Tahiti Beach clothes swap shocker
It was when I saw a wild boar on Pamplone beach at St Tropez as we sailed into the bay, that I realised that the whole day was going to be special. 11 of us were aboard L’Exocet, the wonderful sailing boat owned by The Master Mariner Mundane (formerly known as Mundell, but renamed yesterday by Dangerous Jackie Lawless), getting ready to anchor when the impertinent pig decided to have a nose around on the sand as we waited for the tender to take us to our luncheon appointment at Tahiti Beach. The weather was sunny and with a force 4 wind, it was a great sail, sometimes with the boat tilted by as much as 60 degrees. This was too much for the lovely Poly Bufton, who spent a lot of the time hanging on to a table leg and shivering in fear.
Before we had set off, we had laid in about 30 litres of wine, (that should not be taken literally, well, not until on the way back anyway) but that stock had been substantially reduced by the time we reached our destination at around 3pm. and met up with Mr Clipboard and the lovely Ashley, making it a very lucky 13 for lunch. The dancing on the tables had not started but That Nice Lady Decorator soon put paid that as soon as lunch was finished. She has form when it comes to table dancing, having been recently been banned from Morrison’s in Cannes for just that heinous act. How can you get barred from an Irish pub?). A short mention for lunch where the fillet de boeuf was one of the very best steaks I have ever been served.
It got worse a little later when, after a very large “sex on the beach”group coctail with a dozen straws had been heartily consumed by the party, for some reason unknown to science, Peachy Butterfield decided that he should swap tops with the birthday Decorator. It is my picture today, so please look away now if you’re squeamish or about to eat.
Tahiti Beach shenanigans, I think it is a size too small…
It was another very special day, and later I was told gratefully by That Nice Lady Decorator that she thought it was the best birthday she had ever had. So, after a splendidly debauched and ridiculously expensive lunch, which came in at over 1500 euros (over £1200 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) for the lucky 13 revellers celebrating her birthday, we sailed benignly back to Port de la Rague.
With the wind from behind (where have I heard that expression before?) we were making 8 knots, which is quite impressive for a sailing boat, but leaving as the sun went down, we did not get back into port until late in the evening. On the way back the birthday girl took to a little more pole dancing, using the mast of the boat as a prop, but pictures of that may have to wait until I have sought, and been granted, or denied, permission for their publication.
So that is it, a fabulously entertaining few day in the south of France is over and the reality that is life in England will seem a little tame by comparison, but doubtless a few beers and a curry this evening within Sprog 1, who is visiting for food parcels and the like, will be just as enjoyable in its own way..
Then, it is all go, as I have business to do up north, and That Nice Lady Decorator has arranged to accompany me, and to supervise a dinner for some northern folk, including the family of plastic surgeon, Douglas “Mac the Knife” McGeorge” and the awesome Alex Smeaton, home help husband Andrew, and a few others, where I am expecting to eat road kill and whippet surprise. I wonder what element will be in the surprise?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
March of the 100 Otway’s
What a day! The march of the 100 Otway’s up the Croisette in Cannes and around the town before the screening of Otway The Movie at the Cannes Film Festival, was an unprecedented success. At least 100 people, mostly dressed in John Otway’s trademark stage garb of black trousers and white shirt, and wearing truly scary Otway masks, paraded around Cannes at midday yesterday before descending on the cinema for the international première I have so many pictures it was so hard to choose one for today’s missive that I have broken with tradition and include 2 today.
a load of Otway’s on the Croisette
At one stage I counted 50 professional cameras and 3 TV cameras trained on the motley procession, at one stage encountering the official slightly bewildered Miss France who graciously allowed Otway a photo opportunity by donning one of his masks for the press.
It has started with a couple of pints of Guinness at Ma Nolans, the new Irish bar in the centre of Cannes, just off the Route d’Antibes. The mystified staff, well used, one would think, to publicity stunts during the Festival, seemed bemused by loads if people wearing the masks whilst ordering drinks.
The Otway’s take a rest outside the Carlton in Cannes
With the première over, it was time to retire for a final drink before leaving Otway to soak up the post screening atmosphere, sign some more autographs and pose for one more evening for the press in front of his fans, and return for an early supper at the Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne with the voluptuous Jude “where’s my Baileys” and John “800 years of repression” O Sullivan, the corpulent and cuddly Peachy Butterfield accompanied by the willowy and impossibly beautiful Suzanne, and later joined by Mr Clipboard.
When it came to paying the bill, one gargantuan man from our party entered the wrong PIN number into the restaurants machine, prompting me to suggest to the waiter that perhaps he should prepare “les gaunts plastique” (rubber gloves) the suggestion being that, should he be unable to pay, he could work off the debt by doing the washing up. Once Mr Clipboard had heard the reference to rubber gloves, that old public schoolboy humour could not be suppressed and he loudly suggested alternative usages for them, and Jude then suggested that they could be used for intimate searches. Yes, it was time to leave.
Tradition dictates that we had to adjourned thereafter to the pav, our Thai style party pavilion, for a night cap. Regular readers will know that this is a slippery slope, as one is never enough, and so it transpired.
