Giving the beach the bird
Eventually the boredom consumed her. One may have been tempted to believe that a lovely sunny and warm day, a large attractive swimming pool, a well stocked bar in a beautiful garden, and nothing required to be done, might add up to a dream day in the south of France, but that was without factoring in Nice Lady Decorator boredom.
So I was roused from my cosy billet in the web, reading the Sunday Times, to take her up the Valbonne Square (is you get my drift). A Desperado at the Auberge Provençal was still insufficient, and with her sights set on an olive oil container they use in the Cafe Des Arcades, which, I am told, will be perfect for the web, our outside bar, we crossed the Square for another Desperado and a small beer. When I protested that we already owned such an item, secured from this very place, I was told rather testily that this one was in Arundel and obviously we needed another for our house in Valbonne
Arriving back, a Pimms No 1 was the perfect way to set off a late afternoon in paradise. We missed Barney Rubble lookalike Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs, who had popped around to deliver my cigar case left at his the evening before, and once again I attempted to settle into a quiet read of the paper and to consider what to include in today’s Currencies Direct inspired column.
The free book offer is going well with 4 new customers looking forward to receiving their free copies of The Valbonne Monologues in return for registering, which you too can do if you go to https://www.currenciesdirect.com/personal/join/?Ref=2470 and fill in and submit the application.
Rumours that two of these are under 3 years old are scurrilous mistruths, spread by jealous contemporaries, suggesting that I may be taking advantage of the kind offer of Currencies Direct head honcho in France, the lovely gypsy girl Pippa Maile to buy a book for each new applicant. However, I take a different view and would like to think that if that is the case, then these children are to be congratulated for being far sighted and setting up their foreign exchange needs in a timely fashion.
Pigeon farm?
My picture today should grab the attention if local pigeon lover Peachy Butterfield. He was very pleased when, a couple of years ago, I discovered an official feeding area in his home town of Chester (don’t ask, its way up north and surrounded by tundra) and I think he will be thrilled to see so many pigeons all together. I cannot tell you exactly where this was taken as I suspect he would be down there today, farming a few for the Butterfield cooking pot, now that he has found out where the kitchen is and have even managed to work the oven.
Today we are invited to some sort of arty nonsense in the afternoon by Cathie The Culture, but I shall attend because of great respect for her painting (she painted a very accomplished portrait of me which appears in my book, and who knows, if it had exhibited a little less forehead and a little more hair, may have been chosen for the cover) but mainly because I have respect for her wine cellar. I am promised that there are some ancient red wines down there which have been collecting dust for some years which she wants rid of, and I have been chosen to lead the clearing up operation. I fear that the proposed tennis this evening could be in jeopardy.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Langoustine keeps eye on proceedings
It was always going to be a long haul, and was never going to end well. Two parties on the same day, one after the other was always going to be a tall order, and so it transpired for the weaker half of our nuptial partnership. Proceedings commenced earlier than I had anticipated when we stopped by just before midday to deliver some goodies ahead of lunch. A quick refreshing ale turned into a couple of glasses of rosé in the sunshine and that was before the most wonderful lunch with Roly and Poly Bufton, at which we were treated to the most fantastic seafood platters I have ever seen, was sufficient to send That Nice Lady Decorator into a tailspin of gargantuan proportions, ensuring that she had to retire hurt in cricket parlance, mid way through the first leg. It could have been the fresh oysters, or the half lobster, the dressed crab or the bulots (sea snails) that disagreed with her, but I think it was the oysters.
Very few organisms on this earth can survive a disagreement of those proportions with That Nice Lady Oyster Eater and I suppose one could argue that they did not. I am certain that by the time the oysters were returned to this world, apparently via some projectile vomit, they would already have been dead, which, apparently was exactly how the Decorating Operative wished she was, when regurgitating those little blighters. The sensible ones amongst us, and by that I mean the non oyster eating fraternity of which I count myself a life long member, were unaffected by the same malaise, in fact the whole event was enjoyed hugely by the assembled guest list.
Don’t give me that look. After all, who is going to be eating who?
I took this picture of one particular langoustine which seemed to be keeping its eyes on things. A kind of giant seafaring grasshopper but absolutely delicious.
This ” early bath”, as might have been
described by rugby commentator the late Eddie Waring, taken by That Nice Lady Decorator, meant that she did not actually make it to the later party being staged by Barney Rubble lookalike and contented Currencies Direct customer
Tony “I Invented The Internet” Coombs. Another fabulous spread was laid out on their stunning terrace looking out towards the perfume producing town of Grasse. It was not the only thing that was laid out as I may have taken a very short breather before regrouping a little later. More great food and fine wine was served, although I have a picture of Peachy Butterfield with his customary card Bordeaux, he having eschewed the good stuff in favour if the poor stuff. It is purely a matter if quantity.
Amongst the revellers were Cathie The Culture and the usually missing husband “Hurry Up” Ary, the gorgeous blonde siren Anthea Buck, accompanied by a man called John Buck who must be her father, and of course Pat Coombs, the flame haired temptress and our host celebrating her 30th wedding anniversary, looking magnificent, especially when dancing to the Human League’s “don’t you want me baby” when I swear that wonderful bosom escaped from its restraining straight jacket for a moment during one particularly frenetic movement.
Arriving home courtesy of Sprog 1, who was on driving duty, at a little after midnight, I contemplated a nightcap, but sense and That Nice Lady Decorator, still suffering the effects of a dodgy oyster earlier, prevailed, and I went to bed to contemplate the glorious prospect of doing absolutely nothing today. Not a party in sight and no social occasion in the diary until Monday. What joy!
