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I need a GAWP card

January 10, 2018

My generation has lived through the best 5 decades there has ever been to be alive. The 60’s to the Noughties were an explosion of free speech, free love, artistic licence, musical genius, new ideas and freedom of thought.  But now it is over and the creeping madness of political correctness is strangling all that this demi-decade gave my contemporaries and I.

In the current climate I need a something to excuse my attitude. An old persons card that absolves me from responsibility for political correctness, supposed racism and not being gullible enough blindly to support every utterance of Jeremy Corbyn.

Aha, I hear you say, so he’s going political. Well, maybe I am but with a small p (something that in a much more physical sense often affects older gentlemen, but I digress), as I am really beginning to dislike modern attitudes.

Over Christmas, laughing and joking on the way to Roots wine bar on Valbonne with my daughter, Charlie, I was making a joke about something I cannot recall, it may have been an Irish joke, when it became clear from her frown and that phrase “dad, you can’t say that”,  that I had once again transgressed that unwritten modern-day PC code. Monty Python fans will recall the Dinsdale Piranha sketch. It now seems that even Irish jokes are racist. “You need some kind of card that explains why you are how you are”.

Now call me old-fashioned, and I certainly am, but jokes are usually at the expense of someone or something, and in the past , we could mostly all tell a joke and enjoy a joke at our own expense. No longer true it seems. The (horribly political correct) BBC will apparently not show the very popular old series “It Ain’t Half Hot Mum” due to the comedic homophobic Sergeant Major, and “Love Thy Neighbour” because of its perceived racism. The latter used to take the piss out of white people! I loved them both and I have close gay friends and have grown up and worked in a multi cultural society. Indeed I helped set up and ran the first British rap record company and I can take a joke, but the brave new world, it seems, cannot.

One has to accept that attitudes have moved on but at what expense? Universities are now often refusing to allow speakers with opinions different to the majority of students to speak? How on earth can one judge what is right of wrong or form ones own opinions when you only hear one side of the argument? I recall my dad saying something like “I may not agree with what you are saying but I would fight to the death for your right to say it”. In other words, freedom.

Then there is the sexual harassment debacle. Many sex pests deserve to be in jail (indeed I once put out a record by Rolf Harris and he certainly deserved to be incarcerated) but many innocent people like Dr Fox have rightly been cleared of ridiculous vindictive accusations, but only at huge expense, wiping out the achievements of their entire working life. To take this further; where is the line now between wooing a girl and sexual harassment? Would “do you want to come in for a coffee” now be potentially open to an accusation of  sexual harassment?. The world only survives by the interaction between make and female. I am glad that I am off the market nowadays as the whole thing has gone to pot (can I say pot? – I will check with my daughter).

A man in need of a GAWP card

Anyway, rant over. But my daughter has put her finger on it. I need a way of excusing, and I hope, explaining away attitudes of myself of my contemporaries, brought up before the world of political correctness seeped like sepsis into our lives; a Get Away With It Old Persons Card,  GAWP for short. A kind of Get Out Of Jail Free Card in Monopoly terms.

It would take the shape of a business card saying something like;

The holder of this card was born  before political correctness and so has no understanding of the offence he causes by his utterances, please excuse him (and stand him up if he has fallen over). I am having some designed and printed as I write. Shortly I shall be better armed to deal with the new world.

I do however, retain one area of expertise in the modern world and that comes in the form of my relationship with Currencies Direct, the only way to move money from one currency to another.

I hope all my readers have a great new year and that all on of my generation bear up as well as can be expected to the increasing paralysis of the new thought police, such as my lovely daughter!

Chris France


BT. I want kill someone

November 23, 2017

What does BT stand for? Bloody Tyrants is one possibility, Bastard Troglodytes is another. Many of you know I am a huge cricket fan. By cricket I mean Test Cricket, and especially the biggest international cricket contest in the sport. It is called The Ashes and is contested between England and Australia. Please stay with me even if you are not into the worlds finest game as this is an apocryphal tale.

As an example of how dedicated I am to Test Cricket (for non cricket fans read maniacally unhinged) 6 years ago, I told my French neighbour that I was about to fly to Brisbane to see the first Ashes Test of 2011. I explained that the game lasted 5 days and that it would take me the best part of 2 days to get there and then the same to get back. Some 3 weeks later I encountered him in his garden. ‘How did the cricket go”. He asked. Brilliantly I replied, “We got a draw”.

