Silent night in sizzling heat
There was a surreal moment yesterday in late afternoon when we were sitting listening to Simon and Garfunkel singing Silent Night in 35 degrees whilst eating an Indian meal chez Roly And Poly. It was neither night, it certainly was not silent and that Christmassy feeling with which the song is often associated was not in evidence. Because it was so hot I had decided to wear a floaty white shirt without taking account of what a wonderful selection of curries, supplied by Valbonne’s very own Le Kashmir, the Indian restaurant in the village. As Loud Mouth Largy remarked in late afternoon, my shirt stains were more like a taster menu. What is the difference between the stock market and a graph indicating the sales of my latest book The Valbonne Monologues? Answer; the sales graph will only go up. Yesterday represented a particular upward spike in sales as the lovely Marina Kulik, who runs the art classes at the hangar, and whom organised the competition to paint the cover of this vital manuscript, revealed that she had sold a further 9 copies, and I sold two more on the day, meaning that 132 people have now palpably disagreed with the sentiments of Mr Clipboard who tried to burn a copy in Valbonne Square earlier in the week. Literally hot stuff which ever way you look at it. Amongst the revellers were new Currencies Direct client Blind Lemon Milsted who lived up to is epithet by picking up the guitar to play some hot ad-libbed blues in the evening. I say hot because the subject was mostly curry. He was joined by local estate agent and talented mouth organist Jeroen Zaat. This is his real name, not the usual nickname that I apply at a whim. Who needs to give him a nickname with that moniker? I would have been rightly criticised for making up something utterly unbelievable. For all that he is an excellent chap and he and Marina, who do not share the same surname but appear to an item, are amongst the guests invited today. I shall be asking the usual impertinent questions.
Roly (on the left) tries rather unmanfully to resist Loudmouth Largy
As the evening drew on, I was able to capture a moment of pure man love when I captured this image of Loudmouth Largy and Roly Bufton celebrating Roly’s birthday in a manner beloved by former public schoolboys the world over. Luckily he did not see yesterday’s post in which I overestimated his age by some 30 years. It was a significant birthday and although I should not reveal the exact score, it is fair to say that he will not be needing to buy any more train or bus tickets ever again. So with the candle well burnt at both ends, we shall be trying to light the middle of it today. My invitation to lunch at my house has been received, accompanied by a string of instructions and an enormous shopping list, so joy of joys, I shall be at the supermarket this morning with my biggest credit card, trying to ensure that a score or so of thirsty revellers do not run out of wine, spare ribs and meatballs. As the Wingco is rumoured to be amongst those attending (if he arrives in time) the watchword will be quantity. I am eagerly awaiting a view of the attire today of The Cornish Tsunami, Matt Frost, who will no doubt be attending with his carer wife, the lovely Viv, to see what one should not be wearing this summer. He has form in this area, all of it bad. He thinks sartorial is the day before Sunday.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Like a Jaggar to my heart
So lunch was taken in Valbonne Square at the Auberge Provençal, a favoured sheltered summer position in the shade on the southern side of this lovely Provençal village square. I would have preferred to have saved myself 90 euros and watched the cricket, but it is not as entertaining when Australia are doing well, so, on balance, it was money well spent. Whilst lunching, That Nice Lady Decorator actually said that she preferred me across the table. I am afraid I cannot remember exactly in which context she made this remark but am afraid that I was ungallant enough to misinterpret that comment and suggest a different context from that in which the comment was undoubtedly made. I am sure that the application of bandages and Savlon will be enough to repair the damage and that I will make a full recovery in the next few weeks, once the bruises have gone down.
As no day can go by without our planning to attend at least two social occasions in any 24 hour period , it was perhaps inevitable that, upon hearing that there was a Rolling Stones tribute band due to play at nearly Le Rouret last evening, we would plan to be there to witness it. However an astonishing thing happened. That Nice Lady Party Animal hit a brick wall and could not be roused from her siesta. Normally, it is I who is dragged, metaphorically screaming, from my siesta pit to be subjected to whatever social occasion she has in store for me, so it was a bit of a surprise that she should conk out whilst I was hale and hearty, although after a large beer and three carafes of vin blanc at lunchtime, a normal person would expect as much.
Thus last night I was beginning to think I would spend quietly, contemplating the infinite, and the infinite benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct, over a small glass of wine and fine cigar, alone in the pav, and do you know what? Had that been the case then there would have been no arguments or disagreements at all!
Sunset off Cannes
Then, just as dusk was getting a grip, She emerged from the house, having scrubbed up quite well, and announced that we were, indeed, going to see the French Mick Jaggar impersonator.
Today has a distinctly Indian theme. A buffet prepared by the Kashmir Indian restaurant in Valbonne has been commissioned to help celebrate Roly Bufton’s birthday. He is coy about his exact age, mumbling something about early 60’s but I think that was when retired. I would put him in his early 90’s but he is very sprightly for that. When I was first told there was to be an Indian theme I began collecting feathers so that I could make an Indian head dress but then I thought about the buffet and thought I might be very happy to see off an Indian, so my thoughts turned to more of a John Wayne look ( although i will never get that mincing walk). As it stands I am stuck between the two. Guns or feathers? Sound like the name of a band.
