A horse to water?
There is an old expression “you can take a horse to water but you cannot make him drink” which was illustrated in graphic fashion on a walk along the Brague yesterday morning, as you can see from today’s photo. Note the French obsession with health and safety, clearly a hard hat is not required over here.
Talking of hard hats, my self-appointed French Sales Manager, Currencies Direct client Master Mariner Mundane was up to his old tricks on Tuesday evening. His sales tactics are so brutal a hard hat is an essential item when he is working, but as I was the happy recipient of two more sales of my book The Valbonne Monologues, I was in no mood to criticise. Then yesterday before setting off to see the fireworks, another quieter personal firework moment occurred; I sold another book making it break even time.
You can lead a horse to water…
Last night then to Antibes to meet Roly and Poly Bufton to go out on their boat to witness the Cannes firework display in celebration of American Independence Day. The Americans always think they are celebrating throwing off the warm embrace of England, whereas the truth is that we celebrate even more the fact of getting rid of them. American food was the theme, so burgers to the fire.
Amongst the guests who motored around the coast from Antibes to Cannes in serene conditions, warm, calm sea and beautiful views was The Naked Politician, accompanied by his exquisite wife Dawn, who revealed that he is in the process of forming a new political party, now that his err… differences of opinion with Her Majesty’s Customs and Revenue have been settled. He is a resident of Monaco and that is that. I know the name of the new Party but have been forbidden to reveal it, and on this rare occasion I am going to honour my promise to keep it under wraps, mainly because I want to be involved. This will be my kind of politics.
Earlier I had driven Bluebell, our ancient VW camper van down to Antibes with the idea of parking at the port and, arriving back into the harbour on the early hours with an excellent sufficiency of wine on board, to sleep in her and driving back this morning. Plan B had to be adopted as it became clear that the height restrictions in the car park precluded implementation of plan A. Parking instead about half a mile away on the ramparts of lovely old town Antibes, it was a long distance to carry a heavy cold box, so thirsty and sweating, we took a pint of Guinness en route at the Hop Store, by way of lubrication for the evenings proceedings.
The fireworks were magnificent and so much nicer viewed from the sea rather than having to sit cheek by jowl with hordes of unwashed garlic smelling French. So much nicer to sit on the upper deck of a lovely Fleming yacht with slightly fewer hoards of garlic smelling English. It was a little later in the evening that the Naked Politician revealed that he would be driving (well, not he of course, but his lovely spouse) past our door on their way home. A dilemma; should we stay true to the old hippy ideals of sleeping illegally in a camper van in a car park, or take the opportunity of a lift home to a large comfy bed and toilet facilities? I was all for roughing it, but was overruled by That Nice Lady Decorator and so the hippy idyll will have to wait a few days when we head off to Italy for some Leonard Cohen.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Works of art exempt from tax?
Did I mention that I unwittingly contributed to a French gendarme revenue collection scam on the drive down to France? The local police, that is to say in the Dept 06 which runs from St Tropez to Nice, have arbitrarily decided to reduce the national motorway speed limit from 130km to 110km in their area. They have made no attempt to alter the speed limit signs and it is just a cynical piece of police theft. I thought they were here to protect innocent citizens not fleece them?
As many will know, speeding in France on an English licence does not gain you any points on your licence. All they want is 90 euros in cash and you can be on your way. They will even escort you to a cash machine if you don’t have enough of the folding stuff about your person. I was all for taking them to a higher court, refusing to pay such a clearly unfair levy, but even when they suggested in such circumstances that non payment involved visiting a police cell for a period of time and the impounding of the vehicle, I was unbowed and still standing on a point of principle. However, one look at that Nice Lady Decorator, who gave me the distinct impression that she would not be visiting me in prison, was enough to have me reaching meekly for my wallet. She pointed out that I had in fact been driving at a speed above the national limit, so on this occasion attempted martyrdom was swapped for paying the ginger git of a gendarme, who was clearly enjoying his work, judging from the big smile that crossed his contorted features when another poor victim joined the ever increasing queue of drivers similarly deceived.
Another splendid walk yesterday morning, this time up behind another of my favourite restaurants, l’Auberge de la Source, near Sophia Antipolois, I was sent into the garden to, well, do some gardening. Then after filling up several wheelie bins with garden detritus at the municipal garbage deposit point, I was in need of a siesta before venturing out into Valbonne.
Waterfall on Le Brueget
An invitation from the Master Mariner Mundane, coupled with the Sprogs decision to go camping, meant that we had an opportunity to leave the house and have half a chance of something being left to eat and drink upon our return.
Over a glass of wine or two, maybe more, at Cafe Des Arcades and then at the newly refurbished and very nice La Kavanou wine bar in the back streets of Valbonne, we were discussing matters of great importance such as today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates, when I learned something else of great relevance to a writer. It seems that works of art are exempt from tax. Who decides what constitutes a work of art? Perhaps it is a matter of opinion? Some of my regular readers will guess where this is heading. This means, surely, that my book, The Valbonne Monologues, which in my mind is clearly a work of art, should be exempt from tax. That was the basis of an argument which was overheard by a couple of The Masters friends who wanted to know about this learned tome. In a flash I produced some copies which I just happened to have about my person and two more sales were made, bringing the total now to 109, just one more sale away from break even. It is just a matter of time before I shall become a doubly successful author (after my first book “Summer in the Cote d’Azur” sold a massive 232 copies and made a profit) all tax free.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Le tour de Valbonne
A walk along the Brague river this morning brought back to me just how beautiful is the area around Valbonne. This river which runs through Biot on the way to the Mediterranean has to be one of the most beautiful anywhere and I was there with a beautiful Nice Lady Decorator. I was also there with a couple of dogs, one of whom, Max, I was glad to see enjoying a long swim, the other, Banjo, blighting the water with his presence. I noted a slight scum on the water, or rather in it.