His look of utter incomprehension has stayed with me. “So you travelled half way around the world to watch a 5 day match and you are happy with a draw?” He asked incredulously. He did have a point.

Let me give this some context. England had been comprehensively thrashed by Australia on at least 4 occasions since 1968 (the last time we won) but I sensed that this time we had a chance. Looking from a distance, I can see why he was so incredulous, but it illustrates what Test Cricket and particularly that series means to me. Now, fast forward to a few days ago when the new Ashes series began, again in Brisbane. Nowadays I have a Sky TV subscription so, having done a bit of travelling this year (9 countries including the Caribbean, Norway and India, (two of them in the same trip), and being less than 18 months from receipt of a of a drinking fund old age pension of £680 a month, I decided that staying up all night to watch said series at home on Sky TV, who always have the rights, might be a bit less exhausting and financially less obtrusive than actually going to Australia and that is where my plan started to unravel.

So, an afternoon kip and then an alarm call for 12.30am ready for the start at 1am (it is staged in Australia and there is a 12 hour time difference, do please try to keep up). Select Sky TV – it is the only reason I have 2 Sky subscriptions), but, incredibly no sign of The Ashes. Eventually I found in on something called BT Sport, something that I would normally avoid at all costs being mainly a football channel for hooligans, even less alluring than The Asian Babes channel, which I have never watched, honest. I tuned in and saw a message; “you need a subscription to receive this channel”.

I think the kids expression is FFS, which is a very watered down version of the cursing that could be heard by That Nice Lady Decorator, tucked up sensibly in bed. I have subscribed for many years to the fullest possible range of channels in the Sky network, covering such unlikely programmes as Praise And Worship, Mehboobs Kitchen, Khabarnama (poorly spelt Italian programme about pasta?) and Physic Now in order to ensure unfettered access to the cricket.

But it seems that BT have recently snatched the rights to The Ashes from Sky and I was faced with having, very quickly, to extend my subscription. An unpleasant blow you might think, just pay the extra and it’s sorted. But that is where the trouble started.

A ridiculously convoluted battle with the BT website ensued. Name, address, post code, phone number, fine. Previous addresses? That’s all fine but the pedantic information required soon became so time-consuming and irksome that eventually in desperation I went around their stupid website and (an hour later) managed to find a way to watch the cricket on my computer using something called a VPL (Visible Panty Line?) due to the utter ineptitude and requirement for fatuous detail required by BT. Customer number? Who knows? What else would they have wanted? Blood group? Gender? Sexual orientation? Which football team supported? What you had for breakfast? (sorry Mr France, eggs and bacon is a no-no, it offends our vegan principles so that’s us a no to a subscription). What on earth is point of collecting hordes of useless information when all I wanted to do was to pay to see my beloved cricket? If I ever have to deal with BT again I will consider suicide, or murder.

Ok, rant over. Its been quiet here on the south of France after India, well, I say quiet, but one of our neighbours is building an extension producing a pile of rubble that could be seen from outer space, about 3 times bigger than our house and is tunnelling so deep with his hammer drills that I may be able to go direct (should I here plug the services of Currencies Direct?) through the centre of the earth for the next Ashes match in Adelaide. It was so noisy that we had to escape to the seaside for lunch. And that concludes the case for the defence…

Chris France

France to Norway to Delhi

October 30, 2017

Guinness is as close to religion that a diet can get to for the Irish, indeed it is a staple of the Irish diet,  so the news the John “800 years of repression” O Sullivan” has been diagnosed as having a wheat intolerance was as ironic as it was uplifting (for me – I was uplifting a pint of it when the truth was revealed at Roots Wine Bar last Friday). The sight of that most Irish of men in the most Irish bar in Valbonne nursing a creme de menth frappé instead of his usual wheat laden tipple (of course there was no doubt about what his wife Jude “mine’s a Bailey” O Sullivan was imbibing), took my mind off our upcoming routing nightmare.  I blame it on vegetarianism, a cruel marketing hype designed to spoil eating enjoyment, discuss.

Nice to New Delhi via Oslo. A long planned first time trip to India on Monday 30th October should have put paid to any ideas about accepting an invitation to Oslo for a 60th birthday party two days earlier, however That Nice Lady Decorator would have none of it. “We are going. Make the arrangements” was how she framed the polite request to see if was logistically possible. It was, but only by flying from Nice and then directly from Oslo to Heathrow to connect with our flight to India. “But it is 5 degrees centigrade in Norway and 35 in Rajasthan…Have you considered the packing conundrum?… Do you know how old I am?”… Do you know how much that will cost? I whimpered in a way I wrongly considered to be the best way to head The Decorating Operative off at the pass. Thus, as I write, I am at Oslo airport in my overcoat readying myself for the connecting flight to India.

