Keane on cricket
There are few times and places when it is socially acceptable to have a drink in your hand at 11am, but in my opinion, when one is at Lords – the home of cricket – for an Ashes Test Match against Australia, and the drink is a glass of Veuve Cliquot champagne, then the cloak of acceptability fits snugly.
It was the start of a very long and entirely acceptable day, which involved a myriad of experiences, including meeting with a flighty horsey girl called Trot who is the mother of British Lions hero’s Ben and Tom Youngs. Let me start at a Trot although we all know one should learn to walk before one should run. It seems she was given this nickname as a young girl simply because her horse would not trot. I managed to get a few horsey jokes in such as “I don’t suppose play will be interrupted by rein” and wondering where all this would lead but she took it all in good humour.
Also in the executive box, amongst the dozen or so guests, were a couple of charming young men from the group Keane. Tom and Tim were huge cricket fans and That Nice Lady Decorator is a fan of their music, so they were lined up to be made to be photographed with her. They were to disappear at lunchtime to do a short acoustic set for the legendary BBC radio commentary team that comprise Test Match Special. They did not come back so I hope it went well.
That Keane Lady Decorator with Tim and Tom or is it Tom and Tim?
Now to the cricket. What a fantastic day. It has to rate as one of the best days, if not the best day, of Ashes Test cricket I have ever experienced, certainly in England. Even the epic fight back in Brisbane when England were 500 for 1 in the second innings, which I witnessed a couple of years back, was surpassed by the combination of 16 wickets falling in beautiful sunny conditions at a truly great cricket arena, whilst being supplied with complimentary champagne, beer, Pimms, wine and a very decent lunch, amongst a score of very interesting people. I do so love to see the Australians being so comprehensively out played. There will be more drama today I am sure, but in my humble opinion, we already have enough of an advantage as to be just about certain of winning, to go 2 up in the 5 match series. What deep joy. The only thing that could have improved the day would have been to secure another customer for the foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct.
Then, after a traditional celebratory pint at The Warrington, we met up with film star John Otway to chew the fat over how things are professing for Otway The Movie, and it seems these are developing extremely well. He has discovered that the minimum entry criteria to be nominated for a BAFTA is to secure 7 cinema screenings, and now has close to 50 confirmed or being discussed, so in true optimistic Otway fashion is excitedly planning his acceptance speech. I asked how the process of securing such a nomination took place, but as always with the old self promoting English Treasure, he was short on detail, long on exuberant public relation excess. We ended up at the Portman near Marble Arch for a late dinner, for two reasons; firstly it has been very good the night before, even having the two best beers in the world side by side, Fuller London Pride and Timothy Taylor’s Landlord, in that order, but was within a short stagger of our hotel.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Lords have mercy
An English paradox yesterday culminated in having to seek shelter from the sun in the afternoon. 30 degree heat in London in general and at Lords in particular, where I was witnessing another fascinating Test March between England and Australia at the spiritual home of cricket, had me placing my dear 85-year-old Aunt Pam at the mercy of the stewards, who helpfully found us some alternative seats in the shade. Sunshine and warmth on this scale are very wonderful when one is sitting around the poolside in the south of France, but not nearly so welcome when seated directly in the sun on an elevated terrace.
Lunch in the Coronation Gardens at Lords
There is a comments section at the end of this daily missive, allowing people to make their views felt, often when the feel they have been wronged. Yesterday there was a contribution from Currencies Direct customer, Old Wellingtonian and good friend Mr Clipboard. I have the right of approval on all comments, and have allowed his to be published for several reasons. Firstly because, despite his protestations to the contrary, he clearly reads this column avidly, secondly because it contains a very poor piece of grammar that a former “grammar school oik” as he often describes me, spotted immediately, and thirdly, it is factually inaccurate as 106,000 hits on this column since its inception seems to indicate that I have more than “a few dozen readers”. I suppose maths was not his string suit, or maybe he thinks I have been writing this daily tome for over 40 years?
The source of my tickets to the Test Match yesterday,and indeed my invitation into a corporate box today simply cannot be named because he has a professional career, which he hopes to continue. I always take him out to dinner afterwards at a venue of his choice in part redress for the treat of being able to attend an event so dear to my heart. Now there are thousands of restaurants in London, many, if not most, with tables available, particularly with the weather so warm and people therefore disinclined to sit inside. There is also the fact that, as I have a house in France and French cuisine is so very ubiquitous, when I come to England I tend to avoid French restaurants and search out something spicy or different. I also hate queuing with a vengeance and so, last night I found myself queuing for an hour to go eat at a French restaurant serving just one dish . L’Entrecote in Marylebone Lane had a line of about 10 people waiting quietly for a table, and, once seated, to be “treated” to curt French waiters well-practiced in the art of the Gallic shrug and the dismissive attitude, so beloved by that nations psyche. Restive is a vast understatement for how I felt before we eventually managed to get seated, and I was looking for faults from the outset . There were none. The only choice you get is how you want your steak cooked and what wine would you like. Their steaks come sliced in a delicious sauce with elements of mild curry and tarragon I think; they do not divulge the recipe. You may think this might limit the restaurants appeal but far from it. At one stage whilst we were eating the queue grew to about 50 for a restaurant that probably does not seat that many. This is an astonishing phenomenon. What bank or investor would support the concept of a restaurant with such a limited remit? And yet it was rammed with hoards of hungry diners waiting an hour or more for a table. Astonishing, and astonishingly good.
