Skiing goes down hill
A rather later start to skiing yesterday had its root in an over ambitious wine tasting the night before, together with similarly enthusiastic skiing in perfect conditions from the ageing parental fraternity, gathered in Meribel for the week.
The night before, discussion has turned to the tragic events in South Africa where the para Olympic champion Oscar Pistorius stands accused of shooting his girlfriend. It was noted amongst our gathering that when the case finally comes to court he won’t have a leg to stand on.
There was a mishap before we went down to the lifts to commence yesterday’s skiing. Mr Clipboard, usually so organised and, of course, an organiser of some repute in his own mind, indeed some might say anally preoccupied with detail, walked down to the departure point but had forgotten something pretty vital for skiing, his skis. His hang-dog expression said it all once he had caught up, but I did suggest I would not mention it in this column, which as you now know I have because he never reads it, but if you see him on the slopes today, please keep this minor aberration to yourselves.
For me, skiing is all about building up an appetite for lunch. Starting late with aching limbs did nothing to dent that appetite, but the physical rigours of the day had two effects; firstly to delay the start of skiing and secondly to bring forward lunch, which was taken at Roc Des Marches at 2703 metres above sea level atop a fantastic panorama of snowy mountains. Personally, I always find that one bottle is never enough, and so it proved at the 6 of us managed to lay to rest about 6 bottles of wine before the descent.
The route towards Val Thorens
There was a minor altercation after a late toilet stop for my good self on the way back. Thinking that the party had become bored waiting for my ablutions to be completed and had departed, I skied alone back to the chalet only to receive a call to say that they had stopped for a drink at a bar in the way back.
Last night, too exhausted to venture out, we stayed in and ate a Thai green curry. Some of us enjoyed the cheese course, even to the extent of mistaking the coasters for cheese biscuits. I am sure with some To give you an idea if how well things went, That Nice Lady Decorator was once again dancing on the table well before midnight. It was during the evening that I was told I it looked like I had received a parking ticket but having imbibed freely decided I would wait until this morning to move the car. Big mistake.
Awaking this morning to more blue skies, and having forgotten about the parking ticket, it seemed as everything was perfect. I looked out the window to see what all the activity was about and saw that there was a market being set up across the road. How nice I thought until I realised that our car was no longer parked where it was. Parking is at a bit of a premium in Meribel, but just how much of a premium I will hopefully discover today when I go and reclaim it from the police pound, probably at the expense of a big fine. I am so glad that I used the services if Currencies Direct to move some money to euros ahead of the trip. At least this will enable me to give my aching limbs the morning off from skiing.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Cock gets a kiss
Considering the vintage conditions, bright sunshine, masses of fresh snow and perfectly groomed pistes, the day did not start well. That Nice Lady Decorator, who habitually wears sunglasses, often even in the gloom of an English winter, got to the top of the ski slopes and then could find them. A small domestic tantrum and it was decided that the only thing to do was to descend the mountain, go back to the chalet in Meribel and retrieve them. On the way down she stopped to adjust her hat and found them underneath her headwear. No comment was needed, but for one who is constantly berated for doing things wrong, forgetting details and generally being an idiot, I hope you will forgive the fact that I had a quiet and private smirk, private for very obvious reasons. One does not need a sense of humour failure so early in a holiday.
The most fantastic skiing had me, a fair weather skier, quite happy to venture out early and go high, even considering a black run at one stage just after a coffee and cognac stop, but in the end sense prevailed and we reached lunchtime with out further incident.
Lunch was taken at the vastly overpriced (even at Currencies Direct exchange rates) but still decent Panoramic restaurant where I had an excellent rosti with reblechon. Mr Clipboard described it as a it like eating nag pole, a reference I think to the recent ridiculous furore about horse meat entering the food chain. If the burger eaters of Essex, who are all apparently up in arms about the very idea, had any idea of exactly which parts of the cow were being minced up for their working class delight, burger sales would plummet. nostrils, intestines, testicles, ears, in fact any part of a cow that is not chopped up for steaks and the like are routinely used for burgers, so to object to eating horse is laughable, the real issue is the deception in the meat supply industry. Should the culprits ever be brought before a judge I do hope their defence would revolve around horsing about. I also hope that they don’t flee the country, otherwise the police may be accused of shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted.
Over lunch of horse rosti, discussion turned to the Pope ans his recent decision to resign. I don’t know how the theme of the discussion turned to what he might have for breakfast but the best call was Eggs Benedict.