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A pink digger to take you home?
A small cognac is what I asked for, but it was at least a quadruple by English standards and thus lunch yesterday finished in a gentle haze accentuated by the aroma of a Monte Christo Edmundo cigar. In my opinion, there is simply nothing that can compare with the experience of sitting replete on a shady terrace in a quintessentially Provençal village, after a wonderful lunch, with a great cigar in one hand and a large class of amber nectar in the other. Peter Maile was right on the button when he summed up the south of France in one word; lunch.
I have worked it out. When there is a heat wave, one must alight from ones bed at no later than 9am, undertake ones constitutional and any irksome work tasks by around 11.30 and then prepare for the most important meal of the day before enjoying a siesta so that one can prepare for whatever the balmy evening can throw at you.
A pink digger. Perhaps Australian gays might like them?
It is too hot at midday to contemplate anything else, in fact I need some transport like that shown on today’s picture above, which was taken when the circus, which is still on in Valbonne, did a tour for the festival of St Roch earlier in the week. So I had just settled into my post lunch siesta pit when the skies darkened and I thought we were in for a storm. I was right. But it was the unscheduled arrival of man mountain Peachy Butterfield, that clouded the sky rather than rain, but it was really a storm of a different nature. Card Bordeaux was demanded. I suggested, rather disingenuously, a cup of tea, but he said ” a glass of wine please”, and thus another lost afternoon in France began.
That Nice Lady Decorator had said she was going to make a chilli, and you have to keep an eye on her otherwise the Tabasco gets emptied into the mixture and one gets into a sweat for three days. So by the time Peachy’s wife, the saintly Suzanne arrived back from work, a few late afternoon drinks began to develop into a full-scale drinkathon.
It did not take Peachy long to find fault. Unused to being able to enjoy quality wine, he said that St. Emilion Grand Cru, with which I had later unwisely saddled him, was “ok but a bit bottley”. Clearly there was insufficient of the cardboard with which he was so au fait, in other words not enough card Bordeaux.
Perhaps I should explain for the uninitiated. Quantity is Peachy’s watchword rather than quality and in his rather humble opinion the best way to buy wine in quantity is to buy it by the 10 litre box, where it is stored in a bladder. It is a cheap and nasty way to store and then consume wine, in other words right up his street. He is from the frozen north you see. They think a wine lake is a puddle of tears.
This lack of pedigree did not stop him holding court, as is normal when the wine flows in sufficient quantity. I think the highlight was when he said “I came on the bus this morning but I managed to pass it off as an asthma attack”.
So after more than 5 weeks full on partying, what is on the agenda today? Yes, 2 more parties. I need to go back to England for a rest, although Currencies Direct clients are harder to find, but perhaps the offer of a free book for anyone who signs up for an account, which they can do by clicking the link, should lure out a few back sliders.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Circus goes PC
The Marmite picture yesterday caused a good deal of comment, and reference was made to a recent Marmite TV advert which seemed to offend a number of RSPCA followers, mimicking as it did, the TV programmes where domestic pets are rescued. In the case of the advert, distressed jars of Marmite were being rescued. It was very funny but I think it would have been better if they were rescuing Marmite haters such as myself from the clutches that evil extract.
With ball boy and Currencies Direct affiliate Dancing Greg Harris of CD Villa rentals having to be in bed or such like by 7pm, tennis was abandoned and we were given a lesson in what happens if you promote someone above his grade. Nothing good can come of it, so I favour a swift demotion back to his more natural place as ball boy. At least as there was no tennis, I was able to indulge myself in a spot of lunch at Auberge de la Source. In fact I had agreed to be so indulged before the news reached me that it was ball boy Harris’s bath night with Matron, so I was unable to partake in a glass of rosé as I had intended to be fresh, with my powder dry, in the evening. So I was fresh at home and he was probably getting fresh with matron.
My picture today was taken in Valbonne on Tuesday when the circus did the rounds of the village to drum up business for the Arelette Gruess “Symphonik”, as it seems it is
no longer politically correct to call themselves circus performers. This is of course a great deal of tosh. They are a circus and that is an end to it. Will I be going? Not at those prices. Nice camels though.
Circus tours Valbonne
Bereft of tennis, and a loose end, we decided to find out whether the Queens Legs were (is?) closed. It is not, but apparently it will close on Sunday for a month, a penalty for having, unwittingly I am sure, been an outlet for Columbian marching powder, and the local Marie are not best pleased about it. As we stepped through the door we were confronted by the Cornish Tsunami himself, Matt Frost, the doyen of fashion (in his own mind) enjoying a quiet pint. Occasionally I am asked why he is referred to in this column as the Cornish Tsunami. I have the details but they are too disturbing fully to reveal. Suffice to say that he is a big unit, and when such a unit is stirred into action, especially on a beach with a loved one which, luckily was his wife, and the tide is coming in (can I say that?), well the laws of physics relating to water displacement can create err…waves. I think we should leave it there.
Anyway, Tsunami was in good form, cleverly buying his round during happy hour and graciously allowing me to buy mine after happy hour had finished. He is so well-educated that he knew the genus of the word tantalise, and suggested that what I needed in the web, our outside bar area, was a tantalist. In response I suggested he needed a punch on the nose, until he was able to explain to me exactly what a tantalist was. I am still no wiser, but given that he is 6ft 5ins tall and built like a brick shithouse, I decided not to make an issue of it.