The Brague near Valbonne
There is however little peace to be had with a house full of Sprogs and their friends. They are intent in eating and drinking their way through a mountain of food and a lake of drink. Even at night, nothing is safe, except with Sprog 1 who thankfully has a touch of sunstroke, not an affliction seen often in England. You may accuse me of a lack of sympathy, but anything that helps to eke out our meagre supplies is welcome in my book. They know the location now of all three fridges, including the secret fall back unit, so a disaster could still occur.
Staying in last night, we settled in the pav for a nightcap and me also with a cigar and to watch the last rays of the day disappear and I was overcome with an immense contentment. Then came the news for which we had been waiting: we have tickets to see a writer with powers even slightly superior to my good self. Leonard Cohen, the man with the dark brown voice is playing at a festival in Italy and we are going to pop over and see him. I say pop over but it is 3 or more hours driving in a car, but we, in true hippy fashion, will be going over in our old VW camper van, Bluebell and it will take 7 hours. Mr Cohen has long been a hero and I saw him for the first time about 4 years ago at the Nice Jazz Festival where, despite his age, he had lost none of his powers and has the backing of a truly excellent band.
So camping makes a return to my vocabulary. I have not been talking about camping since my discussion about The Sussex village of Warningcamp. Bluebell will only travel comfortably at about 50 miles per hour maximum and has not been used for a year. Tony “I invented the Internet” Coombs, a comparatively new Currencies Direct client, was looking after her in the winter and has made some minor improvements, which we shall be testing today.
Today is also an auspicious day for chaps with bikes. I have a bike and am thinking of joining in. The Tour de France comes through the centre of Valbonne today. There is enormous razzmatazz and roads closed for 8 hours at a stretch, hundreds of press and TV camera vehicles accompany the race, which is an utterly boring spectacle on its own. I saw some of it locally a couple of years ago; 8 hours of hype followed eventually by a bunch of cyclists all looking like blue bottles and dressed in silly bright clothing who all whizz past in about 20 seconds. That’s it, over. I have always been anti cyclists on the road in the UK as they pay no road tax and seem to think they have some rights. Thus the Tour De France is a ghastly Extension of this principle, a truly mind boggling assault on the right of car drivers. If there was car tax in France, I would be making a complaint.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Deaf or hard of heron?
Here at last! Valbonne in the sunshine, is it real or a dream?
We Left Bourges yesterday morning after I made a brief attempt at wild life photography. Walking around the large lake close to the town I spotted a heron, normally very timid birds, standing on a small jetty beside the water. I slowly and quietly made my way as close as possible, hoping it was a bit deaf (some, although not an author of this note, might say the hope was that it was hard of heron) but his deaf aid must have kicked in so as he took off for his meeting with the ear specialist and it became an action shot.
Heron at Bourges
Getting home in the mid afternoon, there really was only one course of action to be followed. The rose was open in a flash, still a little left as the locust Sprogs had arrived two days earlier and discovered and dispatched several carefully concealed hoards of supplies. Cold beers preceded this and a short siesta was required before regathering for the inevitable foray into Valbonne Square.
It was here that I was to encounter the Wingco for the first time in several months. He was less than impressed when, after a few minutes of idle chit-chat, the subject of this column was raised, almost inevitably, by me. The Wingco has an alarmingly low opinion of the majestic prose that my followers expect from this daily dose of life, as seen through my eyes, and has been known to use the word “ghastly” more than once when asked to comment upon it. He is extremely well-educated and does not react well to any mention of my enormous writing abilities in general or this blog in particular. So it was very gratifying when, over dinner in Valbonne Square, the subject of this very text which you are at this moment consuming with a hunger so pronounced, was brought up, so to speak.
As a grammar school boy myself, the level of education to which I was subjected was so far below the levels to which the publicly schoolboy educated (and Currencies Direct client) Wingco and his contemporaries were treated, but I was able to correct him on a point of grammar in one of his many diatribes about this blog and my writing. He used the phrase “didn’t used to” at some stage, I know not in which context because the monologue on my shortcomings had continued for some 20 minutes without a break for breath and without a single opportunity to interrupt him, but I know for a fact that this is bad English. The correct way would have been to say “he used not to…”. When he finally ran out of steam, I pointed this out, rather too loudly, as most of the diners in Valbonne Square could hear, he was not best pleased. So the normal cut and thrust of my relationship with him has carried on seamlessly over a year after I first left.,
Yes, Valbonne Square, that teeming microcosm of life in the fast lane, metaphorically with too many drivers and not enough cars, was in full effect, loud and well attended. Amongst the people whom I encountered was the lovely Judy Lynn, the wife of one of the funniest men it has ever been my pleasure to meet, the tallest comedic pensioner in the world, Monsieur Pierre le Grand, Peter Lynn, who confirmed that he is still upset with, and not talking to me for a bungled mixing up of social occasions some two years ago. Also in attendance was the gloriously regal Helen Blackburn, another stalwart of the music business with songwriting interests spanning the world ( including some songs by Peters and Lee) who arrived back in Mougins yesterday after a long absence. Welcome home indeed.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
“Canard Rodney?”
