Monotonous or Monologues?
Sideways drizzle, my favourite UK weather, not, did nothing to relieve the gloom that epitomises living in England. A too brief, tantalising reminder of life amongst the idle rich in France over the previous extended weekend has only made me more keen to get back there as soon as the French tax authorities allow.
Don’t get me wrong, Arundel is a fab place to live, when you are forced to live in England, and we took in a couple of its pubs and one of its Indian take away emporiums last night on our day off between starvation and, err…starvation.
The White Hart was the first part of the seduction, the foreplay so to speak, the Red Lion the disappointing interruption to a nice evening (cleaning the pipes that deliver London Pride, the best beer in the world), but passion quickly returning at the nearby Swan Hotel, and then the glorious climax, the curry in front of a roaring log fire, especially welcoming after staggering back home, hungry for love and curry in early evening sleet.
It is supposed to be spring but no one seems to have made that clear to whomever is delivering such diabolical weather. I blame the Reverend Jeff. His boss is to blame, and as the Reverend is the only person I know who has a hot line number for that great call centre in the sky, the point of contact for he who is supposed to be in charge, I blame him. Doubtless we will be treated to any number of reasons for this crap weather; god wants us to suffer for whatever reason, like some of us have failed to go to church for years (except for weddings, funerals and a piss up during and after the Christmas carol concerts), otherwise, clearly , if he is all-seeing and all-powerful, as I am sure the good Reverend will try to argue, he has run out of compassion for the Brits suffering this weather.
So my picture today is of more joyous times in a more joyous country, at least weather wise. The entrance to Cafe Latin is adorned here with an excellent pull-up poster produced by Slash and Burn Thornton Allan from The Big Picture, ready for that explosive launch if The Valbonne Monologues last weekend.
The launch of that book
On our travels last night, with a few pit stops to dry off and warm up, we came across a play being performed at the Victoria Institute, a lovely Victorian building in need if some loving care and attention. They are presenting a play called Parlour Song billed as “deceit, paranoia and murderous desire in leafy suburbia”. This sounds exactly like Arundel, and I want to go and see the last night tonight. Cynics may suggest that the only reason I would want to go would be that a diet day (which was scheduled for today) could not clash with an outing for culture, because culture of this sort is entwined with going for the pub on the way there and the way back. Those cynics have a point.
Thus it seems likely that we are embarked on a double dose of real culture tonight and tomorrow night at Arundel’s Priory Theatre, where I am told there is a slightly higher chance of meeting some people with foreign exchange needs, and therefore the tender mercies of the services of Currencies Direct.
Finally, news has reached me if a charity concert being staged in Arundel shortly. It is in aid of those people who cannot reach orgasm. If you can come, can you let the organisers know? (Thanks to Lin from The English Book Centre in Valbonne for posting this joke on Facebook just as I was searching for a few lines to finish off today’s column. Done now).
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Pig in a poke
Inevitably, after the furore of the book launch, eating, drinking and seeing loads of old pals over a period of six days, the expectations that yesterday would be something of an anti-climax in comparison, were exceeded. I think the highlight came mid-morning when a shaft of sunlight lit up the beach near Littlehampton for 5 minutes as we trudged along, nursing hangovers and hungry. My stomach was telling me that a mushroom omelette with a great deal more mushroom than omelette was not the ideal cure for the ravages of fine French food and wine for 5 days, exacerbated by too many pints of London Pride at the Kings Arms quiz night the night before, but necessity is a contemptuous animal and yesterday was the counterpoint; the famine after the feast.
Talking of feasts, My picture yesterday of my tennis partners elicited some rather catty remarks along the lines of “who ate all the pies” but what you were looking at there were three magnificent athletes, just after they had been eaten by three fat blokes. Luckily for them, as I was taking the picture, my fine physical frame , honed by years of drinking and eating, was not in the shot to enable comparisons. The phrase “like a whippet” springs to mind, well my mind anyway.
Snout anyone?
There should be no attempt to make any link between yesterday’s photograph and the one I feature today, which I took in a shop window in Arundel on Tuesday evening. Some are more equal than others.
Seriously though, who was the genius behind this concept? Is it actually designed to attract people into the store? If so, what on earth would customers expect to find? Lots of fat tennis players eating and drinking? Or large packets of discount bacon? I am at a loss to explain. Much easier to explain are the advantages from which one can benefit when opening a foreign exchange account with Currencies Direct. That costs nothing, unlike this pig, which had a swingeing price tag. Someone would need to be bringing home some serious bacon to be able afford that. They would also have a tendency to be quite unhinged; “I know, let’s trot off to that shop and buy a concrete pig”.
Today I can indulge myself like a pig. The whole ethos of this 600 calorie a day two days on, five days off, is that one must eat (and to my mind drink) normally on the feast days, which is the part if the concept of which that Nice Lady Decorator is suspicious, except for the drinking that is. Thus as I write I am contemplating a large cooked breakfast with extra portions of all the stuff I did not eat yesterday. You may consider that I am being disingenuous, but the great thing is that the whole charade seems to work.