Today I shall be in that box with some members of Keane, a popular modern singing group who, I believe, will be performing on the BBC’s Test March Special at lunchtime.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Lords Prayer
Before leaving for the airport, the wonderfully endowed Jude “where’s my Baileys” O Sullivan dropped in as she happened to be passing. Her car barely made it up the drive and there was a lot of clanking of glass and her bottom was dragging in the gravel (the car, not Jude) so I surmised that she had been to the local supermarket to clear out their stock of that glutinous nonsense of a beverage that she holds so dear.
Over a small beer in the sunshine whilst I waited for my lift to Nice Airport, she revealed that she had a new dog, a Westy. She asked if I could guess the dog’s name and for reasons I cannot fathom, I never guessed correctly. Bailey. It was so obvious I should have seen it coming, the name not the dog.
Speedy boarding is as close to business class you can get on Easyjet. It is designed to ensure you can choose your seat and get on board first. Yesterday This entitled you to stand up in an in air-conditioned air bridge in full sunshine and 30 degrees heat for twenty minutes, not bad for an extra tenner a piece. However, when the riff raff, who had ordinary tickets, were allowed to board the back of the aircraft at the same time, I sensed an angry stirring in That Nice Lady Decorator which would have turned nasty had there been even a minute more spent broiling and waiting to board.
Arriving at The Thistle Hotel in Marble Arch at 6pm, it was clearly time for an early evening sharpener in temperatures similar to those we had left behind. London is not at its best when this hot as air conditioning is rare. We went to the Portman in Seymour Place with an excited Aunt Pam. It was not the 1950’s when she has seen the Australian cricket team play, neither was it the Oval as I stated in yesterday’s not as accurate as usual, sparkling prose, but the late 1940’s and Bristol where she had witnessed Wally Hammond play for Gloucestershire against the touring side, who, in those days would have arrived via a six-week cruise from that convicts delight. No Barmy Army in those days.
Fireworks today at Lords?
Last night at the Portman we were joined by the Wingco, he too being in London to go to the cricket. He reminded me that he is a loyal Currencies Direct customer, using the service diligently and then proceeded to enjoy several glasses of wine at my expense, as a “commission repayment” as he put it. When I suggested that I make mention of this in today’s column he used his favourite adjective to describe its contents; “ghastly”. But how can he know when he professes never to read and that he never will?
So today we must pray. The Reverend Jeff will be delighted but it is just a literary trick to enable me to use the headline of today’s column, The Lords Prayer. After breakfast we shall be making our way down to Lords, the home of cricket, the finest and most noble game known to man. There is a wonderful atmosphere to the first day of any Lords Test Match, but even more so when the old enemy, Australia, are England’s opponents. The first part of the prayer will be that we win the toss and bat first. The second part will be that we are still batting by close of play and the third that we have over 300 runs on the scoreboard for not very many wickets. The father the son and the Holy Ghost.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Valbonne Square and Dangerous
It was one of those days. Firstly, after a meeting with my tax advisor, it became apparent that I did owe the French tax authorities more than my entire holiday spending money, requiring the writing of a big Jeff Beck (Cockney rhyming slang for a cheque). Then, upon returning home almost destitute, I went to print out our boarding passes for the flight back to London today and realised that I did not in fact have a printer in France. 50 euros, a battle of comprehension in the computer store, and more than a few Gallic shrugs later, finally resulted in my becoming the proud owner of a new printer. However, dragging the nasty plastic contraption out of its packaging, and struggling to set it up (the diagrams were in French) it quickly became apparent that a new printer does not automatically come with a lead to connect it to a computer, so I trekked yet again into the darkest recesses of Grasse to buy one, and was just cutting the devilishly inaccessible packaging surrounding it when I noticed that there was in fact the very lead required sitting on my desk. You know where all this is leading; Not a good start to the day.
I suppose that there must be some light and shade in my life. Yesterday started positively dark. That was until early evening when the sensual and beautiful renowned interior decorator Dangerous Jackie Lawless phoned to say she was in Valbonne Square for an early evening drink, and would we care to join her? We cared. I took this picture from our table at the Cafe Des Arcades, showing the deep recession in France has yet to make a real impact in Valbonne.
Valbonne Square in a recession
Dangerous Jackie, apart from being fabulously attractive, is also especially dangerous. I have given her that epithet because of the little I know of her background. Married for a time to Barry Moat, the current or previous owner (I am not sure which) of Premiership football club, Newcastle United, until a gulf developed between them (think about it) she was involved with a number of high-profile building businesses and people before fleeing to the south of France with her son, whose father had passed away. Dangerous indeed.
She regaled us with stories which were so outlandish you could not have made them up, but I have been forbidden to go into details. Suffice to say that Dangerous has excellent networking connections, indeed she has just given me a lead for someone who is in dire need of the foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct. I suggested that she should consider writing a book about her experiences, or, better still, engaging a successful author to write it for her, but she did not appear to get the hint.
Today, in a state of mounting expectation I shall, courtesy of those fine chaps at Easyjet, be literally winging my way to London in readiness for one of the highlights of the year, the first day of the Second Test match between England and Australia. We are staying at the Thistle Hotel in Marble Arch, where I have already been stung for the bill.