Then on Sunday, because it has been so quiet and we have done so little socialising recently (irony), we have decided to have a lunch at ours. When I say we, I found out about our decision when I overheard a telephone conversation inviting someone to said lunch (I know not who). Doubtless I shall receive my instructions in due course as to the provisioning of this event, to which I have high hopes of being invited, some time today. I have heard the expression bones and balls, so I would like to think that the theme will be spare ribs and meatballs, but I may have misinterpreted.
Chris France
That’s me in the corner
I once had my picture taken with REM. I said to That Nice Lady Decorator “that’s me in the corner”. Last night then to Tourette’s Sur Loup to meet old pal and drummer Jaren Lamb showcasing his new group in a splendid setting in the centre of this beautiful village. I have a picture of the event as today’s photo. Enjoying a dinner in the pretty old square, a carafe of wine and then being able to see the music from ones seat is my kind of rock and roll these days. The band were great and the girl singer exceptionally good, both vocally and performance wise. There seemed to have been a name change on the night, now being called Apetown, by an entirely undemocratic process where the first singer announced she did not like the name they had chosen (which was so complicated I have forgotten it), and announced the name when on stage, much to the chagrin of the other band members.
We went to escape the ghastly memories of the night before in Valbonne Square when I had experienced bullying, assault, and literary hooliganism at the hands of Mr Clipboard. My luxuriant handle bar mustache survived with just a little fire damage as a result of a close encounter with his lighter, and I did not want to be reminded of the ritual burning of a copy of my book The Valbonne Monologues. It was not the burning itself that upset me, it was the fact that he stole it rather than bought one to burn like he did with my first book some years ago.
Apeland in Tourettes Sur Loup
So after a lovely evening we settled down to sleep in Bluebell the camper which I had coaxed up the hill earlier in the evening. All was well until the sun got up, so it was an early start back to Valbonne. My phone was in need to attention, hence the late post again today, I had a row with the cretins at Vodaphone who will be losing my business the moment I get back to the UK. I had thought my insurance I had with them was supposed to cover the loss or damage to my iPhone but, and here is the catch, to be able to get it repaired I have to take it into a Vodaphone shop in the UK, a trifle difficult when in France for the summer, and not exactly in touch with my green credentials, and rather too expensive and time consuming to consider flying back. How ridiculous that they would not accept a courier. However a quick trip to Cap Trois Mille, at St Laurent du Var to the Apple shop, and the problem was fixed, but the damage as far as my phone supplier is concerned has been done.
Slightly hung over I had hoped to slouch on the sofa in front of the TV watching the third test between England and Australia and to consider how best further to promote the astonishingly good foreign exchange service offered by Currencies Direct, but That Nice Lady Decorator had other ideas, and so I am about to be dragged from the comfort of my sofa to have lunch. Mind you with those convict Australians doing so well, that might be more fun. As I was able to tell my Australian pal Larry Smith; England has a glorious past, Australia just has previous.
Lunch with Roly and Poly on Saturday in temperatures forecast to be as high as 35 degrees, will make the choice of buffet food, Indian, very interesting. I love a hot curry but am not sure I want a curry when it is hot. I will let you know how it goes.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
@Valbonne_News
More fire-work in Valbonne Square
I would not have thought that he would take it so badly, but the Wingco, fresh from his thrashing by my good self and Mr Clipboard, (albeit by dint of a closely fought tie break) seemed rather deflated by his defeat when we met up later in Valbonne Square. Or it may have been because we have all recently noticed his resemblance to Josef Stalin and commented upon it to his clear discomfort.
It was an impromptu gathering, decided upon after early evening tennis at the Vignale. Being Mr Clipboard’s last evening in Valbonne before his long drive back to the UK tomorrow, he was understandably keen for it to be a memorable occasion, and he clearly wanted to make his mark but sadly the mark he wanted to make was on me.
Many of you, my dear readers, will know that nowadays I sport a splendid handlebar moustache which, on special occasions, I wax in a Daliesque manner, not to wind him up as was his contention (I may be being slightly disingenuous here) but more in recognition of a special occasion. All was going splendidly. We had eaten quite well, a slightly unusual occurrence at Cafe Des Arcades in high season, and were at the coffee and limoncello phase of the meal when I suddenly smelt burning. An attempt was made from over my shoulder to set fire to my moustache, which may have succeeded had it not been waxed. This Public School boy prank caused vast amusement to all those present but I know jealousy when I see it.
We had spent much of the evening talking about me and my latest book The Valbonne Monologues and this column and I think he just snapped. However, with the bit between his teeth or, more accurately, the lighter in his hand, he proceeded to steal a copy of said tome from That Nice Lady Decorators handbag and attempt, Nazi like, to set fire to it as my picture today shows. I know the book is hot stuff, some might even say a “firey” tale but this is going too far.
One for crimewatch?
So clear evidence of a crime, which a less charitable chap than myself, would be putting in front of the judiciary and asking for a very long sentence (something for which this column is often renowned but with a very different meaning). However, he is a valued Currencies Direct client and, as such, I shall overlook this literary barbarism on this occasion, as long as the 10 euros, the cost of the book, is forthcoming shortly.
The Wingco commented that had my name been St John rather than Chris, I could use the epithet singeing from now on, which although quite amusing, was a little too close to the truth. Also a witness to this event was Dancing Greg Harris from Côte D’Azur Villa Rentals , who was the other half of the tennis partnership that had slipped to defeat earlier in the evening. Even his gazelle like antics at the net were insufficient, but he was more dwelling on a much more serious loss as a result of the demise this week of fellow rental company French Entree, without paying some of the villa owners on whose behalf they had received rentals, but equally buoyed by the future opportunities represented by the loss of a major competitor.