It has been a fabulous weekend with our gay cigar smoking Norwegian pals Morten and birthday boy Siggy (aka Bang And Olafsun). Almost entirely incomprehensible at the dinner of course as all the speeches were in Norwegian and mine is a little rusty, but a splendid affair full of laughter and amusement, although the amusement was mainly the result of the prospect of my pensioners body dragging my wife’s and I winter wardrobe around the old Raj for 2 weeks.

A man in Norway ideally dressed for two weeks in India, with a plastic palm tree growing out of his head

And so, the next stage of the autumn adventure is about to begin. That Nice Lady Decorator has stuffed supplies of Imodium into every crevice in our suitcases, so certain is she that we will struck down with Delhi Belly.

I once used this column to extol the virtues of the services of Currencies Direct, who will give you the best exchange rate whatever the currency, but that was all going to be in the past, however it has been pointed out to me that the very tackiness of my promotion of their fine services Currencies Direct is one of the few redeeming features of this column and so click on the link to join!

New Delhi awaits. In the meantime I have arrived at Heathrow with my winter wardrobe and currently seeking to drink back the cost of my Priority Pass airline lounge cost and I have to say I am making a good fist of it (although that choice of adjective may come home to haunt me in time). I may blog again from India if not in the bog and an internet connection can be found…

Chris France

Valbonne Book Wars

December 14, 2016

Valbonne not only has its own fish and chip shop and Indian restaurant (Le Kashmir), it also has an English Book Shop at which on Friday 16th December 2016 a significant event will take place. Mr Neil “I’m Free” Humphries, (also reputedly known as Mr Somebody) who bears no resemblance (honest) at all to his camp namesake in the popular TV sitcom “Are You Being Served”(OK so his surname is Humphrey, but the joke works better that way) will be signing copies of his new book “Mr Somebody Or Other”.  It is his second book which means he has now caught up with me in one way, although curiously, unlike my good self,  he does not yet seem to have made it to the book shops’ “Local Authors” page. The Valbonne Monologues, my second opus, was self published, I think it is fair to say, to mixed reaction but with sales of well over 200 it has more than broken even leaving me able to describe myself as a successful author. Admittedly, the printing press going bust before paying the final balance did help the bottom line, but facts are facts, however unpalatable that may be to the phalanx of local public schoolboys, malcontents and the idle rich in Valbonne and its surrounds who comprise my friends, and whom seem to dislike a guttersnipe like me claiming to be an author. I did allow them to make comments about the book on the back cover and to be fair some of them are very funny.

Some examples of these comments on The Valbonne Monologues are; “50 Shades of Shite” – Peachy Butterfield, “If you want a gripping tale delivered with fine turns of phrase and evocative prose, read another book” – Anthony “Dock Of The” Bay, “As appealing as sucking warm diarrhoea through a tramps sock” – Mr Clipboard, “As intellectually challenging as reading Heat Magazine with a hangover” – That Nice Lady Decorator and “This book makes those who suggest you should never stop trying look really stupid” – Blind Lemon Milsted. I think in the main these judgments are harsh but fair.


Whereas Mr Humphries is free, his book is not and, as I have been alerted to the fact that I may be seriously libelled therein, I shall be at the signing at 9.30a.m. sharp on Friday clutching my 10 euros and with my lawyers in tow. The services of Mssrs Sue, Grabbit and Runne have been engaged and will no doubt be set to work once I have read this new tome and I have reason to believe that a certain local estate agent (if he exists) and who if he does is a valued Currencies Direct affiliate, might also have need of their services. Dicky Fox indeed!