I am in a quandary as to what to wear. Normally one would prepare a typical English summer outfit comprising umbrella, sweater and long trousers, but as those of you basking in the English heat wave will know, this will all be inappropriate. I have never before worn shorts to Lords, the spiritual home of cricket, but Thursday may be a first.
Also coming up to London to meet us is the redoubtable Auntie Pam, who aged 85, revealed earlier this year that she was a cricket fan and had never been to Lords, so I am about to change that for her. The last time she went to a cricket match it was to see Don Bradman play, but when she got to The Oval (in the 1950’s) she discovered that he had been rested for the day.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Aristo bashing
Anthony “Dock Of The Bay” has coined a phrase which I think will become a watchword for this column whilst I am staying in France. “Aristo Bashing” seems to me to sum up what I have to do to fight the pauper, grammar school boy corner when confronted by the Right Honourable public schoolboy brigade.
Take last night for example. Alms for the poor were being handed out by Mr Clipboard and his lovely blonde trophy wife Ashley. He had invited his poorer neighbours (us) to his sumptuous villa in Plascassier, mainly I think, to gloat over our comparative financial misfortune. Things will work themselves out though, I shall have to give him a lesson in humility on the golf and tennis courts in the next month.
I did not have a top hat and tails to hand, so had to slum it in shorts and a loud shirt, which I hoped he would see as a Bohemian contribution to proceedings. He used a different word beginning with the same letter, B. Anyway, in true Oliver Twist fashion, I was able to extract a good deal of booze and food from the Beadle, as Mr Clipboard may in future be known, before we were ejected from the mansion and told that our presence was no longer required. The phrase Please sir, I want some more was not rewarded.
Also there was the scarily tangential Slash and Burn Thornton Allan, and his lovely and especially blonde child bride, Lisa, from who I was hoping I would be able to record some pearls of blonde wisdom. Slash has a brilliant mind which very few of us understand. Brilliant in very small doses, doziness at its most brilliant. He is also an aficionado of cigars so we were able to enjoy a smoke of some of Cuba’s finest whilst partaking of the cellar of Mr Clipboard. There was one rather alarming interlude when, for some reason, Slash awoke from his trip into a different astral plane to show off what he called his “iguana face”. Apart from the iguana like facial contortions, the most worrying aspect of this look was the darting tongue. I may be wrong but I though that it was at that moment when the lovely Lisa began thinking about bed.
Views from a terrave in Plascassier
I took this picture from his terrace so that I could show how he is able to look down on some poor people, which seems to be a habit he cannot break. Normally he does not like to see poor people as it depresses him, but in my case, or, more likely in the case of That Nice Lady Decorator, he makes an exception. We were treated to the usual stories of fags (I don’t mean cigarettes) buggary and roasting oiks on fires that seems to epitomise his school days, and I was able to escape with my luxuriant handle bar moustache intact, despite a tricky moment with a lighter. Readers of my book, The Valbonne Monologues, which incidentally, sold another two copies yesterday taking the Currencies Direct inspired novel sales to a massive 115, will recall that Mr Clipboard was renamed Mr Clipbeard for a period of time after a very unfortunate restaurant “accident”, in which I was held down by four public schoolboy bullies and scalped of my lovely long goaty beard a couple of years ago. I don’t like to use the word ringleader or to suggest that he was the main instigator of this bullying (or harmless fun as he put it) but as they say, if the cap fits, wear it.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
More fireworks in Cannes
I note that yesterday in the Sunday Times there was some controversy over J K Rowling, the writer of the Harry Potter series, being unmasked as the writer of an acclaimed debut novel under a pseudonym. This may not be the only example of an accomplished writer producing material in this way, indeed who can be sure that I have not done the same? You may think that Steven King’s novels may have been written by someone else, and you may (although I suspect many of you might consider this is a long shot) consider that these may have emanated from my pen. After all, some of my writing has been described a petty scary by some of my public schoolboy chums down here in Valbonne.
Talking of Public Schoolboys, it was my honour last night to renew my acquaintanceship with the probably honourable Anthony “Dock Of” the Bay aboard the Master Mariner Mundell’s splendid sailing boat L’Exocet. We were expecting to see some fireworks and we certainly did, although I have made a promise to keep these to myself. Amongst those being marshalled on board by the Master Mariner was Dancing Greg Harris, who has still not come to terms with why he was given this epithet. I had some discussions with his wife, the glorious Marion about how he gained this name, but did not let the cat out of the bag, but whilst I was in these deep exchanges he was fidgeting in a most satisfactory way. He is assured of my silence because not only was a sponsor of my book launch in his alter ego as head honcho of Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals, but he is a valued affiliate of Currencies Direct. Just how valued you will be able to surmise by the fact that he has failed to refer a single customer to the good services of this wonderful currency exchange company in over 2 years of affiliation. However, I live in hope.
Jostling for position in Cannes
Earlier, I had been forced to take a siesta after an extremely tense morning of Test cricket when Australia very nearly pulled off an unlikely win against England despite seemingly down and out. As they edged between to what would have been a famous victory, I took to walking about the place and sweating, in a manner that Peachy Butterfield would have said was like a paedophile in a playground, so close did it get. In the end the mighty England shaved it by the alarmingly small margin of 14 runs.
