What barbecue?
It was back at the White Hart in the afternoon that Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor revealed that he had once had a kilt. It was the Caledonian tartan I think, anyway, the inevitable discussion ensued about what should be worn beneath the kilt. He revealed that, given the degree of uncertainty about the accepted arrangements for how to deal with the wedding tackle department, on an evening out he had used his sporran to pack a pair of underpants, a pouch of tobacco and a packet of condoms. Wistfully, he went on to say that he only had the use of the tobacco.
I also have a kilt. It is a Royal Stewart tartan, so I am privy to what is supposed to go on down there. I am not sure if it is true, but my mother told me that our family name, France, emanated from the wrong side of the blanket of the Duke of Norfolk in the 16th century, resulting in a french maid being sent away in disgrace to have her child. I must say that I quite enjoy wearing it as, after a few drinks, the female contingent can become increasingly inquisitive, to a greater or lesser extent. The greater the inquisitiveness the more fun is in the wearing.
The weather forecast of warm sunshine was as straightforward (allegedly) as the deputy speaker of the House of Commons. It was not clear which way it would go. Starting cloudy as we left Oxfordshire, it remained so until we reached Arundel, but we could see blue sky to the east, so we went searching for somewhere in the sunshine to walk. By the time we reached Patching, the sun was out and after a very long walk, much longer than was intended mainly due to becoming lost for a considerable part of it (I did not have control of the map, and by a process of elimination you may be able to guess who did), we eventually arrived back at the car and popped into the Fox at Patching for a pint in the sunshine. It was during the time we were lost that I took this photograph of the bluebells in the woods.
Bluebells at Patching
There was almost a line where the cloud started and unfortunately it was to the east of Arundel. So returning to Arundel, shorts were therefore exchanged for long trousers and sweaters, and once again I muttered a number of curses aimed at the British weather forecasters. However, I can predict metaphorical sunshine for anyone opening an account with Currencies Direct, but weather forecasters are so much more unreliable.
Lunch was taken at The Swan Hotel for a change, mainly due to the fact that we knew we were going to have to sit inside, and being a Fullers house we knew they would be serving London Pride, and we had never eaten there. It is not necessarily an experience I would want to have again, but I was served a perfectly acceptable roast lamb, and that Nice Lady Decorator a fillet of sea bass, which was fine, on a bed of couscous which was not.
This is where living next to a pub is dangerous. As we walked past the garden of The White Hart on the way home, inevitably, we encountered James “Desperate Dan” the landlord and the mighty beautiful Omega and the aforementioned Terribly Tall. It was over an Australian Barossa I have discovered in his wine list that the kilt revelations emerged.
During the same conversation we discovered that we were staging a barbecue this afternoon. This was news to me, and, as it turned out, to that The Nice Lady Decorator. Either we were so out of it last week when we sat out on the Sunday, or it is a clever wheeze by the others to invent the invitation. Whichever it is, I am charged this morning with stocking up for this event, including the procurement of a barbecue, an item that we do not own in England. A full report tomorrow methinks.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Butterflies in Bampton
I had stated in this column a few days ago that the blonde genes of the delightful bride Sophie, whose wedding we were celebrating over two day in Oxfordshire, would eventfully win out and it happened yesterday. A mere 34 people were sitting down to lunch in the marquee and over a conversation when she was trying to underline the obvious nature of a statement she had made she said, in the manner of “do bears shit in the woods”,”is the Pope Jewish?” Actually I think the Pope missed a trick when he came to name himself. George Ringo would have been so much better.
That Nice Lady decorator’s brother, whose daughter was getting married, asked what I thought of Biztro where we were staying in Bampton. he made a comment about how it must be interesting to be staying at the same establishment as his alcoholic sister and mad aunt, and then went on to say something about me having to sleep with alcoholic, which I simply did not understand.
Actually, I conked out in the evening. We had popped over to The Trout on Tadpole Bridge ( I jest not) for a decent pint before the off, and arrived at lunch at around 1pm. We left, once again thoroughly well fed and watered and having consumed two good cigars by about 7pm, I was in need of a nap. The idea was for us to reawaken at 8.30 for a nightcap and perhaps a light late supper, but I admit that come the appointed time I was unable to rouse myself from my bed and I had a false start, and then a disqualification. That did not stop the decorating person and the mad aunt from going out and thoughtfully bringing me back a London Pride beer mat from The Talbot, where they had belatedly discovered a decent pint.
I was awoken to be given my gift and regaled with a story about a lady dining in the bar at Biztro, who apparently was of a size where no food would be required for some months. It seems she was wearing a dress, or more accurately, a large tent, made from a material covered in butterflies. The gist of the story was that the butterflies were extremely large and for some reason this caused some merriment, which I was forced to appreciate at around midnight. The “Butterfly Lady” was discussed at length over breakfast, apparently had she said “does my bum look big in this” there would have been an outbreak of hysteria. Dear Aunt Pam even joined in suggesting that she had sat behind her for a few minutes last night and had been in almost complete darkness.
Downton Church
My picture today is of Bampton church which often features in episodes of popular TV series Downton Abbey, and was the church where the lovely Sophie tied the knot. It really is the most beautiful church, just a pity that the vicar had no sense of humour. He said that had locked the church straight after the service without thinking, but we all know he wanted to keep the beautiful flowers Sophie, who I am delighted to say will soon become my latest Currencies Direct client, had prepared for her wedding for his Sunday service today. He had to be dragged out of the vicarage to open the church so they could be retrieved.