Today is the start of the weekend but I find myself lined up to do any number of irksome tasks this morning. I must venture forth to Castorama, as opposed to nirvana, to buy a cat deterrent for the neighbours cat who has been sleeping in the pav. My suggestion to leave the horrid hound Banjo out there instead did not find favour. He could deter anything from coming near.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Marmite? Why?
Sometimes in life, a picture comes along that is a god given opportunity (sorry the Reverend Jeff) for an arch blogger such as myself. Such a picture I feature today. The pose itself is for a worthy charitable cause and features from left to right Peachy Butterfield, the Naked Politician (how apt), soon to be a politician again – watch this space -, Peter “Blue Water” Bennett and Alistair the Air. I think it was in aid of breast cancer and our very own south of France calendar boys raised a significant amount of money for this worthy cause. What I am trying to work out is the significance of the Marmite jar. I took the picture of the greetings (sic) card, but had failed to notice the jar of that disgustingly glutinous meat extract beside it until I looked at it yesterday morning.
I spent some time during daylight hours trying to decide exactly how to work the meat extract theme to the photograph into this daily missive and so far I have not been able to come up with anything. I should be glad of some input from you, my reader, in the comments section below. I do like the pink touch.
meat extract indeed
Bored by having no car, due to the serious illness of the 4×4 skip owned by That Nice Lady Decorator, and its’ incarceration at the Hyundai garage, we ventured into Valbonne yesterday lunchtime for some boring bank stuff, and as it was so hot, we were forced to find solace in a couple of beers, a pizza and a small carafe of wine at lunchtime. We decided to give Cafe Des Arcades another chance, as it was comparatively quiet. By comparatively , I mean it was only about 85% capacity, and it showed signs of returning to form as the holiday rush abates.
Last night to the house of gypsy girl Pippa and brooding Latin rugby playing Gerald from Blue Square estate agents in Valbonne for a barbecue and to discuss matters of great import surrounding the services of Currencies Direct. Gerald was fascinated by the smart phone App called “Mosquito”, loaded on to my phone which emits a high-pitched whine which cannot be detected by the human ear. He actually asked me if it was supposed to attract Mosquitos and received a guffaw and a withering look from his lovely wife, and the chance once again to feature in this column.
Gerald did have the good grace to consider an idea I had put to him, that new customers in his estate agent offices should be given a copy of my latest book, so that they could gain some insight into the local area and its characters. However he wanted to limit this to English-speaking customers who actually bought a property, and the are precious few of those around at present. However, the idea found favour with Pippa, who, perhaps under the influence of too much Chateau du Berne rose, suggested that Currencies Direct should buy a copy of my book for each new customer signing up for an account via this column. So, before she withdraws this wonderful offer, anyone who signs up by filling in this form contained in the link (for some of my less computer literate readers that means you click on the highlighted text) will entitle me to charge Currencies Direct for a free signed copy of The Valbonne Monologues for the lucky new account opener.
Finally, as it was getting late, I heard some revelations about a swingers club in Mougins, exposed recently in a programme on French TV. Gerald was unwilling to reveal details except to say that a some of his friends whom he thought were straight seemed to be featured in this piece of French investigative journalism. Are any of you worried?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Calm before the perfect storm
Sod’s law was perfectly illustrated yesterday when, having loaned out the camper van to Tony “I invented the Internet” Coombs for a few days to act as an extra hotel room for visitors attending his forthcoming 30th anniversary bash, our only other serviceable vehicle down here in France is the 4 wheel drive skip, the vehicle belonging to That Nice Lady Decorator which decided to break down, or as Rolls Royce would have put it, “fail to proceed”.
Thus a lot of shenanigans with a garage and a car hire company in Mouans Sartoux ensued which were so stressful that we had to walk to the nearby golf course at St Donat for a restorative beer, where we were collected up by Sprog 1. That is the case for the defence against any charge that we were weak willed about our utter determination to have a day without drink. No one could have foreseen such a disaster and I respectfully submit this as a mitigating defence to any charge of backsliding.
So with the dam breached so to speak, a few beers in the pav were inevitable ahead of the also inevitable opening of the wine once the sun was across the yardarm. It allowed That Nice Lady Decorator the opportunity to vent her anger to the family and a collection of hungry and thirsty Sprog friends about her car, which, with a damaged flywheel and clutch will cost the best part of 3000 euros (about £2500 at today’s very generous Currencies Direct exchange rates) to repair.
Before that disaster befell us, we had been heading to Briconauts, a store where I always feel uncomfortable because it is the French home of DIY. For me it should be a DYD store (Don’t You Dare) given my renowned lack of practical ability. I am not allowed tools ever as it would be dangerous, tantamount to allowing children to play with fireworks. It was on the way back, before the car began making sounds like I imagine Peachy Butterfield might make if he had constipation, that The Nice Lady Decorator finally accepted that her skip was in trouble. That is when the trouble started. Never fully at easy with the French language and even less patient when things go wrong (and here I am very considerably understating the position) the poor garage man was given a roasting and, as the insurance hire car did not turn up as promised last evening, the invective will be turned up to “incinerate” on them this morning.
