Whirlwind in Arundel
How can a man like myself, arrive home from a range of pubs, having drunk himself close to standstill and then want more wine when he finally gets home?
I blame John Otway. He is dangerous. Like a whirlwind he blew into Arundel last night and four hours later he was gone, leaving a trail of damaged people in his wake. His intention was clear. There is a time-consuming and tricky music clearance job he needs doing and unfortunately he has me in his sights to undertake the work. I have resisted the suggestions and entreaties that have gradually increased over the past six months but these have now built up into a crescendo of pressure. The only good thing is that a rabbit in the headlights does not get time to negotiate, whereas I, a consummate negotiator knew the threat before me and had worked out a strategy to get the most out if being run over.
John is one of my oldest friends and, over the years, has provided me with a great deal of entertainment whilst he has undertaken a life long series if mad cap schemes to promote his career. Most music artists rely on a modicum of musical talent to drive them to success. John does not because he does not have any musical talent. You might think that this could impede his ambition. It does not. His talent lies in his ability to entertain. He cares not a jot if you are laughing with him it at him, as long as you are laughing. Couple that with blinding, unswerving ambition and a certainty of self destiny and there you have it. He was determined to rope me in and he has. Last night was less about me striving to avoid the inevitable, more about crisis management and attempting to be run over in a financial rewarding way.
Calm before the storm, Arundel Castle at dusk
It started at the White Hart for a couple, the opening skirmishes so to speak, and then degenerated into the Kings Arms where a curry was ordered and about eight people partook. For once it was not I who was paying. Sprog 1 has a friend, Denzyll, whom lived with us for months in France, on a short holiday to the UK from his job on a super yacht, breezed into town with Sprog 1 and insisted on paying. Why then, after this, they came back to the house and insisted on cooking defeats me. Also, I had to ask why and how the kitchen pedal bin had partially melted and a dishcloth had been used in a futile effort to mop up the molten plastic, but, quite reasonably. it seems the Nice Lady Decorator’s horror dog Banjo is to blame.
That dog is so ill-mannered and resistant to training that we have had to resort to leaving the bin atop the cooker to stop him raiding it every time we go out. My counter argument, that one might have expected it to be clearly visible on the top of the hob, produced blank looks. Children; you can live with them and you can’t kill them.
Thus this morning I feel wretched but the bright blue sky should get me up and out to the South Downs to recapture normality, after which I hope lunch somewhere nice will a beckon. No selling the services if Currencies Direct because it is the weekend and it would not be fair to spend time explaining how much money can be saved by opening an account with them for all your foreign exchange requirements on a day of rest, so I won’t.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sales of The Valbonne Monologues mount
A delightful lunch at the Mill at Elstead, near Guildford, culminated in yet another sale of my latest book The Valbonne Monologues. It was not just the sale, although that was welcome, and the hundredth happy purchaser cannot be far away, it was the fact that it was bought by the lovely Ashley, wife of Currencies Direct client Mr Clipboard, who, to be frank, gets a bit of a roasting in this fine novel. I had given him the opportunity to get his own back with a comment on the back cover. His offering, referring to my first book and my writing in general was “as appealing as sucking warm diarrhoea through a tramps sock”.
Happy author delighted that Mr Clipboard is now the happy owner of a new book
I use the word roasting advisedly. Those of you that have already read the book, and I am amongst those who have been enthralled by the contents, will know that Mr Clipboard is pictured; caught in the act one might say, of setting fire to a copy of my first book Summer In The Côte d’Azur. There were further examples of this public schoolboy jealousy of a grammar school boy having the audacity to publish a book. These were in evidence as recently as yesterday. I was sent a photo of some copies of my second literary offering placed in a fire grate at my house in Valbonne with a comment suggesting that as it was cold over there, and they needed to light a fire to keep warm, my book might produce the best results when starting it. Those enjoying a convivial lunch down in the south of France where this sin was being enacted included the Naked Politician and Slash and Burn Thornton Allan. I know where they both live.
Over lunch with the stately and wonderful former school teacher, my dear Auntie Pam, she made a startling revelation which ensured that I should be careful when referring to her a school mistress. It is the mistress part that bothers me. Some years ago, when she was a mere stripling of around 80, she was asked by a friend to do some proof reading of some books her friend had written. It seems that these books were destined for the top shelves of book shops, being of a rather racy nature, so racy that my dear Aunt said that 50 Shades Of Grey, which she has also read, was tame by comparison. When pressed as to the type of content she mentioned spanking but would not be drawn further.
She went on to reveal further hidden depths. It seems that, with a friend, she once visited Roger Moore, who mixed her and a friend a drink, and shortly afterwards admitted to riding out with two-thirds of Cream. Eric Clapton and Ginger Baker both owned horses and would often ride out in Richmond Park in her earlier days when she also had a horse. She must be telling the truth otherwise how on earth does a lady of her age have any knowledge of iconic 60’s band Cream? As an added test I asked her the name of the other member of the group . “Oh, Jack Bruce” she said, “never met him but a good bass player” she said. Hidden depths.