Public schoolboy has assignation with a cock
My picture today is of my public schoolboy friend Mr Clipboard kissing a cock. I suggested that it was just like being back at a school for him, where this kind of activity was seen as recreation when he was at Wellington, and took the opportunity to remind him of his part in the dreadful episode of bullying some 15 months earlier, when I had been held down by him and four of his public schoolboy compatriots and been subjected to a physical assault, having my luxuriant beard forcibly slashed to within an inch of its life. Whilst he has never denied his ring leading role in this assault, He refuted the charge of bullying on the basis that, had it been bullying I would have been tied naked on the roundabout outside the Auberge St Donat in Plascassier and be buggered repeatedly. No, he exclaimed, this was nothing like bullying, just a little horse-play. Oops, there I go again. In inappropriate horse gags. I must remember to be a little more precise in my subject matter being discussed one might say. Perhaps I should consider blinkers ?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sound as a Meribel
The French expression for wifi is exactly the same but the pronunciation is more like “whiffy”. For some obscure reason this amuses the Sprogs, who clearly must enjoy similarly high brow humour of the standard of The Reverend Jeff’s favourite comic, Benny Hill. I have heard of a code of this nature in the past but only as a coded warning for a fart, as in “watch out for a wifi”.
The 4 hour journey down to Meribel which should have taken 4 hours took 6 due to the appalling traffic. I have sworn an oath that I shall never again be talked into going to the Alps at half term. It could have been worse however, with our chalet sharing companions electing to get the first Channel Tunnel crossing yesterday morning, only to run into half the cars in Europe all heading for the same valley. Also, Meribel is the venue for a skiing World Cup race during the week. Had it been this weekend then I think I would have turned the car around and headed back to Arundel.
So arriving in late afternoon and organising all those irksome tasks such as ski passes (an astonishing 245 euros per person for the 6 days. With insurance the cost went over 1000 euros ( about £850 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) I was talked into a quick beer at the Barometer Bar, owned by a charming chap called Clive whom I had met before in Valbonne on several occasions.
Heading for Meribel
As we were the first to arrive, I was told that we had to make all the beds. Given the exorbitant cost of renting the chalet, I was a bit miffed at this and asked if they had supplied hammer and nails. But it was worse than that, I was expected to put duvet covers onto duvets, a ridiculously difficult task, best suited to women. So now I know why the Thornton Allan’s and Mr and Mrs Clipboard were so happy for us to arrive first.
I should mention here that I have already won 10 euros from Mr Clipboard, a wager about who would arrive first between himself and the Thornton Allan’s. It should make no difference that the result was fixed as I had sensibly laid off the bet by offering Slash and Burn a bribe of 5 euros to ensure victory, but it is fair to say that Mr Clipboard saw things differently. Eventually, after much cajoling, he did pay up but in bad grace. I now have a bank-note which was torn in half, but Sellotape will come to the rescue, and will contribute to the family budget for the week. He is a cad and a bounder and he knows it, and furthermore he knows he will be reminded regularly of this fact in the week to come.
Discussion turned to the linked resort to Meribel of Mottaret, more “cost conscious” part of Les Trois valleys ski area. It is a concrete jungle built by the French in the sixties which whilst being skier friendly exhibits all the charm of a concentration camp on a wet day in February. It does, however, provide a usable habitat for those renegades from Essex who can afford to travel to the Alps for skiing. This particular species is easily identified by the habitual wearing of ski suits and apparel made by Woolworths. It was a sad day when this renowned UK retailer bit the dust a few years ago, but their creations live on and are a favourite amongst the Essex fraternity.
And, so the great skiiing debacle is about to begin, and as you read this shall be swishing down the slopes looking for a suitable place for a morning coffee and cognac.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Trip Advisor Shock
It took less than 4 miles before we had the first torrent of abuse directed at French drivers. We were some 150 miles south-east of Calais to which point we had driven in complete peace and harmony. From that, the chaps reading this may have come to the unworthy, but completely accurate assumption, that I had been driving since we set off shortly after 8am yesterday, and That Nice Lady Decorator had taken the wheel for the first time. “And they are all driving on the wrong side of the road”.
I am happy to report that contrary to popular belief (mine) it was not dark at this ungodly hour, in fact Arundel was bathed in bright sunshine for at least 10 minutes before the customary and omnipresent greyness returned. What is the point of cloud without rain? Perhaps the Reverend Jeff has the answer?
Look how pretty Arundel can be when its not grey.
We traversed the snowfields of northern France (ok, that is a bit of an exaggeration, but we did see evidence of recent heavy snowfall in terms of large drifts in the corners of fields) in remarkably good time, arriving at Beaune at around 5.30. I cannot tell you which time we left Calais as this may be incriminating in terms if the local traffic police. I was told later that I had slept through the fog, which makes a change to sleeping in a fog.