This evening we are invited to a barbecue with the lovely head of Currencies Direct in France, the sultry gypsy girl, Pippa and her bit of rough husband, the rugby playing Gerald from Blue Square Estate Agents. Pippa is a refined beauty. He is neither refined or beautiful. A wonderful man and a good sport (as long as that sport is rugby, not golf, where he exhibits the most remarkable lack of ability) he has long been the subject of unfair abuse in this column. That he has never complained is a testament to his stoic ability to allow the insults and sleights, my ability to deliver such is justly renowned, to run off like water off a ducks back, and, I suspect, because he does not understand exactly how rude I have been. Moody and magnificent, he exudes an animal charm along the lines one might expect from a caveman, or a second row forward.
I expect wine will be drunk and jokes cracked, the latter mostly going over the head of this charming rough diamond, who has somehow tamed the wild and beautiful Pippa. I say tamed but, as in the case of any majestic wild animal, the control sometimes weakens and then there are sparks. I do hope there are sparks.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Crab and card Bordeaux alert
Another copy of my book was sold last night to, according to Dancing Greg Harris from Côte d’Azur Villa Rentals, a soon to be dissatisfied customer. We were in Valbonne Square at La Terra Rossa for dinner after an exhausting three set triumph over him and his visiting film producer pal called Paul Sinclair, now the happy owner of said book, happy at least according to Dancing Greg until he has read it. However, I did form the impression that reading was not his strong suit so maybe he will never be as dissatisfied as Dancing Greg believes.
I say sold, but Greg, who handled the negotiations over how to split the bill, inflated by some late cognac and calvados, asked for me to contribute 100 euros (some £85 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) for myself and That Nice Lady Decorator. When I sought payment from him for said book, already autographed to Paul, I was told that he had discounted my share of the bill, which I never saw, by the 15 euros cost to its settlement. His charge for villa rental is 20% and I suspect he applied the same principle to the bill. Any suggestion that I ever work for less than 20% on my music interests is entirely irrelevant, although true. Suffice to say that I am awaiting a detailed accounting breakdown for my accountants to analyse.
So to the tennis. Played at La Bastide de Valbonne as Paul the Film was staying there, the Mustachiod Old Gits were able to beat our opponents and the conditions. The tennis court, clearly designed by a non tennis playing architect, meant serving into the sun, and with badly designed walls for ever sending balls back into play, and on clay so soft it became a dust ball, only the MOGS had the fortitude to overcome all obstacles and emerge victorious. I shall never complain about the Vignale tennis club ever again.
Today , joy of joys, I have no social occasion in the diary and I am delighted. The last time I did not have a drink was a few days before we left England for France in late June and I think my liver deserves a day off. Of course, it may not get what it deserves in this maelstrom of hedonism that epitomises the south of France in summer. An impromptu invitation might still stir That Nice Lady Party Animal into life, but as I write, a day lurking by the pool doing absolutely nothing seems very appealing.
Peachy Butterfield “helps” some local beauties to enjoy the pool.
For instance, my picture today captures just the sort of thing I need to avoid. Peachy Butterfield, fuelled by the usual surfeit of card Bordeaux, at the weekend at a very fine party, in the sunshine, was captured here disturbing some girlies minding their own rosé in the pool. I know that my readers in England will understand why I have had enough of this kind of thing, at least for today. You may think that his shorts have some nasty little stains on them at regular periods, a mistake I made when first encountering them, but it seems they are tiny crabs on his Villebrequin shorts. I do hope they don’t spread, as I am sure he would get his wife, the saintly Suzanne to administer the ointment, and that is just too horrendous a concept to be explored any more deeply than that by this column.
Returning home late last night, we remembered that it was supposed to be the best night for seeing shooting stars as there was a meteorite shower. The problem is that they go so fast you think you have seen then but cannot be sure, so, after about 10 minutes lingering over a nightcap in loungers down on the lawn, I became aware of loud snoring and some dampness, which were not connected and decided the shooting stars would have to wait, I needed my bed.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Gentle Aristo bashing
It was a very genteel occasion, the birthday celebration of Amanda Bay, the lovely wife of Anthony “Dock Of The” Bay in the hot sunshine at a sumptuous villa with great views over Castelleras. A small gathering of the highest quality still managed to include man mountain Peachy Butterfield, so high brow in fact that I sold a further two copies of my book and could have sold more had I had the stock to hand. It is seldom the case that there is such an intellectually inspiring gathering that almost everyone in attendance was sufficiently worldly wise they could have been or already were a client of Currencies Direct.
Anthony was the culinary star with an excellent lamb dish garnished with a jus (Peachy called it gravy) which was delicious but seemed to have been made from the bones of a small pigeon. I had been sworn to avoid Aristo bashing but I am afraid I may have slightly blotted my copybook. I was tired and emotional after a good lunch and some rather nice Chateau de Berne rose, and think that had I managed my intended siesta, I may have remembered my promise not to engage in any working class diatribes. One of these was to make some mention of servants to the aristocracy when The Wingco, thirsty from some swimming, demanded that one of the servants pour more wine into his mouth whilst still the pool, as my picture today captures.
Talking of books, which I wasn’t, I hear that Woody Allen and his wife were in the English Book Centre in Valbonne for 20 minutes yesterday. It seems he is making a film in Monaco and staying in Mougins. I do hope he purchased a copy of my book from one of the only two outlets that I have seemed worthy to hold stock. The Valbonne Monolgues, directed by Woody Allen, now that sounds good.
When we came to leave in the early evening it was suggested by some that there was a massive exodus, but I was able to reassure the man mountain that this was not directed at him personally.