Back in Arundel, we decided that early doors at The Swan Hotel for a pint of London Pride was the best option available. Of course, just the two were not enough, so, after those two, we adjourned to the White Hart for a snack before bedtime. There were further revelations but sadly I had consumed too much to make a note and this morning I cannot remember details. Suffice to say that I had thought that Nice Lady Decorator was the only rock chick in the family, but that opinion may have to be reappraised. Actually, come to think if it, there were those TV pictures of Sprog 2 at Reading Festival during the Kaiser Chiefs appearance….
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Uplifting toilet decoration
It was so cold in the easterly wind that the snow flurries yesterday were going sideways, never reaching the ground. Walking on the beach at Rustington was so unpleasant that it was abandoned after a couple of miles. It had all started so brightly with sunshine and blue skies at 8am but by 9 30 it was all over.
Obviously, after thawing in out, there was work to do on Currencies Direct, and with my discovery of an unauthorised sample of some music I own in a Prodigy recording, necessitating their record company to clear this infringement with me, which just means paying me, it ended up being a good day, except for the excruciatingly cold commute to work in my shed about 20 metres from the back door. Not as good as it could have been, had the Arundel Luncheon Club been convening as originally planned, but not bad, but I was not able to persuade that Nice Lady Decorator to slip out for a pint for early doors as she was on one of her two hour phone calls, so I popped out to order a takeaway curry. With a delay of 25 minutes whilst it was being prepared, what was a man to do except go to the pub? Especially a man about to be subjected once again looking down the barrel of starvation rations, or so I thought until I heard that the venerable school mam Auntie Pam is coming to visit. Anyway, all was well as the phone call was still ongoing when I got back with the food.
So this afternoon, I shall be standing to attention as she inspects the bedrooms, that withering look that can turn a grown man to jelly just lurking out of sight, awaiting the smallest misdemeanour. Actually I love her coming. She is a sweetie but at 85 still as sharp as the proverbial knife. Nothing escapes her, and she likes a half of real ale. She has also read my book The Valbonne Monologues, and she did not hand down any detentions or lines and has declared it quite good. I would like to think that my prose finds favour but I suspect that in reality, she is mellowing, but it is a slow process.
My picture today is of bras. Taken at the Crab and Lobster at Asenby, I have been trying to rationalise why they are there, hanging around in the gents urinal. The only conclusion I have reached so far is that the chaps of Yorkshire did not have many toys as kids and had to make their own amusement.
The uplifting toilet at the Crab and Lobster in Asenby
A light covering of snow is forecast overnight, ready to lighten up this morning. Has no one informed the weather gods that it is April, spring, and the clocks have gone forward? I should be contemplating a glass of wine on the terrace at sunset rather than placing the red wine perilously close to the log fire, just to try to get it at room temperature. That would be about 4 degrees without the fire.
It is also grim down south. I am hearing reports that local (to Valbonne) ski resorts, usually closed two weeks ago, are expected to remain open until the end of April. I so hate global warming. With just one weekend off before another onslaught in Peachyland I am hoping for two things; firstly a restrained week of eating and drinking and secondly some sunshine when we get down to Valbonne next weekend to celebrate a 50th birthday. The lovely Lucy Bird from Red Radish, apparently knows someone who has reached this milestone and is having a party for her. Me, I am delighted that I am still getting invited to 50ths. There are far too many 60ths floating around amongst my age circle for comfort.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Nice Matin gets it right
Thanks to the good offices of Roly Bufton, who employed some of the vast resources available to him, I now have a copy of the Nice Matin, the daily paper of Nice in the Cote d’Azur, and the article about my good self and The Valbonne Monologues. If they are correct then I did not understand many of the questions, but I would contend that they did not understand my answers. I thought it only fair to share it with you, my adoring readers, today.
Nice Matin gets to grips with the Valbonne Monologues
Today was sunny. Please note that, those of you who once again are being deluged in the south of France. Admittedly it was freezing cold and the wind was blowing but there was sunshine for much of the day. It seems the jet stream has gone on holiday to the Mediterranean for the spring.
So back in the Currencies Direct saddle again today, but also it is music business royalty time, and the only thing that can come between me and contentment at this time of the year is to be denied food and drink, and so it came to pass. Yes, that diet is back, trying to deal with the damage inflicted on my corpulent being over the past weekend. 600 calories is not enough to keep a mouse alive, but I am still here so I must be a big mouse. As you can see, hallucinations must be expected in the face of these derivations if I am to wear a bikini again this summer. Actually I have always cherished one of those mankini’s.
At last I had a chance to look at the Sunday Times and I see that Arundel has been voted the best town in which to live in England. I am in agreement. If one cannot live in the south of France then Arundel is the next best place. I was looking forward to discussing this very topic today at the Wednesday Luncheon Club at Butlers Restaurant in the town, but have just been informed that it has been postponed due to Easter. It seems that a combination of kids not being at school, builders arriving and in one case, scaffolding due to be erected at The Kings Arms, our coterie of usual luncheon suspects are unable to attend.