A few beers to celebrate, whilst I awaiting the giant Peach’s arrival, he having invited himself for a sharpener at 4pm, was put on hold as the great (bulk of a) man was clearly ruled out of order by his long suffering and gorgeous wife Suzanne, who must have decided that a few hours in our bar, the web, would not put him in good shape for their party in Cannes last evening. Thus at 6.30 we departed in Bluebell the Camper which was to be our billet last night at Port de la Rague.
My first thought as I boarded the boat was how on earth the Master had managed to get this finger nails looking so good. Then I saw that the lovely but impossibly gay Andrea was on board and at that moment the penny dropped and I realised that, by the look of it, perhaps the Master Mariner Mundane was wearing nail polish? I have to use the word allegedly because he denied it rather too quickly and then mumbled something about libel and his lawyers.
A thoroughly good evening culminated in us staggering back to Bluebell, parked in the port, to sleep it off before returning this morning to bring you this sparkling prose. Now I am off to bed to nurse the hangover.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Hedging ones bets
I had my way and watched cricket from midday. There was however the usual trade off which involved me with shears and clippers interacting in a most unsatisfactory manner with a hedge. It was not a pleasant encounter in 30 degrees heat and on balance I thought the hedge won. Well, it lost almost as much weight as I did but it drew blood from me on several occasions, something that I was not able to match. If I was a betting man then I could have made some joke about hedging my bets, but then you know that is beneath the literary standards that I have very successfully failed to apply to this column.
Then there was the small matter of removing all the clippings. After the 1st July the local authority declare a “period rouge”, which bans all bonfires and unguarded barbecues due to the danger of forest fires. Thus all waste now has to be bagged up and taken to the tip. Guess whose job it was then to dispose of twenty large refuse sacks full of garden waste? There is not a communal bin with a mile that was not full before the first ball was bowled.
We eschewed the opportunity to go down to Valbonne village for the fireworks for several reasons; I was in a dreaded diet day which precluded the possibility of having a drink, we are off to see the fireworks in Cannes tomorrow, and that Nice Lady Decorator wanted to see what her new solar-powered lanterns adorning the sails in the web, our outside bar, would look like. These were one of the many goodies she had spent hours collecting at Ikea in the past week and she declared herself very content with the results, which you can judge for yourself from today’s picture.
Solar powered lanterns in the web
This morning we are dog walking with Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs and his flame haired beautiful wife Pat. They have as a pet a dog even more unpopular that hound that blights my life, Banjo. Their little darling is hyperactive and impossible to tire. He has amused himself recently by digging up Tony’s automatic watering system and pulling the rubber pipes laid under the lawn and gathering them in one place to await further instructions. Repairing the damage will cost a pretty penny, but as you can imagine, this will be not bother the man who invented the Internet.
Then, this afternoon, after watching England complete a memorable Ashes win over Australia at Trent Bridge, Peachy Butterfield has told me he will be popping around for a glass of rosé before we are whisked away to Port de la Rague to join the Master Mariner Mundell aboard l’Exocet. We shall once again be sailing around to Cannes to watch the fireworks, this time in celebration of Bastille Day. I am hoping to meet at least one other Currencies Direct client aboard, such is the intellectual superior level of the people who will be aboard.
Preparations must then begin for a trip to London on Thursday to the hallowed turf of Lords. The home of cricket will be staging the Second Test against Australia and I have tickets for days one and two. Cricket is the very best game in the world. That’s it. I will brook no argument. I will however be taking the profit from the sales of my book to spend, now standing at 28 euros after another sale today, bringing the total to 113 copies, but I have information that one of my distributors may have sold 9 more copies. Marina Kulik, I so hope you are not squandering my profits whilst you are in Amsterdam…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Market uplifting?
What have I done to have to put up with the sentence of visiting open air markets three times, and Ikea twice in the same week? The Reverend Jeff, who has a direct dial to god (with a small g) will probably know but will he tell me? I doubt it.
So we left the commercially redundant campsite (up to two hundred campers with nowhere to eat except in their restaurant that was closed) and headed back towards France. On the way is a town called Vingtimiglia which, quelle surprise, is renowned for its Friday market, from where I took this picture of a chap into levitation, and those of you who are paying attention will know that yesterday was Friday. This was clearly pre planned by that Decorating operative.
So, having woman handled Bluebell the camper (manhandled would have upset her and anyway, I have made enough references to camp behaviour recently) through the mountainous region of the hinterland of the Italian Riviera, my reward was yet another chance for that Nice Lady Decorator to squander money on things that we ” need”. Some of those items were clearly really needed, such as some purple magnetic reading glasses for me and some fine shorts in my size ( real man) but pashminas and silly hats? Of course It is my job to compliment her on her choice of hat, which I did to gain some brownie points, and very fine hats, yes plural, they were and indeed are.
Uplifting experience in Vingtimilia
Arriving back too late to make my meeting with the French tax office was a blow but then we found that Sprog 1 had passed his Advanced Engineering Course at Blue Water and was in need of a late celebratory lunch. Thus my plan to sit and watch the Ashes Test Match between England and Australia was supplanted by a requirement for lunch. Fancying the Auberge De La Source, an attempt to book lunch after 2pm was met with Gallic shrugs and a salad only option so want somewhere more commercially awake, the Auberge Provençal in Valbonne Square.