Talking of fog, I have brought with me on this trip (along with some very nice Currencies Direct brochures) a fine collection of Havana’s best export and duly intend, outside weather conditions permitting, to create a very decent cigar smelling fog of my own in the company of Slash and Burn Thornton Allan, a fellow connoisseur of one of Sir Walter Raleigh’s better discoveries, during this coming week. I do not believe there is any rule about not smoking whilst skiing and intend to find out just how satisfying that will be.
The town if Beaune is beautiful and historic and The Hotel Belle Époque is a splendid and wonderful hotel. It is just a pity that the idea of customer service is an undiscovered art. Arriving a little earlier than expected because of a tail wind (and here nothing should read into my rather unfortunate affliction over the past few days, now mercifully abating) we headed out for a drink on the way to dinner. It was when we returned later for a nightcap we were told we could not drink in the bar (why?) and could not have a drink in our room but the lady in charge told us we could buy a drink and sit outside. We declined. What a shame to have a good impression of the hotel so fatally undermined by insensitive service.
On the way into town earlier, the Sprogs had spotted a bar called The Publican selling draft Guinness and cider, and before I could say Gevrey Chambertin I was sat in the bar with a pint of overpriced Irish stout. It was over these aperitifs that Sprog 1 admitted to downloading the Trip Advisor app. It seems it was not quite the advice he was looking for. His defence, that their logo has an owl with what he considered to be drug-crazed eyes was met with the correct response, a torrent of scorn and mirth.
But even better was to come. As the second pint of Guinness settled inside that Nice Lady Decorator, and when the waiter failed on the first occasion to understand my perfect French (clearly I have developed a Côte d’Azur accent having lived there for so long until M Sarkozy invented a tax to drive me back to the UK), I learned that in order properly to communicate with the French one should speak French in an English accent. I was told that if one does then they can’t look at you and repeat it as if they can’t understand, because they cannot do the accent, thus better to speak French with an Oxford or even a Cockney accent. This is according to that expert on language skills, that Nice Lady Decorator, who the proceeded to demonstrate successfully.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
3 shades of grey, sun, sea and sand
“It’s just going to be that romantic shit on the radio all day” said the Curmudgeonly Nice Lady Decorator as she ripped the knob off the radio as we left Elmer Sands after our morning walk. Thus us romantics were dismissed in a few seconds and she did not hear my request for her on the radio for Valentines Day. At least that is what I told her, which was a neat way of deflecting any flak that might have been forthcoming for forgetting to do the usual duty with a Valentines card.
The skiies are laid out in the garden, and but for a shopping trip to Brighton, would have been strapped onto the ski rack by lunchtime yesterday, had I not pointed out that driving around Brighton with skis in a ski rack might cause some comment. I know there has been some snow locally recently but I think that would be stretching the point.
So by the time you read this, I shall be in the car heading for the Channel Tunnel on our way to Meribel for a weeks skiing. All those black, red and blue runs could well be joined by a brown run, as pointed out yesterday by the Reverend Jeff, should my current ailment not improve somewhat. The first point at which I felt human the evening before was when I reluctantly ordered and drank a pint of Harvey’s, concluding that it was a kill or cure and miraculously, it was more of a cure and I was not dead yesterday morning. I think the brewery are missing a trick here in their marketing as this was close to a miracle cure. Billy brown tail banished (nearly).
By tonight then, I shall be tucked up in bed in Beaune. Give the dog a bone they say, and this dog would love to find some of Beaune’s finest red wine this evening, something which should not be hard to find in this pretty town. We are staying a charming hotel, right in the centre called Hotel Belle Epoque once we arrive after an exhausting 6 hour drive across France. I have sensibly used the wonderful services of Currencies Direct to get the best rates for euros for our trip, and will need a substantial quantity as we have both impecunious Sprogs in tow.
Elmer Sands, grey sky, grey sea, grey sand. Boy am I looking forward to some colour and sunshine
The cover print for The Valbonne Monologues has arrived and been approved and so production has commenced with books due to be delivered to me in early March. Flights have been booked and I shall be in Valbonne from 14th March to satisfy demand for my presence or, if I am honest, to whip up some enthusiasm for the launch, whatever shape it may take. This time, not only a paperback, but a hardback version are being printed. I would like to think that this represents another rung up the ladder to the tower of literature, but cynics might believe that with a limited market, one should try to extract as much cash out of each sale as possible. What I had not considered is that printing in colour, and adding pictures, which caused the pixie problem, causes the price to be much higher per copy, so my break even on the last book of 120 sales (almost doubled – giving my the opportunity to call myself a successful author), will be much harder to achieve this time around. The good news is that under the new ISBN regulations, the new one will be available to order from any book store!
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Monologues are imminent
At last, I have seen a print of my new book, The Valbonne Monologues and it is beautiful. The pixie problem with the photographs, which delayed the publication of my second assault on the literary world at Christmas, has been sorted out and the launch will happen in mid March in Valbonne, once I have decided what to do. Watch this space.
