Cabbages and Condoms
Bangkok is a centre for retail therapy and thus an ideal habitat for that Nice Lady Decorator. Counter balancing this nicely is the heat and humidity, and, although it is not enough to cancel out all retail desire, I think one could call it retail mitigation.
Once the humidity had done its job, we decided to take a boat trip around the city. Hiring a 30 seater boat for just the 4 of us seemed a little extravagant until we worked out that for a total of £16, in other words £4 per person, we could take a private tour on an arrow shaped boat attached to a car engine, firstly at 30 miles per hour on the rather choppy river and thereafter , still often at 30 miles an hour, around the canal, entered by lock.
It was a great way to discover the city and see what it was really like away from the built up and busy modern centre. Amongst the places we saw along the canal was a “Fish feeding Place”. That is what was painted on the wall and there was a chap there selling loaves of bread for 20 Baaht, about 10 pence. Now call me a cynic but this seemed a little like a tourist trap but, persuaded to part with a little money, as soon as piece of bread was dropped into the water, thousands of quite large fish, many over a foot long, fought over it and 5 loaves were fed to the fishes (there is some kind of biblical reference here but I am not getting it). It may be that there is a picture today, but then maybe not as I seemed to have screwed up the settings on my new iPhone 5 so that it will not send or receive emails, from where I normally access pictures for this column. It is something to do with icloud which is totally beyond me. I went through a railway station yesterday called Pholen Chit, and at the moment that sums up how I feel about it. If I manage to solve it, I will have a picture of the fishes or maybe Cabbages and Condoms below.
Fish feeding frenzy
Cabbages and Condoms is a restaurant in Bangkok to which we went last night. For a blogging rascal like me, it is too much to resist. The place has a number of figures made, it seems, entirely out of condoms, and we haven’t even been to any of those shows for which the city is renowned. It is a great fun place with great food set mostly out-of-doors, but no one was able to explain satisfactorily to me why it is so-called, or what is the relevance of the name.
Today we will have a little more retail therapy before heading off out of town somewhere for dinner with friends of friends. I am not entirely certain where we are going but being picked up, wined and dined and then being returned to the hotel seems like a carefree enough plan for me not to argue. With luck, after dinner, we will go to see a “comedy” show in Patpong, the most famous red light district in the world. As I am always prepared to be exposed to a bit of culture, you will know that the only reason I am going is for research. You never know where you might find a new customer for Currencies Direct, but an internationally renowned area with a distinct internationally appealing culture would seem to be an obvious starting point.
Then tomorrow, the next leg of the trip will unfold with an overnight flight to Adelaide via Sydney, in readiness for the cricket festival.
Chris France
Bang Cocky
I had a nightmare; We emerged from the steaming heat of Manchester in late November into the cold windy damp unpleasant winter weather in Bangkok, realising we had made a total foul up with our packing. Thankfully, it was just a dream and what had really happened was that the air conditioning at the Sheraton was blowing waves of cold air to counteract the night time heat and needed turning down.
The Emirates economy areoplane experience was so superior to the appalling Virgin Atlantic, with whom we flew to Cuba earlier this year. Great food, particularly praiseworthy for an airline, courteous staff, very good in-flight entertainment. and they did not run out of wine 3 hours into a 9 hour flight, as the hapless Virgin had on the way to Havana. After about 30 hours of travelling since we left Arundel on Monday morning, we were understandably a little ragged by the time we reached Thailand. At one stage, when I made a suggestion about what I should wear, I was told “when I want your opinion I will give it to you”. This was a little after I had been vindicated for refusing to iron already ironed clothing before packing. The good news was that our personal butler would, indeed, be happy to undertake any ironing we required.
Sheraton Bangkok poolside
First impressions, admittedly gained from the trip from Bangkok airport after dark, was that it was far more developed and civilised than I expected. We have three days of exploring and planning which will begin after I have finished this daily missive, and have finalised the details of another, soon-to-be happy customer for Currencies Direct. Yes, as usual, this a working trip, certainly as far as my accountant is concerned. I favour a quick walk round followed by a massage and lunch but suspect I shall be over-ruled.
On the way, we had a brief stop over at Dubai, which was one of the biggest airports I have ever seen. It took about half an hour to drive from the plane to the transit terminal, and around a mile of walking to reach the executive lounges, where I decided on a Bloody Mary, which was a bit of a mistake as it was prepared by a charming chap with a squint. I think it was just after I had finished mine that John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees (with whom we are travelling along with the gorgeous Rachael), upon noticing my slight discomfiture, brought on my a slight excess of tabasco, outlined the local habit of eating with one hand and using the other to, well, need I go on? Anyway, after getting back on the plane, another half hour transfer, and a couple of hours sleep, I felt better.
Too pooped to venture out of the hotel, we had a nice, but expensive, Thai meal in the Sheraton. I had earlier expressed my love of Thai food and was told by John with a straight face that I could expect a lot of it in the coming days. Clearly, working with the Chuckle Brothers has honed his wit and repartee to a fine point. Discussions inevitably turned to the forthcoming Australian leg of the trip and our combined lack of preparation to play cricket in Adelaide next week. However, we have resolved to look the part at the Golden Oldies Cricket Festival opening ceremony, and parade of nations, by wearing our long white socks with pride and the pizzaz that can only come from being old-fashioned, English and thick skinned. I think my splendid handle bar moustache , when carefully waxed, as it will be for the reception on Sunday, will help make a statement. I am not sure exactly what that statement will mean, I just know it will be a statement.