We were joined by both Sprogs, Roly and Poly Bufton, man mountain Peachy Butterfield and the Naked Politician. I think you can imagine that it was not a quiet and reserved lunch, Peachy does not do reserved. Thus the afternoon was already a write off and, getting home eventually, as I settled down to watch the cricket, Slash and Burn Thornton Allan arrived with that steely eyed beauty Lisa, his child bride. Only 5 bottles of the 36 bottles of prosecco that had been purchased in the morning (at 3.50 euros per bottle, less than £3 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) were sacrificed at the altar of life amongst the idle rich in the south of France. I suppose this was a result given the apparent thirst that was on display. Me? I found that I needed to sample a cheeky Chianti I picked up in Tuscany as my palate is far to sophisticated for cheap bubbles. It is fair to say that I did not see as much of the cricket as I would have liked, but it was a splendid afternoon.
Today I am doing nothing. Rien, zero, nowt. A short walk in the morning and then some gardening and then I AM going to watch the cricket. The world can march on without me until close of play, I don’t care. Six days of camper wrestling has taken its toll and I am seriously in need to some rest and recuperation, except for the writing and posting of this column, because my public expects… As The Steely eyed beauty sagely remarked on the web yesterday afternoon; if I stopped working then the whole economy would implode. It is so nice to be recognised as a worker, especially as I have successfully managed to spend 40 years avoiding getting a proper job.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Camper and camper
My reward for driving around 800km in 6 days in a 44-year-old camper, not fitted with air conditioning or power assisted steering, and with a top speed of 80kms unless you were prepared to take your life and the lives of all other motorists you encounter in your hands, was another visit to Ikea. It seems that the Nice Lady Decorator had “forgotten” to buy some very important items when I had been subjected to the first dismal visit a few days ago on our way to Tuscany. This entailed another visit to the nasty Scandy store on the way back yesterday. When pressed she did not seem to be able to identify any of these most important purchases, but was I surprised? No.
Driving any vehicle in Italy is to engage in a kind of Russian Roulette. That line in the middle of the road that Brits and most other sane driving nations use to try to ensure that one stays on ones own side of the road, seems to be studiously ignored by Italians. Perhaps they all have line blindness? At every T junction where you have the right of way, an Italian motorcycle or a Fiat Punto badly misjudge the amount of time they have to pull out in front of you. The other irritating aspect of driving in Italy is that Italians like to wait at a Zebra crossing until the last possible second and then set off across the street studiously ensuring that they look in neither direction. If they had any idea of the age and delayed response time of the braking technology with which I was fighting, then they would have been mad not to take a backwards step. Perhaps they did know and they are all mad. Perhaps, like me, they are not that keen on Italian food and are collectively in search of a quick end?
camper in italy
Anyway, exhausted after several near pedestrian wipe outs and 200km mostly uphill, and of fighting to keep Bluebell on the road, we made it close to Imperia on the Italian Riviera where we made camp. There is nothing gay about that. It was on a campsite called Frantonio. They have a deep recession in Italy, the campsite was just about full, there is no restaurant within 3kms, but was their very attractive looking open air restaurant open? Oh no. That would have been too logical. A captive audience of some 200 people on the site and you close the restaurant. It is probably open at Christmas when there is nobody here. This an illustration of the commercial aptitude of a stunned tortoise. Perhaps they were closed because they serve Italian food and nobody likes it?
Earlier, we had stopped for yet more retail therapy as That Nice Lady Decorator had spotted another market at a town called Rapallo. Being a doyen of the rap scene, I was keen to hear what Italian rappers were saying but it was all in Italian. This is of course an outrageous untruth. In reality. I have no interest in what they are saying. I am fairly certain that street references to pizza and pasta may have limited sales potential.
So the Italian camping odyssey is at an end and we shall be back in the warm embrace of Valbonne this afternoon. I have a real treat in store for me when I arrive, a meeting with the French tax authorities, who sent to want to charge me thousands in tax despite the fact that I earned nothing in the two months when I was in France last year. I really am a pauper, which is why I have to spend some of each day writing this nonsense so that you will all sign up for Currencies Direct.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Skeet Ulrich – a breakthrough
There is one very important lesson I have learned about taking a shower in a campsite; take a towel with you. So I was looking a little bedraggled, but in what I thought was quite an alluring way, when I returned to Bluebell the camper early yesterday evening all glistening and glowing, but that glow was Swiftly extinguished by that Nice Lady Decorator, who had some rather rude comments to make that made some reference to a drowned rat.
However, nothing could bring me down today. Still buzzing from the concert the evening before with Leonard Cohen, yesterday seeing the Leaning Tower of Pisa, (a nice tower than is poorly built and leans over, and is not a very large tranche of a famous Italian food, as I am sure Sprog 1 might believe), but mainly due to the breakthrough I have made in terms of adapting this working prose, dedicated to furthering the acknowledge of Currencies Direct and their excellent foreign exchange services, for the big screen.