Some rock and roll this evening over in Tourette’s Sur Loup where we are invited to witness the first performance of a band called Apes And Their Sister, featuring Mougins School drum guru Jaren. Lamb. I think bluebell the camper will be pressed into service. Did you notice that I did not make a joke about Tourette’s? …yet
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
@Valbonne_News
Fireworks catch fire shock
Jealousy is a very emotive word. The green eye of this avaricious commandment was much in evidence when I rocked up to the Vignale tennis club yesterday morning in my hand tailored green matching shorts, or “pyjamas”, as one jealous former Public Schoolboy described my matching lime green shirt and shorts ensemble, but I am not stupid. I can see jealousy when it is staring me in the face. He has clearly never before had the foresight to go to Kenya, where this natty outfit was made to measure for me in 24 hours for less than £6, under 8 euros at today’s very competitive Currencies Direct exchange rate. I still don’t like That Nice Lady Decorator’s description of me (the jolly green giant) when so stylishly attired.
The tennis was of a high standard, at least as far as I was concerned, but I was deeply let down by my partner of the day, Blind Lemon Milsted, who managed to live up to the “blind” portion of his epithet on the tennis court, to the extent I am not sure we actually won. But who really cares which team is victorious when you are playing in bright sunshine with good friends and have the added prospect of lunch afterwards at Auberge St Donat? Certainly not I, although our opponents referring to themselves as “les cocks sportives” was mildly inflammatory. When I decided not to make an issue of this clear intent to rile me, and made some gentle sporting remark in praise of the other team, comprising the Wingco and Mr Clipboard, the Wingco remarked that there was “No need to be self-deprecating, other people will do that for you”.
Talking of inflammatory, we went last night to see the fireworks in Cannes, this time presented by France. The show itself was very impressive but what was really exciting was what happened afterwards. One of the barges from which the fireworks are launched caught fire and continued the display, although in a less orderly fashion, for at least half an hour after the appointed finish time, with fire crews in attendance. I have a picture of one particular unscheduled explosion.
Fireworks go wrong in Cannes
Aboard L’Exocet were several of the usual suspects including Loudmouth Largy and the redoubtable man mountain Peachy Butterfield. Peachy was in his usual ebullient mood, but we were all glad when he moved away from the fireworks side of the boat as it was listing alarmingly under the weight of the mountain. Being a non swimmer, I had bravely eschewed the wearing of a life jacket, mainly, it has to be said, because of the Master Mariner Mundell prank of pulling the toggle and inflating it when I was wearing it on my first trip out, much to his and the amusement of everyone else aboard. He declared it was the best 30 euros (the cost of recharging it) he had ever spent. However, whilst Peachy was perched, I rather less bravely kept an eye on the life jacket store.
I am seeing some alarming pictures if a tornado which accompanied the vicious thunderstorm which hit the Côte d’Azur on Monday morning. It seems that the storm ruined many of the pre prepared fireworks, many if which had to be replaced at short notice, and may well have been the root cause of the unscheduled later display.
The last tennis with Mr Clipboard will take place this evening before he returns to England. He says it is because of pressure of work, but as he has not had a job for a very long period of time (much like blind Lemon Milsted), I suspect that he has become tired of the beatings he has had to endure at my hands on the tennis court, and is scurrying back for some relief and lessons.
Chris France
When the cat is away…
A sudden and extreme thunderstorm swept through the Côte D’Azur yesterday morning, rearranging much of my poolside furniture, much of it being swept into the swimming pool itself, and making a mockery of the idea of leaving the windows in the house open . In England we often get sideways drizzle, this was more like a sideways monsoon, which felled trees across the province, and had us trapped in the chalet for half an hour before relenting. But as is normal, the sun returned and by lunchtime, the tennis having been postponed, I found myself at La Cantina in Mouans Sartoux for lunch with Mr Clipboard and his beautiful wife Ashley.
Normally well turned out, Mrs Clipboard was distressed, as was I by the greasy marks besmirching her very lovely turquoise dress, claiming that as she had left the house she thought she had splashed herself with water. Frankly, I was the one that needed to be splashed with water , but that was another story, for which I do not have room in today’s, Currencies Direct inspired missive. Suffice to say that the lovely Ashley and a little bit of dirt was a rather lovely concept to embrace over lunch, and I do not want to dwell on her gentle rubbing of the flimsy floaty cloth whilst we ordered.
Former public schoolboy and Old Wellingtonian Mr Clipboard, was at his upper class and politically incorrect best when That Nice Lady Decorator expressed an interest in some glacons (French for ice cubes) In order to keep her wine cool. Mr Clipboard’s eyes lit up when she made the order as he had heard “garçons” instead glacons, and was all set for some public school “entertainment” as a result. I am certain that, although very well masked, his sense of disappointment when they arrived, rather than some delicious young boys was palpable. The meal was exemplary, with home made fois gras, and an excellent scallop and prawn risotto which was up there with the best. I smell a Michelin star somewhere in the future.