Yes it is a Sunday, a day of rest. I have done my share of churches for the year but feel I am behind quota as far as visits to pubs in concerned, so I feel I must work harder to keep up to target. Thus when we arrive back in Arundel at lunchtime, I feel it will be my duty to visit a pub or pubs, with a view to having a late lunch. My own feeling is either the Black Rabbit or the George and Dragon.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Nostalgic about nostalgia
The wedding took place at the church in Bampton which is often seen in Downtown Abbey, as many of the outdoor shots are filmed in the village. Before that we had stopped into the very poor Romany Inn, but had not stayed as they had no beer on tap whatsoever. They deserve, and will no doubt shortly suffer administration. Quite how a pub so bad can survive in a beautiful village defeats me. Instead we went across to the Horseshoe for some decent beer and Cornish pasties from Patrick Strainge, the baker across the road. Normally I am of the opinion that Cornish pasties are as tasty as a leaden pastry surrounding nail clippings and bits of dead Cornishmen, and this was little better.
After a couple of pints, I was nonetheless in quite a good mood, sufficiently jolly in fact jocularly to ask the vicar, resplendent in a rather fetching outfit, if he has bought it at a charity shop. His reply was icy and far from charitable. It appears that he did not. Obviously the Christian ethos often quoted is wrong, it should be “faith, hope and no charity shops”.
We were transported from the pub to the church and then from the church to the reception in an old bus. You can see that it was operated by a company calling itself Nostalgia travel, upon which I may have had something pithy and amusing to say, bit with That Nice Lady Decorator also in shot, I do not dare.
The wheels on the bus
After a sumptuous feast and with a great deal of good food and drink aplenty on board, and the speeches done and dusted, it was approaching the time for dancing, but our hosts, That Nice Lady Decorator’s brother Hugh and his wife the wonderful Stephanie, looking every inch the proud mother of the gorgeous bride Sophie, had unwisely not removed the tables, perhaps forgetting in the plethora of organisational minutiae that the Decorating person has form when it comes to dancing and tables. Bad form. I was girding my loin for another “incident” but it appears that her heels were being uncooperative, and anyway, she was in need of a pint.
We adjourned, in some cases rather unsteadily (must have been the shoes) to the Morris Clown, a proper pub selling proper beer, before returning to our bed and breakfast at the rather nice Biztro.
Today a large family lunch is planned, where, doubtless after a couple of sharpeners, I shall be presenting the bride with her present, a signed copy of the limited edition hardback edition of my book, The Valbonne Monologues. I can almost see the tears in her eyes now. I know they will be tears of joy. Word has it that money was the favoured gift , but I know she will be overwhelmed to receive something so special instead. Money is not everything.
Before that we must journey in to nearby Witney to replace the wine I forgot to bring and find IPhone chargers which my other half forgot to bring. As it is the Prime Minister’s constituency, I hope that I shall have the chance to exchange pleasantries with him over shopping at Waitrose, and if the opportunity presents itself I shall give him an application form to open that account with Currencies Direct, which could save him and his government money in these financially straightened times.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Seagull gives sign the bird
Council elections today are apparently traditionally followed by a gathering at the White Hart in what has become known as the White Tart Election special. Ok, I made that up and in any case, there was supposed to be no pub for me yesterday, despite another sunny day. Diet day you see, 600 calories means that breakfast amounted to a bowl of diced steamed field mushrooms, baby sweet corn and mange toute.
Now that bugs me; mange toute. Taken literally in French it means eat everything, which is a particularly cruel concept, for someone living on a starvation diet, with which to juggle. One gets a bit ratty when one is hungry, it is sunny, and you are sitting in your garden listening to people drinking and enjoying themselves in the pub garden next door and then that Nice Lady Decorator opened a bottle of cava.
Yes, more splendid spring weather yesterday, although I believe it is all scheduled to come to a stop today. By the time you read this, we shall be off and in the car and on our way to Bampton in Oxfordshire for the wedding of one of my nieces, the lovely and blonde Sophie. She is the most wonderful girl but those blonde genes are very dominant and she has a history of allowing them into the decision-making process. I am certain that I will be faced with some examples over this weekend.
We are staying at Biztro, which looks very nice from what I have seen on their website and I am looking forward to a full weekend if celebration.
I do hope this seagull is taking note
My picture today was taken at the seaside where this particular seagull exhibited signs of an anti social nature. It seems to me that perching there is a statement of intent, mocking the rules and will doubtless, when caught, will be claiming an inability to read as its defence. I hope it gets a stern talking to from the beak and a spell of bird as a result.
Yesterday afternoon I was sent on an errand to the Co Op, across the road. The shopping list was brief and to the point; a bottle of Moët and Chandon champagne and a bag of Wagg dog food. My first thought was that there was some kind of celebration planned for the canine contingent and I was girding myself to make the obvious complaint, but I need not have worried, the champagne was part of the wedding present and the Wagg was for me.