Arriving back at the equally impressive villa owned by Roly and Poly Bufton where Peachy and the wonderful Suzanne are staying, talk turned to an argument about the right of the local council to build a massive reservoir in the property, (not a fact that the notaire had deigned to mention when they bought it) precluding them from doing the development they had intended. Peachy rather unkindly describes it as their “water feature”. He then drummed up an excellent tasting chilli which was perfect but one always wonders with him what comprises the constituent parts. I have seen rabbit droppings locally, but surely, even he would not… I decided to close my mind to the possibilities and tucked in hungrily.
Tonight, the MOGS (the Moustachiod Old Gits which comprise myself and the Wingco) have been challenged to a doubles tennis match by Dancing Greg Harris from Côte d’ Azur Villa Rentals and a visiting friend. I do not expect the tennis to be of a high standard as I hear his friend serves underarm. I suspect that if that is the case then some moustaches will be bristling unless Greg does the decent thing and buys dinner afterwards.
Until then, I shall be glued to the TV to watch a fascinating Ashes test Match (probably whilst doing the ironing – the trade off with That Nice Cricket Hating Person – actually she does not hate cricket, she just hates me watching it). I expect to be in contact with some of my Australian friends later in the day to discuss their chances as long as things go well for England. If they do not then I will not.
Chris France
Helicopter envy
Taking the train to Antibes from Mouans Sartoux, past Cannes, and along the coast through Golf Juan and Juan les Pins is a very pleasant way of getting to see the seaside. It also means no one has to drive, but that means more drink. Thus activity of this nature commenced at around 11am with a glass of something cold and fizzy whilst standing, legs apart, one arm behind my back sailor fashion, on the poop deck. I did not think it was a good idea to ask why it is so named, after all there are several toilets on board.
There is something very pleasing about pretending to be a seasoned sailor. I would have sliced the main brace there and then if I had a clue what it meant. Captain Pugwash is alive and well and embedded in all of us, even the non swimming types like me. I have resolved to look for a captain’s hat for next time I get invited aboard a boat although it is fair to say that the Nice Lady Decorator suggested a kiss me quick hat or even a dunces hat might be more appropriate.
Whilst aboard I learned, to my immense satisfaction, that our hosts for the day, Roly and Poly Bufton, start their daily routine by having this column read out aloud each morning, whilst the servants attend to their every need. Poly (aka Leslie) described the routine as relaxing. A cynic might say it is almost a relaxative, both amusing and err… loosening.
After a magnificent lunch at The African Queen at Beaulieu Sur Mer (matched by an equally magnificent bill), comprising as it did for me, of a fricassee of mussels and an African curry, we staggered the 20 metres or so back to the berth of the lovely Fleming yacht, Sea Breezes, and put out to sea (read drive into the bay at Beaulieu) for a little swimming or snorkelling (or in my case a little sleeping) before heading back to Antibes in the early evening. I did experience a little helicopter envy however when a helicopter landed on a nearby boat as my picture today captures. I asked Roly where he kept his helicopter but answer came there none. I was forced into the position of suspecting that there were no facilities for helicopters aboard his yacht.
Surely every boat has one?
Arriving back in Antibes just after sun down, there was just time for a restorative pint of Guinness before the last train at the ridiculously early time of 10.06. Luckily That Nice Lady Decorator had organised a doggy bag of her uneaten sea bream, so with some left over roasties lurking in the fridge, we had an impromptu fish and chips supper at 11.30pm in the web, and very tasty it was too.
Today is dedicated to Aristo bashing. The saintly old smoothie Anthony “Dock Of The” Bay has invited us to celebrate a significant birthday of his considerably younger and gorgeous wife Amanda, and I have found it in my distinctly working class bones to accept. He and his friends will, on the surface, appear to be very egalitarian to start with, avoiding disparaging remarks about oiks and grammar school louts, but like all naughty boys, once they have all had a few drinks, the gloves will come off and the abuse will commence. The Wingco will be the ringleader as usual. As soon as there is any mention of this column, my latest book or the benefits offered by opening an account with Currencies Direct, the abuse will start. I can’t wait as it will enable me to forego my promises about avoiding Aristo bashing or working class triumphalism, even though I have no idea what the latter means.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Flame thrower triumph
It is always a trade-off. I like to watch The Ashes cricket between England and Australia almost as much as That Nice Lady Decorator hates ironing. I have even bought her an up to date state of the art iron. So an uneasy compromise has been reached whereby I do the ironing whilst watching the test match. There is always another aspect to my watching cricket.
During the matches there always seems to be a vastly increased number of social occasions under consideration which all seem to interfere with my watching the game. A cynic might come to the conclusion that anything is better than me being allowed to lounge on the sofa and watch my favourite sport. I am a cynic, and I don’t mean a young swan.
So we went to the Kim Defforge book launch at The English Book Centre in Valbonne, where I took todays picture, last evening but with the promised wine taking a long time to appear and being a touch on the warm side when it did, we soon headed off to Peachy Butterfield’s egg and chip night which was a triumph. A magnum of a 2009 St Estephe and another of a Bordeaux gave me a rosy glow, a little like Peachy after his cooking.
A cat asleep in front of a quintessentially Provencal front door
The eggs were fried to perfection and enough chips survived the Peachy cooking process to feed the gathering. I am not certain exactly what that process had been, but by the amount of carbon in evidence I would guess it involved a flame thrower and a fire extinguisher, in that order. The lovely Suzanne has recently become an estate agent, forcing house husband Peachy into a huge learning curve involving kitchen duties and the washing machine, but has not extended as far as ironing, yet. I think one thing at a time is the correct approach. It will take time for him to come to terms with these new disciplines but I think he will not get there in the end. He had also wisely provided a starter in the form of Parma ham and melon and some pate, but you will have noticed, as did I, that neither needs any cooking and so even he could not incinerate these.
