Tommy Coopers love child spotted in Arundel?
At the crack of sparrows we braved the frost and took to the South Downs at Kithurst Hill for a stiff walk in some rare sunshine. On those days in England when it is sunny, it is the best place in the world to be, and The South Downs is one of the most beautiful places in England. The problem is there are only about three of those days each year.
From there it was off to the Farmers market in Arundel to buy some pheasant sausages, and watch the Sompting Village Morris Dancers, the leader of whom was giving out leaflets about where they were appearing, telling people that it showed where they could be avoided. He also did a very good Tommy Cooper impression as my picture shows.
Sompting Village Morris Men with comedian
After that I am afraid things become a bit of a blur. I blame that diet. Yesterday was not designated a 600 day, but Friday was, thus I was in a weakened and confused state even before a couple of pints of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord bitter at the Horse and Groom (colloquially known as the Doom and Gloom) at the amusingly named Funtingdon near Chichester. The visit was part of our determination to explore the pubs of Sussex. This one would be in the top 20.
Things began to unravel as there was the rarest of opportunities to sit outside in sunshine, and with a pub garden next door, I feel I was a victim a fate. I can remember buying a bottle of Sancerre and a bottle of their nice 2009 St Emilion, then another bottle of red before retiring with several other reprobates to our garden next door as the sun shifted from the pub garden to ours.
Later recollections include giving Sprog 1 £40 to get an Indian takeaway but have no recollection of eating it as I was dragged (I think) by the lovely Kathryn to the Kings Arms for a pint, with a pit stop on the way at The Eagle. I recall withdrawing £200 from the cash machine (about 236 euros at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) but cannot explain why I have just £40 left. I have no idea how several empty wine bottles came to be on the kitchen floor, or how I came to lose that Nice Lady Decorator during the course of the evening. As she said this morning, she woke up next to someone old, fat, balding and smelling of drink and was relieved. She knew she had made it home.
It is ridiculous how exposure to a bit of sunshine can be at the root of such havoc. It underlines the dangers of living in England and enduring weeks and months of boring dull grey weather and then suddenly finding a release. It reminds me of my youth when the convent girls all came home for their holidays. They were so full of pent-up frustration they were by far the most popular girls for us chaps, being a lot more giving, as it were. The Reverend Jeff will recall those times. Convent girls and nurses. Happy days.
As I write I never want to see a drink ever again but suspect that by lunchtime, as it is a Sunday, I shall be tempted to go next door to The White Hart, if only to pay any unpaid bar and restaurant bills and to apologise to anyone I, or that nice Lady Decorator have upset. There are always some when things get out of hand. The danger signs are there already. The sun is out again and if it lasts past the moment the sun passes the yardarm…
Chris France
Spring in your step?
I have had several people desperate toknow about a link to the kindle store in order to secure a copy of The Valbonne Monologues, but do not worry, they will not sell out, in the same fashion as has the author. If you click on this brown writing it will take you straight to the kindle site where you can buy Valbonne Monologues now.
So after a meagre breakfast of two slices of brown Nimble and some steamed mushrooms (about 115 calories) I dragged myself around Slindon Woods in a quickly tiring state bemoaning the fact that today is another diet day, and further bemoaning the fact that I was wearing a hoody, a jacket, gloves, and walking boots on order to deal with the cold and the mud, I arrived back to see an email from old pal Slash and Burn Thornton Allan. He is staying in Valbonne this week where it is sunny and warm and thoughtfully sent me a picture of my swimming pool he took at breakfast this morning, where he had been tucking in to eggs, bacon, fried bread, mushrooms and baked beans. If he were not a customer of Currencies Direct, he would be off my Christmas card list.
Poolside breakfast taken by Slash and Burn Thornton Allan from The Big Picture
The sun did come out a little in the afternoon and the gale force wind dropped to merely very strong so it was comparatively pleasant when we walked in early evening along the banks of the River Arun, but you will note the use of the word “comparatively”. A good analogy would be gaining contentment from being beaten up rather than suffer genital torture. Eleven and a half months more exile before any return to France for extended periods can be considered . As we arrived back to walk through the pub garden, a number of hardy souls were outside “enjoying” the weather and starting their weekends. Pints of beer, laughing, smoking, I was doing none of those, but others were. My weekend will not start until today after dietary denigration has dissolved.
Sprog 1 is due back today so I have bribed him with a tank of petrol to take us to a few pubs to the west of Chichester that we have heard are all wonderful. Luckily he loves driving more than he likes drinking, so it works for us both as I am exactly the opposite. With that Sunshine in the forecast, at least for today, I shall be making the most of it. The pubs I have in mind all have gardens.
The next week will be quiet with a huge party set to unfold next weekend in Monaco. The Naked Politician is staging a huge bash to celebrate a barely significant (if you are my age) birthday of the lovely Dawn, his handbrake wife. It will start with a champagne reception at the Cafe de Paris, moving onto the Buddah Bar for dinner, then to the Casino to do a James Bond impression followered by dancing at Jimmy’s from midnight until 5am, so you can see that a certain of restraint and training will be required in order not to peak too early. In order to pretend that we are as wealthy as he and his friends, we shall stay at the Meridian Plage Hotel in Monte Carlo and lick the financial wounds afterwards.