This is a travesty, and one which would never occur in Valbonne or the south of France in general. Nothing will get in the way of lunch over there, which points up one of the major differences between living in Arundel as opposed to the land where lunch is sacrosanct. Talking if sacrosanct, that Jesus bloke is to blame. He and his bible bashing followers have been muscling in on a popular holiday and have caused plenty of luncheon trouble for over 2000 years. Not only that but he seems to have been in some way responsible for loads of wars, famines and disease during that time, but this time he has gone too far. Does he have no idea how hungry I am as a result of that diet? I know that food is involved somewhere because of that Easter egg fetish that seems to engulf England, but it appears there will be no lunch today. I am disgruntled, my gruntle has been really dissed.
In order to overcome this disappointment, I will be pushing for either a private lunch with that Nice Lady Decorator, or to go for a pint early doors, preferably somewhere to take advantage of the sunshine in evidence this morning, although there is a fair chance it will not last. You will find out tomorrow if I was successful.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sign of the month
Whilst travelling down the M1 on the escape to freedom from Yorkshire yesterday, I had time to reflect on some of the events that had overcome me whilst “enjoying” this sojourn to this tundra strewn wilderness. Chardonnay wine flavoured Yorkshire crisps is probably the culinary discovery of the trip, the story about the gay kiss (see yesterday’s column) was a highlight, and some very decent Landlord bitter at the Crosby in Thornton le Beans was notable. Best moments though have to be the lunch at the Crab and Lobster in Asenby, but I still cannot work out the significance of the collection of bras in the male urinal, but my favourite photographic moment was outside Thirsk race course as depicted in today’s photo.
Man having trouble with umbrella
Half way to safety in the south we stopped near the dreaded Milton Keynes for lunch and to see my brother Patrick and family for the first time in years, before arriving back in Arundel in time for an early evening pint. I was able to reflect that from a Currencies Direct viewpoint the whole weekend had been very unsuccessful because no one has any money in Yorkshire. They think the expression foreign exchange is reserved for school trips when kids from another country try out living in another. This reminds me of a Yorkshire family whom were subjected to having a French girl to stay as their own daughter had recently stayed in France. Their daughter has a delightful week soaking up French culture , visiting local sites of interest, walking, museums etc, just the type of activity to know a girl some experience if French life, and playing board games in the evenings. The Yorkshire matriarch announced that the poor French child would be dragged down to the pub most evenings, given a packet of pork scratchings and told that she was enjoying the best culture Yorkshire could provide.
Sensitive readers will want to know how the sales drive for The Valbonne Monologues is developing and it is fair to say that there is some resistance to my plan to make it a best seller. Ackworth (the school which was charged with the education of that Nice Lady Decorator) scholar James Fearnley from the Pogues has published a book about life with the group and I thought this would be a good opportunity to swap books with a fellow author. It would in my mind count as another sale. This idea was immediately rejected by the Decorator on the spurious context that his was a sensible book. The clear implication is that mine is comparatively not serious, which, having thought about it for a minute or so, seems to be a fair assessment.
So the dreaded diet comes back into play today, mainly it has to be said, to counter balance the over zealous attention to food and drink over the Easier weekend. Whilst the idea of looking forward to it is a bit strong, not having to eat dripping, suet and whippet surprise will come as some relief.
Once normality returns on Wednesday then I believe I am expecting a visit from one John Otway who has a new money-making scheme in mind. The money-making always seems to happen at his end whilst the money losing always seems to be down to me, but I can never resist the dream of actually profiting from one of his schemes. We shall also be putting the final touches to his “Otway For An Oscar” campaign which will start at the Cannes Film festival in May. More details of how to get involved on the Otway The Movie website.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Chardonnay flavoured crisps?
First it was there and then it was gone. Today’s post was published, the link posted on Facebook and by the time I got home it had gone, disappeared as it had never been. WordPress users beware. So here is a rehash. I had been musing that it was important to support ones partner when she wanted to go to an old school reunion and was curious about it being a 40th anniversary as I am unreliably informed that the Nice Lady Decorator is still only 37, so something does not add up.
A number of interesting characters were encountered and I formed the impression that the school, Ackworth, in the wilds of Yorkshire, was quite Bohemian. My opinion was framed by the number og photographs taken of the alumni at the time, with not a scrap of school uniform in sight. A Quaker school, it also seemed to me, from listening to the reminiscences, that most of the students got their oats regularly. It seems that amongst the former students of Ackworth were people blamed for the collapse of a major Dutch bank, a chap who whilst running a charity forgot that it was not his own money, and James Fearnley, a member of the Pogues. I think you will agree that this is an unusual roll call of honour for a school.
Eventually escaping the strictures of school, we headed back to the Bingley Arms at Bardsey for a pint, and where I heard a very interesting story about an apparently gay kiss, unexpectedly received by one of my friends. I am sworn to secrecy about the details, but a promise is a promise as I was told in confidence, I must respect that. Only strong drink or the usual fiver will prise my lips apart.
Before escaping from Yorkshire we received two touching gifts; a typical Yorkshire cake called Parkin, which looks as if it must be about 10,000 calories, and is supposed to be eaten with Wensleydale cheese. Who remembers the Monty Python cheese shop sketch? It was the gift of the lovely Ann Thornley who had taken umbrage at earlier comments in this column about the lack of quality of Yorkshire food. It looks lovely but if we get stuck on a hill on the way back, I know what I can use for a chock.