Wind can be a fearful enemy. I myself fear the wind, from wherever it may come. It is true to say that I have been accused in the past of producing wind at a rate and with a strength of aroma that has not always found favour amongst my friends. There is a curious subjective influence at work here. One’s own emissions are nearly always the subject of immense self satisfaction and even joy, but when one is subjected to other people’s inferior productions, I confess that I am often less enamoured. The wind yesterday was of a much more ambivalent aroma. Often after a storm one can be subjected to the mistral, and although yesterday was breezy, it was a very pleasant kind of wind. However, it did have the effect of postponing the Cannes firework display, due to be staged by the French, until this evening, when we hope to attend aboard the Master Mariner’s sailing boat.
Carved into a rock in the Valmasque
With no evening social engagement, we decided on a walk with the dogs, during which I took today’s photo, but that just created a thirst. On a Monday night, even in high season, which is now, many a bar and restaurant remain closed. This is not true of The Queens Legs, which is (are?) open every day, but may soon be closed for good. It seems that our village pub may have been an outlet for unscrupulous people supplying Colombian marching powder and the French equivalent of its landlord is currently detained by the French at the equivalent of her majesty’s pleasure whilst investigations continue. We stayed with the black stuff, Guinness rather than the white powder.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
@Valbonne_News
Sheepish golfer
I have missed him. I played golf yesterday with Steve Weston who achieved undesired fame in my first book after he revealed that he liked sheep and then compounded that by sending me a picture of his favourite fluffy lamb. Mercilessly pilloried in this column and in my first novel, Summer In The Côte d’Azur for his ill judged revelations in front of witnesses of his love of this farm animal, mainly because I deliberately misinterpreted his words, he was understandably not best pleased to see me on the sheet to play with the Landlubbers golf group for the first time in a year. His first reaction was to talk of finding some Sellotape so he could keep his mouth shut.
On the contrary, I was delighted to see him because I was carrying some copies of my newest book all 4 of which were sold on the day), and he took the hint that perhaps it might be a good idea to buy a copy as a kind of ransom, although I would prefer the description of an insurance policy. We came to a tacit agreement; if he bought a copy then I would not be rude about him, well, not that rude anyway, if he did not then the gloves would have been off. To his eternal credit he purchased a hardback copy at a mere 15 euros (some £13.50 at today’s Currencies Direct Exchange rates) in an attempt to head me off at the pass (he might make to his favourite sheep). Thus he is in the clear but I am not sure he will be so willing to buy another copy when I next see him, it being clear to me that, although he has acquitted himself in an exemplary fashion today, he will need to do the same whenever we meet in the future to ensure that I am not tempted further to investigate his peculiar love of sheep. I can see the current sales total of 120 rising continually over the summer.
The new last hole at Chateau Begude
Now to the golf. 4 litres of water was my intake over the 18 holes, so hot was the weather on the way around. Although the was heat was in part to to blame (at 34 degrees, even too much for me) for a very considerable deterioration in the second half after a bright first nine, most of the blame must lie with Peter Bennett from Blue Water Yachting, who was complicit in the ordering of at least three post dinner large cognacs the night before at Terra Rossa. He seemed very alert to the fact that I was paying (as a small recompense for his kind offer of accommodation at his fabulous mill in Cornwall in June). Perhaps he was ensuring he received his pound of flesh but I would question the timing. He knew we were due on the golf course at 9 am yesterday morning and yet he actually allowed me to order cognac. His motives need to closer examination.
The course at Chateau Begude has not been improved by the recent changes. The first 9 are still so much better by far and a decent challenge, the back 9 are drudgery and I shall not be rushing to play there again.
The result was that the golf was well controlled for the first half, and I was heading to victory, but as the heat and the cognac took their toll, the quality of the golf reversed somewhat and a chap with a bandits sombrero cleaned up.
Tennis and fireworks today, although hopefully he same time. There is another firework display in Cannes this evening so lets hope there are no more fireworks aboard the Master Mariner Mundell’s boat this evening. With Dangerous Jacqui Lawless away, there is a chance it will be quieter than is sometimes the case.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Smoke on the water?
Another beautiful sunny and hot day yesterday, but without a pre-planned engagement in sight, allowed me some quiet time to catch my social breath and look back at the last weeks events. I began to examine the photographs on my phone and found one, that I feature today, of Sprog 2 demonstrating that it is possible to swim whilst smoking a cigarette. I cannot quite work out how she managed it, but it is a feat worse than death.
Today will be my first outing with The REGS, the Riviera Ex-pats Golf Society spin-off group, The Landlubbers, for over a year. Having become accustomed whilst living in Valbonne (until the French tax system made it impossible) to the laid back approach of French golf clubs, plus the fact that one tends not to bother to play if the weather is anything less than perfect, and that wind is seldom a factor, the idea of playing golf at all in England in the last year filled me with gloom.
That whole English “ramrod up the arse” etiquette nonsense that pervades many a UK golf course is anathema when you have played in France. I hate that upper-class, toffee-nosed, misplaced superior attitude, perfectly epitomised when I was told at my old club in England some years ago that I may be in danger of getting a “brown envelope”from the Chairman if I did not wear socks in the bar or tuck my shirt in, is just the type of attitude that I wish to avoid when at leisure. Golf is a sport, a leisure activity, not a hidebound parade where dress code is everything. Anyway I must change the subject before I get angry. Nurse, more tranquilisers please.
