our house sits in the midst of the mayhem , as seems so often to be the case wherever we venture.
Last evening we were invited to the house of that very fine painter and equally fine filly, Cathie The Culture, and her often invisible husband “Hurry Up” Ari, who was very visible as it turns out. I was invited to see whether any of a selection of red wines gifted for his 50th birthday were still worth drinking. I think that I was able to establish that the 1985 St Emilion Grand Cru was bearable, whilst a 2003 grand Cru Classe Medoc was also not beyond redemption, and there are further bottles that might well be of great interest. This seems to me like work in progress, and I am told that my work will again progress in September when we will be invited further to explore the cellar at their fab house high up in Chateauneuf.
I did manage another sale of my book, taking the total to 137, the lucky recipient being the very unlikely named local builder Chris Chicken, who was there with his wife, presumably Mrs Chicken. Of course, true to his profession, he did not pay me on the day, but will be around first ting tomorrow, honest.
Morning constitutional alond the Brague River
Despite That Nice Lady Decorator telling me that she was determined not to purchase any more “clutter” when at this drinks party and antiques sale event, I seem to be the proud owner of a massive old cheeseboard platter the size of a table and some new table lamps (“I couldn’t leave them”, she said) which obviously transcended any concept of clutter and are, of course, vital items required for our continuing well-being, it says here.
Last night was a last night. The Sprogs final farewell. They have fared pretty bloody well this summer at my (very considerable) expense because of my totally misguided idea that this would be the final time we would be together as a family for an extended period, and I wanted it be special and memorable. It has been exactly that; special for them and memorable for me, if only for the cost. But, just to continue the theme, we went last night to a sushi restaurant called Sajuki in Roquefort Les Pins, where they ordered the Party hopper 96 piece sushi special. If I tell you than it was about a euro a piece, I think you will be able to guess that the evening was not cheap.
Thus I am now close to being destitute and will have to find work such as in finding customers for Currencies Direct in order to earn a crust. The world of popular music, over which I have spread myself (a little like a culture according to The Wingco) seems no longer sufficiently lucrative to support by profligate family so I may also need also to seek commissions as a writer, or better still, organise a cull of Sprogs, or at least their expenses.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
There is nothing like an old thong
Not a drop had passed my lips until just after lunchtime. I was saving myself for a tennis match in the evening at the Vignale with Dancing Greg Harris and his friend Paul Sinclair, whom the MOGS (the mustachioed old gits, comprising my good self and Josef Stalin lookalike the Wingco) had summarily despatched into tennis oblivion the week before. Dancing Greg had been allowed out for the evening, doubtless securing an exeat from Matrons bath night, in order once again to suffer the ritual humiliation of being beaten by his superiors, a position, I fancy, he has had to adopt many times in the past.
This was the initial theme for discussions over dinner at Auberge St Donat, open for the evenings for just a few more weeks before the summer season is deemed to be over. The very alluring Maid Marion, his willowy and impossibly beautiful wife, was by this time also in attendance, ready to salve the metaphorical bruises which necessarily accompany a crushing defeat on the tennis court, a defeat which would have been all the more definitive had his partner arrived less than an hour and a half late.
Eventually, after a long period of American doubles, he turned up, and suffered intense ribbing for the whole evening following a swift drubbing on the court.
Caves at Tourettes Sur Loup. No, you are right, it has nothing to do with today’s column.
Over dinner after the thrashing, Dancing Greg Harris revealed in clouded circumstances (and I still have no context here) that at some stage in the 1970’s he wore a thong. For how long was also not revealed and by the side ways look he received from Maid Marion – the sort of look one might adopt when having a secret fart, or eating a dodgy prawn – I formed the impression that thongs may still have a big part to play in his wardrobe even today. Perhaps that may be at the root of his terrible tennis?
Later, developments took a considerable turn for the worse with the incomprehensible decision to return to Currencies Direct customer, the Wingco’s, house for a night-cap. Various conversations ensued, almost all of which I cannot recall, but I do remember his telling me in that loud public schoolboy manner that becomes so more accentuated after the application of wine, that I was not sophisticated. My answer, that I was not indeed ever involved on fist fights (so fist icated – do please try to keep up) was exactly the response to raise his ire about grammar school oiks, and the same tired tirade cascaded from his mouth. It is nonetheless very amusing and I am certain that I shall hear the whole sorry monologue again very soon.
Today, rather than yesterday is the afternoon of culture with Cathie The Culture before a last supper with the Sprogs. They have done a brilliant job of fleecing me all summer but that is about to end. Sprog 2 will a accompany us to England on Wednesday, going to the Reading Festival before taking up her university place to study film production at Ravensbourne, whilst Sprog 1 will soon be looking for that job as an engineer on a yacht. There will be a very rude financial awakening for them both in the coming weeks.
So tomorrow, it will be back to the UK to enjoy the Arundel festival for a few days, the highlight for me will be the performance of Screaming Les and the Mindbenders on the Jubilee Stage on Friday evening. Although the weather looks OK for much of the time, it looks like long trousers will be required for the first time since he end of June. How depressing.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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