The early morning panic was exacerbated by That Nice Lady Decorator, discovering 10 minutes before we were due to depart for the ferry at Portsmouth, that she had forgotten to clear and clean out the fridge. A frantic whirling dervish of a Decorator dispatched much that was fresh and some that was not into either the bin or the dogs, there was a great deal of very fast scrubbing, polishing and language which is not appropriate for a Sunday in fact any day and so 20 minutes after the last safe time to depart in order to ensure we made it in time, we left in something of a hurry, and that is an understatement. The car, which looked half full the day before when we were packing it, was crammed full of loads of detritus including two dogs, one of whom was welcome to travel in the foot well, the other of who was (for me) an unwelcome travelling companion, looking at me malevolently from his cushion atop some suitcases.
As it turned out, there was sufficient time but only due to the absence of speed cameras and traffic police on the A27 and M27. The murky misty low cloud stayed with us for most of the crossing but then mercifully, within sight of the French coast, pictured today, the inevitable happened. The skies began to clear and glimpses of the sun soon became evident.
Arriving at Caen
On the voyage over, whilst sitting in my almost non reclining luxury reclining seat, I overheard a fascinating discussion amongst people of what I assume was a similar age seated nearby. It centred around iTunes, although these old codgers could not decide if it was either eTunes or iCon. There was a great deal if confusion about how it actually worked, with one of the old farts complaining bitterly that he had downloaded some tracks but could not get then into iTunes (or eTunes). His compatriot, who at least knew you had to pay to download, was patiently explaining that without a credit card, he would not be able to download his music. He was adamant that he had managed to put all his old cd’s on his iPod, and that there were other records he wanted and that was where the problem lay. When the more knowledgeable one spotted the obvious reason for failure, and pointed out in excruciating detail that he could not have them without paying, he was adamant that he was not going to pay for records he could hear on the radio. Amusing at first it became irksome and eventually it helped me drift off to sleep dreaming of more customers for Currencies Direct.
Embarking at Caen, it was time to start the migration south towards the warmth of the Mediterranean. Caen is famous as the birthplace of Guillaume Le Conquerant, better known in England as William the Conquerer. It is a matter of undying shame that this famous conker-playing champion is French. Conkers is such a truly English game I am upset by that old (horse) chestnut that it is not an Englishman who is renowned throughout the world for smacking his nuts together.
Three hours to the south we found a town called Bourges , and a hotel close to a golf course and a lake and then the first real touch of French life, dinner in shirts outside. My choice was a delicious slow cooked confit de canard. As Del Boy Trotter in that TV series Only Fools And Horses , once remarked when Rodney when was speaking about the difficulties of learning French and ducks said “canard”; “you’re not wrong Rodney”.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Last tango in Arundel
“Message in a bottle” intoned The Police on the radio as I drove around yesterday doing all the jobs for which I had been earmarked. Actually my ears were more than marked, I would say lacerated due to the continuing torrent of instructions being issued. Of course if one thinks about it for any length of time, there is a message in a bottle. For a baby, that message is to eat. For a grown up, the message, as I understand it, takes on a more liquid form. After a fortnight of decorating and cleaning mayhem, I took that message a bit more literally than normal yesterday.
Being our last day in England for at least six weeks, and with a raft of errands run and completed, by 4.30 pm I was in need of that message or was I need of the bottle? or more accurately that barrel. Message in a barrel? Lets not split hairs, I needed a drink. With sunshine making a very late appearance, deliberately mocking the fact that we are about to go hunting for some decent weather in the south of France, the pub called but only briefly.
Colin the Pirate and his Sultry Goddess Sandra have bought a new house in Arundel and it needed to be house warmed. They claim it is in the up market part of the town, or the right side of the river, whereas all decent people know that the Bohemian quarter on the opposite bank where our house is situated is really the place to live. Over a couple of glasses of fizz, we debated the relative merits of life in the different quarters of the town and, after I had won that particular argument, we fled back to the more favoured quarter for a final drink in our garden before an early night. Here is a picture taken just after the sunset. You see, God (if you believe in such a ridiculous concept) is having a laugh at my expense, and it being a Sunday too, well it is now.
Arundel after dark
By the time my myriad of readers are beginning to consume this column with that same rabid determination that I would, if I did not write it myself, we will be on our way to Portsmouth to catch a ferry to Caen. What a stupid expression that is. How would one catch a ferry? From why height would it be dropped? But, as has happened before, I digress.
Back to the trip. Portsmouth to Caen is scheduled to take 4 hours but with the Channel Tunnel about 3 hours away and Caen some 100 miles further south than the tunnel arrival point at Calais, I calculate that it will take less time to drive to Portsmouth and get the ferry. There will be the added advantage of sea views, a spot of breakfast, a leisurely look at the Sunday Times and a long hard look at what I shall be able to achieve this summer in support of Currencies Direct.