This faces me with a dilemma, which is not anything to do with the leader of the Tibetan spiritual movement as Peachy Butterfield is no doubt now aware. Should I attempt an abstemious week, eschewing strong drink and saving myself for the bash if the year, or should I consider gradually increasing my intake and staying up later and later to get into training, in much the way I am told one trains for a marathon? Well it is not much of a dilemma for me, but persuading that Nice Lady Decorator to adopt the alternative I would choose will be more difficult.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Houghton goes to the dogs
I have written before about the hearsay and tittle-tattle I have heard concerning local beauty spot, Houghton view. Rumour has it, and I am still having nervous flashbacks about shouting “if you don’t come now, I am going to beat you” to Max, the family dog, before I was aware that it reputedly is also a venue for a different kind of dog, or dogging.
Perhaps if the local conservative council candidate, who kindly placed a pamphlet through my letterbox today, could learn something if he read this column every day. For instance he may have learned of the reputation, or what kind of a view one might expect to err… come across there. So when I saw the picture of him on the front of the brochure leaning on the sign at Houghton View, it made me laugh out loud. If he were to read this column carefully, he could also learn about the benefit of having an account with Currencies Direct. Here is a picture of that brochure.
Conservatives give seal of approval to Houghton View
Talking of dogs, it is the tick season, those nasty little parasites are much in evidence during spring time. I found one of these poor creatures yesterday with a terrible affliction. It had become infested with a Banjo, the horrid hound that lives a charmed life in our household as he has that Nice Lady Decorator as his protector. It was a tough job extracting him from the tick and I fear that it did not survive. sadly though, Banjo is still with us.
My favourite UK mortgage broker, cuddly Richard Mills, sent me a photograph of Serena Williams and her coach strolling through Valbonne. Clearly, knowledge of the tennis heritage of Valbonne, built by myself and my tennis playing pals, has spread far and wide. She could not have known she missed me, and that tennis lesson I promised her, by just a few days. Perhaps we will see her at the Vignale Tennis Club shortly?
Kindle fans, this is the news you have been waiting. My new book, The Valbonne Monologues, is now available for your kindle device. It is a cheaper but less exclusive way to acquire it, as these will clearly not be the signed, limited edition tactile article that previous buyers if the hard copies now own.
So last night, after eating the remains of the curry that The Nice Lady Decorator had insisted on liberating from the Indian restaurant, and then carrying around all Thursday evening, which had survived not only the Wild Willy Barrett gig, but had also languished by the bar whilst we night capped several large glasses of wine at The Ship Hotel, our home last night and after which we had retired happy and fulfilled, we did some filming.
Steve “chimney”. Barker, director of Otway The Movie, arrived to drag us out of The White Hart, where we were garnering some Dutch courage, ready to re-record our reminiscences of Mr Otway to insert into the film, ready for the Cannes Film Festival. I had thought my cravat, smoking jacket and monocle would have fitted the bill, but Chimney wanted something a bit more rock and roll.
Talking of rock and roll, I hear that Rolf Harris, the iconic Australian entertainer whom we signed to my record company make an improbable version of Bohemian Rhapsody in 1996, which just missed the Top 40 peaking at No 51, has been arrested in allegedly in connection with the Jimmy Savile investigation. Tie me kangaroo down. Sport indeed. If he were at Houghton View, might he be saying “Can you see what it is yet?”
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Slightly less Wild Willy Barrett
Arriving in late afternoon in readiness for last night performance in Chichester of that Wild Willy Barrett performance at Chichester Inn, gave that Nice Lady Decorator an early evening opportunity for some retail therapy. Like many men, I detest shopping, at least the way women usually undertake it. A list of requirements, an organised search, swift execution, that is when shopping can be acceptable. The problem with the entire female species is that in general all the above criteria elude them. The only thing to which to look forward when shopping with women, and in common with my last sentence is just that, a swift execution.
Of course that seldom comes, so one dies death by a thousand shops, each different one visited taking interminably longer than the previous. It is like a time tardis in reverse. Time seems to take so much longer to pass by. I think I need to go and see a Doctor Who can help.
Eventually, after several decades of shopping, we checked in at The Ship at Chichester and then went in search of a pre show pint and bite to eat. We settled on the Park Tavern for two reasons; it is a Fullers pub which means it was serving London Pride, and it overlooked the park where cricket was being played, a quintessentially English scene highlighted by the few people watching togged up in coats, hats and mufflers. Spring in England has arrived. From there to a quaint Indian restaurant next door to the gig before donning the crash helmets and going to the show.
Sparsely attended but brilliantly entertaining, we stayed for both sets despite expecting to leave mid-way through. Wild often likes to use his talent in strange ways, but it turned out to be the best thing he has done without Otway since about 1976. Called Wild Willy Barrett’s French Connection, a cellist, a percussionist doubling as a bagpipe player, the sublime talents of Wild on guitar, fiddle and banjo and the wonderful Piaf like voice of his French singer Marie-Laure combined into an eclectic and entertaining mix ranging from blues to bluegrass. Wonderful.