At that stage, everything has gone to diet plan. The whole caboodle began to unravel at about 5pm. At that stage I was quite smugly sitting on an intake of some 260 calories and was looking forward to my 240 calorie dinner. First, the beautiful and mighty Omega, and her betrothed, James Desperate Dan, the landlord appeared to enjoy a sundowner. At first I resisted this vile provocation and did not join all and sundry for a drink, distracting myself with higher thoughts, such as the goodness that is contained in having an account with Currencies Direct. Then, after the sun had finally departed our garden, on an early evening dog relieving walk, we happened across the lovely Laura on her newly constructed drinks deck on the banks of the river Arun, entertaining all and sundry with prawns and beer. Just the one cannot hurt I thought, but then, after that small but not insignificant diversion, we bumped into our quiz team partners Sandra and Colin, health professionals in the way back. It was all too much and resolve cracked and the disintegrated. More bottles were opened and the holiday weekend had begun in earnest.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Valbonnaise RIP
Disaster! The best atmospheric restaurant in Valbonne, the Valbonnaise closed the night before last. Chantel and Jean Luc are retiring, probably worn out by that Nice Lady Decorator insisting on dancing on the tables with the owner whenever we were there. Valbonne will be a poorer place without them and their restaurant and that atmospheric scruffy but brilliant ambience they created. Today’s picture gives a rough indication of the problems with which they were faced. Valbonnaise R.I.P.
Dancing on the tables at the Valbonnaise
We seem to have stolen the sun, whose rightful place is in the south of France. I am hearing about rain and now storms back in my old stomping ground whilst we here in the UK are basking in sunshine (after the frost has cleared). What can one do when faced with such sunny provocation, coupled with two days of drying out? Why go to a pub for a drink before lunch of course! So after a busy morning sorting out affairs for Currencies Direct and ensuring my new rock and roll, well, hip hop project is properly delegated to someone younger and considerably more enthusiastic, we set off. It was warm enough to get the top down on the Merc for the first time this year and I was unwise enough to allow myself to be photographed in a shirt rather too small properly to disguise my six-pack (or Party 7 as was suggested by one of my “friends”). I shall be more careful when I take to wearing those skimpy speedos if summer continues to develop the was it has so far.
As that Decorating person was fulfilling her primary role of decorating, well, actually she was pointing up one of the garden walls before painting it white, and she was a little behind schedule with her delegated workload, I allowed her to dip out of walking across to Burpham, graciously allowing her to buy me lunch (at my own expense) next door at the excellent Boco Nuevo at the White Hart. I say own expense because her little used bank card conveniently expired at the end of April and of course, it is now May. As the only person in our party with a bank card that had not expired, it fell to me to buy lunch despite a firm promise I had received earlier. Chagrined as I was, I must say I had a smidgen of respect; it is not an excuse I had previously employed, but rest assured, I have learned a valuable lesson today.
Nowadays, having become bored with trying to extend my arms to get the menu far away enough to read, I have reading glasses. I have heard it said that you never hit a man with glasses, a cricket bat is better. Over lunch, we discussed matters of such great import and interest and I became so thoroughly involved in a nice 2009 St Emilion, which my old, but sadly estranged, friend Peter Lynn would have said was not old enough to be out on its own, and the Decorating person became so immersed in prosecco in the sunshine that I cannot recall a great deal of what was discussed, in fact almost nothing, except that it was fulsome, wide-ranging and detailed as usual.
I do recall that there was some discussion about the relative merits of suet pudding in the context of the 600 calorie a day diet that will once again engulf me today (the diet not the pudding). That Nice Lady Decorator expressed the opinion that she thought it might be acceptable as long as it was without the suet and without the pudding.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Bluebell season
Many eulogies have been received to mark the passing of Terrence The Tractor, despite some confusion over the spelling of his name. That Nice Lady Decorator insisted that it has one “r” whereas I was right, he has two. In fact it was I who (I was going to say Christened him with this name, but that would imply that he followed the Christian religion, when I for one knows that he was an atheist) dubbed him Terrence, which I considered spelling with 3 “r’s”, just to be bloody minded. As I said, an atheist who never once to my knowledge attended church, although it is possible he cut the grass in the graveyard in a previous life. Had he tried and failed to follow the Christian code, someone would have grassed him up.
OK, that’s enough about deceased lawn mowers. Can you tell that it was a diet day yesterday? so not a drop touched my lips to help the creative process? I can usually tell those days when reading back what I have written (yes I do) that the columns are sometimes a little lacking in the incisive wit and cutting comment that is omnipresent when alcohol has been imbibed. It is very hard to write about the antics of the idle rich when you have spent all days staring at 4 walls and contemplating the higher plane reached only by Currencies Direct Customers. In short, as in keeping with most drunks, I think I am funnier when I have had a drink.
The morning walk took us to Patching in Sussex, yesterday, where I came across a field of bluebells, featured in today’s picture. This is one of the sights I love in England on those rare days (and yesterday was another one) when the sun shone and the rains stayed away (in South Of France apparently it is still terrible).