The other gift left me quite incredulous. It was a packet of crisps as my picture today depicts. Not ordinary crisps, oh no, these were from Yorkshire and flavoured with Chardonnay wine. I do hope it was not some of Peachy Butterfield’s card Bordeaux. Cleethorpes Chardonnay perhaps?
These are real
The escape from the frozen north was not scheduled to be entirely complete until later in the day, as we are scheduled to have lunch with my brother and family near Milton Keynes. He tells me he has a holiday home in Poland, which, apart from setting himself up for the hard sell for the services of Currencies Direct, points to a slight unhinging somewhere. I am sure that Poland is a wonderful country, in fact I went there before the iron curtain fell, but a holiday home? It would be as bizarre as having one in, say, Pontefract
The full escape back to the sultry south should be complete by early evening when I feel a pint of Harvey’s coming on in the White Hart. Before that I shall be juggling with the traffic on the M1, which will doubtless be full to capacity with cars carrying people escaping the rigours of winter in snow fields of the north.
Chris France
Crab and pinny?
I always learn a great deal when I go to Yorkshire, although it is fair to say that much of which I do learn I could do without. It was at lunch as the Crab and Lobster yesterday at Asenby where I was subjected to a very steep learning curve.
I love discovering local culture, however rustic, and thus it was a delight to come across some Yorkshire based collective nouns such as “A misery” which is a collection of Yorkshire farmers, and a “dither”, a gathering of Yorkshire civil servants. These came to light over a delightful lunch at this pub/ restaurant yesterday. This establishment is so good it could be in the Home Counties. It is also a very pretty place as my picture today shows.
Crab and Lobster at Asenby
At lunch were our hosts for Friday and tonight John “Chuckle Brothers” and his delightfully well endowed (sorry Lin) child bride Rachael Lady In Waiting Surtees, and our hosts last night Steve “yeah yeah yeah” Jackson and his equally delightful and enormously intelligent wife Brainy Wag. Whilst she is a high-powered senior executive running a company and responsible for 350 people, he knows his place, back home doing the washing, cooking and ironing. I must say he did a very good job of ironing my rather splendid dark salmon pink trousers and green sweater and cleaning my brown (fake) alligator shoes.
It must be a curious existence for a rugby playing, cricket playing gruff Yorkshire lad as he spends much of his day on his hands and knees scrubbing in a pinny but he seems happy enough in this subservient role. Doubtless this morning, after he has cooked our breakfast he will be out to scrub the front step, which passes for entertainment up north. As it is a Sunday and Easter Sunday at that, he may even be allowed some carbolic as a special treat.
Last night, after a post Crab and Lobster siesta, it was down to the quaint local hostelry called The Crosby in the northern outpost of Thornton Le Beans. This is a strange name for a Yorkshire village and there were some very strange people in the local pub, where joy of joys, they were serving the second best beer in the world, Timothy Taylor Landlord. This time is was being served properly, unlike the very disappointing pint of the same brew served at the New Inn at Scarcroft on Friday. The food was remarkably good as well although personally I did not go for the black pudding butties. When I say strange, I mean there were rather too many high foreheads (could the collective noun for these people be a protrusion? – if it is not then it should be) and dwarves with humps and chaps with extra digits. I am not saying interbreeding us an issue, it has served the gallant people from Yorkshire well for centuries, so well that all life is here and it all fits together rather well. Of course, there was no opportunity seriously to sell the services of Currencies Direct as the concept of foreign exchange is somewhat alien. They are more likely to think it involves taking something made abroad back to the shop from which it was purchased. There is also the matter that the locals think anyone not from Yorkshire is a foreigner anyway.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Northen version of a fat cat
When I was at school in the late 60’s, I was given a very old atlas which had marked on the map of the world “unexplored East Africa”. I was reminded of that when, faced with a huge queue on the M1, surprisingly heading north, perhaps a lot of missionary efforts? I was given the job of seeing if there was an alternative route across the wilds if Yorkshire. This was after 2pm so it was already getting dark. You will not be surprised to know that I could see no alternative to staying on the only good thing to come out if Yorkshire, yes, the M1.
Listening to the radio on the way to the frozen north I heard a track by REM and it reminded me that the Wingco once boasted of having a picture of himself taken with the group. As he said as he showed me, “that’s me in the corner”. REM, as many will know stands for Rapid Eye Movement, which will hardly be required up north this weekend due to the eternal gloom.
Arriving in Leeds later than we intended due to that traffic, we found Waterstones, the venue for the talk by James Fearnley, who is an original member of the Pogues playing the accordion, with whom That Nice Lady Decorator went to school. Sadly we did not have time to stay for his reading as we were booked to have dinner with John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees and his voluptuous wife, the Lady in Waiting herself, the lovely Rachel, who was revealing a wonderful cleavage by wearing a very alarming top. I still have no idea what is the colour of her eyes.
Arriving at their home in the touchingly named Scarcroft, I took a picture of this animal who was clearly feeling very at home and relaxed. Little did it know it is probably being fattened up for Sunday lunch. So, what to do when in Yorkshire? I know, go to the pub and discuss the merits of having an account with Currencies Direct. Alas, you know I jest, well not about going to the pub, that is never a laughing matter.