Wild Willy Barrett and his French Connection
I can smell that breakfast nestling in the frying pan and so as soon as I have finished enthralling you with my prose, mentioned the wonderful benefits of opening a foreign exchange account with Currencies Direct, and said my goodbyes to the charming town, it will be back to Arundel to prepare for being filmed.
It seems that my (vital) part in Otway The Movie needs some expansion ahead of its showing at the Cannes Film Festival next month, and there is an issue with continuity due to the exaggerated growth of my very fine handlebar moustache since the first filming took place early last year. The director, Steve “chimney” Barker has suggested they film at our house with me in my smoking jacket enjoying a Monte Christo no 2 with a log fire for background, obviously because he thinks he will be able smoke whilst filming. I have sought a facility or location fee as I believe is normal when one is allowing filming on private property and have been told to put it on my bill. This would be the bill that remains unpaid since 1972 when I paid for Mr Otway’s first recording in Maidenhead.
Then it will be Friday and the start of the weekend so, at this stage, I cannot see an opportunity for a second day of dietary distress this week, however it cannot be ruled out as it is not normally a decision I am allowed to make.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A different view
In a slough of despond, it was back to wearing three layers of clothing and dodging the mud whilst walking those hounds and was not my idea of fun. A nagging hangover, sideways drizzle and the reimposition of the 600 calories a day diet seemed to accentuate the misery. But I have the photographs, one of which I publish today, to enable me to be sure it was just as I reported in the south of France at the weekend.
This one was taken at the lovely Lucy Bird’s party on the Saturday evening and shows the astonishing views at their house in Chateauneuf that her and Wayne must enjoy whenever they look out of the window.
Diet done, breakfast in the frying pan, it is time to contemplate this evening. Talented as a musician and similarly talented at under utilising this talent for commercial success, Wild Willy Barrett is doing his first series of dates in his own name in the UK for some time. This evening he is due to play at the Inn at Chichester and as his some time publisher I must support him in this endeavour. A fine blue grass fiddle and banjo player, and once described as one of the top 10 blues guitarists in the country. He is also renowned of course for his work with another old pal, John Otway where, whilst having some tracks produced by Pete Townshend, the legendary Who man was allegedly sufficiently inspired by Wild’s playing to use the same instrument on The Who’s “Squeezebox”. Cynics may think that I am going to see him because he lives for part of the year in France and may thus at some stage require the services of Currencies Direct, but that is not true, although I would be foolish not to alert him to the benefits. He is an old pal and a great talent and I love to see him play.
It also gives me the opportunity to stay at one of my favourite hotels, The Ship in Chichester and to have a look at the night life of the town and of course one will need sustenance in liquid form and even some solids at some stage. I shall report back tomorrow on events,
The Reverend Jeff has a very beautiful daughter who has become a weather girl for the BBC in the Midlands. I must not comment on her name, Holly Green, except to say that she does not have his surname. How that fact fits into the world of piety and the church to which he aspires is a question I have often asked him, but so far without a satisfactory reply. I have been asking since about 1990 when she was conceived. But I digress; he tells me that she has developed something of a fan club to the extent that a record has been made together with a video paying tribute to her occupation. A man of poorer literary taste than you will find in this column might suggest that you keep “a weather eye” out for her, but there will be no such crass joke in this missive. Now I know the Reverend has a sense of humour, but Holly Green? My mother, before she married my father and the coincidentally acquired the same surname, was determined that her first son would be called Justin. She at least saw sense and decided on balance not to call me Justin France in order to spare me a serious ribbing at school and indeed through life, but that courtesy and sensitivity seems to have escaped the Reverend, as indeed it had for the Dick family. I like the name Ophelia, and Everard but….no, just no.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Tango Uniform?
As we lay by the pool, soaking up the sun yesterday, That Nice Lady Decorator announced that when we move back to France sometime next year, she was going to get some chickens as she had seen a nice wooden pen that she liked and said would be perfect for them. I told her that if this was the case she should place it in the far right of our garden. When she asked why I said we could call it Madame Le Penn. Quick as a flash she retorted saying that was going to be the name of one of her chickens.
25 degrees and wall to wall sunshine. It does not get much better than this and to cap it off, lunch on the beach at St Laurent du Var on the way to the airport.
It had been a blissful Sunday. After an early walk into Valbonne and with Peachy out for the day, we did not have to resist the barrage of pressure to have a drink and with the house empty had decided to have a day sunbathing and doing absolutely nothing. A cooked chicken, some wonderful avocados and even better asparagus purchased from the most expensive fruit shop in Valbonne, and quite possibly the world, together with a couple of nice bottles of wine, of the type not purchased by Peachy. In fact, I have decided to buy a packet of strepsils each time he buys a box of card Bordeaux in order to even things up. then Currencies Direct client Peter Bennett from Blue Water turned up and the inevitable happened, we went to Valbonne Square for dinner.
That fruit and vegetable shop in Valbonne
At lunch yesterday, details began to emerge about poor behaviour aboard the Naked Politicians boat, D5 on Sunday. After jumping off the side, a certain man mountain apparently had to swim to the hydraulic lift used for hoisting the jet skis at the back of the boat where he was winched up like a beached whale, and returned to his bath chair with another flagon of wine. No prizes for guessing who this was, or who had a flip-flop malfunction on the way back and walked into a tree. I imagine that somewhere in Antibes there is now a great pile of matchwood.