So what does the immediate future hold? Another day if fasting tomorrow is coming up fast (eek!) but on Saturday we are going to the theatre in Arundel. Yes, we have discovered that there is a delightful small theatre in Arundel at the Priory, cunningly called the Priory Theatre. It is this week staging “Entertaining Angels”, which I like to think suns up exactly what That Nice Lady Decorator had in mind for me when she planned this treat. She knows I like theatre comedy, especially if there is no travelling involved and a couple of pubs on the way there and on the way back. Thereafter, next weekend, there is the prospect of venturing north, through the tundra in search of some culture. David Attenborough, eat you heart out.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Nice Matin probe lives if the idle rich
I was unaware, when I posted yesterday’s column, of an alleged event of some note that took place at my house in Valbonne the night before. I am not sure I am able to reveal which attractive lady it was supposed to gave been who having, I think it is fair to say, thirstily entered into the spirit of the occasion, and as a result became an extra house guest for the night, was responsible.
I was told she was found naked at 2am, face down and sprawled, I might say straddling, a box of my latest book, The Valbonne Monologues, in the hall. The room in which she was staying had its own en suite facilities , so I cannot think of any other reason why she may have been discovered, totally unclothed, in the close vicinity of a number of my books, all uncannily, sporting a painting of myself sporting a particularly tickely moustache.
However, it appears that I have bee the victim if a hoax and that no such event took place, which is a real pity, but did at least make a great story. Talking of my book, which I still am, and will continue so to do, one of my book launch sponsors, Dancing Greg Harris from Côte d’Azur Villa Rentals was very keen to get his complementary copy, part of the sponsorship package. With lunch scheduled at the Auberge St Donat taking centre stage due to the cancellation of tennis because of irritating English weather, Dancing Greg was keen to join us tennis playing chaps, even if we were not playing tennis. He was understandably delighted by the inclusion in said book of a picture of himself extracting the very last droplets of rose wine from a bladder (the receptacle for wine served Peachy-like from a box) of the local brew. I know he was thrilled but did his best not to show it.
Lunch at Auberge St Donat
Earlier, I had walked to Cafe Latin in the rain to fulfil my commitment to be interviewed by Nice Matin, who were keen to discover details of the true story of life amongst the idle rich of Valbonne. You can rest assured that once the article is published you will be the first to know. I imagine that a number of characters whom have received coverage in this wonderful publication may be less keen.
So, lunch at Auberge St Donat was the usual triumph. 4 courses including wine for 15.50, about £13 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates was as good as one has come to expect, but the highlight was just after the Wingco had glimpsed the book and had started to intone the word that he insists is the best adjective to use in it’s presence, “ghastly”. Not 3 minutes later, his wife, the gorgeous Maryse arrived and insisted on buying a copy on the spot. I think it is fair to say that the Wingco was not best pleased.
I am not sure how or why the luncheon conversation turned to the vagaries of the tax system or one’s annual tax return, but according to Peachy Butterfield, one of the tax returns sent in by one of his friends was so horrific that the tax department had a whip around so they could send him a food parcel.
Whilst I am here in France, and having to post this daily column from my IPhone, I cannot control exactly where the picture will appear, so it’s a good job I have a WordPress expert on hand that sorts this kind of thing out for me. However I know exactly when it was taken. Lunch at Auberge St Donat is so exhausting that one must relax by one’a pool with a glass of wine after the event. That is the law of France. Chris France that is.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Relaxed in Valbonne Square
Realistically, After the last two days I needed a long rest rather than to be entertaining 12 to lunch, but such is my lot that this was the case. Of course we could not be certain it was only 12 because That Nice Lady Decorator could not remember who she had invited. As it turned out either people had forgotten they were invited or they had not be invited at all, so the hard core settled down to Bucks Fuzz, snails and nibbles at about 1pm. Not the band, but the drink.
Head sponsor of the launch of The Valbonne Monologues, Peter Bennett from Blue Water Yachting, arrived just before lunch to collect his complimentary copy, only to find that he was immediately invited to lunch with the beautiful and smouldering Julie, who was summoned from their house quite nearby, but a little further out of town than is fashionable. Pete likes to say that he looks down on me from his house, but I had to explain to him that there is a certain cachet and exclusivity in owning a house from which one can walk to Valbonne Village.
Eventually we all sat down to a lunch of roast lamb and assorted vegetables, and copious amounts of wine, to discuss, amongst other things, the value of having an account with Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange needs. As lunch was being prepared by Peachy and the lovely Suzanne Butterfield, who both emanate from up north, there was a slightly alien (to me) requirement for gravy. I enquired as to whether this gravy was not in fact a cheap copy of the much superior French version and was told that “The French can go fu** with their “jus”, gravy needs bisto” . I think I am safe in attributing this to one to Peachy Butterfield. Today’s picture is of him basking, whale like, in Valbonne Square.
Peachy Butterfield, in Valbonne Square.
I need not go into detail about what was discussed, but certain moments stick in my mind. There was talk of Lucerne, and whether Ernie, the fastest milkman in the west, a man of clearly loose morals, could be described in Swiss terms as “Loose Urn”. John Buck turned up with his child bride Anthea and was asked once again if used to be a porn star. his response was measured and to the point; “what do you mean, used to be?”
The sweet was provided in form of a desert sponge involving various ingredients that I could not identify, but included strawberries and which was sensational, but it seems that it’s creator, Pat, the red headed beauty who suffers as the wife of Tony “I invented the Internet” Coombs, has a Mrs Cropleyesque tendency as she claimed that her speciality was beetroot and chocolate cake, a concoction that I for one was content to have avoided.