On this very busy day, the penultimate Friday before Christmas, I shall also be hosting a very selective Christmas lunch for around 16 people later the same day at the magnificently ethnic Auberge St Donat for some of my faithful Currencies Direct customers and affiliates.  Both Mr Humphries and Dicky Fox were invited to lunch but for varying reasons neither seem inclined to attend. I think our real estate friend is on his way to London and then Australia, which seems an odd coincidence on launch day.  Perhaps it is the requirement to wear a Christmas jumper, it being officially Christmas Jumper Day in aid of Save The Children that has sent him on his way, but Mr Somebody? of what can he be afraid?  I shall no doubt be reporting at some stage in the future how the bemused french plumbers, gardeners and labourers who frequent this restaurant reacted to a plethora of English revellers resplendent in their Xmas attire and to any unexpected events at the launch…


Chris France


Fish ‘n chips in Valbonne

November 21, 2016

One of the most evocative attractions for me to move to Provence when the opportunity arose some 12 years ago was the food. A healthy Mediterranean diet, all that olive oil, fresh vegetables, salads in the outdoors and although not by any means the only lure, it was certainly amongst them. So what was I doing in a Fish And Chip shop in Valbonne?

Like when some climber was asked why he was tackling Everest, I did it because in was there. Valbonne is already very Anglicised, a fact that I personally like because it has the best of both worlds, all the French stuff that attracts us Brits, the sun, the quality and quantity of restaurants, the ancient unspoiled village with a sun dappled square, the architecture, the sea within 20 minutes drive but you can get away without speaking French, there is even an Indian restaurant (how British is that! – very British; it is the most popular food of the nation), and now we have a Fish And Chip shop, so I felt compelled to try it and quite decent it is too.

When I discovered last week that it was about to open I was intrigued, but when it became clear that it was being run by a French family I groaned with disappointment. It is a bit like how a Frenchman might view the idea of escargots or frogs legs being served in an English pub, but they nearly got it right. Hake or cod very nicely cooked without too much batter, mushy peas, and as you can see from my picture today even supplying HP Sauce and Heinz Gherkin Relish, but the let down was the chips. However, overall a very good effort, except for the price. 16 euros for cod and chips? That’s about £13.80 at today’s excellent Currencies Direct exchange rates – it would have been half that amount the Arundel chippy, but I guess you don’t get to sit down and have a generous glass of wine with it there. If you did you might get beaten up for being gay.

I know I have not been very active with this column recently but life is still going on down here. The regular Gentlemen’s lunches have followed Friday morning tennis as night follows day. As is customary, the Wingco and I thrashed Master Mariner Mundell and Blind Lemon Milsted in two sets of blinding tennis last Friday (blinding due to the position of the sun and my judicious use of the lob), but I don’t recall what happened the week before. For new readers of this column the venue for lunch is always the Auberge St Donat which has a fixed 4 course menu including 1/4 wine for 16 euros. The operative phrase here is “including wine”. Should there be three of you dining and collectively you want red, white and rose wine (a tricolour the Wingco calls it) they bring you a bottle each. Once consumed one looks around the restaurant to see if others have left any and then careful wine minesweeping (winesweeping?) is enacted. Because of the slight nautical connotation to the word minesweeping you will not be surprised to find out that the Master Mariner Mundell is particular adept in this department. In fact I may hereafter refer to him as the Master Minesweeper Mundell.

Banter is at the centre of discussion and this collection of mostly public schoolboys generally take kindly to my presence even if it mostly so they can extract some humour at my expense . I like to think I give as good as I get, which is usually signalled by comments aimed at me such as “well he didn’t go to a proper school” or “whilst we were being educated he was out nicking cars”. This is often after discussions about spanking or having a fag (this is a particular area of deliberate misunderstanding on my part. Having a fag when I was young was about sloping out to the cycle sheds for a crafty No 6 tipped, whereas for the public schoolboys there is a very different interpretation).

As they might say “toodle pip for now, see you after the next exeat”.

Chris France

President For Lift Going Down

October 17, 2016

What better on a Sunday than to attend an “organised” walk followed by a communal lunch in the hills behind Gourdon in pleasant autumnal Provençale sunshine? Very little in my opinion and it would have been a very nice experience had it been err… organised, if lunch had been booked and if I had been invited.

The A.R.A (who knows what it stands for? – perhaps A Rabble Arrive?) was, I think, the brainchild some years ago of renowned Provençal art and history Svengali and renowned smoothie Anthony “Dock Of The” Bay who, having initiated the event, failed to appear on the walk at all.

The ARA has a President For Lift (he would have been President For Life but for an unfortunate typo a few years back) Dancing Greg Harris from Cote D’Azur Villa Rentals and Currencies Direct affiliate had inadvertently leaked details to me at the gentleman’s post-tennis lunch at the Auberge St Donat on Friday, marked by a distinct lack of tennis due to inclement weather. I have previously been denied membership of this Rabble, despite never applying for it, I think because I didn’t go to the right school or I am a successful author or something (there are just a few hard copies of The Valbonne Monologues left, although it is also available on Kindle) which of course made me more than determined to turn up. “Meet at 10 in the square at Cipieres for coffee” a beautiful old village in the hills beneath Greoliere, said the invitation and by 10 past 10 the Rabble had swelled to close to 20. It might have been a bonus for the gathering group to have had the ability to purchase said coffee but such was the organisational ability of the President For Lift (who had still not appeared) nowhere was open.