I don’t know how we got around to it but he went on to tell a story about going to Frankfurt some years ago. Not knowing the area and having to park some distance away from the exhibition hall they were attending, the two chaps involved made a note of the name if the road where they were parked, Einastrasse. when trying to find the car later at night, they asked a police man for directions “which one way street do you want?”.
After a final amusing moment where the gargantuan Peach came out of the toilet splashed with water from what he described as comedy taps, it was down to the airport to discover a two hour delay. So what was a man to do? Yes, into the executive lounge for a last slurp before we finally boarded the plane. By that time it had all gone, as they say in piloting circles “Tango uniform”, in other words, Tits Up. I contend that it was not my fault I left my passport on the plane.
Arriving back in the evening to clear skies, we fondly entertained the notion that today could be sunny, but as I look out of the window I can see my least favourite weather, sideways drizzle. Was it all just a wonderful dream? No, I still have the tan although I can feel it fading already.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Flight to freedom comes to an end
So what do you do when you have been sipping wine all day in the sunshine getting a tan? You go out to Valbonne Square for even more wine, leave your phone and cigar box in someone’s car, wake up with a raging thirst and a horrible headache and a mouth that tastes like the inside of a budgie cage. I was told that when in the sun you are supposed to drink more to avoid dehydration, but it does not work. And another thing, I also distinctly remember some TV adverts when I was growing up about 50 years ago that said smoking is good for you. Based on the evidence I have in my mouth his morning, I think the makers of that advert were mistaken.
Leaving the phone was not a great idea, as today’s column was almost written, but on the phone, necessitating this rewrite. It also means that the photo I had intended to use is also unavailable, thus today I have one that the Nice Lady decorator took from the plane as we flew into Nice airport on Friday. You can just see Tracy Belazaire waving from her terrace in Villefranche sur mer if you look carefully. With my eyesight I can see that she is sunbathing topless, can you? it is a very fine sight and enough to make an old man very happy.
Tracy does her best to be uplifting
But the weather is glorious again so, with the aid of a Resolve, the hangover cure, I should be ready for tennis, if it happens, with The Wingco, Blind Lemon Milsted, and the Master Mariner Mundell, however, a three-line whip has been issued by that Nice Lady decorator forbidding me to lunch at the Auberge St Donat in favour of lunching on the beach on the way to the airport for that trek back to England this evening. I am torn. On the one hand, tradition dictates that the Auberge must be the post tennis venue, on the other hand, lunch on the Meditteranean coast in warm sunshine does have its allure.
Over dinner with Peter Bennett from Blue Water last night, I had planned an attack to get him to buy a batch of The Valbonne Monologues for all his charter clients, but he deflected me beautifully be revealing that he had done a deal with Currencies Direct and that I should be grateful for small mercies, which I hope become big mercies. I had even offered to print a limited edition of the book in Blue Water blue, and call in the Blue Water Valbonne Monologues, but he wisely decided that his reputation as the best yacht broker in the south of France and the mighty Blue Water brand might not be enhanced as much as I was garrulously claiming it would by being connected. He is wrong of course, there would almost certainly be a negative impact, but he was too polite to say.
So the fun is nearly over and the return of reality, that I still have a year in exile in England to complete, will crowd back in this evening, and the misery of that will be compounded by a proposed diet day tomorrow. I feel like a man who has been in a darkened room for months suddenly having the curtains drawn and letting the sunshine flood in, and then having the curtains gradually drawn to a close again. still I now have the basis of a tan, and just two weeks to go before the next escape, this time to Monaco for another 50th birthday, but that now seems a long way off.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A Peach of a party
A glorious day of warm sunshine had me stripped and on the sun lounger with a glass of Bucks Fizz by 11am. A couple of hours of sunshine, bronzing up beautifully was just the tonic required after the rigours of wintering in England. I drank my first glass of rosé since last September because it cannot be drunk unless there is warm sunshine. Anyone drinking it at any other time is just deluding them self that it is sunny.
Earlier we had walked into Valbonne which is downhill most if the way but uphill on the way back. Once we had arrived back up the hill, things began to go down hill again. I blame man mountain Peachy Butterfield for this, spiking my brunch orange juice with champagne which I did not notice until after the third flute. That is my excuse and I am sticking to it. Emboldened by his own intake he decided that it was time for a swim in his ridiculous Villebrequin shorts. The salesman must have seen him coming a mile off. Actually, given his size, anyone could see him from that distance, as you can see from today’s photograph.
Peachy Butterfield tip toes around the pool
So after a long refreshingly warm afternoon it was time to prepare for the delectable Lucy Bird’s birthday bash at the fabulous villa owned by her and loveable East End rogue Wayne Brown, who had pushed the boat out and employed their own catering firm Red Radish to cater for and run the whole event. They really are the best at doing this kind of thing. A brilliant mixture of food, drink (even professional cocktail shakers) and rock and roll supplied by the best pub band in the world, the excellent Blah Blah. It was supposed to be a surprise when they started playing in the upstairs room, but I had spotted Al, the mesmeric singer at the bar early on, so I had an inkling, but with the ointment I hope it will clear up shortly. Talking of clearing up, I am glad the party was not at mine!