It’s good to have water around you when partaking of a dangerous habit that involves fire.
Being back in the bosom of France, and with the sun shining and with a 10 euro wager safely pocketed during my golfing comeback earlier in the week, I set off today to Chateau Begude with a sense of massively displaced optimism. If I know one thing, it is that when one is happy with one’s golf, that is when it turns and bites you. I shall be hoping for an opportunity to air the best golfing sayings that I heard recently; an Abdul Hamza (hooked and out of sight) and a Bin Laden (topped and in the water) are my favourites from a new crop of golfing expressions, although the Douglas Bader (looked good in flight but did not have the legs) remains my favourite.
I am getting a lift with Currencies Direct affiliate Peter “Blue Water” Bennett, and by way of preparation, despite having no previous plan, we ended up at Terra Rossa in Valbonne Square last night. All I did was check what time I was to be collected this morning and, as neither of us had anything planned for the evening, the inevitable impromptu dinner developed.
As head honcho of the best yacht charter and crew training company in the Riviera, it is his job very often to deal with celebrities and so it was he who spotted Tessa Daly and Vernon Kay sitting with their children (although I accept it could have been someone else’s children) at the same al fresco restaurant. Apparently one is famous for appearing on Strictly Come Dancing and one is renowned for appearing on a number of other similarly trite TV programmes, but I am proud to say I know not which, nor who is which. I am told that they are regulars in Valbonne but would hesitate to say that she comes Daly. Anyway, a thoroughly satisfying dinner was taken on board and a great deal of postprandial cognac was consumed and I now have a very sore head, which I shall be carrying around all morning. Peter Bennett I hate you.
Chris France
An old bore writes
Whilst we partook of a cold beer after an excruciatingly hot but very enjoyable 90 minutes of tennis at the Vignale yesterday, I spotted a chap playing on the show court (where naturally I expect, without any foundation, to play,) a chap that looked like he may be able to give even myself a run for his money on the tennis court. Benoit Paire (for it was he) was giving some kind of exhibition, but had the small group who had gathered to watch him, spent some time watching our doubles match instead, they may have learned a thing or two about life and tennis.
He may be ranked No 27 in the world and No 5 in France, but I reckon I could teach him a thing or two about the deep lob (as opposed to the half lob, about which I have been told but never experienced) had he deigned to leave his teenage coterie and come over to talk to some real tennis players. He did not, so his chance to receive a signed copy of The Valbonne Monologues from the successful author himself, went begging.
A quick internet search showed his pedigree, and another French name, above Benoit in the rankings, one Richard Gaskin, prompted the Wingco to comment that he believed that M. Gaskin had blown it, which was a joke I wished I had made.
Wild boar near Auberge de la Source
Later, we lunched, as is the tradition, at Auberge St Donat, in a group of 10 before leaving for a pit stop at pav 2 with Roly and Poly Bufton on the way home. It was whilst we were considering events over several glasses of rose that the matter of the tip at the restaurant came to be discussed. I am always of the opinion that a generous tip is a wise investment in the future at any eateries which are sufficiently good to deserve another visit. It is the kind if wise financial move a little like ensuring that ones foreign exchange needs are taken care of by Currencies Direct. In other words it is an example of financial probity.
Peachy Butterfield was allowed out for a rare lunch and whilst on the surface embracing the concept of the tip, reverted to typical northern type when he made it clear that the only gratuity our delightful French waiter could expect might just be a tip about life, rather than having any monetary value. When pressed his tip was “don’t boil woollens” which is, in its own way, worthwhile, if not quite what had been hoped for. It may have been a tad more useful if the poor chap understood English, particularly when delivered in a nasal northern whine.
You would think, as I did, until I was disavowed of that opinion, that as we had endured a long day with plenty to drink and full on social experience, that a quiet evening at home might be a wise course of action to follow. Thinking is clearly for dummies as That Nice Lady Decorator, having awoken thirsty from her siesta, wanted to be taken to the Auberge de la Source at Sophia Antipolis for a walk along the river and a couple of beers thereafter. The fact that I had played tennis for two hours in 33 degree heat was as nothing, and so I was forced into a route march around the Valmasque from where we took today’s picture of the sanglier, wild boar, also out for an evening stroll. There must be a joke that a lesser writer than myself might make here about borish behaviour, but not I, oh no.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Partying goes through the roof
So first, lets go back to the events of Monday. As I alluded to in yesterday’s column, a long lunch at Auberge St Donat coupled with an elegant sufficiency of rosé and the joy of being back in the South of France in the sunshine, somehow combined to wreak havoc on That Nice Lady Decorators 4×4, otherwise known as the skip (due to the amount of rubbish constantly in board). It is not often a garage will be asked to effect repairs to the roof of a vehicle but I fear that, as a result of the antics of one Decorating persons high life in Valbonne, a local garage will shortly be receiving an unusual repair request. By high, I mean of course, high up on the vehicle. I have a picture which I think illustrates the nature of the problem.
Alas, with no tables upon which to dance, one has to improvise
Yet another sublime day amongst the idle rich was spent yesterday aboard Sea Breezes, formerly known as Sea Breeze, the fabulous boat owned by Roly and Poly Bufton. It seems that there is another boat registered by the same name so more wind was required. Had I been asked I am sure I could have contributed.