Tonight we hope to have reached the wine area of Beaune or Macon and the salivation will begin. All right minded people know that the best wines in the world emanate from France (with the exception if Chateau Musar which is made in of all places the Lebanon, but in a French style). There are, I am afraid, those in my own family whose wine education is sadly underdeveloped, claiming to prefer wines from similarly underdeveloped areas like Australia. That Nice lady Decorator (who will hopefully be able to reclaim her “nice” epithet now that all the decorating a preparation for non existent rentals are complete) will no doubt forget this preference once presented with an ice cold rose from Provence in our pav in Valbonne tomorrow evening. However, before that, it is almost a racing certainty that an early attempt to get to grips with what Peachy Butterfield describes as “crushed fruit” of the French variety will occur this evening.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The wild side of Arundel
The sign said “the wild side of Arundel” and I was immediately intrigued. Was there something I had missed in the 11 months since we landed in this lovely town to avoid the vagaries of the French tax system? I thought I had begun to grasp the basic politics and runnings of Arundel, but a wild side? I need not have worried, it was a booklet detailing the delights one can find at the Arundel Wetland Trust. It seems there are some wild birds there.
Talking of wild birds, I am unaccountably reminded of that Nice Lady Decorator. Cleaning and decorating for all she is worth, and with the house in the process of being prepared for non-existent rentals, and my not enjoying the effects, I cracked and went for a long hard walk up to The Black Rabbit and through the Duke Of Norfolk’s estate from where I took this picture.
One of the Duke of Norfolks outbuildings. His equivalent of a garden shed?
According to my new Ordnance Survey phone application, I covered 6.73 km in an hour and twenty minutes. By my calculations that is about 4 miles an hour. Perhaps that is why I got so hot, close to re-entry speed, and that is my excuse. After two diet days out of the previous three, hot, sweaty and in no mood to go home to more upheaval and unpleasantness I found my route took me quite close to the Kings Arms. I also needed some quiet time to plan my activities in the coming weeks in respect of the fine services of Currencies Direct. This was such an important task that it could not be hurried and so I had a second pint and then a third and then it all went horribly wrong and I awoke this morning trying to remember what happened last night. One thing is for sure, I had neither lunch nor dinner which explains why I was such a lightweight.
So the last full day in Blighty for the next 5 weeks has dawned. One more horrible day of packing, scraping, folding, hiding and storing before the early start on Sunday morning. The ferry leaves from Portsmouth and I shall get to Caen and able (did you see what I did there?) to drive down to central France for a stop over on the way to my beloved Valbonne.
Before that there is the far from insignificant rugby match between Australia and the British Lions to negotiate. Arundel is not the sort of town that has a pub that has Sky Sports, so I shall be hoping to watch it at home later this morning, unless the TV has been packed away. However if this is unpopular then I shall doubtless slip into Littlehampton and try to find a pub showing the game. This may be a little harder than you think; the population is so old, one has to dodge the mobility scooters and as many of the inhabitants are deaf or blind, or indeed dead, there might not be much of a call for TV in the town.
I see that The Guardian has reviewed Otway The Movie in glowing terms but there seems no mention of the star of the show, my good self, anywhere. There was also no mention of the outrageous piece of product placement where a certain unrenowned author managed to place a copy of his book The Valbonne Monologues beside one of his many gold records whilst being filmed, but hey ho life goes on. The film is due to be shown tonight at Glastonbury Festival straight after the performance of The Rolling Stones and then in some cinemas, details at www.otwaythemovie.com
Chris France
One of the Duke of Norfolks outbuildings. His equivalent of a garden shed?
Yorkshire – the holiday season starts
I do like a good one liner. I am very keen on monorails. Ok, so that has set the bar quite low for today’s next to penultimate missive, before the early start on Sunday morning down to the flesh pots of the south of France. I need some more flesh on me, to flesh out a bit after the final UK diet day before the autumn.
In support of that quest for the ultimate Sylph like body, I took another long walk, this time in the area between Findon and Patching. It is very rural and it seems I caught some of the Yorkshire cognoscenti ( by that I mean the extreme upper strata of Yorkshire society that is sufficiently well-educated to understand that there is a better world outside their hallowed county – perhaps you could call them scum?) taking a well-earned holiday in the sultry south, and in a frankly, rather gaudy display of the latest in northern transport. I managed to capture this picture which I know will be gazed upon in wonder by most of those chaps that were born north of Coventry.
Yorkshire folk on their holidays
So there I was Packing after Patching. I was considering whether to bring both pairs of my Karma gear (was that not the name of an old Volkswagen model?) fair trade hippy trousers that I had bought at the Wychwood Festival, so I decided to wear a pair as I went on the increasing numbers of errands upon which I am sent in the final days up to departure. These trousers are universally acknowledged wherever I go, even when walking through the car park of The White Hart (terribly hard to do on a diet day when no drink can pass my lips), so I have decided to pack both.