Thus the planned early night, an obvious necessity given what will occur today, did not come to pass. Today is the birthday of That Nice Lady Decorator and we are sailing from Port de la Rague at Mandelieu to St Tropez for a late lunch. Given that it is a bank holiday in France, and being sandwiched between the Cannes Film Festival and the forthcoming Monte Carlo Grand Prix, there is a fair chance that the restaurant will be packed with celebrities, so arriving aboard one’s private yacht and being collected by the restaurants tender, is always a nice way to make an entrance, however I will resist the temptation to wear my Otway mask on this occasion.
Back to the UK tomorrow to recommence my work with Currencies Direct, and in a shock to the system. I must venture north this week. From Cannes to Chester, a sobering thought, and one that I shall not entertain until on the flight back to England tomorrow, when sobering uo wil be required
Chris France
Otway makes a meal of lunch on the beach
Will someone please explain to me what part of the global warning argument could cause Cannes, the jewel in the south of France, to be so cold and wet yesterday, that tractors were employed to make sand banks to stop the encroaching tide as today’s picture below captures. Global warming is a load of bollocks, as any sane person will tell you, and if any proof were needed, then the utterly unseasonable rain and wind we experienced on the beach at Cannes provided ample evidence to refute that myth.
Personally, I love the sea, always at its best when it is it is at its most violent. Big waves, and the power and the majesty of the sea is for me nearly always enthralling. However, if there was ever to be an occasion when I would have preferred benign conditions, it would have been yesterday. Instead, we were, I was going to say treated, but that would imply something that was desirable or went on to help the situation, to a tempest of biblical proportions whilst we sat down to the John Otway Banquet On The Beach.
Sandcastle anyone?
We’re we down hearted? Not a bit if it. The whole occasion was a splendid success, the guys at Rado Plage did their very best to mitigate weather and a great deal of fun was had by all. There was some limited wearing of Otway masks, which will be much more in evidence today, with several photo opportunities, examples of which will light up the prose in this column dedicated to outlining the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange needs. Indeed I shall be talking to some of the 100 odd (and I do mean odd) Otway fans who have travelled from the UK for this weekend when Otway The Movie gets its premiere outside the UK today.
Before that great event at 2pm today, and with the weather improving at last, we expect to stage the “march of the 100 Otway’s” in Cannes at just after midday. An outrageous publicity stunt is being filmed by Associated Press and for YouTube ready for promotional dissemination in the coming weeks when the film will begin to roll out in England.
But I have not finished with last night. After a well advised siesta, That Nice Lady Decorator, the lovely Amy Otway and myself returned to Cannes to witness a performance of the John Otway Big Band at Morrison’s, the Irish bar. Apart from the obvious highlight of a great performance by the great man and his band on a tiny stage, the evening was to become memorable for the Decorating Operative ending up being barred from a the pub. Dancing on the tables is apparently something for which Morrison’s is not insured, so after getting back up to dance for the fourth time, having been forcibly removed on 3 previous occasions, the management, entirely reasonably in my opinion, decided that she was too dangerous. As dangerous as Dangerous Jackie Lawless with who she was dancing in a provocative lesbian like manner. No, I have no idea why either.
So a full report tomorrow, ahead if a boat trip to celebrate the 37th birthday of a certain Decorating Expert again. Weather permitting (and I am told the chances are good) , we shall set sail from Port de la Rague, close to Cannes for a banging lunch at Tahiti Beach in St Tropez, where, unless hell freezes over before hand , I will no doubt once again have to spend some time explaining to the management that she always dances on tables when she is drunk, and often when she is not.
Chris France
Dogging; Mr Hitchcock speaks
Would Ryanair charge for a walking stick? That was the first talking point of the morning as we queued up at security at Gatwick ready for the flight to Nice. We were booked on the relative comfort of Easyjet, with Speedy boarding and in seats 1a and 1b, as close as you get to “turning left” (into First Class – for those of you who have not yet seen the film The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel).
I discussed this with Mr Clipbeard and the lovely Ashley, who had joined us belatedly at the Caviar House where we had consumed the usual fine breakfast of scrambled egg and Scottish smoked salmon. Ryanair famously charge a fee to bring sports equipment on board, a fact that came to my notice when a chap was charged for bringing his lightweight fishing rod, which broke down into about 6 pieces and could have been concealed in a large pocket, was discussing the relative merits of such a charge with the implacable Ryanair staff. There is no doubt that this is merely one of the many ploys thought up by the Irish ruffian who runs that company, Michael O Leary, to increase revenue, but would he interpret walking sticks as sports equipment? Our conclusion was that he probably would.
Over a glass of Sancerre, I asked Mr Clipbeard where he was sitting. Row 10 is near the back and says much about his social standing nowadays. When I teased him about this and compared it to where we were sitting, and made reference to the turning left comment, Ashley said that they always expected to turn left if they were getting on at back of the aircraft.
On the plane, That Nice Lady Decorator drew my attention to an article in the Sunday Times magazine about dogging. It seems that, although fraught with dangers of contravening many public order laws, dogging itself is not illegal. This was explained in the article by the aptly named Chief Constable for Bedfordshire, a Mr Alfred Hitchcock. I was trying to think of a joke here, but could not come up with anything.
Dogging? where?
Talking of nightmares, we arrived into Nice in nightmare weather, where we met Currencies Direct customer, John Otway, who had managed to get a flight with Norwegian Airlines from Gatwick to Nice at the same time. Why Norwegian Airlines would fly such a route is a bit of a mystery, but hey, it’s another option.