Suzanne was talking about one of the properties in her remit, a big property on a small plot, which I mentioned made me think of her husband right at that moment; a bit like the giant Peachy sitting on a small chair. It was not a late night as we have to prepare for today.
So this morning we are in for a real treat. What could be more splendid that being taken out on a yacht, owned by Roly and Poly Bufton, floating around the coast for lunch at the African Queen at Beaulieu Sur Mer and then floating back to Antibes for a restorative pint of Guinness in Antibes? I would say very little. Even the possible attendance of fellow guest, Loudmouth Largy, and the fact that I will be unable to watch the cricket is not enough to dampen my enthusiasm. This will all take place accompanied by more than several glasses of fizz and a few flagons of rosé. I shall have no guilt about neglecting my duties with Currencies Direct as it is a Saturday , and with three new clients this week, my missionary zeal to rescue people from the clutches of their banks when dealing in foreign exchange has been sated for now.
Then on Sunday there will be the temptation to do a little Aristo Bashing with the almost regal Anthony “Dock Of The” Bay at a significant birthday bash for the rather too lovely Amanda, the gorgeous wife of this impossible old smoothie. I have been told not to bring red wine as it may stain the deck around the pool, so those of you struggling along in dear old England must realise that sometimes even the idle rich need to make sacrifices.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Peachy Butterfield and egg and chips
That Nice Lady Decorator would go to the opening of an envelope if I letter. So it was with a sense of resigned realism that when she mentioned the book signing by Kim Defforge at The English Book Centre in Valbonne this afternoon between 4 and 7, that she would want to go. I will fight anyone who says the only reason she wants to be there is because it is open house with free booze, as I am certain she is attending mostly to see how few copies of my book, The Valbonne Monologues, have been sold by Valbonne’s finest literary emporium. I know, and am expecting to hear that cackling laugh when the lovely owner, the diminutive and beautiful Lin Wolff, has to break the news to me that she has not sold one. I may even buy one myself just to break the duck. When I was in the store a few days ago, I looked for some copies on the shelves and was encouraged not to find one as there was certainly a good stock earlier in the year, but as that Nice Cynical Lady Decorator pointed out, it is an old building with uneven floors, and books, particularly mine in her opinion, are perfect for propping up wobbly tables and the like.
Thereafter we are invited to dinner with man mountain Peachy Butterfield and the hardworking and sensual Suzanne. Normally when thus invited and Peachy is cooking then it is wise to lock up your pets, but at least any road kill locally gets tidied up, until, that is, it appears on your plate, but tonight apparently, it will be different. Peachy has decided to venture well above his usual mark on the culinary ladder and will instead be cooking another northern delicacy, egg and chips. Yes, we have been invited to eggs and chip night, which I imagine will be on a par with Christmas Dinner for these lovely decent but unsophisticated paupers from the frozen north, who have kindly opened their doors to us. His generosity when it comes to Card Bordeaux (another delicacy in his mind) is also unsurpassed, so I know we will be able to have as many eggs and chips as we like.
A walk in the park
Last evening, after a long drawn out recovery process from the epic Blues Kings gig, we were tempted into an early evening walk and a swift sharpener before dinner. With Auberge de la Source closed on weekday evenings (well you would when its summer, there is a lovely garden area and a stream, but you have to be French to be that anti entrepreneurial), so we went instead to the Victoria Golf Club for a couple of Leffe beers. I was sufficiently mellow to not take offence at the the fact that no dinner had been prepared. It was irrelevant (she said) as seemingly the heat suppresses appetite.
Three new customers for the very fine foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct yesterday, all directly attributable to this column, is a true testament to this column’s power. Another is the fact that I coined a phrase yesterday which is so good but which I have been forbidden to use as it is too close to the knuckle (the lovely Viv Frost will know the phrase). Maybe one day.
But, not for the first time, I digress. There is a meteor shower promised between August 10th and 13th and it has been suggested that taking Bluebell up the hills and finding a spot for a night time picnic next week and to watch the stars might be a good idea. I mentioned to That Nice Lady Decorator in what I thought was a romantically suggestive way that I could make her see stars whilst lying on a blanket on the ground, but she just laughed. It seems that this shower is something of an annual event, but it would be dangerous to make any sort of joke here.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A burning issue?
If one had a DVD of the Koran, how should one react if someone wanted to burn a copy? These were the kind of idle thoughts that were going through my mind after receiving an email from an old Australian pal (thanks Bruce) as I contemplated the potential damage that could be inflicted on my liver of another social occasion last night.
The Wingco is an accomplished former professional musician and he has a blues band, The Blues Kings, based in London, who are down in the south of France for the week, so what better than to play a gig outside whilst here? It gave me a chance to reinforce my old hippy credentials by getting the camper van out and parking, festival-like at the venue, the house in Chateauneuf de Grasse of blues harp player, Currencies Direct affiliate and estate agent Jeroen “Hit Lips” Zaat (crazy name, crazy guy) and the lovely Marina Kulik, painter extraordinaire.