There are some items that are not readily available or very expensive in France, some of which are vital to ones well-being. These need to be pre purchased and packed as well. Pimms No 1, for instance, is hard to find, Heinz Salad Cream, otherwise known as Creme de Salad, is also a necessity that cannot easily be sourced down there and then there are English sausages and bacon. That’s it, they have everything else a man would and should eat and drink and I shall be reminding myself in a crash reintegration course of the range and extent of French produce, cooking and wine that can be enjoyed over the next 6 weeks.
Packing also involves taking some more copies of The Valbonne Monologues ready to help at least partially settle the huge pent-up demand that I believe is waiting. The book, written primarily to help me spread the good word about the fine services of Currencies Direct took on a new persona once the first embarrassing picture was published and the readership shot up. That, or people really do want to hear more about currency exchange, not a concept I can understand.
Actually, there is a blonde follower of this column, whom I cannot name because she is blonde from a bottle which sounds fair to me (oh yes, that was deliberate) who asked me recently if I could change 15 euros into sterling. I said I could and she is now the proud owner of one of my books which she thinks she will be able to exchange for £ when she gets back to the UK. I did not have the heart to tell her how few £ she might receive.
More errands are no doubt on my agenda today. Buying a microwave, cutting back wisteria, taking the rubbish to the tip, plus the small matter of leaving my music empire set up to sing sweetly through the next two months, will no doubt be part of the last mad rush to ready our Arundel house for the rental season, and for the zero number of bookings we have taken.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Bowie and Otway similar shock?
You would think that having a diet day, which of course means no alcohol or, alternatively no food, on Tuesday, that I would earn some brownie points, especially as I had to witness That Nice Lady Decorator slam dunk several large glasses of wine the evening before last whilst I stared at a glass of water, but I have encountered a problem. This 600 calorie a day diet causes slight constipation so, the brownie points are, how can I say this without being tasteless?, a little harder to come by. I am dedicated to this diet, not just going through the motions (eek) and it is working. I must cling to that concept that if it is to continue, I could be Twiggy’s double eventually. In fact l I think I shall refer to myself as that willowy author from now on.
So the willowy author caught the train to London last night to go to the Roxy in Borough High St near London Bridge to be present at the press screening for Otway The Movie, attended by Currencies Direct client John Otway himself. Now much edited and the better for it, the film was well received with rounds of applause and gales of laughter at regular intervals.
Otway turns his back on stardom? surely not
Being in London affords opportunities that will not be available in the south of France. Take the David Bowie exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum for instance. We did. A blast from the past of wonderful nostalgia was very refreshing and uplifting for some old codgers. Uplifting as well to find that Sprog 2 loved the whole thing. She was the one who wanted to go and persuaded us that we should too, obviously as long as we were going to pay. The exhibition was very well done and brought back great memories of my early rock and roll influences, but if I had a complaint it would be that personally, I thought the Ziggy Stardust (Otway was once featured in a TV documentary called Star Dustman) era was under represented whereas later incarnations of his persona and work were over represented. He has always been a brilliant charlatan, an actor and a sponge for artistic ideas and then brilliant at regurgitating these and calling them original. Some parallels to Otway? For me the early 70’s was when Bowie was at the peak of his powers and I for one would have preferred this to been more fully acknowledged.
So now I am an art critic. Seldom have I been more ashamed than when I realised that I made comments concerning artistic matters. I have been a businessman all my life, and adhering to those principles through my lack of career has served me well, so the realisation that I had inadvertently entered the world of artistic criticism was a bitter pill to swallow. I shall be on the look out to ensure it does not happen again. The fundamental rules from which I draw my life creed are that art is for money’s sake and all modern art is crap. As long as I remember these two important points in the future, I am sure I will have fewer problems.
The long train ride back from Victoria to Arundel close to midnight is not one that I ever wish to repeat. Without an imminent trip to France with which to contend, we would have done as I suggested and booked into a hotel. I do not intend ever again to take the train at night, France or no France. I made that clear to That Nice Lady Decorator (whose decision it was not to hotel it) and I hope the throbbing will die down later today. Does she not understand the concept of Freedom of Speech?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
French explosion imminent
There are many things that make me smile. They are called facial muscles. These were being exercised in a meaningful way when I awoke yesterday morning to nearly blue sky and some sunshine. How much better a place does England seem when the weather is decent. It is still chilly, but not for long. I have sent instructions to my tennis playing pals, who incidentally are almost all Currencies Direct clients down in France, the Wingco, Blind Lemon Milstead, Dancing Greg Harris and the Master Mariner Mundane, that I expect tennis and lunch thereafter to be properly organised for July 2nd, in the warm sunshine on my first full day in France of the summer. I have pointed out to all of them the signal failures in their organisational abilities some weeks earlier when I was back on a flying visit, when it all failed dismally. They know they were found wanting then and although in their hearts they will know they all have flimsy and unconvincing defences to the charges, they will not be pleased to be admonished by a grammar school boy (to a man they all went to public schools). I see it as my duty to pick out their weaknesses but have also have come to the conclusion that it is really difficult to keep everybody happy but really simple to piss everybody off.
Worthing viewed from The Cissbury Ring
My walk took me close to the Cissbury Ring, from where I took today’s picture, which could not possibly be twinned with Warningcamp (see columns passim). It is an ancient Iron Age fort dating from some 2300 years ago and is now owned by the National Trust. Basically, it is a 600 foot high oval-shaped hill of about 2 miles circumference with outstanding views out over the Sussex countryside and right down to the sea over Worthing. OK, geography lesson over, lets talk rock and roll.
Perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration. John Otway has, I think this is the correct adjective, inflicted himself on a rather unwilling rock world since he exploded onto our TV sets in the late 70’s. My old pal has the press screening of his film Otway The Movie at the Roxy in London tonight, and, as I appear in the great work, I clearly need to be available to talk to the press. I had expected that to amount to Comedy Weekly, the Wimbledon Echo or something similar, but to my surprise both The Guardian and The Times have confirmed and even a few low-level celebrities are said to be attending, including Alexei Sayle. I shall need to prepare for the inevitable interview.
Before that, I shall be partaking of an extremely large breakfast after a 600 calorie diet day and a long walk yesterday. Without something substantial on board, if there is a strong wind, I could be blown into Kent before I know it. Never mind, just one more miserable diet day to go before September and that is planned for Thursday, and then I plan to undo all the good dietary work in a spectacular summer explosion of French wine and food.
The invitations have already begun to flood in: dinner in Valbonne Square on the 1st, a boat trip out to see the Cannes fireworks on the 4th with Roly and Poly Bufton, another boat trip on Bastille Day, 14th July with the Master Mariner, all of which will no doubt provide me with some great material for this diligently prepared daily insight into life in the coming weeks.
So, very shortly I shall be bidding Arundel a farewell for 6 weeks. I will miss the pubs and the beer and the people, but I shall not miss the weather. I may even play golf for the first time in a year, that being an activity which I have not been able to face in England due to the old po faced attitude at snobby golf courses, which for the most part are inferior to the courses where you can play in a relaxed fashion in France, and of course in decent weather.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The stocks are high
There will be stocks at the Kings Arms on August Bank Holiday at the Old English Fete at the Kings Arms in Arundel. There are also, quite surprisingly, so far unsold stocks of a rather good book called The Valbonne Monologues, written by someone you and I have come to know and love. Me. So, with the editing mode between brain and mouth firmly fixed in the “off” position, I have inadvertently come up with a cunning plan to lower my own stocks which found immediate favour with That Nice Lady Decorator. “What about going into the stocks myself, getting people to buy a book for £10 and donating £5 from each sale to the Arundel Festival?” I said and almost as soon as the unedited thought escaped my mouth, in fact before I could eliminate it completely, it was in the public domain and I feel a bit of a shellacking could be in prospect. Brain to mouth; “shut up”.
It was in the Swan Hotel, to which we had escaped for an early doors pint, the Decorating one to escape the paint fumes from her err… decorating and me to escape the pressure cooker atmosphere surrounding the good offices of Currencies Direct, that I set and then sprang my own trap, as in failing to keep ones traps shut. The lovely Rachel, the organiser of the fete was there and thanking me for arranging for old pal and shortly, no doubt to be BAFTA nominated thespian, due to the success of his film Otway the Movie, to open the said fete. It was here that I was told about the stocks, which are being fabricated as I speak by Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor.
So unless the whole idea is forgotten, or, far more likely, will be deemed uncommercial, then it may well be a spell in the stocks for me in August. So you see I am torn. It is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I will do anything for a sale, but I must say there is a remarkable lack of allure in the prospect being hit in the face with a rotten tomato. To paraphrase Meatloaf “I would do anything for (the) love (of literature) but I won’t do that”. On the other hand, now just 4 sales from break even, and the prospect of becoming an even more successful author as a result, well, what would any self-disrespecting writer do? Why start collecting rotten fruit of course!
Which way is the sun?
Earlier, I had continued my walking fitness programme with another 6 mile walk into the high South Downs, where, as you can see from today’s photograph, the weather that was on display at Wimbledon yesterday had certainly not extended as far south as Arundel. Which way is France? Is that a sign pointing towards sunshine and warmer weather? I shall not be unhappy to be able to pack away my hoody (as co-founder and owner of an award-winning rap and hip hop record label, Music of Life, I wear a hoody when walking in a show of solidarity with our artists and of course to keep warm in an English summer).
By the time you are reading this, I will be in starvation mode, the penultimate diet day before leaving for our summer holiday in France. You will know by now that when I say holiday, I mean working holiday. We shall be on the ferry to Caen from Portsmouth on Sunday morning, bright and early, with a full car, a spring in my heart, a suitcase full of shorts, a nice dog, a horrid dog and a Nice Lady Decorator.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Delving into Six Mile Bottom?
Well, my twinning suggestions for the lovely Sussex village of Warningcamp in yesterdays column threw up a number of fantastic suggestions. The Reverend Jeff was the first on the scene with a very fine suggestion that a village called Six Mile Bottom in East Anglia might be a good candidate. I remember as a child being taken for our annual holiday at Mundesley in Norfolk, and my father would always stop and buy a postcard from the village to send to one of my mothers friends with the name of the village on it, because he claimed it always reminded him of her.
Next on the scene was the lovely Poly, of Roly and Poly Bufton who came up with some great and rather unbelievable ideas; it seems that there is a part of New York called Coxsackie, and a town in Virginia called Bumpass. Warningcamp and Bumpass, now that would be good cheeky pair , but she came up with an even better one. It seems that in Arizona there is a small town called Knob Lick. Either she has a fertile imagination or has spent rather too long in the southern states of America for her own good. Old golfers who read this column will know of a niblick, but a knob lick? Surely not.