After an unfortunate run in with, I think, a dodgy peanut yesterday, I am afraid I was not at my best, indeed I spent more time than usual in the bathroom reliving err.. the evacuation, even retiring to my bed in the afternoon. I emerged after Sprog had arrived hot foot (in a cloud of putrid smoke) in his Citroen Saxo Mischief from college at Guildford. My second shock of the day was to catch him watching ghastly TV series Miss Marple with that Nice Lady Decorator. Whilst I have come to accept that this futile ridiculous excuse for proper TV will often be given house room on dreary afternoons in England, I was astonished that a 19-year-old exhibiting all the usual traits associated with the student fraternity, trousers perched half way over his buttocks, rolling tobacco and a healthy interest in the opposite sex, might be seduced by Joan Higson, the actress responsible for this aberration. I came to believe that I was delirious. Later Sprog 2 arrived and a family reunion took place.
It won’t take long before these start disappearing and end up in dubious cigarettes
So I spent much of the afternoon considering how best to continue to reach out to people with foreign exchange needs, admirably handled by Currencies Direct, now the official partner for the soon to be Oscar nomination winning John Otway, who will need some euros for his Cannes events at the Film Festival. Who better than I to be on the spot as their faithful representative to ensure that everything goes according to plan?
Today will be the last day of preparations before the skiing trip, which we depart on Friday morning. Due to my malaise I managed to remount the temperance wagon, mainly because I did not want to vomit over everything in sight. This lasted until Sprog 2 arrived home quite late demanding a pint of cider. She has her mothers genes.
I must recover today, and to help ignite excitement for the skiing trip I had a conversation with Mr Clipboard who, along with Slash and Burn Thornton Allan and respective families will comprise the whole skiing party. Rather unkindly Mr Clipbeard is bringing some oven gloves with him, a rather cruel but amusing reference to an oven, broken by Sprog 1 in juvenile New Years Eve party, trying to reenact a scene from a Film called Project X in which a dwarf is inserted into an oven. I rather suspect that there will be a few more jokes “cooked up” over the forthcoming week of skiing at Meribel. It would all be very amusing except for the many hundreds of pounds it has cost to replace said cooker. However, us Brits laugh at adversity, and joke about disaster and anyway, he will pay us back one day. I have told him to consider it his very own student loan.
So my beloved France will be in sight tomorrow, the delights of the channel tunnel and after a burn down the motorways of northern France, I shall, gloriously, be ensconced in the centre of Beaune, savouring some of the local produce I hope, as long as the squits have left me, and I don’t mean the Sprogs.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Quiz night shock! no Kit Kat
One wheel on my wagon, but I’m still rolling along, or rather one wheel off the temperance wagon to which I have been hitched for the past 36 hours. I have to report that it was not down to me, I was as determined as it is possible to be, to complete the three-day marathon. That Nice Lady Decorator wanted me to go with her and do some shopping in Arundel, and when I declined to accompany her owing to the fact that I would rather rip my own eyes out than willingly go shopping, she found the fatal flaw on my defence: we could also go for a pint somewhere? It was at that moment my iron discipline began showing signs of rust, then metal fatigue, then collapse completely.
So a trek around all 6 shops in the town came to an end when we found that The Kings Arms was open and serving, as I may have mentioned before, the worlds best beer, London Pride. So what was a man to do? Having cycled furiously in the morning, gaining some kudos and doubtless losing several kilos en route, I was undone by a late afternoon decision, to which I was not a part, which I have to say undermined my resolve to be thin and fit before skiing.
Whilst communing with ale we met a chap at the bar who invited us to attend quiz night at the Kings Arms, so at that point, the whole evening was a temperance right off.
Whilst the publication of my picture yesterday of someone, who may or may not have been Mr Clipboard in a state of undress in a snow storm, was an attempt at humour, his publication on his Facebook page of a picture purporting to be me, in a similar state of undress and lying a sled in a snowstorm was not funny, not me, and a fabrication amounting to libel. My lawyers, Downhill, Frozen and Innocent are looking at this aberration at the moment so as to decide upon what grounds proceedings can be issued.
A much more sedate photo today, after that of yesterday, Arundel castle in the gloom
Quiz night was a triumph, at least for one of the teams but I know not which, but at least we avoided the booby prize of 4 Kit Kats, traditionally awarded to the team with the least number of points. Had I known in advance the prize situation for the least competitive, perhaps the result would have been different. That Nice Lady Decorator is partial to a Kit Kat, and I have always liked Marianne Faithful, or perhaps I am mixing up my confectionery Suffice to say that a great deal of wisdom and knowledge passed me by during the evening in a wonderful warm blast of beer and wine.