As I look out of the window at 8am there is not a cloud in the sky and the forecast is to remain the same with temperatures of 25 degrees so I am officially in heaven which is quite apt as it is a Sunday, so I think I am entitled to having a day off, even from my vital commitment to the foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct.
Dinner is arranged in der old Valbonne Square this evening with one of my book sponsors, cuddly Peter Bennett from Blue Water Yachting and his gorgeous wife Julie, at which Pete wants to help me take The Valbonne Monologues to new heights. That must mean he has a plan to the me from 94 sales (3 more at the party last night) to a 100, which is my next goal. I shall suggest that he has a copy placed on all the yachts for which his company is the chartering agent. I know he reads this column so Pete, be prepared.
My tennis compatriots have all gone quiet on me so I must surmise that they don’t wish to receive their customary whipping on the courts, which puts lunch tomorrow at Auberge St Donat in some danger, but I guess if the weather remains so good it would be madness not do be sitting outside in the sun, so I may allow myself to be talked out if the traditional venue.
Then later on Monday the flight back to purgatory. Doubtless I shall leave The heat and sunshine of Nice in my shirts and sunglasses and be welcomed back to England with scouring clouds, wind and rain.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
France returns to France
I had forgotten that the night before last, when we had planned to eat at the Red Lion Thai night, but become distracted by an impromptu luncheon, and then been hijacked by some Aruldites to La Campagnia, that we met the land lady of the Red Lion in the restaurant. She is a beautiful and bubbly Thai girl who was vastly amused by my asking her if she disliked Thai food. It seems that she plans and organises the while thing, but was eating Italian next door.
So, to Gatwick for a seafood platter and a glass of champagne at the Caviar House. Well, that was not the main attraction of the airport of course, but it helps to pass the time during the interminable wait for one’s plane. Leaving England in breezy and cloudy conditions, we arrived at Nice in the early evening in bright sunshine and temperatures in the seventies. I would have worn shorts but could not have faced the guffaws at Gatwick.
With sales now of 90 books, I was expecting my Valbonne sales manager, Peachy Butterfield to be asking me to replenish his stock given the huge pent-up demand that I believe is there, waiting to tap, but clearly he has been a bit slack. His contention that no one wants to buy it is obviously incorrect. When I threatened him with a P45 he looked confused and asked how giving him a gun was relevant, and I realised that he has never before received one as he has probably never had a job.
He and the beautifully willowy and hard-working wife Suzanne are looking after the pool and garden at the house in Valbonne and it is looking magnificent. However, this is clearly mostly down to Suzanne who told us that she had pruned the trees, she had weeded, and she had dug in some new plants. When I asked Peachy why he did not help he said Suzanne loved gardening and he only ever dug holes at dinner parties.
Back in the land where the sun shines
This evening is that party, the lovely Lucy Bird’s 40th. She says it is her 50th but she is far too youthful and beautiful for that to be true, but she is blonde and counting is not always their strong suit. That Nice Lady Decorator is a mere 37, and she is blonde, at the moment. This of course makes me, a man fast approaching 60, look like a child stealer. I am sure than when we married over 20 years ago the age gap was not so pronounced. Talking of 60, I had the first reward for approaching that age today. It seems that one can pay a quarterly fee to cover one’s prescription costs and it is even cheaper if one pays an annual fee, but, and here’s the rub, once one commences their seventh decade one’s prescriptions are free, so had I decided on the annual option, I would have been out-of-pocket.
This morning has dawned blissfully bright and clear and 25 degrees is forecast with a slight breeze, perfect for sunbathing, which is exactly what I intend to do. Of course whilst I am laying out on a sun lounger my mind will remain active and being back in France for the weekend I shall spend much of the day considering how best to further the interests if Currencies Direct locally, whilst simultaneously tanning my new lithe body, honed with exercise and recent dietary depletion.
No plans for Sunday have yet been revealed to me, but I have insisted on lunch in Monday at Auberge St Donat, preferably preceded by tennis, successful tennis that is. Must go now, the sun is out and calling me.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Fish and grips shock
It was when we discovered that the fridge door could not be opened, due to the efforts of the heating engineers to magic up some hot water, that the days plans began to unravel. With no access due to a cupboard needing to be moved, whilst the very expensive new boiler was being installed, and with a pub serving wonderful food next door, I am afraid that we succumbed to the inevitable and backslid to the pub for a pint and a bite to eat.
Fantastic Boco Nuevo spare ribs and a couple of pints of Harvey’s was enough for me to think that our plans to go to the Red Lion for their Thai night last night seemed in ruins. Distressed by this ruination, and clearly weakened by the dietary onslaught that has epitomised my being over the last few days, I took to my bed in the afternoon to consider the benefits of Currencies Direct after being overcome by a bout of extreme tiredness.
The Cote d’Azur in the snow
When we are going away for a few days hopefully not to see weather such as confronted us last March at our house in the south of France (see picture above ), that Nice Lady Decorator usually insists that we “eat the fridge”. You will know that I do not mean that literally, but the there are inevitably some items that will not last over a long weekend. With it now accessible, it fell to me to eat these items to the exclusion of real food. Thus dinner, rather than a beef satay, was a kind of bubble and squeak which was not very squeaky, some left over cheese and some stale Jacobs Cream Crackers. That is was cheaper than a nice Thai meal is undeniable, but better? The jury is out. If they decided on the latter then as far as I am concerned it should be a hung jury.