A train to Antibes, and a short walk to Port Vauban and we were aboard by 10.30, but resisted the offer of a drink until the sun was close to, but not over, the yardarm. Like at Lords last week, it somehow seems to be socially acceptable to have a glass of champagne in ones hand at 11.30 as one cruises out of the port on the way to Villefranche Sur Mer, where we anchored for lunch.
Whilst getting to grips with the champagne lake aboard, I heard a touching tale (apparently true) about two eye doctors, one of who was a Currencies Direct client, who met on a blind date. I made a note about this eye opening scenario but decided that it was too obvious a theme about which to make a joke so, resolved not to make a spectacle of myself by trying.
A few other interesting facts came to light; it seems that Sea Breezes can cruise at 8 knots and burn a mere 20 litres of diesel an hour (that is about 2 miles to the gallon by my reckoning) but if one raises the speed to 12 knots then the miles per gallon worsens considerably. I am told that 190 litres an hour can be consumed at that rate, making the equation more gallons to the mile than miles to the gallon. Suffice to day that we cruised to Villefranche at 8 knots.
After a very agreeable lunch on board and some excursions in kayaks by some of the more adventurous on board (and here I do not include myself) we returned to Antibes, where we felt the calling from the Hop Store for a pint of Guinness, before catching the last train back to Mouans Sartoux.
It is nice that there is still at least one Irish bar in the area from which That Nice Lady Decorator has not been barred, so the temptation to get off the train at Cannes and have a nightcap at Morrison’s ( from which one member of our party is barred) was never the subject of serious discussion, mainly because the carriage on the train was being regaled with snores of the most cacophonous kind as we pulled into Cannes. I swear that more people that one would expect alighted at Cannes to avoid the noise pollution.
More tennis this morning will be followed, I am almost certain, by lunch at Auberge St Donat. If it were not then it would almost be an affront to tradition. Talking of affronts to tradition, Blind Lemon Milsted has declared himself unavailable on the spurious context that it his daughters birthday. This is a very poor excuse as there are bound to be dozens of other birthdays and as a result we may have to take another chance on Loudmouth Largy, who will almost certainly let us all down again, this time by turning up.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Money goes to ones head
Charley the Spy and his lovely wife Lizzy finally departed yesterday morning, but I managed to get a photo of of two golfing pals, one rather happier than the other, after the ceremonial handing over of the customary 10 euro wager (£8.50 or so at today’s very competitive Currencies Direct exchange rates). It was a relief as they were entirely to blame for the pictures on Facebook yesterday relating to a certain Decorating operative dancing on the roof of her car after lunch yesterday,will have to wait until tomorrow, No, I have no idea why she would want to dance on her car but perhaps there were no tables available?
A spy and a successful author
You would think that playing tennis at 11 am for two hours in 32 degrees heat and bright sunshine might be enough exercise for the day, but The Wingco had other ideas. Over a refreshing ale following a fine victory by me in American singles, before the rules were changed, he accepted an invitation on our behalf to play again at 7 pm, this time with Master Mariner Mundell and dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villas.
There was the small matter of lunch to be dealt with first, and although later than normal, the Wingco managed to sweet talk the waiter at the Auberge St Donat into serving just the main course and a desert whilst we limited our intake to merely a bottle of wine and an extra glass between us. This was after several litres of lager at the Vignale, and represented a very considerably curtailed intake compared with yesterday ahead of more tennis in the evening.
However, I must issue a public rebuke to Loudmouth Largy. He was not at all loudmouthed today because he did not turn up, nor did he answer his phone and so unless he is dead or at the very least seriously injured, there can be no excuse for leaving three chaps on a tennis court bereft of a 4th. I dealt very easily with the subsequent American tennis, which is played by three people, winning by a handsome margin before the two public schoolboys, The Wingco and Mr Clipboard, changed the rules and then conspired together to ensure I would not win their newly adjusted regulations. Mr Clipboard should be particularly ashamed given his obvious attempts to lose, so that I could not win. Thereafter we had all the usual insincere claptrap about playing the game but his guilty expression shone through. He should be ashamed? But that would require a conscience and I believe he is still searching for his.
A day of quiet solitude and contemplation was really what we so should be looking at today, but the social merry go round refuses to slow up, and so we are on the train to Antibes this morning to spend a day aboard Sea Breeze, the splendid Fleming cruiser belonging to Roly and Poly Bufton. As I write it seems uncertain as to whether we shall be dining on board or going to a restaurant, but Juan les Pins is a fab spot in summer. Either will be bliss in the continuing hot and sunny weather, which seems at last to have departed dear old England.
Four more weeks of this life will see me having regained all those lost pounds but I put it down to water retention due to the heat. That Nice Lady Decorator does not entirely agree, considering it to be more of a case of fat retention, but nothing could be further from the truth. I am shaped like a whippet.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Fashion victim spotted in Valbonne
Upon reading yesterday’s column, in which I suggested that the Spy within, our house guest, Charley The Spy, has found a way of avoiding a clash on the golf course, pleading gout, he was so overcome with shame that he suggested that he may be able to endure 9 holes. Modesty forbids me to record the exact scale of the defeat he suffered or indeed the outcome but the more perceptive of my readers will have worked out the result. There as an old golfing expression which alludes to the humiliation on this scale; “a dog licence” which in old money (as opposed to the new money in which Currencies Direct deal for all your foreign exchange needs) was 7 and 6. For non golfers it a means that a you have won by six holes with seven to play, which is a thrashing. The margin yesterday was merely 4 and 3, which, over 9 holes represents a defeat on a similar scale. I have a picture of him below, which just goes to show that check should never been worn with stripes.