Then late in the afternoon the raven haired beauty that is Melissa Graves blew in, in much the same way as the mistral, clutching a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and shouting “where’s the party?”. She could not fool me, I knew she come to buy a copy of The Valbonne Monologues to see that picture of her with her mouth sealed by Sellotape, an action she had chosen after I had printed some of her revelations in previous columns. She was so determined not to say anything stupid, she had unwisely taken this course of action. I say unwisely because I then captured that picture and it appears in a prime position in the book.
Tennis looks unlikely this morning due to more rain, but I see no reason why that should still lunch at Auberge St Donat, if only to celebrate my interview this morning by Nice Matin, who are fascinated by my book.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A Peachy day
Phase two of the book launch was almost as successful a day as day one and had its own highlights. I think the earliest highlight was when Peachy was introduced to the hitherto relatively unknown (to me)! Anthea Buck, who innocently asked if she might have seen him somewhere before? His riposte “do you watch a lot of Porn?” was probably not what I would have said in those circumstances but then I am not man mountain Peachy Butterfield. It could have turned out even worse because he went on to suggest that her husband, John Buck, had the perfect name for a career in the porn industry. Luckily they both found this and him amusing and later joined an impromptu gathering to watch the rugby back at ours.
Before that, appetites nurtured, we headed once again for Valbonne Square to take lunch in the sunshine. Peachy was in particularly fine form as he was without his minder, the lovely Suzanne, who had forsaken day 2 of the launch of The Valbonne Monologues to go skiing for the morning at nearby Greoliere with the impossible old smoothie Anthony “Dock Of The Bay”. This meant that there was no calming influence, no hand brake in sight and, as he said; “lucky Suzanne is not here otherwise I would have had my legs slapped several times by now”. He had just loudly concluded a statement about his own tantric sex having lasted since February.
The square was awash with happy customers from the launch and I captured this moment of my new book clearly captivating a number of people over their lunch, including on the left Wayne Brown from Red Radish. Catering. John Buck, the man with the ideal name for a porn star is on the right.
Sponsor Jeroen Zatt ABK Propertieswas a no show, obviously broken after the antics of yesterday, I held the mantle for Currencies Direct, Peter Bennett from Blue Water Yachtingwas becalmed somewhere and Dancing Greg Harris from Côte d’Azur Villashad danced off to Palma, whilst my final sponsor, Marina Kulikarrived late to pick up her order of 50 books.
I have had tears, wailing and gnashing of teeth from people who have been unable to get to Cafe Latin at the appointed launch times, but fear not, there is now an ample supply of both paperbacks and hardbacks in The English Book CentreValbonne, some are signed by the author himself. Talking of ample, Peachy Butterfield also has copies available to purchase, so if you see a gargantuan man in bright red trousers and livid green shirt stalking about Valbonne, he will be able to satisfy your literary needs but do not ask him about tantric sex.
A small lunch today at home has got a little out of hand, mainly because That Nice Lady Decorator, in a prosecco-distressed state yesterday, cannot remember who she has invited, thus numbers for whom to be catered and having enough chairs are now issues. It seems we have sufficient stores of “Card Bordeaux” to withstand an invasion of the Zulus but this being a Sunday, those 5 fishes and two loaves (or was it the other way around – The Reverend Jeff will know) might have to stretch a long way.
Thus this afternoon will be another write off, and with tennis and lunch at Auberge St Donat scheduled for tomorrow, I expect to be a broken man before it is time to slope back to the dank and dreary UK to lick my metaphorical wounds and regroup ready for the next trip back to France next month.
Chris France
At last, The Monologues have arrived
An utterly surreal day began with a snowstorm as I looked out of the window of my house at 8am. One does not expect it to snow in the South of France ever, and even less so when one has flown in from dreary England to launch ones new book, The Valbonne Monologues, and in the hope of seeing some sun, so my first thought was that I had for some inexplicable reason, offended the gods. Maybe they had not looked favourably upon my reporting that the new head of the Catholic Church, one Pope Freddy the first, was a miserable Argentinian of doubtful parentage. On balance I decided that this had not been a wise intervention.
I would not say that I was repentant but when the phone calls, texts and emails detailing the difficulties people were encountering when trying to get to the launch at Cafe Latin built up, and the garden got whiter and whiter I admit that I my faith in being an agnostic was shaken.
Help was at hand however, and as the sun burst through the clouds as we set up in Cafe Latin, all was well in my little world. It was over in a trice. An hour and a half selling books and signing autographs was all about me and I enjoyed every second. Oysters and prosecco supplied by my sponsors, notably Jeroen from ABK Properties and the lovely Marina Kulik who were both in attendance, helped the occasion to flow. There were several milestones, but my favourite moment came when Blind Lemon Milsted was told by his wife, the lovely Ingeborg, to buy two copies, one for his mother in law with whom, it is fair to say, he enjoys a distant relationship. It had been so difficult to persuade him to part with his money for the first copy that it was very gratifying that he was forced into a double purchase. His face said it all. I interpreted that look as delight but in truth that forced smile looked like a victim of unevacuated flatulence.