The jury was even further out when, deciding that a pint of beer would be necessary to line one’s stomach before the culinary delight ahead of us, we bumped into a crowd of Aruldites, as I am sure people refer to the inhabitants if Arundel, (because they like to stick together – please try to keep up) who insisted we join them for a drink at La Campagnia, an Italian restaurant in the town. Amongst the reprobates that were in this motley crew was White Hart pub manager Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor.
He was in top form as usual and offered me several gems for today’s column. The first of these was when he told me that he had been drinking since 1pm but was still thirsty. It was close to 8pm when we had this conversation. but when I reached for my phone to make a note of this titbit, he rightly accused me of exposing him in this column. When I suggested that I would not reveal his identity he suddenly realised that coverage in this column is his only claim to fame and relented.
Over drinks before the Aruldites got down to some serious eating, there was some discussion about the fish and chip shop opposite the White Hart. I like it, but would only ever contemplate eating it after a skinful when the desire for quality is replaced by desire for quantity. The lovely Laura, the co-owner of Boco Nuevo suggested that she would cook proper fish and chips one night at the pub but that it had to be accompanied by shandy. It was here that Terrible Tall Timothy Taylor made some tasteless but very funny remarks about what he called a “hand shandy” and fish and grips.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Entails or entrails?
As the rain sluiced down yesterday afternoon, and we built the fire up a little higher, as the new boiler does not arrive until tomorrow, meaning no heating and no hot water, I dreamt of Valbonne. We leave tomorrow and one person, who shall remain nameless but I shall call him Mr Clipboard, suggested that flying to France to avoid an unheated, hot water-free weekend was a bit excessive. Merely good timing I told him, and my fingers are firmly crossed that I am right and it will be warm, as indeed it should be by now
I have packed some redundant (whilst living in England) items of clothing that used to be called shorts. I still have a number of pairs of these which, in case you have never seen them, are like proper trousers, but cut off half way down. Obviously they are unusable in the current climate over here but I keep them for sentimental reasons.
The party, which is the reason for our trip over the long weekend, is being staged by loveable Essex wide boy Wayne Brown, from Red Radish catering, to celebrate a significant birthday for his partner, the lovely, very beautiful and petite Lucy Bird (yes, her real name) whom we all call “The Runner”. This refers not only to her love of running, including marathons, but has other connotations. All the party goers including many old pals from the south of France, are hoping she does not leave the starting blocks again before the weekend. I have been told by both that they will marry this year, but I shall not be buying a new hat until the morning of the proposed event in case that starting pistol sounds in her mind again.
Arundel, when it is not rainng
Today’s picture is another view of the splendid town of Arundel., although not taken yesterday because the weather was foul. It is a wonderful place to live if one is, as is my lot this year, forced to endure the weather in England. but there are signs of improvement as I had only to wear one coat and fleece on my walk yesterday, obviously plus the waterproofs, but this is a marked step forward and is probably as good as it gets in high summer in Yorkshire. Steve”yeah yeah yeah” Jackson will know what I mean.
There is a diversity of pubs in the town and although we do not regularly frequent it, we have a plan to go this evening, on a pre-holiday celebration, to The Red Lion on the High Street to sample their Thai Night. I have not before attempted to combine my favourite food with my favourite beer, Fullers London Pride, as the opportunities are scarce so tonight will be a first, unless we are blown off our intended course
Talking of holidays, it will be quite short, just three full days,. It is only the second of the year (after the mercy dash for sunshine in Tenerife in January). I hear you say “but you keep going away”, but this has been mostly for business and once for a purgatory cleansing. Cannes was work – The festival of MIDEM is the pre-eminent music business conference in the world,. The launch of my second book, The Valbonne Monologues inspired by my work with Currencies Direct. could hardly take place anywhere else but Valbonne, thus it was a business trip, a fact with which I sense the usual disagreement with my accountant. Similarly, the trip to Meribel with some Currencies Direct clients could hardly be described as relaxing. and not for that matter was the cleansing purgatory that is a visit to Yorkshire and all the ancient culinary delights that such a visit entails (or should I say entrails?).
So wish me Bon voyage. I know you will all agree that I have earned a short break.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Menace of global warming
Breakages usually come in threes. Firstly and most catastrophically the boiler broke. It was being serviced but the engineer condemned it on the spot and switched it off saying it was dangerous. Secondly, that vital piece of machinery, the iron, stopped working. The third breakage was that of our complete resolve not to have a drink until Friday. Faced with a day of such adversity, what else could a man do?
It was not just the unreliability of the technology, there was the unreliability of humans as well. The new iron was duly bought, filled with water and plugged in. Some 20 seconds later, with the smell of burning plastic and cries of “Oh Shit” it was discovered that the iron came with a cunningly disguised thin opaque plastic covering over the business area, not immediately obvious to the purchaser, especially if that purchaser was That Nice Lady Decorator.