But the genie is out of the bag. The plan for three days of abstinence is in tatters and with Sprogs arriving today, I do not see the programme continuing past about 5pm this evening. I love them both dearly but dearly is the operative word. They will be costing me dear for the next 10 days, especially given the current collapse of the value of the £ against the euro. We head for the Channel Tunnel on Friday morning at 8am sharp, with a hotel booked in Beaune on the way down to Meribel. As the chalet is self catering, I decided it would be advisable to stop in one of the better French wine areas, to provision up for the forthcoming week. This is purely a cost saving exercise, and will be a welcome change from the other more enforced form of exercise.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Skiing in the nude?
It was a big improvement. The wind had dropped but was still raining and then it turned to sleet and then snow. Actually then it gets exciting, will it settle? Answer no, it was just wet and cold as we took a walk on Elmer sands. There was no sand of course because it was high tide, so it was more like Elmer stones.
The temperance has begun as predicted but do you know what? I was content not to have a drink.. Celebrations over the 10 euro win on Sunday went on long into the night, in fact probably well after those celebrating the victory of England over Ireland in the 6 nations rugby. My day lit up when I finally received text from John “800 years of repression” O Sullivan. It just said “lucky bastards” and made no mention of when he would honour his debt. You have no idea how much I have suffered with his Irish contention that all bets made with drink in your hand have to be reconfirmed the next day to be valid, according to him a fact enshrined in Irish law. I have even skied at Isola 2000 in my kilt only to be confronted with that argument.
The launch of the Otway for an Oscar campaign will now definitely take place at Rado Plage on the beach at Cannes on 18th May. I shall be there, I would not miss it for the world and shortly I shall be able to announce full details of the whole weekends activities, which will involve the 100 Otway;s march down The Croisette, a screening of Otway The Movie and a full show by John Otway and the Big Band somewhere in Cannes. I just need to find a venue, so if anyone knows of somewhere we can stage this on the Saturday evening of 18th May, please get in touch!
I believe that talk of waxing has been misinterpreted. Perhaps I was mumbling, but for a moment I thought I had been booked in for some waxing before setting of to Meribel this coming weekend. My first instinct, that this was some cowardly attack on my luxuriant handlebar moustache, was laid to rest when I realised that it was the skis that were scheduled for the hair removal treatment. We are driving over in the tip, the smelly damp, dog-hair encrusted 4 x 4 owned by that Nice Lady Decorator, that would probably have benefited from a little hair removal itself. Instead it is being stocked up with all manner of foods as this is to be a self catering holiday. This is a bit of a blow. Chalet holidays are usually catered affairs, with lovely breakfasts, dinners and even a cake made by attentive chalet staff, but it appears instead that we are roughing it.
Victory, at least in the rugby
Yesterday there was a variation to my least favourite English weather, horizontal drizzle. Horizontal rain. What a disgusting day, and the type of weather that will drive me back to France just as soon the taxman will allow.
There is no excuse, the weather gods have dropped sufficient moisture on this green and unpleasant land to keep every plant secure in the knowledge that drought will not be problem for the forseeable future. Faced with such a horrible day, there was nothing else for it, after attempting a walk at Clymping beach in absolutely ridiculously unpleasant conditions, what else can one to do than retire to a traditional English pub for sustenance?
So faced with no choice, we headed for the George and Dragon at Houghton, but with the car park rammed and the rain still going sideways, and desperate for a good pint and a good feed, we settled on the Bridge at Amberley. We got neither. The Timothy Taylors Landlord, the second best beer in the world was once again not well-kept, watery and too flat, all the specials of the day had sold out, forcing me into unnatural territory, a traditional English roast. Not being able to face the beef, having an aversion to over cooked thinly sliced cardboard bereft of any taste and smothered in gravy of a dubious nature, I reluctantly decided on the roast pork because at least there might be some crackling. What I got was thinly sliced overcooked tasteless pork swimming in gravy of dubious provenance. So to summarise (should that not be winterise?) I was the unlucky recipient of flat beer, poor food, sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the draft by the door watching the rain sheet down.
A photo of a very different day in Australia a few short months ago
The omens for the afternoons rugby were thus not good and I had a nasty vision of a smiling and happy John “802 and a half years of repression” O Sullivan licking his lips as he took the 10 euro note (about £8 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) and in a very juvenile fashion, lick it and stick it on his forehead. It was in a state of some trepidation (possibly something to do with that roast pork) that we returned to the White Hart in Arundel to watch the game. But god took pity on me. He forsook the Catholic route and rewarded a fine disciplined display by England with a famous victory in Dublin over the Irish in the 6 nations rugby. Thus when I next see him, I shall be able, triumphantly and nobly, to celebrate this great victory with a crisp new 10 euro note sticking to my forehead in a very grown up sort of way. I made a call to him straight after the match but surprisingly he did not answer his phone. I left a message saying I had missed the game and did he know the result? Astonishingly, as I write this on Monday morning, he has not yet returned my call.