It was inevitable that the excitement of the morning produced an appetite and with the sun now out, I got my wish to have lunch outside in Valbonne Square at the Cafe Des Arcades. 12 of us sat down for an impromptu meal in the sunshine including Peachy Butterfield , resplendent in his bright red trousers, Roly and Poly Bufton , Anthony “dock of the” Bay and Blind Lemon Milsted and my snazzy marketing sign was pressed into service. One should never turn down a free marketing opportunity as my picture today depicts.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to return to the web, my outside bar area and continue the assault on the local wine lake with most of the luncheon revellers, but by 5pm it was getting chilly so lunch continued inside until well into the evening. It may have gone on longer but I confess I retired hurt at around 8pm. Clearly I am not used to all this excitement. I have been away too long.
Today, will almost certainly be a repeat exercise. Launch part two commences at 10.30 this morning at Cafe Latin and an even better turnout is expected now that the snow, that prevented a number of people attending yesterday, has melted. Some are flying in from foreign climes to get their copies, notably The Cornish Tsunami himself, Matt Frost, whose gargantuan presence will in no way be diminished by his apparent adherence to the same diet as I (mercifully on hold for this weekend).
Such has been the excitement that I have forgotten to mention the wonderful foreign exchange service provided by another of my sponsors, Currencies Direct, but hope to have more space tomorrow to do so.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Catholic Church shock
I had a vivid dream, well, more if a nightmare really, that we departed England in bright sunshine and arrived at Nice in rain. For me that would have been the ultimate irony, an escape from dismal UK into the bright sunshine of the south of France. However, it was only a dream, but when I awoke, got up and looked out if the window it was sunny. It won’t last, I thought, but by the time we left it was sunny and my heart began to sink.
We arrived in Nice in a thunderstorm, which according to Peachy Butterfield had been going on for 10 days. The whole worldly weather has gone mad, this is not normal. I was supposed to be sitting in my pav, drinking wine and enjoying a typical French evening, but it was raining and the fire was lit and by dusk, the shutters closed against the tempest. This was not in the brochure and I want my money back. I did not spend a whole winter in England, just to be rained on when I escaped to France. I expect better and soon.
We thought that as the 6 day party was about to start, we would have a couple of drinks to stay ahead of the game, so we went to the Caviar House at Gatwick airport north terminal for scrambled eggs and smoked salmon and a glass of something crisp and cold. After the dietary purgatory of the day before, two breakfasts followed by British Airways wraps on the plane seemed the way to go. £58 later (around 67 euros at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rate), it seemed a slight less appealing idea.
Arriving in Valbonne the wine was open in an instant and the unwinding, some may say the unraveling began. I could relax because the shipment of very valuable books had arrived safely so all that was required was for me to steady myself before the big day, the launch of my book at Cafe Latin this morning. However my determination to remain steady was met by an even stronger determination in the part of Peachy Butterfield to avoid steadiness.
Eventually, we sat down for dinner and then Peachy announced that last evening was officially nominated “blow job and steak night”, but that moment of elation was destroyed when I found out that we were having chicken for dinner. He was serous. It seems as if there is a Facebook page attesting to that fact. Here I could make a load of jokes about getting a mouthful but have decided to keep my literal mouth shut on this one.
Talking of social networks, Peachy expressed a little dissatisfaction, and was in fact a bit upset because Pope Francis refused his friendship request on Facebook, and this was after he had achieved 70 plus likes for a rather tasteless welcome to the new front man for the Catholic Church. He considered this a bad omen, but I think it was a but harsh to describe the new pontiff as a “miserable Argie bastard”. He also described the church as Under Old Management. I have a photo of just such a sign today.
Church change?
So it has arrived. VM day, publication day for The Valbonne Monologues, the next step in my literary ascent to being one of the best authors at Cafe Latin this morning. Yes, you did read that correctly. I am confident that I will be one of the most successful authors in the Cafe between 10.30 and 12.00. All my sponsors will be there, the hard working Pete Bennett from Blue Water Yachting, the lovely Marina Kulik who staged the competition to design the cover, Jeroen Zaat from ABK Properties, the coolest and most rock and roll estate agent in Valbonne, but we shall miss Dancing Greg Harris as he claims to be abroad,although I expect he may pop in later.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Snow on the beach
I see that Prince Charles and Camilla recently had a tour of Jordan. It may have been a bit bumpy but I suppose if the call comes, as a loyal subject, one must comply.
So this morning I shall be on my way to the delights of Gatwick airport and then on my way for the far more convincing delights of Nice Airport and then home to Valbonne, forsaking my duties today in respect of Currencies Direct. Ideally I should have an early night this evening and avoid strong drink, but we are staying in our house with Peachy Butterfield for Christ’s sake, so you should know what would one expect. If you do not then I will tell you; he will have procured at least two boxes (yes boxes not bottles) of wine, each of at least 10 litres which he likes to call card Bordeaux. It will taste execrable, at least for the first few glasses, after which one’s taste buds are anaesthetised to the point where you don’t notice. If things go really badly then the Limoncello will be brought out and all decorum thrown to the wind.