My picture today gives it away. I have confirmed that should either he or I make the film, then Skeet Ulrich, famous for his various acting roles in Scream, Jericho and As Good As It Gets, amongst dozens of others, will play the lead, ie me. This is a massive breakthrough for him in my mind and you can see by today’s picture that he is thrilled about the possibility. In fact, he looks so like me that I believe he was born for the part (obviously with the small addition of a truly silly moustache like mine, which he told me he would grow when the time came.
famous writer meets famous actor
His wife however is the true star. A budding actress of the most beautiful and intelligent kind, Amelia Ulrich produces, writes and makes short films, whilst as an actress she had some small parts but is currently in the frame for a film, which I think will be called The Four Seasons, to be directed by none other than the legendary Clint Eastwood.
So, Pisa. Nice architecture, but it being far too hot, we did not venture upon the tower itself. The reasons are obvious; there were bars within a few yards of it that was serving cold beer and, What if a well built and heavily muscled chap such as myself should lean over on the down side of the tower? I think anyone could see a downside to that.
Driving back past La Spetzia, looking for somewhere to stay, we had almost given up hope of finding something decent when we suddenly came across a campsite in the mountains which was not listed and which had availability. Frankly, they would have had availability for Adolf Hitler it was so remote.
So, after settling in, and with no bar or restaurant with 5 miles, we turned to that traditional camping pastime of that word game of Scrabble. It has always bugged that the Nice Lady Decorator has nearly always been able to beat me over the years and it is fair to say that she has enjoyed that superiority, based I am certain, an an uncanny ability to pick up the right letters. Indeed I had ungallantly considered that she may have marked the letters in some way so she knew in advance what she was going to get. With my newly developed literary success coupled with my competitive instinct (I HATE losing at anything), It was all the more important that I won at last and I think I did. After placing the final letter I was in need of a call of nature and when I returned I found the scoresheet smouldering under the table. Poor loser indeed!
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Leonard in Lucca
The campsite in Lucca lived up to its name. Il Serchio proved difficult to find, but once the Serchio was over, and Bluebell the camper was tethered, we are able to walk the kilometre or so to the old town. What you can do in UK when it is 15 degrees takes a lot more effort when temperatures are pushing 40 degrees. It was so hot that it triggering a brief and violent afternoon storm, which forced us (unwillingly, honest) into a bar whilst we waited for it to abate.
There are two reasons for this trip to the lovely old Tuscan town of Lucca. The first is That Nice Lady Decorator has an old friend, the lovely Joanna (who looks as young as the Decorating person, which would not be unusual as they were at school together in the early 70’s but are both still only 37), who has a house nearby old town of Lucca, and she alerted us to the second, the appearance at this festival of the outstanding Leonard Cohen. Last night then, it was into the old town for an exquisite dinner outside in an old piazza until the unmistakable sounds of that dark brown voice were heard from across the square.
It was a fabulous place at which to witness a reasonably intimate performance from a one of the greatest living songwriters who has sold out the O2 on his current tour. A fraction of the numbers, some 3000 or so, were treated to beautifully staged outdoor show against a magnificent backdrop of an ancient square in this lovely town, encompassing many of those great songs from the sixties right up to date. I am a fan and there were songs that I did not know, that sounded as good as the classics.
A piazza in Lucca
Amongst our party, married to the daughter of that old school friend was the actor Skeet Ulrich. He has appeared in scores of films such as alongside Jack Nicholson in “As Good As It Gets” and “Jericho”. He was also in “Scream”, which is almost what he did when I told him that I am often mistaken for Jack Nicholson. I don’t know why I mentioned it, I guess it must be OCD kicking in.
After a few more beers than was wise, I was able to give him some tips on acting which, to his great credit, he listen to attentively, but then again he is a well established actor so it could have been him exercising his acting powers.
Having woken up the whole campsite with a late night-cap that went on until 2.30 in the morning, I was surprised to find myself up and about at 8.30, writing this daily missive for you, my fan, but the services of Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange transfers is just so good that I could not stay in bed.
Today, we shall depart Lucca on search of a nearby tower, which, I an told, should not be a pointer to Italian building standards. The Leaning Tower of Pisa is some 20 miles away, so it would be churlish not to go over and have a look and see if I can straighten it out. Then back along the coast for another overnight and possibly another on the way back to a meeting on Friday with the French tax people. What joy. Even less joy that a visit to Vingtimiglia just inside Italy, which has a market, which has been spotted onto my schedule a long time before, presumably so I can get used to the whole wretched idea.
Must go now, am going to try to sell Skeet a copy of my book. He is good-looking enough to be considered for the major role in the film of it I have told him I am making…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Who said there were no gnomes in Italy?
Who, when on holiday, idly googles Ikea? I will tell you who, That Nice Lady Decorator. So I was told, after packing up the camper, as we set off towards La Spetzia on The Italian Riviera, that we would be stopping off on the way at the Scandy furniture horror, for her to engage in some retail therapy. Genova is the worst place on the whole coast, a massive snarled up conurbation that I would have avoided like the plague had I had my way, but that was where Ikea was situated so there was no avoiding it. I was however a gentleman about it, and no time did I consider making a joke about the gentleman of Verona (Ok, I accept that the last reference was very obscure)
With the horror trip over, my having spent an hour in the Ikea cafe nursing a cappuccino, instead of with a beer over whilst looking out over the Mediterranean, we continued the drive down the Ligurian coast, which, by contrast, was very pretty and appealing with its steep wooded hills and occasional terraces of vines, and by late afternoon Bluebell the camper was settled in her new billet for the night at a campsite in the well named village (for a rock and roll impresario) of Diva Marina.