Bluebells, in woods near Patching
Did anyone see the first episode of what will quickly become a TV classic? “Vicious” is a comedy about two old gays living together and sniping at each other starring Sir Ian Macellen and is quite simply the best thing on TV. It is even better than Not Going Out. I have become a bit of a TV critic over the past two nights on which I have not had a drink on either, rather because I also have been not going out. The fast is over for today however as once again the sun is predicted to shine and so we plan to walk to a pub for lunch. I favour the George and Dragon at Houghton which means walking across the Duke of Norfolk’s estate, but That Nice Lady Decorator wants to take those that pesky dog and he is sensibly banned from his land. I put my foot down, drew myself up to my full height, took a deep breath and then quietly agreed to her inferior suggestion that we go to the other George and Dragon at Burpham.
It is less distant, about two and half miles, and she has this absurd idea that it would be a good idea to walk back after lunch, mainly because there is not a taxi in the land that will entertain the notion of allowing that evil-smelling, cantankerous thief of a cocker spaniel of hers, Banjo, anywhere near their vehicle. Thus the ridiculous decision to take them, if it is sustained, will mean her walking back alone whilst I enjoy being chauffeured home. Watch this space.
Respite will be brief however, as there is to be a dastardly second diet day on Thursday before we head to Oxfordshire on Friday for a wedding, and just importantly a reception and a few drinkies.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
100,000 hits and rising
Hitting 100,000 hits on this website was cause for much celebration today, if only by me. How do you keep letting me get away with it? This is nothing short of provocation to write more of this daily drivel about living life between the idle rich of Valbonne and the idle poor in Arundel (only joking you Aruldites, many of you are quite industrious). At this rate of popularity I must shortly pass those twin milestones of 100 sales of my second book, The Valbonne Monologues and 350 customers for Currencies Direct. Can an appearance on Jonathon Ross be far behind?
But amid this celebration of literary achievement, there was suddenly sadness yesterday. Terence the Tractor is no more. He has been happy; diligently mowing the lawn at our house in France for a couple of years, having been liberated from mistreatment by the Wingco, who would cruelly get him to cut extra long grass, until we rescued him by paying the ransom of 300 euros. He had been very content nibbling at a bit of light grass on our lawn from time to time, although last summer he developed a bit of an arched back because he was being ridden by man mountain Peachy Butterfield, and herein I think lies the problem. Its seems that he (Terrence) has suffered a broken back axle, which in donkey speak can be interpreted as a torn fetlock or fallen arches. Even Phil the Mechanic could not rescue him (without paying as much as a new mower would have cost me), so he is being laid to rest as I write. I will miss him.
As all statisticians know, numbers cannot lie. Although they can be misinterpreted, certainly by me
It was a remarkably efficient Monday, which is nearly always a desultory wash out on all levels, social and business, and all the more surprising given the fact that we travelled 2000 miles, there and back, for a party at which a great deal of champagne and fine wine was consumed at the weekend. Normally I would not equate the start of the week with any hint of efficiency, but weirdly, yesterday was different.
Life and travel plans have become so complicated, That Nice Lady Decorator and I had to hold a diary meeting on Sunday evening over a few pints in the Swan Hotel in order to decide on our summer itinerary. It is all now planned and my cup runneth over as it looks like we shall be in France for most of July, except for going to Lords for the first two days of Ashes test match, obviously, and the Arundel Festival which starts around the middle of August. Visits to Cheltenham (for the Wychwood Festival, where John Otway will be playing on June 1st), and Cornwall are amongst the attractions – and by that I mean they will probably attract rain) on the agenda, before we head off to the sunshine, my bar and the pav at the end of June.
And so, we eased through a whole day without a drink and in fact neither of us wanted one. The same will be the case tomorrow although the difference may be that I would want one by then as it has been designated a diet day. If we manage another day, it will be the first consecutive days of temperance that I can recall this year, and with the sun forecast to be in evidence for the whole of the week, the chances seem remote. We do however have high hopes that the family wedding in Oxfordshire on Friday may remain dry, except for the bar.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The three most depressing words in English
I was awoken yesterday morning by That Nice Lady Decorator swearing at the bidet. “Bidets”, she announced loudly, almost as loudly as she had proclaimed the music at Jimmy’z, the uber trendy nightclub in Monte Carlo be “shit” the night before, as we sought a taxi outside this swanky establishment , “are for the French to wipe their arses”. So that’s settled then, now I know for what they are used. They are rare now in England but alive and well and still satisfying French posteriors as we live and breathe.
Her point was that it took up useful space in the bathroom of our billet at the Meridian Plaza hotel in Monaco, where we stayed on Saturday night. We left the Principality under glowering skies, and, by the time we reached Nice, rain, and in a classic example of role reversal, arrived in the afternoon into Gatwick in bright sunshine. The terrible weather on the Côte d’Azur is beginning to worry me. I shall expect it to have improved significantly before we next venture down there later next month for Otway The Movie and the Cannes Film Festival.
I heard yesterday that the three most depressing words in the English language are “bus, replacement and service” and I can tell you that any good will towards other men generated by some sunshine, a couple of Bloody Mary’s and the sabbath evaporated as soon as I was to encounter this wicked triumvirate. Track repairs were to blame but it never seems to happen on the continent, where there are at least as many miles of track, that the whole rail network is replaced by buses every weekend. Why is it that in the UK, just when I want to travel somewhere on a Sunday, that god decides deliberately to impede me from so doing? Would it make any difference if I promised to go to church? So, after travelling over 2000 miles for a party at the weekend, we were subjected to a bone rattling uncomfortable journey down utterly unsuitable country roads in a scabby bus. It may have been a little less hard to bear had it been 9 months hence as I believe I may have been the proud holder of a free bus pass, in which case It would have been a delightful free journey through the picturesque Sussex countryside. Come to think of it though, I had already paid for a rail ticket so in fact I would have been even more disgruntled, if that would have been possible.