Lunch?
An indifferent pub meal in no way detracted from a splendid evening of reminiscences about Australia last year or indeed of a number of other occasions when we have metals consumed alcohol together in convivial fashion. I did not have to do the hard sell about the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct because Chuckle already has one. He just hasn’t used it.
Discussion turned to piercing as Sprog 2 has stupidly ignored a continuing stream of advice ( mainly from me) and gone and had her tongue pierced. I am quite old-fashioned when it comes to tattoos and piercings and regular readers will not be surprised to know that I am dead set against both. What happens if you realise in later life that you do not want to announce to the world that you are a life long fan of Tooting and Mitchum United? as befell one of my friends who is now even worse off, being a Chelsea fan? Anyway, she is deservedly in some pain and eating through a straw. She needed some money for the weekend and I took the opportunity to teach her one of life’s little lessons. She could have some money if she was able successfully, and to my entire satisfaction, to repeat a number of tongue twisters. Sometimes one has to be cruel to be kind.
Today, it is off to the even wilder wilds of North Yorkshire to stay with Steve “yeah yeah yeah” Jackson and his lovely wife who, after that cricket tour of Australia last year calls herself Brainy Wag.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Black Rabbit meets Harry Potter
Sunshine at last! The first time in about 3 weeks sent us down to the beach at Rustington to bask. Well, perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration, wrapped as we were in swathes of clothing, jackets, hats and gloves, but who am I to complain? 20 minutes later it was snowing.
Last night then to The White Hart to be nosey about their chimney fire and to meet up with the lovely Kathryn, whom I have been forbidden to call the Wyatt Earp of Arundel ever again. It coincided with a diet day so I had to save up enough calories from the 600 allowance to enable me to have a couple of pints of Harvey’s, but as these are some 170 calories each, you can see my problem. 260 calories for the day. Thus after my second pint, I adjourned to contemplate my navel, now close to being counter sunk, leaving that Nice Lady Decorator in the pub, having reached my dietary limit.
That was not a problem on Wednesday evening when we were guests of The Black Rabbit. I am told that fish and chips, which was my particular choice, can amount to over 1200 calories when served at a London pub at which Sprog 2 works. That is twice the daily limit for the silly diet upon which I find myself. I am also told that one of the downsides is that you can get bloody irritable when you are hungry and I think I am ready to kill someone. One of the features of the newly refurbished pub is the addition of one of the boats used in the first Harry Potter film, which for some strange reason has been attached to the wall, as my picture today shows.
One of the Harry Potter boats
Today will feature a trip to the twilight world of Yorkshire. We are due in a small backward outpost called Leeds this evening. It is so backward that they cannot even spell the word for a dog restraint properly. We have decided to take the skip, the 4 x 4 owned by that Nice Lady Decorator as it was decided that to risk the Merc up north was asking for trouble.
We are due at a book reading by one of popular group The Pogues, with whom the decorating one went to school, which is Gaelic and short for Pogue Mahone, which is allegedly the Gaelic for “kiss my arse”. I was initially dismissive of the whole idea but then it occurred to me that I should perhaps consider the same sort of promotion for my new book the Valbonne Monologues. Kiss me arse indeed. I cannot wait to tell the Wingco about that idea. Late in the evening last night I discovered that my feature was published in Nice Matin yesterday. As I speak I am trying to find more details to relay to you, my adoring public.
After this literary treat this evening up north it seems that we are eating out, and staying with the The voluptuous Rachel Surtees, aka Lady In Waiting for reasons of which regular readers will be aware. I shall be telling her that it is inevitable, not to fight if, but embrace it, literally. I do not expect her to understand but fate is fate, it cannot be denied.
Thereafter, we will be eating and drinking all weekend, which is one of the reasons the diet was in place yesterday. I must be strong as there is certain to be some “ethnic” food on offer. Whether there will be pigeons involved is a matter of guess-work but I am expecting to see feathers all over the place, unless they have been “couped up”, if you get my drift. I hope you note that I have not drifted into promotion of Currecies Direct. No point for those chaps up north with bugger all money.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Gathering of the great and good?
It was as we were driving up to the South Downs for our daily walking torture yesterday that I spotted the sign which is depicted in today’s photograph. I think it follows on neatly from my comments yesterday about the Church muscling in on ordinary people’s enjoyment of the festival of the Easter egg. Obviously, the clergy, stung by this criticism, aimed at them in this column, decided to meet in Arundel Castle in order to debate how to deal with me. Public flogging, thrashing, birching and excommunication (that is when the church has your Internet connection suspended) are I am sure were the penalties that are in their remit to hand down. I am just glad it did not go to penalties themselves because we are crap at them.
hmmmm…
So, clergy parking? Does this imply that they cannot walk themselves? Do they have to be parked? What happens once they are parked? Can they move? Can the public not park there? What is so special about the clergy? Obviously they get special access to children, purely for pastoral reasons, but why must they have their own car park? Surely they could all park at popular “meeting place” Houghton View and enjoy the local scenery? I think this should elicit some response from the Reverend Jeff, surely?