Before setting off from Finale Ligure in the morning we went for a walk around the village of Giuele, and during that perambulation I came across this setting for today’s photograph. Garden gnomes in Italy. Not just garden gnomes, but gnome like impersonations of Snow White and the seven dwarfs. That they were set against a magnificent backdrop is impossible to argue, But the fact remains there are garden gnomes in Giuele. Peachy Butterfield will be distressed, it was one of his proudest boasts that the best garden gnome displays were in the north of England.
dwarves or gnomes, you decide
Did I mention trains? As driver of Bluebell, it being a little too much “seat of the pants” driving for That Nice Lady Decorator, I am not involved in either the map reading or the choice of campsite. These decisions are entirely outside my executive responsibility. At first I was pleased with her decision, but having endured an over active church bell close by on the night before, this time it was the TGV. Until last night I had been unaware of what these three initials stood for. I can tell you now that it must be for Trains of Great Volume. Had I not been tied to the bed as usual ( old habits die hard – can I say that?) I would have been catapulted against the sides of Bluebell each time an express train passed. It was also particularly rewarding to find that, as the trains were about to enter tunnels ground out of the surrounding mountains, the train drivers felt it necessary to wake up all the campers every hour by hooting their horns. What a wonderful addition to the sounds of silence and cicadas. In between times, when no trains were approaching, everything was calm and peaceful.
Bleary eyed then this morning, we are about to commence the big push to Lucca in Italy. I do hope it is clean when I get there as I would hate to be making jokes about filthy lucre, as this kind of humour would be beneath the kind of material you have come to expect in this daily column (dedicated as it is to the services of Currencies Direct) from a doubly successful author. No, I shall be gathering my senses for an evening of rich entertainment in the company of Leonard Cohen, his band and some 15,000 Italians, none of whom will probably not understand a word.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Finger on the buzzer
There is a current fad locally for the so-called “infinity pools” where the level of the water in the swimming pool can appear to merge into the horizon. These are, for the most part, a very expensive option but That Nice Lady Decorator has found a very cheap alternative; merely forget to take the hose pipe out of ones existing pool when refilling the water lost to evaporation et voila! I was impressed with the new arrangement but to be fair, she was not as impressed as I.
It is always a good idea to get an early start when you are travelling in Bluebell the camper and have a long journey in front of you, so we set off at the crack of noon, direction Italy. Merely 30 degrees at the height of the day was suffice to overcome the air conditioning system not fitted in the 1969 hippy van, mainly because the concept of air conditioning means “open the windows wider”. There were as open as they would go and it was still hot. But there is something very endearing and intrepid about being a camper in a classic vehicle. We did not add to the score of 2 for the number of vehicles we have overtaken in the 5 years since we bought her, but speed is not what is required. If a lack of speed was the watchword then we would have been all over that like a rash. She is comfortable at 70kms per hour, will Stretch to 80 on the downhill but even the slightest incline usually means a maximum of 50km per hour. For the most part this precludes the use of motorways because it is just too darned dangerous when even cherry pickers are often travelling at a speed close to double of that of dear old Bluebell the camper.
For all that, I love driving her. Modern cars are so easy to drive, this is a challenge. There is zero chance of dozing off when you are fighting the gearbox, the steering the brakes and That Nice Lady Decorator. Talking about not being able to doze off, I ask you to consider the implications of my picture today.
I said, more wine, please
We had managed about 150kms and had reached Finale Ligure and, after seeing a couple of very unappealing campsites we found Eurocamping in the Italian seaside visage of Giuele. With Bluebell settled down for the night, and I had signed up a new customer for Currencies Direct, we ventured up to quite a smart looking restaurant (for a campsite) where That Nice Lady Decorator found a wonderful innovation that was bound to irritate the waiters. A button saying push to call. Never the most patient of people, this was a god given gift. Did they not know what they were getting into? I think after about the 50th time they must have disconnected hers. You see, when she pushed it, and a waiter didn’t appear in under 10 seconds, she pushed it again. I think she imagined that it would have the effect of a dog pacifier, giving the waiter a little electrical shock each time it was pressed. Later on, I also saw her trying to turn the dial up, presumably to see if there was a maximum setting. In fact, now I come of think of it, they changed waiters half way through the meal, perhaps she had managed to electrocute the first one?
There is an odd atmosphere about camping abroad. I could never camp in England as it is usually too cold or wet, especially at night, but with temperatures seldom dipping below 20, even at dawn, a trip to the loo (a necessity when one is at my advanced age) can be undertaken in shorts and a t-shirt, rather than a sou’wester and Wellington boots. Unless you have camped in the south of France or Italy, and been awoken by warm sunshine and the sound of cicadas then you will not understand. What I don’t understand is why the birds needed to crap on our matching blue and white stripey deck chairs. If That Nice Lady Decorator could have got get hands on them there would have been feathers everywhere.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
No kidding?
Lunch at the lovely Auberge de la Source between Valbonne and Antibes, was enlivened not only by the presence of The majestic Helen Blackburn, the widow of a giant of the English songwriting and comedy scene, Bryan Blackburn, and her beautiful niece Kathi Soni, but also by the restaurants pet goat who was clearly enjoying the rather splendid meals being prepared, as my photograph today may show.