Also, yesterday I was attacked by a pair of locusts. Both Sprogs arrived in late afternoon to eat all my food and drink all my drink. If just one of them arrived it would normally represent a thrashing of my wallet, but with both arriving at the same time, it was more a case of a shredding. A few drinks at The Swan Hotel ended up costing over £40 or about 47 euros at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates, and was followed by a dinner at ours, at which I thought the fleecing would be over. Not a bit of it. How do children have such an ability to home into the secret stocks of Chateau Musar that I keep for special occasions, and decimate them so quickly? Life can be so harsh.
That Nice Lady Decorator was of course delighted to see them both, and actively encouraged them to enjoy life at my expense. The really bad news is that they are going to be in France with us for the summer. I hardly dare consider what it might cost me.
Walking near Warningcamp
Today, after the locusts have departed to strip clean their next victim, I will be walking again. Oh for a time when one can go walking in shorts and without a fleece and a jacket, something that I have not been able to do for the last week because of the usual dreadful English weather. I had hoped to spend some time watching the ICC world championship cricket on the TV but it was reduced to a farcical 20 over bash because of what? Rain. The fact that England lost is irrelevant in the circumstances, and actually I would trade all the ICC trophies for the next 100 years as long as we retain The Ashes in the series against Australia due to start next month. That is proper 5 day cricket, mans cricket, the real thing.
Have I mentioned that I shall be making my first public appearance at this years Glastonbury Festival? Otway The Movie, which features a couple if cameo appearances by my good self is to be shown at the festival in the cinema tent after headliners The Rolling Stones have finished their (Otway will probably claim their support) set. I can be hired for public events, bah-mitzvahs, the opening of fetes etc. I have however been usurped when it comes to opening the Kings Arms Old English Fete on August Bank Holiday Monday as part of Arundel Festival as Mr Otway himself has claimed that gig.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Warningcamp or Warning, Camp?
As I was out walking yesterday between the showers and braving the wind, I realised that I was venturing close to the rather interestingly named Sussex village of Warningcamp. Some of my regular readers will recall an old discussion in this column about the twinning of towns, the highlight of which was that “made in heaven” partnership that should exist between the towns Wankdorf in Switzerland and Happy in Texas. Wankdorf and Happy sound like they go together.
This went though my mind as I approached this very pretty village. So what would be an ideal town with which it to twin? I did not come to any conclusion but will keep thinking. Anyone have any ideas? Is there a place called Gay Gordon, or is that a dance?
It was as I was crossing a field on my walk, and was thinking about how nice it would be to have a deck by the river alongside one of the berths by the River Arun, as shown on my picture today. I was looking for the exit point from the field and I saw some rudimentary wooden steps in the corner which I was going to write about, but it is not my stile. More my style is to have another area dedicated to entertainment.
That riverside deck
So back to this deck. We have toyed, not very seriously, with the idea of having a boat on the river, but neither myself or That Nice Lady Decorator is prepared to take on the responsibility of having such a thing and then having to drive the damned craft along the second fastest flowing tidal river in England. There is another small complication in that I do not swim. What we have identified however, after a very convivial pre dinner drink aboard one, is that we both fancy having a deck by the river for an early evening aperitif, perhaps even a vantage point for events like the Arundel Bathtub Challenge, an annual event where people build boats from bathtubs and the like and race along the river from the town to The Black Rabbit, or is it the other way around? It usually takes place as part of the Arundel Festival.
As it Sunday, and a day of rest, I shall not be talking to you today about the benefits of using Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange transactions, you may also have a day of rest.
Last night then to The Swan Hotel for a pint of London Pride, before heading to the Kings Head via the Magna Tandoori takeaway. It is such a farsighted policy to encourage people to order a takeaway and eat it in the pub, so we took advantage of this and a little later met up with Colin The Pirate and his sultry goddess Sandra. The small black puppy they had with them when we last met has been replaced by a much larger dog who, if he keeps growing at that pace, will be the size of a horse by the end of the “summer”. They also like the idea of the deck, and as the drink flowed the whole concept became more and more grandiose, with awnings, a bar, outdoor furniture, heaters (obviously in the UK) and even cantilevered piles being driven into the river bed. Most of this is nonsense of course. I know that now that I have woken up sober, but I still like the basic concept so I will have to find out what we would be allowed to do, as the berths are leased from the Angmering Estate Trust. There is the small matter of agreeing this with lease holder of the berth, the lovely Laura The Cockney, but I feel she will fall prey to my persuasive charm and magnetism. That, or more likely she may take pity on an old man with delusion of how persuasive and magnetic he can be.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Gumby speaks
My advice to anyone who will listen is this; don’t ever get ill or need medical treatment in the UK, fly to France, and even with the travelling time involved, treatment will be considerably quicker. Here are the facts. It took me three months to get an appointment with a specialist, 3 days to get a repeat prescription from the doctors surgery and 33 minutes to wait for it to be dispensed. I was on the point of taking a photo of the screen informing the unlucky ill people how long they would have to wait for a pharmacist to reach into a cupboard and retrieve their drugs, when the screen ceased to function. Some in the waiting area were so old, they had probably died waiting. That is one way for the national health Service to cut costs I suppose, keep them waiting long enough so they die before becoming a burden.