The temperance wagon is set to roll again over the next three days as preparations for the forthcoming skiing reach a crescendo. I say three days because after that the Sprogs will begin returning from their various student abodes, emerging hungry and broke and ready to fleece their poor parents for as much as they possibly can. They will no doubt insist on being taken to the pub and who am I, a doting father, to deny them? Particularly as it gives me an excuse to go myself.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The nose has it
The bulls nose is in the top left hand quarter of theis picture, under the horns!
Holy cow, Otway for an Oscar?
Keep the weekend of the 19th and 20th May open, we all going to Cannes for the launch of the campaign to secure John Otway an Oscar. They said we could not get one of his lyrics into the Top 10 lyrics of all time, they were wrong, they said we could not get him a Top single for his 50th birthday, they were wrong, they said he would not be able to make a film and premiere it at the Odeon, Leicester Square, they were wrong. They also said we could not get 150 of his fans to pay £3000 each to go on a world tour, and they were right, we only got 100. This however, is the ultimate challenge.
A much smaller challenge will be getting Mr Otway to open his account at Currencies Direct. He will be needing to send a lot of euros down to Cannes to cover the costs. The things I have to do in order to secure another customer for this excellent foreign exchange service.
The campaign will be launched at the Cannes Film Festival and you could be there. Details are available on the website for Otway The Movie. I particularly like the idea of the 100 Otway walk. 100 people dressed in his trademark black trousers and White shirt and wearing an Otway mask will be marching up the Croisette and it will all be filmed for a YouTube clip. The weekend starts on Friday 17th May with the Otway Big Band will be playing somewhere on the Saturday night. I have a picture taken in Cannes recently as my photo of the day.
Modern art in Cannes. How to fool most people most of the time…
To celebrate finalising these plans, the finishing touches to which were applied in the Kings Arms at Arundel earlier in the week, we went next door to the White Hart for their sushi night. I had a long discussion with Desperate Dan the landlord about the relative merits of Harvey’s bitter and the best beer in the world, London Pride and believe I have persuaded him to try it out in the summer. I like a pint of Harvey’s but I love a pint of London Pride.
The sushi was a triumph apparently, but they did not seem to find it amusing when I asked for mine to be cooked properly. I went for the seared scallops and yakatori chicken, both of which were excellent, and beautifully cooked. It seems to me to be a bit of a swizz being presented with a meal that has not been cooked. It is why I have an aversion to salads unless it is hot outside. As Peachy Butterfield would say, a salad dodger.
This morning the weather has reverted to type. Drizzle, My least favourite weather phenomenon, so walking on the South Downs looks unlikely. You must not consider that the banging hangover, created by an over exuberant consumption of an excellent 2009 St Emilion, newly available from the pub, has anything to do with it, nor the awful taste in my mouth following a very late and unwise decision to smoke one of my Sancho Panza cigars. Oh no, it just that old war wound playing me up again.
This afternoon I may pop next door to watch the minor players in the 6 nations championship, but the real game, England versus Ireland, will take place tomorrow and I feel sure that I shall be in the pub watching an England triumph and then planning a trip to France to collect my 10 euro winnings from John “800 years of repression” O Sullivan.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Decking on the patio?
I had adopted the defensive position, you know the one, whimpering in the corner in the foetal position, when I realised I had misinterpreted that Nice Lady Decorator’s comment. Apparently, on this occasion, it was not me that needed decking on the patio, but the patio itself.
We had just returned from another mountainous trek across the South Downs in cold and partly sunny weather, sufficiently cool for the ground, which was mud yesterday, to be pleasingly firm, and she was looking at the garden with that spring-like zeal that I know is going to cost me money. Perhaps that was the reason, when I was at my most vulnerable (i.e. when I must get my wallet out), that I misinterpreted who was due for a decking.
Last night then, into Arundel with the great man himself, John Otway. On the one hand it was rather rude for this to be described as “like the mountain coming to Mohammed” but then I realised that in this context I was not the mountain. For a moment I thought that perhaps those days of temperance and fasting were beginning to have some effect. Some may believe that the reason John came to see me was finally to sort out his account with Currencies Direct. Others, more sensible in outlook, will surmise that this is just an excuse for a gratuitous mention of their wonderful foreign exchange services, and I suspect the latter opinion carries more weight (a bit like me).