Some 45 minutes later, minus the thin grey bum fluff of a beard of which he was so proud and that had caused so much merriment for the Friday lunchers, and squirming embarrassment for our esteemed leader, the now clean shaven Dancing Greg arrived with scarcely an apology and then proceeded to take another 20 minutes to park his car. This was now becoming a worry because clearly the real reason for an outing of this nature is for what Peter Mayle, author of A Year In Provence, when asked to describe living in the South of France in one word replied “lunch”. I think it was about two miles into the walk and about 300 yards higher up the mountain when I asked the President For Lift about the luncheon arrangements. It was at this moment he pushed the metaphorical button which said “going down”.

Emergency luncheon venue

Emergency luncheon venue

“Err… Nowhere local could take 20 for lunch” he said casually and strode away from me up the hill and I could sense my life blood leaving me. Here I was with That Nice Lady Decorator and the irritating mutt Banjo, plus local luminaries such as The Master Mariner Mundell, Dangerous Jackie Lawless, Blind Lemon Milsted, and Nick “Falling Off His” Pearch on the side of a mountain at midday on a Sunday with no luncheon arrangements in place. Catastrophe!

I think I was in shock. Turning back immediately I was told by our President that the ARA did not like quitters (he seems to forget that I am not a member) when I said that I urgently needed to reach the ground floor. Suffice to say that a small select group descended the hill at a much quicker pace than we had ascended and after a swift dash to Greoliere the thirstiest and most determined walkers found solace and lunch at Le Relais. I can laugh about it now as I have forgotten the blind panic that had gripped me earlier. As to the rest of the group? They may still be on the mountain for all I know… I suspect the President For Lift is still out of order.

Chris France


September 18, 2016

The words “surreal” and “Otway” have forever been linked in my little world. Having paid for the first ever recording by John Otway in 1972, and having never managed to make any money from him for the provision of countless services, money and help I have happily and excitedly provided over the some 45 years, I thought perhaps this week would provide me with some solace.

He had this ridiculous plan. Just as ridiculous as the dozens of stupid but entertaining schemes he has hatched over the years. His idea was to crowd fund and record his first new album in a decade, but in Montserrat at the private studio at Sir George Martins house.  The last people to record on the island were The Rolling Stones. Such is the value to tourism his visit has generated that he has already received a visit and endorsement from the Prime Minister of the island and the Governor is staging a reception at The Governors Official Residence.
I have always enjoyed being involved with the great scams and the entertainment working with him provides, but the opportunity to go to Montserrat to “help” him record his first new album of songs in over 10 years, and to rightfully claim it as a business expense (FC Exchange customers are all over the world) seemed just one more absurd rung on the Otway ladder to Otexcess, his own vision of success Otway style.

Once the decision on the venue had been made, a decision on when to go was next. “When is the cheapest time to visit? asked Otway. The answer was during the hurricane season. “Perfect” he said, “Let’s go!” The website advice for fans wishing to join him and his band for this trip to this Caribbean gem suggested bringing an umbrella and a hard hat.
There is a very inauspicious date on Montserrat. On 17th September 1965 a Pan Am jet crashed into a hillside on the island killing 33 people. On the same date in 1989 a hurricane hit the island destroying many of the buildings including the famous Air Studios owned by Sir George Martin and in 1995, Once again in September, The Soufriere Hills volcano erupted with such force it all but destroyed the capital, Plymouth. The 17th was a particularly bad day. Pyroclastic flows of over 600 degrees centigrade swept down the mountainside at 100 miles and hour and still it is deserted and entry allowed only under police escort.

The third floor of a building in Plymouth, now under about 30 feet  of volcanic rock and ash.

As it turned out, the 17th September 2016 was the date set for The Governors Reception for the Otway followers (about 50) who had made it to the island. Set at Government House, an idyllic building nestling by the sea, everything started so well, but then the swarm of flying ants sent most people in from the pool (yes, of course The Governors House has a pool overlooking the ocean) and then the lightning started….
Chris France

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