We were met at the airport by the redoubtable Peachy Butterfield, husband to the gorgeous long-suffering Suzanne and whisked back to Valbonne to the web, our outside bar area. They are temporarily in charge of our house whilst we finalise the jumping over of hoops required in order not to have to pay the French tax authorities the entirety of our pension. Over dinner before Mr Otway, who is staying with us for the next few days, departed to meet his fans in Cannes, discussion inevitably turned towards the Film Festival and, well Otway. Always more comfortable when he himself is the subject under discussion, all I can say is he was very comfortable. He expressed the opinion that he would like to be a film star like Sean Connery, but some wag said, rather cruelly I thought, that he might be more in tune with Shaun Of The Dead.
So that’s it, we are here in my beloved Valbonne, and today is the banquet on the beach in Cannes as a warm up for Otway The Movie screening on Sunday. It is going to be an epic, which even forecast rain will not dampen.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Gastric Tourettes
I claimed it was dribbling but that Nice Lady Decorator had a far less charitable opinion of what was occurring. I like to think of it as salivating. The occasion was after an evening walk in sunshine, which according to the forecasters will be largely absent during our sojourn to the south of France, starting today with an early lunch in the sumptuous surrounds of Gatwick Airport, we decided on a walk to try to ensure that a certain unpleasant dog did not deposit the remains of his dinner in our flowers beds.
With a diet day behind me, and having been denied lunch, or rather the beer laden lunch upon which I had set my heart, I was thirsty and ready for a bit of hearty mastication. A lovely evening stroll along the banks of the Arun with England looking at its very best (albeit a little chilly) and I was ready for a pint at The Bridge at Amberley, from where I took this picture, that the trouble started.
The Bridge at Amberley
It was later, after the chicken in satay sauce with fresh local asparagus that things began ro happen in earnest. That Nice Lady Decorator accused me of suffering what I think might she described as a bout of gastric Tourette’s. At first, I did not quite understand or thought I may have misheard, and that she was on about some kind of garlic sausage, but it seems she had taken exception to the range of wonderful aromas that my body loving creates after famine is followed by feast. She did not appreciate my comments about beauty being in the eyes of the beholder because, as she pointed out rather caustically, it was not the eyes that were the issue (although she said she would come back to that) but the nose.
Now I don’t know about you, but I find the aroma of my own emissions to be sweet-smelling parcels, lovingly created, floating about in the our for everyone to enjoy. I admit to being in the camp which is less appreciative of others output, but my own is exemplary. The Decorating person is in the diametrically opposed position. Anyway, as far as I was concerned it was a wow effect evening rounded off by a very pleasant 2003 Bordeaux which I discovered in my wine rack, and from where I did not know it has come ( well Bordeaux obviously, but I don’t remember buying it).
As I write, the sun is streaming into my bedroom, and I am contemplating packing for the south if France for May. It should be shorts and lightweight shirts, but given advance knowledge of what we may face, a weather, some long trousers and a jacket may be more in order. Global warming? Humbug.
But no matter, that bulldog British spirit for which I am justly unrenowned will be brought to the fore, starting with breakfast at the Caviar House at Gatwick’s northern terminal. Regular readers will know that ordinarily I have a low opinion if anything from up north, and placing a restaurant that offers the best smoked salmon and scrambled egg breakfast anywhere in the world in any establishment containing the word north, is clearly a joke. Perhaps the architect was from up north, that would explain it. An ugly creation built under baleful northern influence and then civilised by chaps from the south. There, I shall meet old pal Mr. Clipboard, who will no doubt be early, as his name may suggest) and his lovely wife Ashley. He is however a Currencies Direct customer so I cannot be too rude about him, at least in this column. I will save that for behind his back.
Chris France
Caravan of love
Sometimes you see something and you just have to take a picture. I was driving along the A27 yesterday towards Brighton, ready for a walk at Clapham in the South Downs, when I came across this particular take on a caravan. Camper vans are great, because I have one, but they have to be the classic old VW shape to be acceptable. As far as caravans are concerned, I am in the Top Gear camp, with Jeremy Clarkson, when it comes to the humble caravan, driven by the elderly with no idea about anything except causing traffic jams. All caravans should be crushed, full stop and I will fight anyone who says different.
So here is a new take on a mobile home. It was built on a French registered vehicle so the idea must have germinated there, and I am torn. I don’t know if I like it or hate it. Like it I think. Would I want one? No. It has a kind of Romany feel about it, but also the look of a chicken coup.
A caravan of love?
Our own trip to France is approaching. Part of the idea is to get away from the cold and mostly miserable weather we are having here, but seeing a report from Cannes today, showing people queuing to get into the showing of The Great Gatsby at the Cannes Film Festival holding umbrellas, was deeply sobering. Yes, it is raining in Cannes which is a disaster. Over 100 Otway fans are travelling down for the screening of his film and lunch on the beach. None of us was expecting to have to pack long trousers or umbrellas. Something must be done. I have already transferred my money into euros, courtesy of my account with Currencies Direct, so there is no going back.