Arriving at around 6.30 I faced the ignominy of being pressed ganged into helping out with roadie duties . Don’t these people know who I am? Clearly not, and by 3am this morning, neither did I. A thoroughly splendid evening of the blues played brilliantly in a fantastic setting with lashings of champagne is my idea of a good night out, and I took this picture, but this morning did not look as rosy as we awoke to the sounds and rain of a thunderstorm, making camping a whole lot less pleasant. Thus home by 10 for a good fry up and to write your daily dose about the lives of the idle rich in Valbonne.
The Blues Kings reign supreme
Astoundingly there appears to be nothing in the diary for today, so obviously I have become a social leper overnight. In fact there is nothing scheduled until a boat trip on Saturday with Roly and Poly, and do you know what? I am delighted. Whilst selling the 133rd copy of my latest book last night to an avid reader of this column, I was asked how I was still alive if all the activities outlined here actually happened and she had a point. A few days of rest and recuperation would be very welcome.
The weekend looks full; a day out on the boat on Saturday can often preceded a few pints of Guinness at The Hop Store in Antibes, especially given the very recent demise of or local draft Guinness outlet, The Queens Legs in Valbonne. It seems that it had become a wholesaling outlet for Columbian marching powder and French Mr Plod were a tad unhappy about it. The landlord is now behind bars and the place has been shut, something that it seems the local authorities have been after for years. Then on Sunday we have been invited to a 50th birthday party but with the proviso that there should be no Aristo bashing or working class triumphalism. I have agreed those terms but I am afraid I had my fingers crossed at the time, and, being (as I have been told clearly and forcefully more than once) working class and with no sense of honour, I do not feel bound by that empty promise.
Before the weekend there is the small matter of the fourth Ashes cricket test between England and Australia starting tomorrow, and I for one intend to lie in front of the TV and watch the convicts try to rescue some pride from their summer of cricketing failure, following their rugby failures at the hands of the British Lions earlier in the year. However, intention and planning will be subject to forces beyond my control, as That Nice Lady Social Organiser will doubtless have other ideas. She has the lowest boredom threshold known to man and I am not even certain I can get through today unscathed.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Implacable resolve dissolves
Even a successful author without the immense powers of description that goes with the territory, would have been able easily to convey my certainty that, after a month of full on partying, I was going to have a quiet day yesterday, sitting by the swimming pool, ignoring any call to go eating and drinking. Nothing was more set in stone than the fact that I was implacably resolved to spending a day worshipping my body by relaxing and refusing any temptation to leave the house or involve myself in any form of social contact that might involve a drink. Absolutely. The end,
That was until late morning when I received a message from the redoubtable Simon “Chateau Gloria” Howes to “a boozy lunch in Valbonne”. Don’t you just hate that when it happens? A decision is made and adherence to that course of action is unshakeable, and, as soon as That Nice Lady Decorator has wind of it, all resolutions are off. At first I thought I would delete the email, thinking that I could pretend that I did not get the message, and stay with plan A. However there was a fatal flaw in this plan, as it had been copied to That Nice Lady Party Animal. So at 12.30 we presented ourselves, as requested, at Auberge Provençal in Valbonne Square to partake of said lunch. On the way I took this picture of some modern “art” which did nothing for my appetite.
A contorted piece of crap litters Valbonne
So a long lunch transpired with my king scallops in a truffle sauce being an absolute triumph, not only for the chef but for me. Mr Howes seldom ventures far from Bordeaux when it comes to wine, and in me he has a spiritual friend, or should I say a viticultural friend, so with his demands met, I headed for the inevitable siesta at around 6pm.
As a cigar man, Mr Howes cannot be surpassed. Any man who can describe his breakfast comprises half of a Monte Christo No 2 and an espresso is all right by me. I have no idea how he manages to look so young on such a diet but am considering changing from my ultra sensible regime to something more akin to his in an effort to look younger. This is not a position supported by That Nice Lady Diet Enforcer. Valbonne has an excellent tabac with a humidor full of Havana’s finest, so, running a little short of cigars, and given the company, I found myself spending a small fortune for a couple of Cohibas, before being overcome by a bout of extreme tiredness.
Having acquired several doggy bags of left over curry from Roly and Poly’s Indian feast at the weekend, That Nice Lady Cook was not called upon to test her culinary skills to their limits as last night we enjoyed again those excellent curries from the weekend. I have no idea exactly what they all were, but delicious? certainly.
Earlier in the day, when certain that no social occasion beckoned, we had been out in the skip (read car) to check out a few restaurants that are on the target list for the future and had formed a good impression of the Clos des Pins in Roquefort Les Pins, which is now in our sights, and I am sure the review will appear in this column shortly.
This evening there will be rock and roll and camping in our lives. The Wingco and his sometime band will be appearing at a secret location, so secret that even I do not know where it will be. All I do know is that Bluebell the camper will be pressed into service again and a full report will appear tomorrow. You may have noticed that, so far, there has been no mention of the excellent services of Currencies Direct yet today, and that is because I believe all my readers, some 108,000 in total as of today, are now well aware of how much they can save on their foreign exchange services.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
New boules please
When the phone call came from Roly, Poly and to invite us to lunch at Auberge St Donat, I made an unparalleled, unilateral decision to reject it. The reasons were manifold; we had just staged an epic all day lunch which has been so successful that the police were called, we had enjoyed a fabulously long lunch the day before, a night of rock and roll the night before that, and each day for the previous month, I had found myself with a glass in my hand. Auberge St Donat is not the favourite luncheon venue of That Nice Lady Decorator, and I was scheduled to play tennis in the evening, followed by dinner and finally, the cricket test match between Australia and England was nicely poised. I knew, despite the obvious risk, that it is pre-ordained that I have no executive responsibility for social occasions, and that it was the right decision which would be ratified in due course by the ruling dictator.