With this in mind, and with another go at the 600 calorie diet yesterday, I saved enough calories up for one glass of wine before bedtime, and crawled into my sack just after midnight after watching some cricket. A teetotal night before a Peachy onslaught would be dangerous. I have packed my launch shoes and am carrying about 70 copies of The Valbonne Monologues with me for the launch on Friday, just in case the courier which was due to deliver them to France today, is further delayed because of the snow. I will not panic, but I will have long arms tomorrow, having to drag all those books on to an aeroplane. It has meant that we have had to reduce our wardrobe that we shall be taking, and as you can imagine, this has not amused That Nice Lady Decorator. I mention launch, because the Wingco seems to have it in his head that he will be launching pages from the book in the form of paper aeroplanes, if he should ever get his hands on a copy. That should happen on Monday, when he returns to France having attempted to avoid the furore over the launch, by inventing a reason why he had to be in London for the weekend. Of course, he will need to procure a copy before it can be abused.
Clymping Beach adorned by snow
My picture today is of a curious phenomenon I don’t think I have ever before seen snow on an English beach. Much of it has melted today, but I managed to get this picture, which illustrates how bad was the weather yesterday. I am hearing that people took 3 hours to travel 3 miles on Wednesday evening, during the time when I was videoing Sprog 1 tobogganing down Arundel Hight Street, something that I would suggest seldom happens. It did not end well and I was worried enough to walk up there this morning to see what damage had been done to the lamp-post. The damage to Sprog 1 was painful but did not require surgery.
I see more poetry seems to be cropping up on the comments section of this column. Please do not encourage them, it is a shameful attempt to climb aboard the roller coaster of publicity that has been created in my own mind for the book launch tomorrow. I am looking forward to seeing a number of old friends this weekend, some of whom I hope will be clutching money to thrust in my hand to buy a copy. The break even is over 200, but they are more expensive than last time because of the pictures. I live in hope.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Diet in snow job
It was all going so well. A light breakfast, no lunch and enough calories left for some meagre gruel for dinner. Exercise has been taken in the form of a stiff walk through the snow on the South Downs through the quintessentially beautiful Sussex countryside and we had returned, rosy-cheeked (as opposed to rose-cheeked, as in the wine, later this week when we get to France), and ready to get those Currencies Direct wheels of commerce turning. All was well, even the sun came out for a couple of hours, and then bang, the whole healthy and dietary good work began to unravel. That Nice Lady Decorator suggested a pint early doors at the George and Dragon at Houghton, and the gaping chasm if temptation opened up before me.
Houghton Woods in the spring snow
Perhaps we could have got away with one pint, but the pub was having its regular Tuesday “pie and a pint for £10 night”. She said “shall we…” and with me hungry enough to chew off my own arm, the inevitable occurred. It was a very nice pie, beef in a red wine sauce covered, not in pastry, but by sliced roasted potatoes and served with a selection of fresh vegetables. The vegetables alone would probably taken me through the 600 calorie limit, whereas the pie one would have accounted for more than that in its own, so giving up, we went home and opened a nice bottle of Maclaren Vale Australian red.
I think the charge of the light brigade was based in 600 riding into a trap, and a writer of little ability might try to make some connection between this and the failed 600 calorie a day diet, but you all know me better than that. Yes, the whole enterprise was doomed the moment the suggestion to go to the pub was made. Oops, did I make the connection?
I don’t want people to think I am a bit of a globe-trotter but today I have errands to run in Arundel, Littlehampton, Rustington, and Worthing, all to tidy up some loose ends before setting off to France for that launch. Oh, did I forget to mention the publication on Friday of my new book The Valbonne Monologues at Cafe Latin in Valbonne? All five sponsors of the event, ABK Properties, the lovely Marina Kulik, Blue Water Yachting, Côte d’Azur Villa Rentals and of course Currencies Direct, would be disappointed if I did not remind my less than completely adoring public about the momentous event due to take place at the end of this week.
I have packed my launch shoes, bought before Christmas, the originally intended publication date, cruelly delayed by some pixie problem with the full colour photographs included throughout. I am certain that they are real crocodile and that, as the salesman told me, they are almost unique (!) because you see very few crocodiles in that colour. Indeed, I think David Attenborough would be fascinated by them.
Tomorrow will be taken up with travelling, but I would hope and expect to have a trot around the hills this morning on what is left of yesterday’s snow. I was reminded yesterday as the blizzard of the night before abated, that it was precisely a week earlier when I had donned shorts and walked across Arundel Park for lunch, and even sat on an outside terrace for a pint. A week in English weather is like a week in politics. Everything can change very quickly. However, I shall not change. Oh no, I have been droning on every day for three years and have no plans to stop.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Winter returns to Arundel
The weather gods were kind. They must have read The Valbonne Monologues and come to the obvious conclusion that the world, and particularly the south of France is ready for, and deserves to be able, to buy copies from next Friday at Cafe Latin in Valbonne.
I reached this conclusion because the courier collecting them for shipment, arrived before the snow closed in and started creating the usual havoc on the roads. There will always be an issue in England when any of the white stuff is threatened, but as long as the consignment gets across the channel tonight, even if there is 3 feet of snow in France they will be delivered on time. This is because the continentals know how to deal with snow, even if it is the wrong type.
So now it can snow all it likes and I for one love it. The whole countryside is softened and improved by a dose if gods dandruff. I can take the cold if it is not raining or foggy. I took a picture in my early afternoon walk (the morning was spent worrying about whether the courier would beat the weather, and finalising a Currencies Direct account opening for a soon to be happy new customer), but took this one last night in Arundel itself.