I have come to the conclusion that The Otway masks that are all over Cannes, and which are being distributed far and wide in advance if the march of 100 Otway’s on Sunday, are likely to be used to impugn the integrity of a large number of famous actors and film directors. The great man told me today that he already has pictures of whom he claims to be Steven Spielberg, Leonard Di Caprio and Ryan Goslin wearing Otway masks at the Festival. Do you see how he will shape the use of masks to further his own press coverage? I would suggest that he will claim that anyone of any media fame, any celebrity, major or minor, was wearing a mask at some stage. If Prince William was there, I know what would happen, If Jesus turned up, same thing.
So another diet day successfully negotiated, I am on the slippery slope to an early weekend. It seems as if I shall be looking to drown my sorrows before we get there unless the French weather forecasters are wrong. Actually, it will not matter if it was raining or not as Mr Clipboard and his beautiful bride, Ashley are on same flight out of Gatwick on Friday, so in my opinion, a good start would be a glass of something crisp and white at the caviar bar at the airport late Friday morning. I believe that I may have some backing from the local Decorating fraternity.
But back to today. That Nice Lady Decorator has decided that she is a little behind in the tasks she has set herself, so my suggestion that we walk somewhere nice for lunch has been rejected, however I have high hopes that an early evening appointment with beer somewhere might still take place. Prior to that, I must cram three working days into a couple of hours, which may be a problem for someone less dynamic and delusional than my good self.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Heavy metal by degree?
In my capacity as a seasoned, some might say pickled, music industry business veteran, I am sometimes called upon to advise major brands. Just such a call came recently from Tannoy, the speaker manufacturers. However I refused to help as I thought they would not like the feedback.
Talking of music, I am all for educating the public about its relative value to society but I must say that I am alarmed about a new story I heard yesterday. It seems that Nottingham University is offering a new foundation degree course this autumn. It is based on that highest of art forms, Heavy Metal. Why could they not have courses like that when I was young enough to go? I turned down a 4 year degree course at Swansea University because the subject was “Economics and materials”. Had the four years been spent trying to get inside the heads of Lemmy from Motörhead or the veritable Ozzy Osbourne, and experimenting with drugs, then I may have been more interested, but then again, come to think if it, maybe not. Whatever next? A degree in UK rap? In which case I am expecting to be called to the chair as senior lecturer anytime soon.
Hands up who wants a heavy metal degree?
Despite gruesome weather, the rain did not start in earnest until after 11, so the morning constitutional was unaffected except for the donning of waterproof coats and hats once again, as the temperature hovered around 8 degrees and the wind was whipping the tops off (now here is a subject which might be more interesting in a different context and with… But I must stop there, more blood pressure pills nurse) the ubiquitous rapeseed crops festooned over the South Downs. Actually I am torn when it comes to rapeseed, I like the colour but worried that it is disfiguring the quintessentially English countryside. I have such an interesting existence.
Anyway, good breakfast on board, walk completed, a days music administration shoe-horned into one intense hour, and it was off to Chichester. That Nice Lady Decorator has a birthday coming up next week, her 37th again if I am not mistaken, and a gift is usually required to ensure I am not in the doghouse for months to come. When I asked her what she wanted she said “Oh, nothing really” which of course means she wants something. My problem is trying to work out what that something is. So I went shopping. Regular readers will know that this is one of my least favourite pastimes, and undertaken in wind and rain did nothing to help the process. I have however organised a big day out on Monday, the appointed day when she will no longer ever be 36, again. I have persuaded Master Mariner Mundell to take a party of 12 on his splendid boat from Cannes to St Tropez for an impossibly debauched luncheon at Tahiti Beach. This follows the screening on Sunday of Otway the Movie in Cannes. As that will mean that I have been working all weekend, I have decided that I will take a day off in lieu. The table is booked, and the tender standing by to ferry us from boat to restaurant. What else could a girl want on her birthday? And that was the reason for my trip to Chichester.
Last night we decided (even though I had no part in that decision making process) to venture out in that disgusting weather to go to the Kings Arms quiz night, instead of settling on staying in and discussing the relative merits of the services offered by Currencies Direct. Ok, that was a bit disingenuous, but I was getting worried as to how I could drop the daily link into this column.
Chris France
Guvners in charge
Some desperate people found themselves unable to get Sunday’s exciting instalment of this column due to gremlins in the WordPress system, that affected hundreds of thousands of blogs, none as important as mine of course. Fear not, it is now functioning correctly and once again you will be able to open a window on the lives of the idle rich of Valbonne and Arundel.
Over the weekend, I came across a retro cycling group in Arundel, as I was checking that Pallant’s, the excellent delicatessen and quality wine store in the town, had ordered my magnums of St Emilon. They are called the Guvners Assembly as given away by the logo emblazoned on their cycling shirts. What I particularly liked was the plus fours and tweeds they were all wearing. I have long since wistfully dreamed of owning and wearing such a garment or garments, and to own a silver topped walking stick, but both items have been forbidden to enter reality, and my wardrobe, due to the dictak of That Nice Lady Dream Destroyer, due to her coming to the conclusion that these items might make me look old or stupid. However, as many of you will contend and are no doubt thinking about how to enter a comment below, I thought I already had those two areas well covered.