Author does his angry “Gumby” impersonation
But it was even worse. Having finally had my appointment with the nose doctor (a lesser writer and one with a significantly poorer or less developed sense of humour than the author of this column, pictured today doing his best Monty Python “Gumby” impersonation, may have joked that she had bogied about with it), I was given a prescription. As I was paying for the car park and had been at the hospital for nearly an hour, I thought I would go back to the pharmacy in Arundel (where there is no car park charge) to collect my medication. Bad idea. For some ridiculously bureaucratic nonsensical reason, they could not dispense whatever concoction the doctor had ordered, so for me retrieve the drugs, I had to endure a twenty mile return trip to Chichester for it to be dispensed by the hospital. So, with a 33 minute wait, they collected yet another £1.60 (nearly 1.80 euros at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) in parking fees. Brilliant economics for the NHS. Crap for the patient.
More rain, gloomy conditions and wind blunted our desire to go out to lunch, so I put that nose to the grindstone (perhaps that was what has been causing the problem, perhaps I should refrain from work for medical reasons) and continued the detailed planning that is required when one is going to be away from the nerve centre of ones empire for 6 weeks. Tennis shoes, golf shoes, beach shorts, cigar humidor are all vital pre requisites for a trip abroad, and must be collected up and packed properly. There is also the question of delegation. Delegating responsibilities has been my watchword over the past 10 years, I have become a past master at it. The secret is in the planning. First find someone willing and capable to take responsibility, then delegate that entire responsibility, and go on holiday. I so hope my label manager is not reading this, but he is so cool there is little chance.
Did I say holiday? What I meant of course was that I am going to France on order to spearhead a sales drive for my new book The Valbonne Monologues. Sales have plateaued at 107 so far, but I think the potential is much higher, maybe even as many as 250 with enough discounting, and err… persuasion if the blackmail kind. I am willing to wager that sales will be achieved in the summer in return for the suppression of photographs or stories about bad behaviour. I cannot wait.
Last night then to a riverside barbecue with the luscious Laura the Cockney. Eventually, the rain relented and, as is completely normal in England, everyone seemed to forget that it had been raining for most of the week and dashed outside to make the most of some quite disappointing hazy sunshine and a stiff breeze, and then to discuss the lack of virtue in an English summer.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A dog with no nose?
The English weather continues to underline why I can’t wait to get back to France in a little over a week from now. The darkest of grey mornings, a hint of drizzle, a diet day and a sea fret, allows me to use the word fret again but in a different context. When you add to all this the fact that I am fretting over the number of people who are still using their banks for their foreign exchange services, rather than using Currencies Direct, you will know that it has been a fretful day.
Walking was thus postponed until late in the afternoon when we caught a few glimpses of sunshine, something that, according to the forecasters, we shall be largely denied this coming weekend. Today’s picture was taken on the epic 6 mile hike along the River Arun the day before during the first really warm day of the year. The other one may be in October.
A typical country scene in Sussex
Today is Friday and if I get my way, which I probably won’t, I feel a lunch coming on. My preference would be for the George and Dragon at Houghton but suspect that we may venture further afield and combine it with a walk on the South Downs. That does not mean we shall eat out quite so literally, but enjoy a good lunch to offset all that dieting, exercising and non drinking nonsense to which I am regularly subjected. I am willing however to wager that no diet day will cast a cloud over my six weeks in lovely Valbonne.
The Reverend Jeff yesterday took the opportunity in the comments section of this column, to link the Mighty David Icke with the very sensible creed of Atheism. I may have misunderstood but he seemed to be arguing that followers of The Chem Theory may be as obsessive as Atheists. Now I like to have a wide diversity of views discussed beneath my hallowed scrawling, and indeed welcome extreme points of view ( I have even been known to allow vegetarians a platform – although preferably on the tracks when the train speeds into the station), but this is sheer nonsense and going too far. The Chem Trail followers are at least, even if misguided, focussing on something real rather than woolly nebulous concepts with no basis in fact. Anyway, I imagine this free and frank exchange of views is a set to continue.
There is talk of a barbecue this evening on a deck beside one of the tiny craft moored on the River Arun. This seems to be a very British and very optimistic venture, and have promised that if the rain abates, I shall pop down for half an hour with an umbrella to help keep the food dry. It is an invitation issued by the delicious Laura The Cockney, the co-founder of Boca Nuevo, the restaurant currently residing inside the White Hart, and to which we are regular visitors. That she is a good cook is a given, and so even the inclement weather may not be sufficient to keep me away. A seared tuna steak for supper could be on the cards.
I must venture into the hospital at Chichester this morning as my sinuses need attention, and I have an appointment with a nasal specialist. I imagine he will be sticking his nose into and sniffing around, well, my nose and who knows, maybe there may be a joke here about a dog with no nose, which is as old as, and one of the Revered Jeff’s finest. He will probably write another poem for the Daily Mail about it, or perhaps he already has, in which case no doubt he will use this far superior publication for more of his self poetic promotion.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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