D’Artagnan, for that was his name, at least in my mind, was adept at roaming this outdoor restaurant, when the owner was diverted, to collect bread from those tables that has been vacated. Where it went wrong was that he ate it rather than returning it to the kitchen as most waiters would do. Now I liked the idea and found the whole thing very charming, but I would like to know how this fits with the English obsession with health and safety, which is supposed to be a Europe-wide set of regulations. If a goat was roaming the garden of any restaurant in England, I think it would be in danger of being closed down on the spot? Me? I hate the whole health and safety community with a passion, interfering, as they do with the basic principles of life. I was entranced, as were a plethora of “kids” who were enjoying his antics. Go to it I say.
Talking of animals, I have to report a sad case of road kill in my drive. An old giant toad had managed to get himself run over at some stage in the last few days and had been flattened and squashed into the chippings. The driver must have known as it would have felt like mounting a kerb when he met his end.
This would get the goat of the Healh and Safety brigade
However, every cloud of a squashed toad has a silver lining; My first thought was that had Peachy Butterfield been in residence he would have been delighted, as it would have saved him craving real meat for the barbecue, and so I resolved to pick it up and put in the freezer ready for his return to his duties as my guardian in September. However, there really is no accounting for women as that Nice Lady Decorator was, to say the least, not keen on long-term frozen storage of toad meat. Women can be so contrary. This is surely a very sensible use of resources for those chaps from up north who can seldom afford meat unless it has been run over or has the breasts of a pigeon.
Anyway, back to lunch, where there was no toad, but a smidgen of goat in view. It was a working lunch as I have now extended my grip on the international music industry to cover the likes of Nana Mouskouri and Peters and Lee, charged as I now am with tracking down unpaid royalties for the deceased writer of many of their tunes. I may shortly even have a new Currencies Direct client as well, so the bill for lunch will be submitted to my long-suffering accountant for the usual argument about whether it constitutes a genuine business expense. For the record, my sirloin steak was very good and they produce some of best chips known to man, as I am sure a certain future salad du chèvre can testify.
Scouring my phone, I came across a note made at the post tennis lunch on Friday with that horrendous Harrovian, Largy. I had completely forgotten his long, loud and detailed description of having had a testicle removed in his younger days. I particularly liked his story about returning to his cricket team at Wimbledon and being greeted by the entire team raising their arms and tapping their shoulders in the way that a cricket umpire would when a batsman has not properly grounded his bat when running two or more runs. The expression, as many cricketers will know is “one short”.
Chris France
Dangerous and fireworks
An early start to collect the camper from Antibes, where we had abandoned it the previous evening on the way to see the Independence Day firework display in Cannes, was an unwelcome start to a splendid summer day. Temperatures must have been close to 30 degrees by mid afternoon, the same as promised for the UK this coming week, if you believe in fantasy. So after getting to bed at 3am, I was up at 8 to be picked up by the Naked Politician who was on his way to Antibes.
Before the fireworks commenced, Master Mariner Mundane floated past on L’Exocet. He had a party of revellers on board and one of them, Dangerous Jackie Lawless, can be seen, I think she may claim it was piloting, the boat from the front as you may be able to make out from today’s photograph.
Who is that at the front and what is she doing?
Anyway, I was not feeling at my sharpest when I ventured onto the very hot tennis court for only the third time in a year later in the morning. If that was reflected in the score then I do not recall. I know we played one immensely long set in formidable heat which could have gone either way. I feel sure that my partner, one of the crudest, rudest and amusing Harrovians I have ever met, known as Largy, for reasons that must be connected to beer intake, did his very best to ensure that we were the victors. If we failed then he will be to blame.
He joined myself and our tennis opponents the Master Mariner Mundane and Blind Lemon Milsted for the traditional post tennis lunch at the wonderfully ethnic Auberge St Donat. Blind Lemon has still not found a job, despite “looking” for nearly three years. Waiting for the phone to ring seems a curious way to find employment and a more cynical chap than I might come to the conclusion he does not really want one. I for one hope he fails as nothing must get in the way of Friday tennis, although he did say that he would ensure Friday was in his contract as a no work day should he ever find gainful employment again.
Largy was at first quite restrained, probably because, unusually for these lunches we had some girls join us, but gradually he got into his normal stride as the wine intake increased, with a string of ribald comments, delivered in a loud public schoolboy accent, the content of which I would not want to include in this column. He holds court much in the manner of a garrulous barrister with quickly developing Tourrettes syndrome. By that I mean his pronouncements, delivered in a deep barrel-chested voice, gradually descend from light misogyny and homophobia when lunch commenced, into areas I would hesitate to venture although, to be fair he saved his best and funniest for the period after about the 7th bottle of rosé had been consumed.
Also at lunch was the rather wonderfully named Nick Perch, (no nickname required) perched on a seat opposite where he had the honour of sealing my claim to be a doubly successful author. He bought a copy of my book The Valbonne Monologues taking sales to 111 and into a profit of 8 euros (about £6.60 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates). 8 euros because he claimed that the copy he purchased was dog-eared, which was correct. He had dog-eared it himself during a thorough and long running inspection inspection, but as I wanted that successful epithet so badly, I decided to overlook this cynical money-saving action and allow the discount.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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