On yer bike Guvner
Diet day has, by its stringent calorie limiting nature, the effect of excluding alcohol from one’s daily sustenance, and for once I was glad. It had been a fearfully heavy weekend and the idea of going out and drinking again was anathema. This morning though, I am fully recovered and anxiously awaiting news of the Kings Arms quiz night, to which we may go this evening. It seems that over the weekend, a rash and only partly remembered arrangement was made for this evening with the sultry Sandra and her partner to whom I had referred In the past to as One Eyed Colin. this is mainly due to his piratical behaviour, but I have been precluded from so doing again by that Nice Lady Censor. Henceforward he will be known as Colin The Pirate. Hopefully with his help, and the considerable mind enhancing qualities of London Pride, we shall be able to affect a heist of the victors crown tonight. I am hoping for a question about exchange rates, but suspect I shall be disappointed in much the same way people who do not have a Currencies Direct account must feel.
In fact the theme is “entertainment”, and as I have spent almost my entire adult years in the entertainment business, my aim will be to drag my team mates away from the wooden spoon position where Kit Kats are the ignominious prize. Beware the Kit Kats is my motto.
This will be after we have spent some more of this morning further exploring the South Downs, weather permitting (and the weather forecast is dire) and after a hearty breakfast to ward off the slimming effects of yesterday’s culinary denial. If I get too thin I shall have to buy a whole new wardrobe, so there must be limits, and I think I have reached mine. Of course, it matters not a bit what I think as I do not have the final say, indeed any say, in well, anything, but in that semi delirious dream world which I inhabit when fasting, occasionally I believe I am in control. It is that same bracket as the belief that I can fly, should I ever try. Why does the phrase “crash and burn” come to mind?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Teddy bears and bluebells
Waiting for our lift over to a lively lunch, That Nice Lady Decorator, never the most patient person in the world, stated that the flowers she had bought for the host would be dead by the time he got here.
Barry the Teddy Bear had kindly offered to pick us up, and we were to taxi back (is taxi a verb? but no matter). 1pm sharp he had said, so by 1.20, with a large Bloody Mary and a glass of wine on board, patience in some circles was running a bit thin. Eventually the teddy bear man arrived and joined us for a drink in the pub before we set off for lunch in the wilds of Sussex.
Earlier, before the inevitable rain, we took a walk in early morning sunshine at Patching, where I took another picture of the bluebells. I know you have seen these types of pictures before, but they are now at their height and their bluest. Anyway, it us my column and I am not asking you to buy anything, well, except to open an account with Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange needs.
Yes, more bluebells in a wood
Lunch was aided by a double magnum of a 2007 Lussac St Emilion, which seven of us managed to finish despite the fact that two were not drinking and one was drinking white. I do believe that a certain amount of evaporation must be factored in before anyone passes judgement. I am told, but do not believe it, that I dozed off for a couple of hours, but am certain it could have been no more than 20 minutes.
Teddy Bear was at his cuddly best and he and That Nice Lady Decorator, who was once the owner of a Dolls House shop in Leeds, were in deep reminiscence about the Dolls House fairs they would attend in support of another of his fine upstanding and vital publications, Dolls House World. It is a curious world inhabited by people who live their lives in 1/12 scale and, I must choose my words carefully here, many of them are quite strange, but money was earned and fun had, apparently. That was not quite how I saw it 20 years ago when I was dragged, inevitably at a weekend, to some to help.
The lovely Ann was in full blonde mode, made even more attractive by her bubbly persona. We were talking at one stage about big bottles of wine when I mentioned a Nebuchadnezzar . She looked blankly and asked who was in it? I think she thought it was a film.
Arriving back mid evening, it must have been after 9pm as the White Hart was closed, the rain had closed in so with the temptation of the pub removed, we returned home to consider our verdict. A thoroughly good day was the conclusion, to set against today when I shall one again enter starvation mode. It is all for the best, I must look my best and recharge before the coming weekend in Cannes for the showing of Otway The Movie. I am hearing 23 degree and sunshine awaits us.
Until Friday, when we set off, I shall be ensuring the wheels of the international music business continue to roll. Certain significant royalties are due this week which I hope will ease the financial burdens that have beset me. When one is not in receipt of benefits, and one has two houses to run, one must fight for every penny. I do hope that the unemployed reading this will have some sympathy. That should stir up a few comments, none of which I shall be able to approve.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Welldiggers, teddy bears and disks houses
I thought she was sober as we left the Welldiggers close to Petworth, but as soon as she drove over a banked corner of the lawn of the car park and dislodged two large boulders without apparently noticing, I formed a different opinion. It was on the way to that car park that we encountered a large, well spoken and opinionated lady of a certain age. By that I mean she was not as youthful as That Nice Lady Decorator by some distance, and was even older than I, who is of course, considerably older than my spouse, so she tells me. Rather surprisingly the large well spoken large lady was driving a Citroen rather than a Bentley, which every fibre of her being said she should. Had it been a Bentley then the damage would have been considerably more pronounced.
We had just had a very good lunch, in my case a magnificent Dover sole, and in the case of the Decorating operative, smoked haddock on a bed of spinach, and we followed her back as far as Bury, on the way to Arundel. I was giving her a very wide berth, following some 300 yards behind, because she was weaving all over the road in a spectacularly haphazard fashion. When she turned off, I was not certain it was intentional, maybe she just happened to swerve into a side road.