Having been invited to the newly refurbished Black Rabbit for a free dinner that still cost £110 for drinks, a special try-out evening to test the new facilities and to help with staff training, we missed the real excitement of the night; a chimney fire at The White Hart next door to our house. We received a text mid evening from Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor, the manager, warning us that the pub had been evacuated due to this fire and that the fire brigade were in attendance. Thus we were in no rush to depart the Black Rabbit, and despite being amongst the first to arrive, we were amongst the last to leave.
I love The Black Rabbit as a building and its position beside the River Arun with views down to the castle, and the staff are wonderful but they needed that work out last night to help get all their new personnel trained up. Still the wine list is a bit too slanted towards the largely inferior new world wines, and still there is the lack of a selection of decent French reds, but I was able to berate one of the directors about this as he unwisely sat beside me and asked my opinion.
So today is our last full day in civilisation as we are heading north to Yorkshire tomorrow. Gloom fills my world as this morning looks brighter that it has been for weeks, and where are we headed? Into the eternal twilight. Sure, the people can be charming, although most lack the social skills that are omnipresent in the south, and certainly the wild tundra strewn wildernesses north of Birmingham have a rustic charm about them in the two months of the year when it is light, but three days will be enough for the onset of seasonal affected syndrome. Then there is the food. If they are running short of peat for their fires, I am expecting carpaccio of whippet. And why do they have to be so hard on garden peas? They are a delight when served in the south with a sprig of mint, how and why do they turn them into mushy peas so beloved by the local peasantry? I shall as always be seeking answers to these and other questions without much hope of receiving a satisfactory answer, perhaps because I can only understand one word in three.
Nearly did not have room to mention that I will not be taking any Currencies Direct brochures with me for obvious reasons.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Church in Easter heist
Food! Real food was back on the agenda yesterday and more importantly, on my plate after the 600 calorie privations of the day before . After a cooked breakfast it was once again out to do battle with that chilly east wind atop the South Downs before settling down to some serious (well, not that serious) work on Currencies Direct, the world of popular music, and sales of my book the Valbonne Monologues, now nearing 100. 82 is near a hundred, that is my position and I am sticking to it.
An invitation to dine at the expense of the Black Rabbit as part of their try out of the new facilities on Wednesday evening is a welcome diversion. Sprog 2 will be back for Easter and no doubt hungry and we had hoped to be joined by the Mighty Omega and James “Desperate Dan” the landlord of the White Hart. I wonder if he was unable to make it because cow pie will not be on the new menu? The £500,000 refurbishment of the Rabbit is almost complete and they want to make sure their offering works by inviting their favourite customers to try out the menu. Obviously some of those were not available so we have slunk in the back door.
Last night though, my gentle suggestion that we should pop out for an early beer was rejected by that Nice Lady Decorator on the grounds that she had not finished her err… decorating. A flimsy excuse in my book, but as she rightly pointed out life is about to get busy again in the run up to, and celebration of, Easter. I must have been looking down in the mouth about the nil by mouth ruling, but then she got a taste for it, packed up her paintbrushes, and we popped up to The Swan for just the one, or two, where I took this picture in tribute to the English cricket team who got the draw they so did not deserve against New Zealand,
I suppose it was inevitable, but on the way back we were faced with running the gauntlet. Trying to go past the White Hart without getting dragged in. We failed. Thus by the time we got back the partridge, which had been nestling in the oven for rather too long was, how can I say this without getting a slap?, fully cooked and honed down to perfection. Actually it was surprisingly good, and personally I like well roasted vegetables, which turned out to be very fortunate (less so for the vegetables).
Lampshade made from cricket bats
During daylight hours, whilst he could still see by the light of the gas lamp before the darkness of a Yorkshire afternoon enveloped him, I heard from Steve “yeah yeah yeah” Jackson pointing out that the Crab and Lobster is at Asenby, not as I had stated in this column yesterday. Several of you pointed this out including the lovely Poly Bufton who has dined there and was similarly impressed. It appears that it is the only good restaurant in Yorkshire, which is not a view shared by “yeah yeah yeah” because according to him they do good road kill at several local eateries, some of whom even cook it. Frankly, I hope not to encounter whippet surprise, and that is not a local pastime.
So Easter and the celebration of the season for eating Easter eggs approaches. I just wish the church did not try to muscle in on a good holiday. The Easter egg celebration must have been going on for decades. It is such a pity that the church can’t have their own holidays. They have already done their best to mess up Christmas, next they will be hijacking Whitsun.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Ghastly trepidation
I think the hallucinations are partly down to the diet. There was a moment today where I thought I could see the sun but it turned out to be headlights coming over the hill. We were walking at Kithurst Hill near Amberley in the South Downs, wrapped up in 6 layers of clothing, wearing woolly hats and gloves trying to keep out the cold. I am again beginning to scan the websites offering winter sun because after the last week of gloomy weather and a few days at the weekend in the permanent twilight that is all we can expect up north, unless the sun comes out I can see a dash to the sun coming on. If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain…
The only thing that brightened my day (apart from anew customer for Currencies Direct) was the sale of a dozen more copies of my new book, The Valbonne Monologues. I know how much this will not please my least enthusiastic fan, the Wingco, who likes to describe this column and my writing as “ghastly”. I think his expression. in today’s photograph of him, was captured just after his wife had just bought her own copy, or it could have caught him mid fart. In either case it looks like trepidation was involved.