South Downs at Kithurst Hill
Regular readers may recall my coverage a couple of months back of a mythical city twinning between a town in Texas and a town in Switzerland. Happy and Wankdorf would seem to go err…hand in hand so to speak, and so I was happy to get an email from the lovely willowy Leslie (Poly) Bufton, currently touring Sardinia with husband Roly (well, touring its periphery) in their fab boat. They made contact from a Sardinian town called Buggerru where she said she had thought of me. She suggests that a good cultural twinning with the town where she was might be with Longdong in China, but I think perhaps the town of Arsebandit in Patagonia might be more appropriate. Anyone out there have any further ideas?
More bright sunshine is promised today and the omens are good. I have just looked out of the windows and it is sunny so I think we are “omen dry” for a stiff walk up the hills of Sussex to begin to shift the effects of some very rich food and drink in Monte Carlo at the weekend. I feel that then I shall be sufficiently refreshed to delve once again into the world of rock and roll and foreign exchange. Currencies Direct does exactly what it says on the tin.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Monte Carlo or bust
That Nice Lady Decorator sat in the Emergency exit seats on the plane from Gatwick to Nice complaining that it was a bit cold. I told her that she was probably in a draft as she was sitting by the door. For a brief moment I thought that the blonde gene would reign supreme but it was very brief. I was then subjected to the tractor beam of that stare that says “don’t push your luck”.
I made another faux pas when we landed at Nice airport and were held on the ground for a few moments. “Please keep your seatbelt fastened” said the female captain from the flight deck. “We have not yet parked”. I am afraid that I was guilty of suggesting that she was swapping seats with her male co pilot, Reginald Molehusband, who was going to park the plane for her. More tractor beams enschewed.
Arriving in Monaco in late afternoon there was barely time to get to the Meridian Plage Hotel and change before it was off to the famous Hotel du Paris for a champagne reception, the start of the festivities for the wife of the Naked Politicians hand brake, the exquisite and petite Dawn and her significant birthday celebrations.
Over 70 revellers were gathered in one if the plushest and most prestigious hotels in the world to start proceedings which were to set the scene for what was to become one of the most lavish, varied and thoughtfully prepared events to which I have ever been invited.
Next, to the Buddah Bar for dinner in one if the most beautiful restaurant surroundings I have ever seen, but just when you think that the food cannot match up to the environment, we were shown the menu of mainly Asian fusion dishes, a style of food which happens to be a personal favourite. Some time was spent choosing what we should order from a superb range of options, when suddenly the waiters came and took the menus away. There could only be one explanation; we were getting all of it!
The whole thing was fabulous. I am not just saying this because it was free, it was one if the best meals I have ever had, and I mean ever. The fact that they wee catering for 70 odd people at the same time only underlines just how good it was.
Later still a visit to the Casino was washed out, for me at least, due to irksome rain and with the music gradually increasing in volume and reducing in quality, I retired with Simon “Chateau Gloria” Howes to the terrace to smoke a cigar and consider proceedings, which meant keeping an eye on all the pretty young fillies, some of whom were not on the game, keeping an eye out for the Ferrari’s, Porsche’s, and Bentley’s arriving in order to know whom to target.
Meridian Plage at 2am
Later still we drifted up the road to Jimmy’z for dancing. Musically it was a different era to that enjoyed by TNLD, so after she had pointed out loudly to anybody who would listen, and many who did not wish to, that their musical offering might be somewhat enhanced by some Rolling Stones or something emanating more from a rock and roll standpoint, I decided to extract her and return to The Meridian, where she relaxed gradually over a gin and tonic (at 26 euros ( around £21 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) whilst I partook a of another Monte Christo No 2 on the beach terrace watching the moon go down over the sea as today’s picture fails to capture in all its glory.
It is now all over and after a sumptuous breakfast it will be back to Gatwick Airport, gateway to the south, and reality, which comprises the contemplation of the diet days to come in the week ahead. I hate reality.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
DIY shock
As one of the worlds least practical men, I wish to report a breakthrough. In normal circumstances That Nice Lady Decorator takes care of anything practical that needs to be done in the house, whilst I save myself for the higher plane activities of administration, planning and the more cerebral requirements of the household. Indeed, careful reinforcement of that supposed inability to change a plug or a lightbulb has served me well over the years, and I am seldom, if ever called upon to expose my clearly obvious lack of ability in this area. So it was a surprise yesterday when it was suggested, rather forcibly because of something to do with plaster going off that I did not quite grasp, (how can a band-aid go off? but no matter) to replace a screw on a door fitting that had loosened. Once I had been handed something called a screw driver (and here regular readers would not have been surprised to expect a not so clever play on words, along the lines of a chauffeur with an interesting sideline or hobby) everything went swimmingly well. I did not break the screw, snag the wood work, damage the fitting or anything similar and the job was completed without incident.