Arriving safely and comparatively soberly back in Arundel, it was time to dispel sobriety, so we went to the White Hart, where James Desperate Dan the Landlord and Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor (TTTT) were well ensconced, watching the horse racing as is their want on a Saturday afternoon . After calming down with a refreshing glass of Barossa valley Shiraz, a recent wine menu discovery, I mentioned that we has been to the Welldiggers and TTTT immediately regaled us with some stories, none of which I can relate here, about a previous landlord of that pub known as Testicle Ted. Whilst this was going on Desperate was across the road at the bookies, but as soon as he returned TTTT told him where we had been and he started on about Testical Ted. It seems that Ted and his testicles were well known in these parts.
I have never really been a fan of horse racing, but I do like a flutter, so when That Nice Lady Decorator decided that she wanted to bet on a horse, but could not be arsed to run across the road to place her bet, I offered myself as her own private bookie, taking a £10 bet on a no-hoper at 5 to 1. A tenner up, and acting on a tip from Desperate, I placed my entire winnings on a horse that came in at 8 to 1, and so a very good afternoon ensued. At that stage I had never lost a bet on a horse at the White Hart, having won the pub sweepstake on the Grand national, taken £10 off that Nice Lady Betting Person, and acted on the tip from Desperate. It was all to come to an inevitably conclusion when TTTT became involved in the next bet, and spoiled my karma. So, I retired from the pub £80 up in bets (about 94 euros at today’s exchange rates) and £30 down in drinks.
A quiet evening culminated in my opening a bottle of Chateau Musar, probably my most favourite wine in the world, in recognition of my services to the pub trade and horse racing, ahead of a big day today at lunch in West Chiltington. We shall be lunching with Barry the Teddy, as I have decided to call him, as a result of his conception and continuing publication of that most vital magazine, Teddy Bear World, together with his pretty and charming wife Ann. Barry has had almost as big an impact on the sphere of publishing as I, With titles such as Dolls House World and similar tributes to needlework and haberdashery no doubt making their mark amongst aficionados of those disciplines. In fact I feel he needs to be disciplined himself.
Chris France
Beard reduction interferes with Internet development
It is amazing how creative one can become over a couple of pints. This was illustrated perfectly last evening when, after early doors at The Bridge at Amberley, now considerably diminished in my view due to their very short-sighted decision to abandon Timothy Taylor Landlord bitter, we popped into the Kings Arms in Arundel on the way home.
A fifteenth century pub is an unlikely setting for Internet inspiration, but it happened. Over a few drinks with some of the locals including the Sultry goddess Sandra, One Eyed Colin and the beautiful and petite Corkscrew Ali, a brilliant Internet concept developed based on the simple idea…. But that would be telling. Suffice to say that a couple of hours research today, half an hour to formulate a plan to monetise (a lot of people do not like that word, but it is one of my favourites, because it always reminds me of the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct) the concept, and, after another brain storm this evening, finalise the offering ready for sale on Monday. Expect a float on AIM within a year.
Two things should stand out from that last paragraph; firstly, that we are inevitably going to make very quick and very large fortunes, and secondly we shall need to go to the pub again this evening for some fine honing of the project. Part of the reason we were unable to compete the plans last night was that a chap in the pub was having his luxuriant beard cut off for charity, as my picture today shows, partly because of a surfeit of London Pride and partly down to the fact that we could not find a pen to write down what was discussed and agreed. I fear that some of the sub strands of our deliberations may not have made it home with me.
I too have suffered a beard cutting event, as Mr Clipboard, aka Mr Clipbeard knows only too well
You should also be able to work out from events covered so far, that the dastardly diet is on the back burner for a few days. The last 24 hour marathon 600 calorie diet period ended at 6. 10pm last night and I was poised with a pint in my hand for the final countdown. That Nice Lady Diet Enforcer is already unconvinced that a 24 hour period can be interpreted in quite the way I claim, despite my discovery of some internet research to support my contention, but she still joined me in a pint at the allotted time.
As I write, rain is lashing at my window, but I am not downhearted as Cannes and Valbonne beckon on Friday, so less than a week to go before the joyful return to France. This trip cannot be construed as a holiday as I shall be at the Cannes Film Festival in a semi official capacity as a roving ambassador and banquet organiser for John Otway. My swingeing expenses will therefore be submitted the following week to my accountant, and the ritual argument about what is allowable to claim against tax is what is not will recommence.
If you have been paying attention to the content of today’s column, you will know that today is no day of rest for me. On the contrary, I expect to put in a full day’s work (some 3 hours I expect; if one works at the intensity I do, then one can undertake a days work in a trifle – although I suspect that could also come to a sticky end… How did I get from work to trifle and where am I going with that sticky mess theme?… But I digress), but that is what happens when you are a pillar of commerce, a slave to endeavour, or is that a TV detective programme? (I morse get out more). Suffice to say that the concept of a weekend break for me is an alien concept.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
In tents diet
I find my best work is done when I am in a prone position having imbibed freely. So today’s column will not be one of my best because, although lying down for my customary afternoon nap yesterday afternoon some inspiration did come, but as I had not had a drink, the intellectual juices required to do this daily tone justice were slightly more viscous than usual.