It was something of a shock therefore when, in passing, I mentioned what I had done to That Nice Lady Entertainments Officer, and discovered to my cost, in more ways that one, that the decision I had made was in fact wrong. Hence, after a laconic morning, and the prospect of doing nothing before 7pm, I was brought down to earth, showered, shaved and dressed by 12.30 so that we could accept the invitation that I had rejected.
Talking of down to earth, I remembered, to my ever increasing cost, that Loudmouth Largy had also been similarly invited, he being incapable of returning to his hovel in Cannes due to a surfeit of my rosé the evening before. I have written before of his unfortunate testicular loss in his early days, now being “one short” in cricketing parlance but permitted myself a wry grin when, for desert, he ordered “deux boules de glacé” , ie two balls of ice cream. Whilst I was chortling, I nearly felt guilty, once I had had enjoyed the joke and revelled in the laughter that followed. I have quietly resolved that in future I shall do the same whenever the opportunity arises. Guilt is such a transient emotion don’t you think?
Note the name of this shit wine that was a gift for lunch. I like the bluebottle on the top.
Anyway a splendid lunch followed, and then it was time for an intensive siesta before preparations for tennis last evening. I had grudging allowed Dancing Greg Harris from Côte d’Azur villa Rentals to be promoted from ball boy to 4th player, but he was a little miffed by that, considering, laughably, that he deserved that position on merit, but he was disavowed by that concept on the tennis court.
Once the MOGS (Moustachioed Old Gits) comprising myself and The Wingco had summarily dealt with the uninspiring challenge of he and Blind Lemon Milsted on the tennis court, we adjourned, rather sweatily, to the Auberge St Donat for a spot of dinner. As all present were Currencies Direct clients, Blind Lemon having a recent epiphany, it ill behoved me to make a big fuss about my (our) victory, so instead I settled for a small fuss.
Over dinner, we discussed the merits of a concert to be staged by Elvis Costello this week in Monaco, for which Blind Lemon has (very expensive) tickets and the Wingco mentioned that he once just missed meeting Mr Costello in the recording studio. Apparently, by the time he arrived (doubtless late as usual) Elvis had left the building. I was moved to mention the arrival of the local gendarmerie at our house on Sunday evening and made mention of an Elvis Costello song. It seems that Watching The Detectives was not a good call.
Chris France
Benny Hill lives?
As the police arrived close to 11 pm, presumably to break up the party, lunch was beginning to come to an end. Some 20 revellers enjoyed spare ribs and meatballs in formidable heat before those with the least stout determination and constitutions began peeling off at around 6pm. But it is about the hardcore that I shall mostly be writing today. There are always those that are the last to leave and usually I count myself amongst them, but staging an event at ones own house allows one to be the last to leave, well, stay in fact.
One of the first to leave was the Currencies Direct affiliate, the Cornish Tsunami aka Fred Scuttle himself, Matt Frost. His carer and wife the lovely Viv decided, once the heat has abated a little, that the heat was too much for him, clear evidence of which in shown in my picture today. I said yesterday that I expected Tsunami to reveal which way fashion was going. This he did impeccably by heading in the opposite direction you can see. Yellow framed sunglasses? No, no, no. It is just wrong.
Anyone remember Benny Hill?
It was with his guitar in hand that the Wingco – sporting a splendid pork pie hat that would have suited anyone who did not look like Josef Stalin who I think interested the gendarmeres. It was perhaps a clue for the two Inspector Clouseau’s as to from whom the main noise was emanating. I think they must have both been closet air guitarists. The suitability of the Wingco’s headgear was questioned by all as we have made clear to him that we think he is a dead ringer for this Russian dictator. But even Stalin could not have better regimented the weak musical forces in front of him into giving such a sustained quality performance of songs, old, new and made up on the spot. There was not a great deal with which to work. A dozen or so sozzled old hippies and dreamers who could not remember the words to many a classic song, were rescued in equal measure by the combined forces of the wonderful mouth organ of Jeroen Zatt and the internet. Getting the lyrics up on a screen enabled hearty renditions of several Edith Piaf songs amongst others, and, in retrospect, may have been the initial reason for the police appearing. Perhaps they were so moved they wanted to join in? It was a thought, but their countenance suggested otherwise.
Did I mention the internet? It’s founder, Tony “I invented the Internet” Coombs, was present and managed to get the wireless repeater to work satisfactorily, by telling us all that his invention sensed his prescience and would behave impeccably whilst he was there. The trouble was, as he drank more rosé, his prescience waned.
Earlier, as was almost inevitable with the writer of, and the gorgeous Marina Kulik, the inspiration behind the cover concept for The Valbonne Monologues both present, some discussion of the book and this column was to occur. Another irresistible reason is that the Wingco has consistently described both as “ghastly” and because this topic riles him so much I can never resist. He told the assembled multitude that a definition of a gentleman is someone who can write about the south of France but chooses not to.
A tense day lies ahead, as the third cricket test between England and Australia is poised for a result, weather permitting. It is rather too finely poised in the convicts favour for me to be too critical of the English weather. What was the name of that old song with the lines “let it rain, let it rain, let it rain”?
Chris France
Chris France's Blog 