This is a triumph and has raised my stock in the eyes of the Decorating person considerably, from “imbecile” to as high as “unreliable”, if I am not mistaken.
To celebrate this immense stride forward, and before the newly screwed (sic) fitting fell off and returned my standing to more usual levels, we took a late evening walk near Amberley. It was perhaps inevitable, given my new-found abilities in do-it-yourself that the celebration took the form of a couple of pints of proper beer.
The South Downs near Amberley
Actually, there is something that worries me about that expression; do-it-yourself. It seems to me to imply that one has not mastered the art of delegation. Therefore I began to realise that it might all have been a trap, a deliberate attempt to undermine my delegatory powers. So even as I enjoyed a few beers at the Bridge at Amberley, my paranoia was on the increase. In fact, now I come to think about it, there is another even less savoury interpretation of that expression and one which I for one do not often come across.
Avoiding the Friday evening temptation of going to the White Hart was another breakthrough, helped by the return of more typical April showers and a chilly wind which deterred the pub goers from drinking in the pub garden, through which we are forced to go to get back into the house. Had it been full of revellers, then things may have turned out rather differently. It was as well that we got an early night before the big bash due to commence this evening.
Pacing ourselves will be vital. Champagne at 6pm and dancing until 5am is, by my calculations some 11 hours of revelry, all at the expense of the Naked Politician, in one of the most expensive flesh pots in Europe, if not the world, and so it should not be taken lightly. I do not intend to take it lightly, but to remain at the helm from start to finish. The problem will start at Gatwick where I am prepared to wager that I shall be once again led into temptation, probably in the shape of the Seafood bar, Caviar House, as a warm up for the evening.
On the trip down, I shall once again be considering how best to extend the reach of Currencies Direct, which was widened a little further today with the request for account opening application for a from someone who had been inspired to do just that by reading my book The Valbonne Monologues. It is especially gratifying when something like that happens, and one knows that one has made a contribution to the good of the world. I must compare notes with the Reverend Jeff, this must have happened to him before.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Nutbourne city limits
The week is in tatters. It was supposed to be a 600 calorie diet day but the warnings signs were there as soon as we has finished the delicious small handful of boiled mushrooms on two if the smallest pieces of Nimble bread (no butter) that you could imagine.
The problem was that the sun was out and in this climate when that happens there is a lemming like dash to a pub with a garden. “No matter” said That Nice Lady Decorator, “lunch can be two pints of real ale and I can make a stir fry without noodles for dinner”. This is bit like saying you will get a small plate of scalded vegetables for your supper. The next problem is that I am weak-willed and when she suggested that we visit a pub I had heard a lot about but had never been, the Rising Sun at Nutbourne, I am afraid that any attempt to avoid such a scenario evaporated on the spot.
Thus we headed over, had a short walk across the Sussex Golf Course which was very pretty and then to the pub, all in delightful spring sunshine. The pub has chickens roaming the garden and the landlord told us of a recent customer whose dog had attacked one and managed to pull out some feathers before theowner had managed to pull it away. Apparently she then swept up all the feathers into her handbag and asked the others sitting outside not to say anything. Her downfall was that the “others” comprised the staff of the pub on a cigarette break. They could have chickened out and not told the landlord, but they did not.
A camelia at the Rising Sun at Nutbourne
Returning to Arundel, still in sunny weather, we had to run the gauntlet. When with the dogs we always use the back way in through the garden of the White Hart pub, and who was there amongst the group of customers sunning themselves but James “Desperate Dan the Landlord”, hard at work on his tan with a glass of wine and shorts and sunglasses. The provocation was too much and we buckled and wisely decided that the diet could not survive yesterday in those conditions.
There are those that would argue that this apparent lack of will power illustrates a lack of character or insufficient strength of mind, but nothing could be further from the truth. On the contrary it shows a nimbleness of thought, an understanding that decisions sometimes need to be changed when circumstances change, and that is the case for the defence.
These notions and others, especially concerning the value of opening an account with Currencies Direct, were discussed for an hour or so over a few pints of beer and a few glasses of wine, so you have a clear illustration if just how well we are able to adapt to a changing set of circumstances.
We still had the stir fry, without noodles, but by this time the combination of sunshine and Harvey’s coupled with a few glasses if Rioja rendered me mellow enough not to care. Awakening this morning to the sound of cars splashing their way through the puddles underlined that decision to change direction. Yes, the English weather has reverted to type.
One more day to go before the big bash in Monte Carlo tomorrow night and we have still not had a day without a tipple this week, but I like to think that it is a kind of training for the rigours ahead. Again, that is my position. My defence lawyer will no doubt be on overtime this week.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
South Down’s syndrome?
That’s it, summer is over, but it was good while it lasted. Autumnal gloom settled over coastal Sussex yesterday, scuppering plans to walk across the Downs of the Arundel estate of the Duke of Norfolk to the George and Dragon for lunch. I call it poor planning, having a diet day on a sunny day and then scheduling a potential lunch out day when the weather is crap. I know who is to blame but cannot possibly say.
Instead I spent the morning slaving over a publishing deal and further considering how to spread the good word about Currencies Direct. Talking of spreading the good word, I must talk to the Reverend Jeff as he must have experience in this area.