The research that I promised to undertake worked on that pesky 600 calorie a day diet. I found a piece in the Daily Telegraph which advised against two consecutive days of extreme dieting on the grounds that one could be subject to alarming side effects such as fainting. It follows then, that driving a car whilst on this diet, could turn out to be a terrible health hazard, and although I got “that look”, from That Nice Lady Wall Repairer, (the Lady, not the wall) my argument won the day.
Astonishingly, after a dreadful start, yesterday turned out to be reasonably sunny, if windy, despite the dire predictions of the weather forecasters who were promising conditions of wind and rain of alarming proportions, just in time, had it actually arrived, because after three weeks of dry weather, it is only a matter of time before the mumbling about hose pipe bans would have started. However, I think they must have got West Sussex confused with some ghastly northern region like Westmoreland or something. It was not warm enough for shorts and my hoody was brought into use beneath my anorak, but comparatively pleasant after the early morning drizzle had buggered off up north, considering what we were expecting.
Northern accomodation in the south
Talking of hoodies, Sprog 1 turned up the evening before on the scrounge. Parents, the more discerning, often Currencies Direct clients, with kids in their late teens and early twenties will know all the signs; nice as pie, no sulking, helpful, polite. What is he after? I thought, and I am even more concerned now because I was not asked. This is obviously going to a build up into a big and expensive favour, I can feel it.
Anyway, back to hoodies. This is a type of garment typically worn by the great unwashed from urban areas like Chester. It is not the sort of clothing that you would normally expect to see a less than fully respectable man of 59 sporting so successfully, and for some reason which I cannot fathom, when he caught sight of me wearing it, Sprog 1 sniggered. He was being too nice for me to find out what was really amusing him because of the build up to the request above, which I know is coming. He forgets that I own one of the UK’s most credible rap labels, Music Of Life, and that as a result I am “down with my homey’s”.I have no idea what that phrase means but I am certain that is an expression used by the hoody wearing contingent, many of whom are dear customers.
So the diet starts again tonight. My research has thrown up an interesting fact; the 600 calories can be consumed in any 24 hour period. There is also nothing to stop one starting straight after a meal, and so, my diet commenced last evening after a sumptuous dinner of ribs and noodles, prepared, I may add, by my good self after a breakdown in communications in the kitchen, that Nice Lady Cooking person being rather unwilling to believe my research and declining to cook. It was a triumph for the ingredients over the chef and for once was not so stuffed with hot chilli sauce as is the norm when my services to cuisine are not required.
Chris France
Dreaming of Otway swan song?
Summer has truly finished in the UK, so with rain lashing down and strong winds whipping off the blossoms in the garden, I reluctantly packed my shorts away, ready for use in the summer of a proper climate, in the south of France. Actually, we shall be there in ten days time for an early season reconnaissance of summer and for the Cannes Film Festival showing of Otway The Movie, in which I have graciously allowed myself to appear.
The prospect of a banquet on the beach in Cannes on Saturday week, before the screening of the movie on the Sunday is an even more alluring proposition when one spends much of the day with one’s nose pressed up against the rain-sodden window, trapped in one’s office.
Mr Otway sprang to fame in the late 1970’s when his madcap spontaneous idiocy had him leaping onto an amplifier which collapsed and he fell and crushed a testicle. This was live on The old Grey Whistle Test on the BBC. All of his friends and fans were at home waiting for the big event, and as it all literally collapsed around him, I can still remember the palpable sense if gloom that descended, as we all thought he had blown a big chance. It is true to say that during that particular musical era, there was a polarisation of opinion about John’s talents, or as many people perceived, lack of talent. He was especially disliked by proper musicians as they would claim that he could not sing and could not play, and they were right. What he could do however, was entertain. But, as it turned out, we need not have worried. His inadvertent attempted castration, live on prime time TV, worked in exactly the opposite way, and every subsequent show that he and Wild Willy Barrett did for months after that appearance was rammed, with people queueing around the block, keen to see him hurt himself again. It led to a hit single, “Cor Baby That’s Really Free” in 1978 and he has now had cartoon flicker pads made of the 6 excruciatingly painful seconds that changed his life, ready to show anyone who shows any interest whatsoever. I expressed interest and three arrived on my doormat yesterday. He is also one of my oldest friends and has recently (after several years of concerted pressure) become a Currencies Direct customer, so I have even more time for him now.
Before the joy of the south of France is a period of relative calm and nest-building as my picture today shows. It is a swan’s nest just below the bridge over the River Arun in Arundel, should you wish to swan down to see it.
Now that would make a decent omlette.
Ok, so it was a diet day yesterday, meaning it has to be alcohol free. That means that my usual wit and repartee are a little dulled, hence very poor swanning about jokes. I am under some pressure to continue with the diet today and as soon as I have finished this I am going to so some Internet research to see if I can throw up any information that doing it two days on the trot is counterproductive. If not then I shall invent something. If I am successful you will be hearing about it. If not then I shall be forced into reenacting scenes similar to those that might be witnessed at Anorexics Anonymous.
Off to walk in the rain now, jumpers, wellington boots and coats to the fore, dreaming of sunshine and Cannes (of food).
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Commuting horror again
I was reminded yesterday of the true horror of commuting to London. Occasionally, my prescence is required in the city to ensure the smooth functioning of the global music business. Thus I found myself on the train from Arundel to Victoria at the ungodly hour if 9.46, when I discovered, to my surprise, that it is light.