The Wingco in distress
Eating is back on the agenda again today after yesterday’s 600 calorie nightmare. If I lose much more weight I will become a black hole, disappearing up my own anus. With a trip up north on the very grey horizon for the end of the week, I wondered if any of the local inhabitants actually had as many as 600 calories in any day, but a short examination of this typical daily diet of lard, chip butties, suet and fat made me realise that 6000 per day was nearer the norm, in fact given the cold emanating from the tundra that is omnipresent in Yorkshire one probably needs 6000 a day just to maintain body weight.
You may be permitted to ask what drags me to this northern out post and it is not what but whom. That Nice Lady Decorator has a school reunion and it seems that one of her contemporaries at school was a member of The Pogues, and he has written to book and will be reading from it in Leeds on Friday evening. Why I have to be there has never been explained to my satisfaction but I fully intend to drink as much of the locals brews as possible over what will be a long, very very long, weekend.
One of the highlights of the Easter break will be meeting up again with Lady In Waiting, Rachel Surtees who will again try to deny the obvious attraction she has for me, but I know. It is in the stars, the square must be circled, she knows what I mean. At the moment she gives the quite convincing impression of being content in the arms of her gruff northern husband, her very own bit of rough, John “Chuckle Brothers”, Surtees. He is so-called (by me) because of his ill-advised involvement in trying to relaunch the career of this err… comedy act after retiring from his successful position at Yorkshire TV, where he is fondly remembered for being responsible for closing down the YTV bar in a cost cutting exercise. I must admit I found his intention to wor with them more amusing than their act.
Also, I hope once again to be meeting Steve “yeah yeah yeah” Jackson and his very a much more intelligent and engaging wife, the lovely Rowena. We are due to have lunch at one of the only pubs in Yorkshire that might get away with being located in the Home Counties, The Crab and Lobster at Asenby. I do hope that the hanging Judge John, our cricketing judge whom we met last year on a cricket tour to Australia, might also be there, unless he has sentenced himself to a prison term by mistake.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Melons, the search goes on
50 shades of grey, that is all we ever get in England. It was a particularly dark grey yesterday morning and with the cold it was very unpleasant. Grey and cold and Sunday in England equals one thing; pub. What else can you do when you are chilled to the bone following a hardy but ultimately ridiculous walk along the beach trying to avoid the grip of hypothermia?
Clearly I am being offered training or acclimatisation for the privations that will beset me when I venture close to the Arctic Circle on Friday. It is irrefutable, Yorkshire is closer to the North Pole than Arundel and from the reports in the newspapers of only 15ft snowdrifts I can see that their spring has already started.
Having sworn we would not go back to the George and Dragon at Burpham, news reached me that the previously appallingly run but beautiful pub has been rescued from its dunce like owners by a village collective, and so to see if that was the case we went over to have a look. Previously a desperately poor and overpriced meal, rude staff and poor service had three times been our reward for traipsing over last summer.
It is a changed place and back on the list. I am not usually one for a traditional Sunday roast, but the pork looked, and was very good, whilst That Nice Lady Decorator declared her trout to be the best she had ever had. The Arundel Bitter on tap was good so we were in much better spirits by the time we set off home and just before reaching the safety of our house was when the trouble started.
I love having a good pub next door but it is dangerous. To walk from the parking it is necessary to walk through the pub garden to get to our house, so almost inevitably we popped in…for three bottles of wine. It was supposed to be a nightcap in the afternoon but the mighty Omega was there and then the flame haired Carolyn wafted in and suddenly one bottle of wine was not enough.
I blame her for revealing that she had decided that day not to wear a bra and encouraging me to check. I am of course a gentleman and would never think of upsetting a lady deliberately so I was forced, rather unwillingly as you can see from today’s picture, to comply. She was not wrong and the sight reminded me that melons will soon be back in season.
They are in there somewhere
So last night my plans to prepare for the working week , especially in respect of promoting the be benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct, were thrown into disarray. I awoke this morning with a terrible taste in my mouth and going down stairs found the remnants of a packet of my favourite English cheese, Wednesleydale with cranberries, strewn over the coffee table and the remains of another bottle of wine, and came to the quite reasonable conclusion that someone must have broken in to my house and had a party last night whilst I was in bed. On balance I decided that there was insufficient damage to call the police.
Yesterday then was clearly feast, and regular readers will be able to predict that that means for today. Famine has commenced until tomorrow. 600 calories in 24 hours is the limit which I could reach easily in one minute. 5 tablespoons of olive oil, the amount one might drizzle over a healthy salad would get you there without the salad. Add to that the fact that it is Monday, grey (again), cold and I have a headache (now why is that?) and I think you can see why today will not be a good day
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sleeping Angels?
So then, to the Priory Theatre last night for a second dose of culture in two days, but earlier, due to yet more diabolical weather and the sense of gloom that it brings, we made a snap decision to get out for a pint at lunchtime. Nithered by the wind and drizzle, that Nice Lady Decorator said she needed a pie and a pint to cheer her up. Whilst getting cold on the beach near Middleton I found the subject of my photo today. The sea defences down there are made up of some wooden groins which have been eroded into some interesting shapes over the years and yes, that is as interesting as it gets today.