So lunch was taken instead at The Black Rabbit as it has some of the finest views in Sussex, even when the weather is somewhat less good than desired, or promised by those damn weather forecasters, who were promising the warmest day of the year yesterday, a mere two days before. How can one dovetail one’s diet into a the one’s day when forecasters such as the Reverend Jeff’s daughter, Holly Green (!), get it all so wrong?
The lambing season on the South Downs
Over a very decent lunch, talk turned to the lambing season, which we had witnessed close up the day before , as my picture today shows, to horses and the unfortunate events that seem to be engulfing racing circles at the moment. Great Aunt Pam, who has recently astounded me with her reminiscences about riding out with Eric Clapton and Ginger Baker in Richmond Park in the early 1970’s revealed that her horse at that time was a former steeplechaser, but was described by her trainer as being as slow as a hearse. She claimed that it was worse than that, as he also had an aversion to jumping, which is a fatal flaw in a steeplechaser and that the only job that he did well was to look pretty.
I can almost hear the thought processes of my regular readers after reading the last part of the last sentence. How will the writer of this column make an analogy between a certain Valbonne-loving aged author and looking pretty? The answer is that despite some consideration, I could not think if a connection.
Later we adjourned to my house in Arundel to open more wine and discuss the finer details of my Aunts move to the town. I am sure that everything was settled to everybody’s entire satisfaction but after the Barolo has begun to flow, I cannot be exactly sure . Suffice to say that Auntie Pam now has a good idea of what to expect when she becomes resident. I wonder if she will now change her mind?
I don’t need to remind you, or for that matter Myself (that Nice Lady Decorator will do that for me)!of the fact that today will be the second diet day of the week. However, this time I am going for the full food option rather than being seduced into using up half my daily alliance on beer, as was the case in Tuesday. I do not want to point fingers but a certain Decorating person was to blame.
Then one more day to go before what I expect to be an epic weekend in Monte Carlo. Starting at the Cafe de Paris for champagne, taking in the Buddah Bar for dinner, pretending to be James Bond at the casino and then dancing at Jimmy’s, before hauling ourselves back onto a plane on Sunday to return to normality. Blow in, blow out, crash out and then home for rest and recuperation, and to nurse the credit cards back to health. Sounds like a fine weekend in prospect.
Chris France
Door closed on diet
In normal circumstances in the past I would have expressed fulsome distaste for Kentucky Fried Chicken, that calorific, fat laden, fast food chicken, but I have had a change of heart. I am now of the opinion that it is a wonderfully nutritious way of eating chicken, and is fast food at its very best. I may even go in search of one, although not tomorrow, as I suspect one piece would exceed my diet day limit of 600 calories.
A cynic might suggest that there has to be some reason for this sudden change of opinion. That same cynic may be the one that knows that a track, featuring the vocals of the late great Steve Marriott, has been chosen for the new KFC TV advertising campaign which will run for the next year. This, of course, has cost the advertising agency a pretty penny and eventually some of that will filter down the music business food chain and will arrive in Arundel. Long live fast food say I.
Summer is well under way and yesterday the forecasters were saying we may have 2 or even 3 days of summer weather before autumn crowds back in, so we took advantage and, daring to wear shorts, obviously accompanied by a shirt and large sweater, took to the hills around Arundel from where I took this picture. Today those forecasters are saying something different.
One door opens…
Now I may be missing something here, but I cannot see the point of a gate just set up arbitrarily in the middle of the woods. Perhaps it is like the emperors new clothes, or like all modern art, where people think there is something there, or there is something there worth looking at but normal people cannot see it? Anyway, after we had walked through, dutifully closing it behind us, as dictated by the country code, we continued on in bright sunshine, and I began to think all warm and cuddly thoughts about all my Currencies Direct customers.
Now it is devilishly hard on a diet day to retain enough calories to be allowed a pint of beer, but it was St George’s Day yesterday and so I had to slay my own personal dragon in order to retain 340 calories ( the number of calories in two pints of real ale ) in order to show national solidarity. The problem was; where to go to celebrate? The requirement was for good beer and a nice pub garden within a few miles of Arundel.
We settled on The Oyster Catcher between Ford and Clymping, mainly because that allowed us a walk along the beach at sunset, has decent beer and a well-kept garden. The problem was road noise so we ended up at the very apt George and Dragon at Houghton.
This dietary decision had the effect if making the evening meal even more meagre. A boiled field mushroom of 5 calories was all that remained. Gruel would have been rich by comparison, and Oliver Twist would not have bothered to ask for more, still we did get those pints, St George was appeased and now I can hear that bacon sizzling in the pan, so shortly, when that big full English breakfast is safely stacked away in my stomach (assuming it has not shrunk with all this denial) all will be well in my little world.
Today, great Auntie Pam is coming to stay as she has decided to move to Arundel to keep an eye on us. It will be my duty to organise the purchase of the flat she has chosen across the road. I mention this because we have made much of the luncheon opportunities in Arundel and we want to impress her so we will find somewhere nice. The George and Dragon (would be my favourite , if I am involved in the choice rather than, as usual, following orders.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Bent but not broken
The weekend carnage was so pronounced that I was forced to return to my bed yesterday afternoon in preparation for last nights filming of the last of my parts for Otway The Movie. Actually, that sounds a little like it will be a porn film, but as you will know it is not. The problem was continuity. For the filming on Thursday evening, pre weekend and post diet day, I was looking like an Adonis, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, animated and erudite. Yesterday lunchtime I was looking like I felt, old and broken and barely able to string three words together. It would have been a good example of the dangers that can befall a man when he finds him self in doubtful company, the sun is out and the pub is open. A kind of before and after story, but that was not what the director, Steve “Chimney” Barker was trying to capture. This picture of a half uprooted tree reminded me of myself before that afternoon nap.