Anyway, an early pint at the White Hart was followed by several more at the Kings Arms, where we availed ourselves of the very sensible offer to have a take away delivered, with the pub supplying plates, knives, forks and serviettes, a most splendidly far-sighted arrangement. Of course discussions were all about Otway. When he himself is the subject then he is very attentive and animated, but if the talk meanders away from his favourite subject he is much quieter. Luckily he was recognised in all 3 pubs we went to so we were able to remain on message. After his first hit single in 1978, the memorable “Cor Baby That’s Really Free” and subsequent appearance on Top Of The Pops, he was once accused of refusing to go on the underground in London in case he was not recognised.
Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor takes the sign on the wall rather too seriously
Later on, after finalising the outline plan for the Otway fans assault on this years Cannes Film Festival, I deposited John at the station for his return trip to London and left that Nice Lady Decorator in the very competent hands of Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor, whom we has run into at each if the pubs we had gone into. The last stop was at The Red Lion, being on the way to the station from the Kings Arms. His competence however was brought into some doubt, when I returned to the pub, by his misguided decision, illustrated by my picture today, to pick up the guitar on open mike night (an event that Mr Otway would have found very hard to resist had he not consumed 5 pints if beer by then). He was to the blues guitar what Darcy Bussell is to potato picking. Thank god he did not try to sing.
Today has dawned bright sunny and frosty so a perfect day to venture once again into the hills of The South Downs and throw of the effects if too much beer and wine, and the rather different effects of the Chinese takeaway we had delivered to the pub. It is amazing how hard a night out hits you after three days of temperance and I take that as a warning not to try such a thing again.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
South Downs syndome
Three days in the desert will come to an end this evening. This award-winning period of temperance has had a terrible effect. I don’t sleep very well, I doze off in the evening and I have done a great deal of selfless work, some of it in respect of Currencies Direct and none of this is good for me.
Indeed I shall be working again this evening, but in a much more efficient way, this time with a glass of beer and then wine in my hand. Enigmatic pop star, top songwriter (according to a rigged poll by the BBC) and now film star, albeit in his own film about himself, John Otway is being transported to Arundel this evening courtesy of National Rail.
There are two reasons why he would let the train take the strain; firstly the boy does like a beer which would preclude him from driving, and secondly he does not drive. Anyone who has ever witnessed his chaotic live shows will know why it was a wise decision for him at an early age to decide not to learn. Falling off a motorbike 9 times on the way from Aylesbury to Luton in his teens was sufficient, even for him, to heed the advice he has received from his friends, never to venture onto the road under his own steam ever again.
As if more compulsive evidence of his unsuitability to take charge of a motorised vehicle was required, there was one episode in my youth that underlined the wisdom if this decision. The Reverend Jeff, another contemporary of the time, had spent some months restoring a lambretta scooter and had painted it pink. Otway decided to show the good Reverend how to do a wheelie. I need hardly mention that this episode did not end well. The scooter never went again.
It is true that John’s first taste of fame went to his head sufficiently for him to purchase a Bentley. I encouraged him of course, in fact it was I who went to complete the purchase, mainly due to the fact that I would get a chance to drive it. Anyway, Mr Otway and I have serious business to discuss. That is the delusion under which we labour. We shall in fact be enjoying ourselves hugely planning yet another Otway scam, this time involving a guerrilla promotional attack on the Cannes Film Festival should they be unwise enough not to allow Otway The Movie to be screened during the film Festival market.
South Downs south of Arundel
Yesterday in preparation, I took once again to the West Sussex Downs in some rather splendid sunshine in search of exercise. Cold, certainly, but bracingly pleasant with wonderful views down to Arundel as my picture today depicts. The training is for the forthcoming skiing in the Alps.
Thereafter the weekend will be on the horizon and I have cause to believe that we are invited to a sushi evening. I discovered this by chance when popping to The White Hart to borrow some ice for my Virgin Mary. Note the will power that would have been required to go into a pub and not order a drink . Anyway, whilst there I was told that I was invited to, and had accepted, an invitation on Friday evening. It is often the case that I am the last to know about a social occasion. Clearly I am not on that Nice Lady Decorator’s “need to know” list. She believes that too much information is bad for me although exactly why has never been duly explained. Perhaps she is always keeping her options (of going without me) open.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Hogwarts at sunset?
I could have told her myself that the Nice Lady Decorator had an iron deficiency. You should see the creases in my clothes. That should get me the first slap of the day.
A gruelling day yesterday, up and down the motorway and around the biggest car park in the world, the M25, represented a very busy day for me. However business was done, another soon to be successful music enterprise was launched and I even think I may have a couple of new customers for Currencies Direct.
On the return to Arundel at dusk I was struck by just how Spooky Arundel Castle looked just after sunset so I took this photo.