She was not alone in making crass mistakes though. After a trip to L A as the locals call Littlehampton and a quite unpleasant traipse around the sodden fields south of Arundel (yes, the rains have started and the drought warnings are a little less strident), I arrived home but could not find my phone. A half hour search which included close examination of the rubbish bin, thankfully now out of range of that dog, culminated with me considering it had been lost, when I suddenly saw it in the fruit bowl. It will never again be left on “silent”.
Global warming is a menace. Look what happened in Valbonne last winter.
So, thoroughly convinced that nothing would go right yesterday, and after a pint at both the Swan and the White Hart, after dinner, That Nice Lady Decorator reached for the Sky remote control to see what she could find in the way of televisual entertainment. I was braced for dozing off, dreaming of the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct, in front of the fire whilst Poirot and Whycliffe meet Inspector Morse, Detective Inspector Frost and Agatha Christie to discuss Murder On The Orient Express and to solve the latest murder in Midsomer, or some similar twaddle, but I was in for a surprise. On the live TV schedules (as opposed to the dead or murdered programmes filling up the hard drive) was a programme on Channel 4 about dogging. Given the obsession in my household, not shared with me, for defending the indefensible antics of Banjo, a very smelly, treacherous and criminal hound with 24 hour close protection, I think I can be forgiven for concluding initially that it may be a programme about the charmed lives of dogs, something that might have been described by someone with less taste than I as “wagging tales”. I have reason to believe it was not. In fact I am certain it involved stories of a very different nature which are sometimes supposedly acted out at nearby Houghton View.
At least I am fairly sure it was not, but becoming over excited and paying rather too much attention to a nice red Barossa which we have found in Waitrose, caused me to become tired and emotional before the appointed broadcast time. One could say I peaked too early, if the practice involved on the TV involves peeking. No matter, this piece of TV titillation will probably still be on the hard (!) drive ready for this alcohol free, 600 calorie, evening. Yes, another diet day had begun, and in an increasingly desperate attempt to reduce weight, I am also going for a haircut this afternoon. Next stop, clipping toenails to get those evil bathroom scales to start saying the right things. Actually, given our problems with technology, perhaps I could claim they are faulty?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Rotarian going around in circles
I had a friend who was once a member of the Rotary Club, but he decided to leave as he felt he was going around in circles. He was a bit of a shark. OK, cold turkey has cut in and I am not myself, I am someone else, someone not very funny, boring, quiet and hungry. The 600 calorie a day diet is in full effect as I start to write this column. Damn, I just mentioned turkey and I could murder a turkey twizzler right now. Actually, what exactly is a turkey twizzler and can you be arrested for it? Would a good defence be that the turkey may actually enjoy being twizzled? Perhaps the gay chicken farmer friend of Peachy Butterfield, “Oven Ready Eddy” as I think he calls him, would be able to help?
Anyway, I digress, It was inevitable, after the last few days of social mayhem, eating, drinking, socialising, winning the Grand National and entertaining, that the Monday morning blues would be very pronounced this morning. It is when one is feeling a little below par that small irritations tend to get over inflated. Barclay’s Bank told me I had to collect a certain form that I need for the next part of my strategy to take over the music business world again, from a local Branch. The Branch told me to call telephone banking, Telephone banking told me to call the Branch, and my rotarian nightmare came alive. then I remebered I need a haircut, walked into town and both of the barbers were closed Monday . You would think that they may collude so that one is open on a Monday, but no, they clearly did not, perhaps I am splitting hairs. Then, I went to Arundel Surgery for a prescription I need today and was told it will take 3 days to prepare. as I say, Monday.
Any fires this was sent to fight would have to be slow burners
My picture today was taken last year when we had just moved to Arundel and we went to the nearby Goodwood Revival Festival. Based on how slow Bluebell, our camper van is at getting from 0-30, one doubling as a fire truck seems a little optimistic, unless the fireman don’t want to arrive until the fire is out?
Slow is the theme today but I shall not allow the shadow of last weekend get me down (actually, with this diet, I don’t think I could even make a shadow) and will bounce back. No drinks last night is the first part of the recovery process but by the time you read this I will be tucking into a hearty English breakfast. I wonder why they call it hearty, perhaps it is because black pudding, bacon and sasuages helps to cause heart attacks? Anyway, assuming I make it to Friday, I shall be raring to go and up for a 50th birthday party down in the south of France this coming weekend. Of course I shall be on the look out for customers of Currencies Direct and what better place than a fab villa at Chateauneuf De Grasse in the company of the wonderful Lucy Bird, long time partner of Wayne Brown, both from Red Radish catering. I wonder if she is preparing her own food for this significant party? Actually Wayne made a tasteless but very funny observation last night about the passing of Maggie Thathcer. The gist of it was that she had abused more minors than Jimmy Savile, but it is fair to say that it was couched in slightly more colourful language.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Room with a view, of wine
I was faced yesterday at lunch with a conundrum. A certain redhead, whom I cannot name for reasons that will become obvious, explained that she was averse to sloor damming, or door slamming as I think people who had consumed rather less alcohol than she, may have said. I forgive her mainly because she insisted on purchasing a copy of my latest book, The Valbonne Monologues. I think what swayed her when considering this very worthy publication was the picture of That Nice Lady Decorator with her hands on the unadorned buttocks of the Naked Politician on a trip back from St Tropez last summer. Those of you who have not yet bought a copy can rectify that by emailing your PayPal details to chrs.france@gmail.com. A mere 15 euros or £12 for the paperback, 20 euros or £15 for the hard back version and just £4 or 5 euros for postage, I realise that the exchange rates make a difference so best to open an account with Currencies Direct for the keenest rates.