The leaning and broken tree cannot completely obscure the beauty of the castle. there is an analogy here
Despite an iron willed determination to avoid a drink, nothing else would work to return me to my good-natured ebullient self, so as Neil Young said, rust never sleeps, and that iron will if which I have spoken, rusted so badly that we went to the Swan Hotel for a pint of London Pride and a pint of Harvey’s at the White Hart, which revived me sufficiently for the filming of my bits as I mentioned, which were predominantly about the time in the 1980’s where Otway and I pulled the scam of signing Warner Brothers, but you will have to wait to see the film for the full story. Without London pride, it could have been a debacle.
Arriving at the White Hart, I was greeted excitedly by the bar manager Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor, who told me that he had a great picture for this column. It was taken on his phone over the weekend, Sunday I think, in the pub garden and depicted an amiable ageing local music business impresario author, who shall remain nameless, enjoying a short well deserved reinvigorating nap whilst holding the butt of a cigar. Sadly, I had to tell him that I felt sure I would never have sufficient space available to be able to include the photo in this daily missive. Had the picture been of someone with less merit or specifically not the author of this column, then I concede that things might have been different.
Today will definitely be drink free as it is the first of the dreaded diet days, of which there are two designated this week . By Thursday you will be able to turn me sideways and mark me absent. I think some might call that look emaciated but I don’t think it was right for women to get the vote. Ok, that was pretty obscure but it made me laugh. Regular readers will know that my standards of humour are not high. I have not yet feasted on my, no doubt, boiled mushroom on Nimble, but the deletion is already creeping ever nearer.
On the plus side, the sun is out, albeit fitfully, so a morning constitutional, (perhaps with just several jumpers and no coat?) will get those red corpuscles on the move and ready my mind for a day of commerce and starvation. The joys of Currencies Direct will be getting my full attention, as will some of the miscreants who have yet to settle their royalties.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Run of the mill
I would not say that yesterday was an easy day, given the events of Saturday. In order to digest not just a brunch, but the events of the day before when That Nice Lady Decorator had conked out and then woken up and gone in search of me, visiting most of the pubs in Arundel. We walked 3 miles along the banks of the River Arun to shake off the effects of the day before to the wonderfully positioned Black Rabbit, where managers Tom and Sam, alerted by Facebook entries, had reserved our favourite table, even though we had no intention of eating. A late brunch put paid to that. A large Bloody Mary eased us back into the real world after a wild Saturday.
It was on the way back that I took this picture of the mill stream in Arundel.
Mill stream in Arundel in sunshine
Due to the shenanigans of that Nice Lady Decorator the day before, we had to spend some time building bridges and repairing relationships. It was necessary to phone the Kings Arms, The Eagle and any other establishment that either of us has visited the day before in order to apologise for any embarrassment, damage and in the case of That Nice Lady Decorator, unpaid bar bills that had been incurred. Much like the Queen, she seldom carries money although she is really exceptional when it comes to spending it.
Whilst settling the bill at the White Hart, where bar manager Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor had refused to serve the Decorating person until her tab was paid, we stayed for a couple of drinks in the garden in more unaccustomed sunshine. There was some talk about another infamous unpaid tab at the pub. It seems that a few doors up the road about two years earlier a chap had hung himself. His mental strife was of no interest to Terribly Tall, but he was incensed by the fact that this chap had come into the pub the evening before and bought a bottle of brandy promising to pay for it the next day. He committed suicide without settling his bill. It is not known whether Terribly Tall made a claim on his estate or not. I think the chap may have changed his mind and been alive today if I could have explained to him the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct. I blame myself.
The weather world is getting weird. It has dawned bright and sunny again today in Arundel. Simultaneously I am seeing reports on Facebook that snow is in the forecast for the south of France, how can that be? It was 25 degrees when we were there last weekend. Anyway, I shall be out this morning making the best of it as this summer weather will undoubtedly come to an end shortly. Talking of shortly, I may have to extract some shorts from my suitcase packed ready for the next trip back to France.
More filming is in the schedule for this evening as there are still some small adjustments required to my pieces to camera for the final version of Otway The Movie before it gets a Showing at the Cannes Film Festival. My request for a makeup artist has been curtly declined, obviously on that basis that I look so good already. As a result I have been given a one day reprieve from a diet day, as clearly I shall need some Dutch courage before the filming. I also need to work out how to get a shot in of the Valbonne Monologues. I think it is called product placement.
It seems likely that there will be close to 100 Otway fans travelling down to wreak havoc in Cannes in the third week of May and we shall be amongst them. I simply cannot resist the temptation to see myself again on the big screen. This will be the first showing since the premier at the Odeon in Leicester Square. If any if you chaps want to come to that or the Otway banquet on the beach, have a look at the website or let me know.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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