It must be something to do with summer, and that was amply illustrated by the sunshine hysteria that grips inhabitants in the UK when the sun is out and the temperature rises. As I walked across Green Park in pleasant spring warmth, I was struck by the range of inappropriate clothing in view, hopefully inspired by the weather. I also saw some sights that I wish I had not. When one is some 20 stone, bra and pants are not a good fashion statement. I would have taken a picture, but still feeling queasy after the bank holiday barbecue, I could not face it and instead took this picture of the tulips outside Buckingham palace. Less controversial I know, but as I say, the stomach was not ready for such an image.
Buckingham Palace flowers. A better photo option
On the train back at just after 2pm, the trial was nearly over and the long commute completed by 3.30, by which time I was exhausted. I even avoided the golden opportunity offered by a visit from French ex-pat renegades Neil and Fiona Blackley, on their way to see Eddie Izzard in Brighton, when instead of a glass of wine, we joined them in a cup of tea. Poor Neil who is about 6ft 5 inches tall, spent the entire time in our house stooped under out low beams and looking at me, as his name suggests, Blackley. However I must not be rude about him as he has offered us free use of their fabulous house in Barbados at some stage. In return he will be welcome to use our rather more modest house in the South if France. I know who is getting the best deal. After sitting in the sunshine, we went for a stroll around Arundel where once again I saw the Walking Stick shop and was reminded of my desire to own a silver topped cane, but one look from That Nice Lady Decorator was enough. She considers that having such an item to be ageing, indeed I have heard her mumbling something about nursing homes should I ever arrive home with one. So for now, as I want to remain without cares for the time being, I will bottle up this desire.
We discussed that appalling motor boat accident in Cornwall because, as it turns out, I knew Nico, the husband who was killed and had played golf with him in France less than two years ago. They know the family even better, and one of my dearest friends, Mr Clipboard, better still, Nico was the best man at his wedding and Clipboard is godfather to the children. A very sad day, as one that has reminded me of my bucket list, or things that must be done before you die. I will begin planning that early winter trip to Thailand and Goa later this week.
The summer is clearly over as the rain was lashing down this morning and as I write has now turned into sideways drizzle, and I can feel the early morning good humour evaporating as I write. Not even the uplifting experience of the joy of finding another customer for Currencies Direct can raise my spirits. Death, rain and a diet day are the three witches with whom I must contend today.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Barbecue goes up in smoke shock
You could see the smoke from the south coast. It is fair to say that the first barbecue of the summer got off to a rather smoky start, and may have started an evacuation at the pub next door, had not most of the clientèle including James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord already been in our garden. Desperate was claiming that this should not be his nickname in this column as yesterday he was clean-shaven, unlike the cartoon character after which he is named. Well, that might have been the case when he left the pub, but by the time he sat down for his first drink, that stubble was back.
Flame haired beauty, the lovely Carolyn, although looking far too young to have children old enough to work behind the bar at the Eagle in Arundel, revealed that she has been barred by both in recent times. She claims that they do not enjoy her singing on “open mic” night, but I suspect the real reason may be what seems to happen after dutiful attention to several jaeger bombs.
Sprog 1 introduced me to these. Until then I had believed that the expression referred to some explosive upmarket female underwear, but apparently it involves a shot of Jaegermeister dropped into a pint of lager, and is designed by youngsters to get drunk quickly and cheaply. To give you an idea of the effect drinking several of these concoctions can have (or in yesterday’s case several bottles of sparkling rose) I invite you to unravel this spoonerism which our beautiful flame haired guest uttered yesterday; “are taking the wogs for a Salk ?”. Admittedly, this was after a long and splendid afternoon in the sunshine, and after Desperate had twice made dashes back to the pub to supplement supplies, even though there was a fridge full of wine. I think he had worked out that his bar was closer than our kitchen.
Also in fulsome attendance was the lovely Kathryn to whom I am no longer allowed to refer as the Wyatt Earp of Arundel on pain of, well pain. She was rather quiet for her and I suspect that her primary aim was not to give me any reason to include her in this column, which is precisely why I now have.
I hope you do not glean from all this that it was all play. Oh no, I had several earnest conversations about the benefits of having an account for foreign currency translations with Currencies Direct, although it is fair to say I cannot remember with whom. Perhaps I was talking to myself, which would have been a waste of breath because obviously I already have an account of my own. Perhaps I will open another, just to give myself some encouragement.
A cry of rape?
Earlier, in preparation for what we always going to be a big day, we went for the morning constitutional (to take the wogs for a salk?) on the South Downs Way where I took this picture of the rape seed crop about to burst into vibrant, hay fever inducing yellow. Now hay fever can make you drowsy and I think that I must have suffered a delayed reaction to exposure to all that pollen, as I think I must have dozed off around 10pm. At least, I have no recollection if going to bed, but anyone suggesting that the reason for this retirement was anything to do with over consumption of what Peachy Butterfield calls “crushed fruit” will be hearing from my lawyers, Gobble, Dribble and Denyit.
Off to London today for something called work. Back by 3.30 for a glasses of wine with friends on their way to Brighton. It is all go.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Chris France's Blog 