Tarrent Street covered in snow
Having stocked up over the weekend with enough food and drink for a week, I was quite glad that yesterday was designated another 600 calorie day. In fact I struggled to get it up that high (OK, that is a bit if an exaggeration) but am looking forward to a hearty breakfast this morning and then Quiz night at the Kings Arms this evening, assuming we can battle through the snow.
Now I am not a great lover of poetry, in fact I am often prone to giving the Reverend Jeff a hard time about his regular poetical contributions to the “newspaper” (sic) the Daily Mail. I don’t dislike it as an art form as much as I detest all modern art, but it is close. So why the comments section of this column is suddenly a sounding off forum for budding poets defeats me. My favourite poem would be; roses are red, violets are blue, some poems rhyme, others don’t.
So just two more days to go before we fly off to France. I have heard alarming reports of inclement weather in Valbonne but I know that must be a fallacy. I shall expect sunny and settled conditions, especially for the proposed tennis next Monday. I have also been the victim of some similarly inclement comments from The Wingco and Mr Clipboard, both of whom are roundly abused in my new book. I thought when the Wingco used the word accelerant, he meant excellent, but it turns out that he was discussing ways to burning a hardback copy of The Valbonne Monologues. Regular long-term readers will be aware of an unsavoury incident shortly after the publication if my first book, Summer In the Côte d’Azur. It was at the Auberge at Donat where I shall be next Monday for lunch. A copy was sold to Mr Clipboard who proceeded to set fire to it, and then to supply some of the unburned pages to other diners, and to exhort them to make paper planes out of the remaining pages. However, a sale is a sale. Jealous public schoolboys do love this little japes, however I was less pleased to have my beard forcibly removed at the same lunch.
Anyway, enough of that, this publication will no double be a similar “hot” topic from Friday onwards. It is something with which I, as a budding celebrity, need to take in my stride.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
3 years of pleasuring the nation
Today is the third anniversary of the birth of this column. That means by my calculations that I have written some 700,000 words for the delectation and delight of my readership and in support of my work as fat controller of Currencies Direct for Valbonne. 93,000 hits cannot be a fluke. Lets face facts. I am a genius.
To celebrate this, and the small matter of Mothers Day, we headed up to the Bay Tree in Arundel for a late lunch, accompanied by both Sprogs who had obeyed the three-line whip to be present to celebrate with their mother. The lure if a free lunch in the student world still looms large.
On the way, there was a small diversion by way of The White Hart to ensure proper pre lunch lubrication, after the traditional bottle of prosecco before the off. In a catastrophic failure of planning by the 6 nations rugby organising committee, the start of the game between England and Italy clashed precisely with the time our table was booked, so rugby was off the agenda. This was very short-sighted of them as it denied them several viewers, some others of whom were also lunching at The Bay Tree.
Earlier I had gone for my morning constitutional, this time around Arundel Park, from where I took this picture. As you can see it was once again grey but this apparently presages the possibility of snow arriving overnight, which would be quite exciting except I am awaiting a courier to transport those vital copies of The Valbonne Monologues to France, ready for the launch this coming Friday. Thus until they are picked up and safely en route, the snow must stay away.
The beautiful Arundel Park, greyed into submission by boring English weather
I have received an email from delightful but dim northerner Steve “yeah yeah yeah” Jackson about the Welsh. It seems that he has noticed that the entire Welsh rugby team is ugly and suggested this may be a topic for discussion in this column. He seems not to have taken into account of the less than rare characteristics exhibited by his northern brothers. High foreheads, eyes rather too close together, more fingers the usual on their hands, curved spines, dribbling, that sort of thing. I would have thought that living in the frozen north on the very edge of the civilised world, he is less judgemental about physical shortcomings, but perhaps it is easier to deflect attention by aiming a metaphorical kick at our Welsh cousins, who I know will be doing their best to lose to England in the last game allowing the right country to win the Grand Slam.
After feast at the weekend, famine is scheduled to recommence again today, however, this is probably for the good because there is a six-day feast if all things French on the near horizon. Thursday sees us on a jet plane, off to the land of sunshine, olive oil and the best wines on the planet. France, and in particular, My beloved Valbonne beckons and I for one cannot wait. A few days of fasting will be worth the delights with which I shall be greeted. Sitting outside, drinking rose, eating great French food, seeing old pals and partying With Peachy Butterfield will surround the book launch days. Cynics amongst you may suspect that having a launch in the morning and finishing at midday might be a flimsy excuse to have lunch thereafter. Those cynics may have a point. However, until I get there I cannot be sure what will transpire. Perhaps instead the post launch schedule will involve quiet contemplation and abstinence from alcohol but I doubt it.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
“Funniest book I ever read”
The condemned (to dieting three days a week) man ate a hearty breakfast before the morning constitutional, in the full knowledge that this particular nil by mouth chapter is coming to an end.
The word chapter has reminded me that I spent last night reading The Valbonne Monologues and I have to tell you it is very good. I experienced a strange sense of déjà vous (all over again – this especially for old pal Dave Worth) when I was reading it. It was uncanny, I could almost predict what was going to come next.