The Spy attired in check with stripes? no, no, and no.
During our round we began discussing cars and what we would like to own. My personal choice would be a Bentley Azure, the last great shape made by this marque before it went all football wives on us. Charley the Spy wanted, quite predictably when you think about it, a Spyder, made by Alfa Romeo, which are lovely looking cars but break down all the time.
As day follows night, golf was followed by lunch where the great exploits of one of the players, and the woes of the other were discussed and there was the ritual handing over of the wager of the customary 10 euro note, which I may or may not have been sporting stuck on my forehead before we ate. There are often some interesting culinary delights on the fixed menu of Auberge St Donat and yesterday one of the courses was, I think, tongue in mushrooms, and was delicious. This led to a discussion about the most exotic foods any of us has consumed. As they probably have never said; the Spy has it. Well, the son of the Spy who, when in Japan, as a special treat one New Years Eve, ordered his father some Fish sperm.
A diversion after lunch to see Roly and Poly’s new pav was the start of the descent into the wonderful abyss of alcoholic gratification. The Master Mariner Mundell hoved into view in early evening, dropped anchor and settled into my stock of rosé and after that things became a bit hazy. I do have a note on my phone about William of Orange lacking appeal, but cannot recall in which context this was said.
I do recall the Master Mariner asking Charley the Spy what he did for a living. It is the only time I have ever seen the Master glaze over as he listened to the interminable description of his cover, and, like many before him, came to the obviously spooky conclusion.
With the Spy off today on a new assignment elsewhere in Provence, my attention this morning will turn to tennis. A match has been arranged for later this morning between a successful author (who sold two more copies if his book The Valbonne Monologues yesterday), the Wingco, Mr Clipboard (who has a brief exeat from his family duties) and Loudmouth Largy. The usual rules apply. When I win in whatever partnership I am placed, there will be loud trumpeting of this sporting feat, should there be an unseen reverse in fortunes than I fear the pressure of space in this column may consign any coverage of that outcome to the cutting room floor.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Subterfuge?
I caught House guest Charley the Spy yesterday reading the personal column of my Sunday Times and suspected he was up to his old spook like tricks. These columns in newspapers were often used in the world of subterfuge in the old days to pass on coded messages. I wondered if he had anything to do with Iran because it seems they are using a lot of subterfuge to make enriched uranium.
There, that has got the sparkling wit and prose for which this daily column is justly unrenowned off to its usual dodgy start. I do like to set the bar low from the outset as I find I do not have much to live up to.
Yesterday That Nice Lady Decorator brought her new toy, a Pimms dispenser, out to play. It is a large glass bowl with a tap, enabling one to prepare a vast amount of this traditional English drink to save all that irksome mixing every time a jug is finished. It is also important to have the lemonade quite cold but never wanting to do things by halves, she decided to put some bottles in the freezer, for far too long as it turns out, and as my picture today captures. When opening frozen lemonade, apparently one should expect a fizzing maelstrom of bubbles and liquid. She did not expect it and had to hold the bottle in the container until the storm had abated.
How not to prepare a pimms
So over several large goldfish bowls of Pimms, we discussed what delights from Valbonne we should embrace with out house guests and decided that the traditional dinner in Valbonne Square was a must. We decided to avoid the Cafe Des Arcades whose kitchen does not seem to be able to maintain its usual high standards when the tourist season is at its height, so we decided instead to go to Terra Rossa on the other side of the square.
Over dinner, discussions were wide ranging but the subject I recall the best was tantric sex. The lovely Lizzy, wife of the Spy, said that she did not really understand exactly what it was. I explained to her that it was based on delayed gratification and she said that it was all gradually coming back to her. Rather ungallantly, I found that amusing but covered it up by saying that I thought 30 seconds was about as much tantric as I wanted to enjoy, and was rewarded with a stern look from that Nice Lady Tantric Decorator.
With a fine post diner cigar in hand whilst we lingered over the last of several bottles of Bandol, a digestive seemed to be in order and I suggested that a limoncello might for the bill. However, that Nice Lady Decorator described this as “sickly and disgusting” and would not countenance the idea unless it was free, in which case that was entirely different. When the offer was not forthcoming, The Spy and I decided on a cognac, which, much to her continuing disgust, was, when we called the bill, on the house. A free drink had been missed and she was not best pleased.
We retired to the pav to consider a plan for today should Charley The Spy not recover from his gout (as seems likely given that the worst thing you can do when suffering with this affliction is to take alcohol) my intended extraction of 10 euros (around £8.50 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) on the golf course, and, in the absence of retail therapy recently, the female contingent decided that we should visit the market at nearby Mouans Sartoux. To balance this out, I insisted that we should do something of my choice thereafter, so with luck we shall be initiating the Spy and his beautiful associate into the joys of the set menu at the Auberge St Donat.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Largy than life
Bluebell the camper took us to Port de la Rague to witness some fireworks. There were the real things taking place in Cannes, but we were expecting fireworks on board L’Exocet, the lovely sailing yacht owned by Currencies Direct Master Mariner Mundane, before we got to Cannes.