A wooden performance
We ended up at old favourite, the George and Dragon at Houghton, where they were serving Ringwood, a recent discovery, and it was there that I can identify the beginning of a scenario which culminated in loud snoring during the performance of Entertaining Angels at the theatre.
We dutifully turned off our mobile phones to ensure that the actors’ performances were not disturbed by unpleasant electronic noises, however there was little I could do to control more naturally occurring sounds. For once, it was not I who was to blame, and trying to keep my partner awake for the whole play proved impossible. Keeping her from snoring was an ongoing task, and one to which I applied maximum effort, but it is fair to say that those efforts were not entirely successful.
Let me explain. After several pints at lunchtime, I suggested that before we went out for the evening, perhaps a couple of hours kip in the afternoon might be a sensible idea, however, whilst I sensibly retired to regroup, that Nice Lady Decorator and her new friend, the lovely Fiona from a few doors down the street, deciding to lower my stocks of decent St Emilion somewhat, some of us did not rest at all before leaving for the theatre. With Fiona retiring hurt, we went in search of some lubrication (as if it were needed) which we found in the slightly unsatisfactory surroundings of the St Mary’s Gate pub beside the cathedral and close to the Priory. No Currencies Direct customers here.
As I said, the play was called Entertaining Angels and was actually very good, well, the parts where I was able to concentrate. In the circumstances perhaps a better title might have been Sleeping Angels.
Sunday morning and it is grey and cold again. As as I write no plans exist for today but I sense a big pub lunch in front of a roaring fire is a very real possibility. Talking of the depressing scenario of cold weather, my trip to the frozen north of England is looming. We are due to head up north at the end of the week on an expedition to find electricity. Yorkshire beckons to that Nice Lady Decorator but it has not been satisfactorily explained to me why me presence is required. We cannot take the Merc as it is not possible to fit bull bars to keep the marauding wild animals away (I expect the locals to be very hungry at this time of year) and I think it is forbidden to take automatic cars north of Birmingham due to the unsuitable terrain, thus we will be spending a few days travelling around in that Nice Lady Decorators 4 x 4, smelling of wet dog, although that is preferable to the aroma if wet northerner. Talking of wet northerners a I am looking forward to seeing John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees and Steve “yeah yeah yeah” Jackson.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Make Hay before bedtime
Scurvy was once a very dangerous affliction which sometimes ended in death, before the simple expediency of eating fresh fruit was found to keep it at bay. So the discovery that the horrid hound Banjo, the cocked up mutant cocker spaniel weighing in at over 35 kilos, who resides in my house under protest from me, was suffering from something that resembled dog scurvy provided me, at the very least, a glimmer of hope that his tenancy may be in danger of being terminated.
We visited the vet with That Nice Lady Decorator in state of concern, and me in a state of high hope. The prognosis is not good. It may be something called Cushing Disease which I interpreted as an irrational fear of Alfred Hitchcock movies. Note to self, stock up on horror films when Banjo is allowed in the sitting room. It seems that in order to be certain of the diagnosis that Nice Lady Decorator will need to pay for a biopsy at a cost of some £350 (about 410 euros at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates). She was not best pleased with that and even less so when I asked what it would cost for the horrid animal to be put down, but as I said on the way down to the beach to walk in atrocious windy and cold conditions, sometimes you have to be cruel to by kind. Just call me Dognitas, despatching dodgy dogs, dead.
Frozen to the bone after a most unpleasant walk, I got back and settled down for nearly a full days travail in the office as music business royalty time is approaching, a busy but usually happy time, and before I knew it, the evening had arrived and it was time to prepare for culture, and I don’t mean yoghurt. I laid out my cravat, smoking jacket and spats only to be told to dress down as tonight’s theatre is a scruffy establishment. Tonight apparently is the more high brow event. Last nights play was being staged at Arundel’s Victoria Institute and was called, not Pond Life as I joked to an unimpressed coterie of locals in the bar just beforehand but Parlour Song. By way of early lubrication, we had popped in to the Eagle, which is right opposite, to ensure that we did not dehydrate too much through exposure to culture, then discovered there was a small bar at the theatre.
The play was excellent, amusing and well acted with a very basic set. The bench mark for me when it comes to theatre is whether I nod off. It is a particularly bad sign when my eyes become heavy before the interval as happened recently in far more salubrious surrounds and with a famous cast, but last night I remained bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and engaged until the end.
Go for it grandad
Afterwards, across the road the David Hay Band, a collection of venerable rockers were playing at The Eagle and very good they were too. Songs from Cream to ZZ Top pointed up that the musical influences were set firmly in the 1970’s, a period during which I began my long and winding road through the music industry, and one of my favourite eras, but there was also some decent original material in the set. There was also the matter of one of their most dedicated fans whom I captured enjoying the evening in my picture above. He danced a bit like Wilco Johnson with the mad staring eyes and robotic walk, but without the guitar. Slippers and a cardigan were off set by the baseball cap. He was 75 if he was a day and after all the excitement, disappeared on his mobility scooter shortly after 11, well after his bedtime.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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