On the back cover, I invited those in it that have been most abused, and those few people who think I am funny, to write a comment about me or the previous book, Summer in the Côte d’Azur, and put the comments on the back of the new book. These have come out remarkably well and, I think, sum up what one might expect from the contents. I have taken a picture of it for today ‘s column.
The Valbonne Monologues explained
So, back to that hearty breakfast; a combination of duck egg, bacon , beans and mushrooms seemed the best way to react to starvation, and boy was I ready to react. Then off to view a car for Sprog 1 as his Citroen Rubbish Tip is fast approaching the end of its life. You can hear him coming from Pulborough, see the smoke sometime earlier, the driver’s door will not open, it has the pulling power of a very ill sheep, does 20 miles to the gallon and is ready for an early grave. Actually it is not early, it is long overdue. This of course will cost me money, it always does. I shall tell him that he should consider whatever it costs as an extension if his private student loan. This took the shape, not of college fees, but the small matter of the cost io replacing the oven of close friends that he destroyed on New Years Eve, when trying to reenact a scene from the film Project X, in which a dwarf was put into a cooker. Sprog 1 is not a dwarf, so it was hardly surprising that it did not end well.
Then to the rugby. With few people in the Kings Arms, and with the hunger monster well and truly out of the bag, we went to the Red Lion for sine very ordinary pub grub and returned home after the Scotland versus Wales match. I had the kettle on, my slippers were warming by the freshly lit fire and had settled on the sofa for what I hoped would be a restful afternoon nap, when That Nice Lady Decorator announced that she would like to go next door to The White Hart to see Ireland versus France in the 6 nations rugby.
Reluctantly I stirred myself to join her and that us when the afternoon started to unravel. I do recall being introduced to the lovely Carolyn who it seems I must have met before. It seems she also knew our Sprogs and claimed that it was they who had introduced her to Jaeger bombs. Anyway, she introduced us to her estranged live-in lover and then shortly afterwards to her new lover , one if whom did not know about the other. They were both in the pub at the same time. When I suggested that this was a rather strange situation she disagreed and said it was seen as quite normal in Arundel. Clearly I have only just scratched the surface of the Arundel psyche.
I have a hazy recollection of having some discussions with someone about opening an account with Currencies Direct, but cannot recall who, and I distinctly remember watching some cricket late at night, and that England fought back to draw the test match against New Zealand, and I can taste peanut butter and hot cross buns when I awoke but that’s it. I think it was a good evening.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Valbonne Monologues
I was asked yesterday whether I could tell when my flies were down. I said I could because they stopped buzzing around and just looked unhappy.
Nothing unhappy about me today though, for two reasons, firstly my flies are up, but secondly and most importantly, the first copies of the new book, The Valbonne Monologues have arrived, and I must say they look splendid, the hardback in particular.
There is a small problem though, the weight. No, not me, although that is another problem. I am hoping to take 70 of each down to France on the plane ready partly to satisfy the enormous pent-up demand for them, but they weigh damn nearly a kilo each, and that would amount to a rather large bill for excess luggage. Thus there was no option; a courier is booked to take the rest of them down to their rightful home, Valbonne, to where the redoubtable Peachy Butterfield is acting as my unpaid guardian. I have a picture of one today.
Literally a sensation
Yet another disgusting winters day yesterday, but diets and exercise do not stop for anything. I walked briskly down to the Black Rabbit on the River Arun to check out how the refurbishment is going. Slowly would seem to be the answer. The walk was undertaken in the foulest conditions in which I have ever chosen to be out. Sideways drizzle is my least favourite weather phenomenon, then scurrying home for some gruel and scraps, about all I get to eat on 600 calories a day.
There is the prospect of some respite today and with Sprog 1 coming down, I believe I shall have the weekend off from trying to turn myself into a black hole and disappear up my own anus. That respite will also prevail through Sunday as that will be Mothers Day and we shall be going to The Bay Tree for a late lunch with Both Sprogs who are gracing us with their presence , mainly I expect because it will be a free nosh-up at my expense.
So this is the week that it all happens. 3 years ago on Monday I started to write this daily column for the first time and I am now approaching 100,000 hits on the website. It started slowly and has hardly picked up at all. It was the idea and got underway at the behest of Currencies Direct who felt, quite rightly, that a column offering such a rare insight into the lives if the people with whom I come into contact, would be a wonderful marketing tool, and so it has transpired. That it has also projected me into the exalted world of being a writer, an author, even a novelist was an unexpected bonus, but one I can now see was inevitable. Talent will win out, in its absence, bluster,bluff and self-delusion are quite helpful.
Then the same week as I hit the three-year anniversary for the birth of this column, the second book it has spawned will be dropped from the stalk of life like an unwanted tied on a mostly very suspecting public. Quite a few members of that public are expected to attend the launch next Friday and Saturday at Cafe Latin in Valbonne, if only to try to buy up as many copies as possible themselves in order to suppress widespread dissemination of some of the pictures it contains. I can think of two dozen people to which that statement applies. The inclusion of photographs was a master stroke. Anonymity is blown apart and people like The Wingco will be exposed to a torrent of interest in their antics. I cannot wait.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Dodgy doggy antics
The night before last, I awoke after trying to watch some of the cricket test match, England versus New Zealand, being staged at Dunedin. Waking up hungry my first thought was that the starvation diet was still in place, Dunedin indeed.