The reason was twofold: Old Harrovian Largy was aboard, but so was his estranged wife and children and it had a curiously restraining influence on his loud, brutish and often very funny pronouncements, at least until his wife had left after we had returned to port. We bailed about and went to sleep in Bluebell at about 1 a.m. but we discovered that the hardcore batted on until well after 3 p.m. Perhaps that was the reason they were not best pleased to see us when we arrived back at the boat at 8.30 a.m.sharp this morning, armed with baguettes and eggs as instructed the previous evening, before a desultory walk later on from where I took this picture.
Fireworks over
The second reason was to try to get to the bottom of a curious personal situation regarding Dangerous Jackie Lawless, but sadly she had a previous engagement, or was it a marriage?, something like that. With our normal hostess unavailable we had to nominate a volunteer to serve the drinks and, by a landslide, That Nice Lady Decorator was appointed, subject to review, and handled her duties extremely diligently, especially when serving herself.
The firework display viewed from the sea side looking towards the Carlton and the Martinez hotels was another wonderful spectacle, this time produced by Italy. There was a great deal of noise and lots of colour but perhaps a lack of substance, or is that too cruel a caricature? I swear I saw fireworks that looked like a white flag at one stage during the show. Of course I jest. It was almost as good as the first show on July 4th, and much better that the deficit-reducing Greeks the week before. I guess then we were lucky to get much more than a few sparklers and a Roman candle.
But back to Largy. He has an impossibly deep booming voice that has a great carry. At his peak I think he could be heard in Marseille, his peak being reached when he has consumed several litres of rosé. I believe that he was able to blot out the noise of the trains thundering past from time to time on the viaduct behind Theoule Sur Mer, but as I was comatose, I cannot be certain.
We also had two spies on board. Anthony “Dock Of The” Bay is an impossible old smoothie, as charming as James Bond and with the prescience that suggests intrigue. Charlie the Spy was the second suspected member of this secret profession, so secret that both deny it. Thus intrigue followed intrigue.
The downside of awaking in the camper, apart from the lack of toilet facilities, is that if one is parked in the sunshine, as soon as the sun is up it heats up very quickly and a lie-in is not possible. Hence the reason we were up so comparatively early. The other downside of this morning was that I thought I had lost my phone, hence the lateness of today’s slice of sparkling wit and prose, but calling it from the home phone when we got back to Valbonne, it started ringing in That Nice Lady Decorators handbag, much to my dismay.
Recovery day today, perhaps a light lunch and a few drinks in the pav this evening with our house guests, but as I write I have resolved never to drink again, and I will hold dear to that until at least early evening.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Slash and clipboard in a jolly jape
Perhaps a Bloody Mary would have done the trick but, feeling a little shabby after another big day, I settled for a cup of tea instead as we settled into the executive lounge at Gatwick Airport. It is a crime really, with all that free drink available to tired and thirsty executives like myself, but there you have it.
Nothing changed on the plane, although by this time I had recovered a little, but I stuck with the tea. The reason is that after a very pleasing few days in England, watching the ritual slaughter by the home country of the Australian cricket team , we must return to Valbonne in order to repair for the arrival of two old friends, the lovely Lizzy and considerably older and slightly crusty Charley Bailey, tomorrow for a few days. How on earth this charming and accommodating chap (who is so intelligent that it seems his brain has expanded so much it has killed the hair follicles on his scalp, rendering his almost bald) managed to snare the most beautiful maiden in Norfolk, has long since had me mystified. For many years I have asked him what he does for a living but the explanation is so long-winded and vague that I doze off during the monologue and have come to the firm conclusion that he must be a spy. The number plate in his car ends in 007 so that seems I confirm my suspicions.
Pinky and Perky have a bit of fun
Whilst I have been away, a couple of rather unsavoury public schoolboy chappies came to my house in France to steal from me, and threaten me with one of their pranks. I have evidence of this in the form of a photograph they sent me, which is my photo today, and the note which accompanied it, and I quote “We were feeling a bit poor so I thought I would nick some of your wine … when you are back Paul and I will be buggering you senseless …”.
Mr Clipboard in the right, and Paul “Slash and Burn” Thornton Allan were once again entertaining themselves at my expense, but with modern technology I have the evidence I need with which to approach the gendarmerie and have them both arrested, something I shall contemplate if my wine store bas been denuded in any way. Before laying those charges, I shall give them an opportunity to repair the situation, which at the very least should see the cellar expanded a little in recompense (perhaps a case of a decent Bordeaux should do it). If not then I shall have to consider how best to use this evidence.
Today, before the spy and his gorgeous wife arrive, I will have to go to the driving range and hit some golf balls. Not having played golf in over a year, I will doubtless be playing whilst Charlie the spy is here so practice is required. A year spent in a drizzly and cold Britain had crushed from me any desire to play but with sunshine over just about all of Europe, I feel those golf like stirrings in my loins.
Before their arrival we must make good the destruction wrought by the Sprogs who have been “in charge” of the house, helped by a coterie of friends, for the past few days. That Nice Lady Decorator has read them the riot act in a most commanding way and they have scampered off to friends houses to avoid serious retribution. However, they need money so they will have to come back some time to face the music.
Then tonight more fireworks in Cannes, courtesy of Master Mariner Mundane aboard L’Exocet. Life is tough.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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