But back to my anonymous guest. During the rather drawn out luncheon proceedings, which were still going on when I retired hurt at 8pm, she revealed that recently she was in a pub with three ex lovers, none of whom were aware of any of the others, which is the reason I am not at liberty to identify the culprit. Apart from bringing a very decent 2007 St Emilion, she also rocked up with a special present, some blueberry sausage. As this is a family column, I cannot reveal exactly how she introduced me to this gift. Suffice to say that I was relieved when she put the knife down after at first being alarmed as it was cut into very slim slivers.
Wine warming by the fire
As I also said, I can forgive her anything as she bought a copy of the book, but she was unhappy with the first copy because she considered that it had been thumbed through (or fingered as she put it) rather too much, thus I had to break open a box of un-fingered copies in order to satisfy her. Regular readers will know just how much restraint has been required by the writer of this column in order to protect her integrity, and to extract maximum entertainment value from this scenario.
The highlight of the afternoon, when it came, was sensational. It was over the Parkin cake that was made by the lovely Ann Thornley was being attacked with relish (well, cheese) on all sides after a lovely lunch. For some reason we had got around to talking about the worst jobs we had ever had. Mine was as a trainee accountant in my late teens, an engagement that ended in tears very quickly. My unnamed and unidentified guest told the story of being taken on to undertake telephone sales, despite saying at the interview that she had no sales training or aptitude. “The worst five days if my life” she said. Then went on to tell the assembled guests that her boss was an idiot who used to strum a guitar badly in the office. She was fairly damning in her criticism and I can remember the moment clearly. “That’s my brother-in-law” said another guest whom I can also not identify for similarly obvious reasons.
The whole afternoon was a roaring success with a number of fine wines consumed amid a great deal of laughter. Thank god I now have a few days of rest and recuperation before the next onslaught, which is a 50th birthday party in the south of France next weekend. That Nice Lady Decorator and I are resolved not to have a drink until Friday when we fly out. Time, and this column will bear witness to whether that resolution is still intact later in the week.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Grand National triumph for author
Yesterday was a little less cold, to the extent that I did at one stage, for a very short time, unbutton my coat. It was a very short while and I was still wearing a woolly hat and gloves, and the ground is still tundra hard, but it is a start. Spring is here obviously.
To celebrate after my morning tramp around the South Downs, we went over to the very lovely estuary town of Bosham near Chichester for a pint at the Anchor Bleu. We were accompanied by Auntie Pam who, over a drink in the garden, still swathed in hats and coats, gave vent to her pet hate, the misplacement of apostrophes’. She say’s it drive’s her to distraction, especially when applied to tomatoe’s and potatoe’s so today, when she may read it, I will be particularly careful with my apostrophe’s. In fact as it is a Sunday and especially for the Reverend Jeff, I will make sure are 12 apostrophes’, just like in the bible.
After driving down to Dell Quay for a pint of Doom Bar, and it being Grand National day and the strong horse racing contingent that frequent the White Hart, it was natural that we should pop in to join in the fun, mainly because I had been conned into entering the pub sweep stake by Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor. He had laughed out loud when he saw the name of the horse that I drew, which was Auroras Encore. History of course now shows that it was an extremely fortunate choice, winning the best known steeplechase in the UK. The joy on my face when the winnings were handed to me by Terribly Tall was not reflected on his.
As the afternoon drew on, and the very crowded pub had thinned out a little, matters of great import were discussed in increasingly animated fashion. The euro, the situation in Cyprus, Syria and most memorably would someone failing a correspondence course to become a chiropodist be putting their foot in it?
Earlier in the day I took this picture of Arundel castle from the banks of the River Arun just to prove that we did have some sunshine.
Arundel Castle reflected in the waters of the River Arun
Last night after failing to leave the pub, and ending up eating dinner there, where I have to say, despite its’ (!) unprepossessing restaurant interior, the chaps at Boca Nuevo served consistently high quality food, we retired early as we have a busy day ahead. As is often the case when we stage a Sunday lunch, that Nice Lady Decorator forgets who she has invited and so we do not know if we shall be 6 or 16 for lunch. As we can only seat 8, I am kind of hoping she has not been as profligate with her invitations as usual, otherwise some of us we may be eating in the garden.
After the last few days of ribald living I am quite looking forward to a fasting day tomorrow. Back to work in my kennel on Otway the Movie, the assault on the Cannes Film Festival and how best to persuade the Otway fans who are attending to become Customers of Currencies Direct. I suspect that will not be easy. It is also still royalty time. It should not be as they are all due to 30th March, but in the music business everybody and everything is often late.
This morning, before lunch, there is apparently a vintage car rally in the town, so I shall go in search of my dream car and some photos for this column.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Chris France's Blog 