Arundel Castle, aka Hogwarts at sunset in winter
The spat goes on with the Reverend Jeff, aided and abetted by contributor Howzatt who concludes, wrongly, that the Reverend had held his own. In fact that is exactly how I remember him, so at least this time he is not holding anyone else’s, but I digress. As cricketers the world over will be aware, the exclamation “how’s that” is an appeal to the umpire for a batsman to be given out. Cricketers the world over also know that DRS (Direct Referral System – effectively a review of the umpire’s decision when a mistaken decision is suspected) was introduced into international cricket because of the number of poor decisions made by umpires. I am afraid that the analogy holds true for Howzaat’s interpretation of the war of words. Perhaps he is also an avid reader of the Daily Mail?
Another teetotal day yesterday, the second of an unprecedented planned 3 in succession, a feat not managed for some years, was successfully negotiated, so just one more day to go and then, in celebration of this will power, we shall head into Arundel on Thursday night with old pal John Otway, with whom I expect to down a few pints whilst we plan his guerilla warfare for and on the Cannes Film Festival in May. Of course, it may not come to that but just in case Otway The Movie is not selected for the festival and market itself, we have to have contingency plans in place. So what better way to discuss this than during a pub crawl in the village.
I love it when I am funny (which is a trait sadly lacking in Benny Hill and the Carry On team). Sprog 1 has a wreck if a car which, before the rust and mud took over was called a Citroen Saxo Mischief. As a result he has named the car Mischief and recently the driver’s door became jammed so the only way has to get into it is via the passenger door. I suggested that this might be construed as a good thing. When he asked why I told him it was now going to be more difficult for him to get into mischief. He did not laugh. Maybe he is a Benny Hill fan.
Last night then was spent in front if the TV enjoying some episodes of Mrs Brown’s Boys and Miranda and thoroughly enjoyable they were too. Tonight looks like being a re-run as the temperance bites deeply into my soul but with my fast reducing waistline and newly toned muscles rippling beneath my shirt (at least I think it was they that were rippling) the training for the skiing trip is going well. Of course once the fitness part is taken care of, the training for the drinking and eating will need to be attended to and I am looking forward to that part of the training a great deal more.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sausage in your G and T madam?
A spat has broken out in the comments section of this column between my good self and very old pal (with the emphasis on old) the reverend Jeff.
He was reacting yesterday to my comments about the puerile humour of Benny Hill and seeking to elevate the status of this “comic” to a higher plane than normal people could possibly contemplate. I have known the Reverend for some 40 years during which time he has provided me with a great deal of entertainment, through chasing girls together in our teens, providing sporting rivalry on the tennis court, golf course and squash court as he hates to lose as much as I, but the most humour has always been gleaned by challenging his belief in god.
The good Reverend believes the bible, implicitly and without question. all of it, every last dot and scintilla, and whilst on one level I admire the dogmatic clinging to beliefs even as they are undermined and eroded by modern discoveries and common sense, I confess that I have laughed at him. Darwinism to him does not exist, the human race began with Adam and Eve. He probably believes the world is flat.
So yesterday’s little outburst was another amusing spat but once again I have triumphed. As if proof were needed, he writes poetry for free for the Daily Mail. I write for reward for the Daily Telegraph. That should goad him into some response today, that and the fact that I must venture north to Milton Keynes. Why so? I hear you fail to ask. I once managed an artist called Eddie Stanton who, apart from writing a song called “Milton Keynes We Love You” was also responsible for a little ditty called “Please Don’t Throw Me To The Christians”. Quite. Reverend Jeff , what say you?
Gin and tonic?
I now turn my attention to the photograph above which exhibits an alarmingly imaginative creation of a gin and tonic. I can hear you mumbling that it looks like nothing of the sort and you may be forgiven for thinking there is a sausage in the glass. That is because there is. It is frozen, but what is a girl (in this case that Nice Lady Decorator) to do when it is the weekend and she develops a sudden craving for a drink and then finds that there is no ice in the freezer? Why, use something else that is frozen of course.
But back to Milton Keynes, so-called city of the trees, but for several winters when I lived nearby known as city of the sticks after an enterprising thief sold the council 4000 ash trees, which look like sticks in winter, and remained sticks thereafter and well after he had pocketed the cash and disappeared to the Caribbean. I am going back for the first time in decades as, strange as it may seem, there is an interesting business opportunity which does not involve Currencies Direct, to explore. Trust me to choose a day with an amber alert for snow showers.
With no exercise today, I took the opportunity yesterday to flog up some more hills on the Sussex Downs to try to sweat out the weekends excess over several miles of uphill murder. Worse, I did not have a drink and worse still I did not even feel like one. I must have a couple of weeks quiet contemplation before a weeks skiing at Meribel for half term with Mr Clipboard, Slash and Burn Thornton Allan and respective wives plus a rake (old Buckinghamshire collective noun) of Sprogs. To say that this might be a frenzied party for a week would be an understatement.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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