As I had spent a good part of the morning delving into the contents of a rather dismal barn, in a search for some long forgotten master tapes, and as I had left the tape store in time to return home to lunch, it was understandably slightly disappointing to discover That Nice Lady decorator had made no plans to feed a desperately hungry husband. “You cannot be hungry” she said, “not carrying all that weight”. She is not good at encouragement, me having lost several kilos in the past week.
So I settled down in my kennel (office) to work on vital commercial matters including the opportunities offered by opening an account with Currencies Direct, scarcely able to hear the phone ring due to the noise from my rumbling stomach.. And this was not a diet day.
Because we had a dinner engagement she was not able to deny me serious sustenance last evening and dinner was taken at Boco Nuevo at The White Hart and very good it was too. My leg of Calabrian lamb was excellent as were the plate of hand cut chips, a side order that has me in the doghouse again. How come non diet days, where one is supposed to eat normally, are suddenly down to two meals?
Talking of dogs, before dinner and with the evenings becoming perceptibly lighter, we decided to take the mutts out despite terribly murky, grey, dank weather, the reward being a pint of beer somewhere afterwards. We stopped at Houghton View, offering no view whatsoever of the surrounding hills due to fog but seemingly offering a very different form of entertainment of a kind that I tend to avoid. It was in the George and Dragon at Houghton that we remarked to Gavin, the landlord, about the cars parked at the view with people sitting in them at dusk, and how curious it was that despite it being a regular dog walking area, none if them seemed to have any dogs, and anyway, why would people be turning up there as night fell. It turns out that it is a gathering for a different kind if exercise, more about dogging than dog walking.
Max the springer spaniel, nearly getting me into trouble
Actually it seems that it is more about gay dogging which I also learnt was called cottaging. It is amazing how much local knowledge can be gleaned by a simple conversation in a pub. I wonder if any of my public schoolboy friends were there?
It was in this context that it suddenly dawned on me that an innocent walk with the dogs could have taken a rather worrying turn. Losing Max, the trusted and much-loved family spaniel in the gathering gloom, I had been roundly berating him (a complete waste of time because he is now profoundly deaf) that if he was not careful I would be beating him to within an inch of his life if he did not come quickly. Given what I now know about the activities reputedly taking place in the undergrowth, I may have got away lightly.
This event has put me off my food (I am told) so another miserable day of starvation rations awaits. There is also going to be 40mm if rain today but am I downhearted? Well yes actually, but there is a shining beacon of hope and expectation on the immediate horizon. The first copies if my new book The Valbonne Monologues, are due for delivery this morning.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Downs syndrome no joke
I am losing so much weight on this starvation diet that I may have to make some adjustments to my clothing. Perhaps I am becoming a but like Elton John, saying goodbye to normal jeans.
It was a long day spent dreaming about food and drink and I crawled into bed last night in a seriously weakened state after another period of self-inflicted starvation. Even the pen I held in my hand, used to make notes to help potential customers of Currencies Direct, became heavy and I have been having hallucinations. I even thought that we had a sunny day and I wore shorts a couple of days ago, so clearly deluded.
Today there will be some respite from the privations of no food as I am going over to somewhere near Lewis to play with some master tapes. It seems that a number of early Music of Life (the record company I co-founded in 1986) recordings have been unearthed in a store there, so I shall be donning my oldest and scruffiest clothing and spending the day in a smelly barn, so life does not get any better.
Tonight also offers some relief as we are due to join some old friends to celebrate the return of one of their sons from abroad. Personally I see this as a misnomer. If they were celebrating his departure that would seem to be a worthy excuse for dinner and a few drinks, but frankly I will eat and drink with anyone at any time and on any pretext, especially as I believe we shall be dining out at the excellent Bay Tree in the centre if Arundel if it is not fully booked.
The promised rain failed to materialise yesterday morning so we walked more of the South Downs from where I took this picture. It smacks of Downs Syndrome (groan). It is a willow tree with a hole right through it which appeared, apart from the bit that is missing, to be in good health. It too has been on a bit of a diet as it has also lost a bit if its middle. Now there must be a cricketing joke here somewhere, something along the lines of the bat (traditionally made out of willow) not having a middle. Probably only one of my readers, the regular commenter and cricket umpire Howzat, will understand that one.
Wholly willow?
Talking of cricket, I see the first Test Match between England and New Zealand failed to start today as scheduled in Dunedin due to that very English affliction, rain.
I hear from old pal John Otway who now has nearly 80 people signed up for the trip to Cannes in May for the Film Festival launch of his Otway For An Oscar campaign. This is going to be one of the highlights of the year, another of which will be the publication of my new book The Valbonne Monologues. There is a small issue though, I do not yet have any books. The printers are now saying they should be delivered this Friday but as this is the second time delivery has been delayed, I am starting to get a bit twitchy. Obviously I have err… booked a launch date of next Friday and leave next Thursday to fly to France, so although not critical yet, another delay and I will be throwing the book at them. I think you could say that this would be a novel punishment, they could be authors of their own demise. OK that is enough book jokes for today. At least my pull-up banner, designed by Slash and Burn Thornton Allan should be here this morning, so there is a good chance that it will be the photographic feature in tomorrow’s column.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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