Chris France
Bubble stops squeaking
Manchester airport is the pits. Arriving too early to check in with Emirates for the hop over to Dubai, we were forced to endure Coronation Street cooking style of the most wretched kind. No bar as such, just a very dodgy, grimy, poorly lit, terribly designed and poorly staffed cafe in which we were treated to something they refer to up north as food. Given the state of my cholesterol and high blood pressure, I had wisely avoided the big all-day breakfast fry up with extra fried bread in favour of eggs with bubble and squeak. We once had a horse called Bubble and I always wondered what happened to him, and now I think I know. What concerns me now is what it was that was doing the squeaking and why it was squeaking so much it had to be put out of its misery.
I am being a little ingenuous; it was better than it looked and was garnished (they called it smothered) in hollandaise sauce. The problem was that once I had made the connection with Bubble, I thought I could see it winking at me so had to eat it as soon as possible, as my picture today shows.
Bubble, after it had stopped squeaking
Being 5 hours early for a flight is a new one on me and it is not something I would recommend, especially when this far north. We managed to get wet and cold crossing from Terminal 3 to 1 in search of a “french cafe” that the disinformation desk had told us about. I do not see what is French about Cornish pasties, the main food on offer, so we went back to the grimy cafe where we did at least get a glass of wine of sorts, a 2011 table wine, yum.
We were scheduled to meet John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees and his wife, the voluptuous Rachel, with who we are travelling to Bangkok and then Australia. Rachel likes a drink even more than that Nice Lady Decorator and was gagging be the time she got to the airport, where we had set up shop in the executive lounge with the brief to drink back the annual fee I pay for access. It is gratifying when one sees how quickly the really dedicated drinkers were able to do this.
Some people have been asking me to remind them why the reference to The Chuckle Brothers, leading exponents of northern “humour”. The reason is that John, whose previous employment was chief cutter and slasher of the Yorkshire TV staff, eventually slashed a job too far, his own, and in the bewilderment of unemployment, was persuaded in a weak moment to guide a production company, whose chief project was to relaunch the laughable rather than funny Northern comedians. Suffice to say this made him terribly ill, so he retired to spend more time with his money, and now, fully recovered, is a leading light of the Nidderdale Taverners. It was he who was kind enough to press-gang me into this trip two years ago when the last Golden Oldies Cricket Festival was staged in damp and drizzly Harrogate (in mid summer).
So as you read this, I should be slumbering after the effects of a good dinner and lashings of wine on the way to Dubai, with a weather eye open for any potential Currencies Direct customers. A brief stop and then we shall arrive in Bangkok, a place to which I have never before been. As I love Thai food, this is a trip to which I have been looking forward for months, and with cricket afterwards, I shall be closer to heaven than ever (39,000 feet, a cynic might say).
Chris France
Fresh fruit – the benefits
I want it recorded, I played tennis in November in the sunshine in shorts in England. Eyebrows were raised when, after half an hours play, I peeled off my track suit to reveal my wonderful hand made-to-measure lime green matching shirt and shorts that I had tailored in Kenya this time last year. Their suitability for the task in hand was unfairly questioned, and, may have had a bearing on the result, which incidentally, I do not recall.
The outcome was unimportant, a statement that regular readers may recognise as an indication that the result that was not entirely positive. It was just nice to get out and hit a few balls and there were a couple of balls owned by the winner that I would have liked to whack, but as I said, the result was not important.
After an hours tennis, we realised that The Black Rabbit was open and so adjourned for a pint in the sunshine. As there just the three of us we had played American doubles and both James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord and Paul “Rabbit” Burrows, both long time inhabitants of Arundel, began to reveal details of their antics in the town when they were younger. It seems that at one stage some years ago there were 18 pubs in the town and it was the done thing upon reaching 18 years of age, to attempt to have a drink in all 18 on one’s birthday. Paul mentioned that he has a house in France which immediately marked out as a potential client for Currencies Direct. It seems that he has been working on it for 15 years but lives in Arundel with his wife and her new boyfriend, which seems a rather curious domestic arrangement. I need to know more.
Before being joined by that Nice Lady Decorator, the conversation had taken a decidedly male-oriented direction but upon her arrival we were able to disguise the subject by referring to the benefits of consuming lots of fresh fruit, as illustrated by my picture today (sorry Lin).
I liked this photo as the subject looked so melancholic
After several in the Rabbit it was back to the White Hart for a thirst quencher before returning home for an “eat up the fridge” repast. This can often bring forward food combinations of which Mrs Cropley from The Vicar Of Dibley would be proud. Yesterday was no exception and I am far from certain what some of the roasted vegetables started out as.
I think one always gets an interesting selection of clothing in one’s suitcase when packing under the influence of alcohol, so this morning , before setting off for the delights of Heathrow and Manchester, I shall be repacking it. It seems likely, on reflection, that ski gear will not be required in either Bangkok or Australia, although for Manchester, the jury is out.
My new book, The Valbonne Monologues, launch will now take place in late January due to printing schedules and self-inflicted editing disasters. I know with certainty that many people’s Christmas festivities will be more lack lustre as a result, but there is an old show business saying, something about keeping them wanting. I would have been content with start them wanting.
Thus this evening, I shall be taking to the big bird in the sky en route for Dubai and then Thailand, before heading on to Australia by the weekend. I shall as usual be attempting to report daily but with time differences and internet usage unavailable in flight, this daily column may arrive on your computers at curious times, but rest assured, it will be published. You don’t get away that easily.
Chris France
Fine filly in Chichester
Vindicated. After reporting on my problems yesterday using my new iPhone, and suggesting that I myself may have been to blame, I am delighted to be able to reveal that it was a faulty handset rather than an attack of old gitism as I had suspected. This was as big a surprise to me as to you, given my track record with technology.
So with an unscheduled trip to Chichester to change the illphone, from where I took today’s picture of a charming young filly, we did not get to the beach for cycling until too late. Too late, that is, to avoid the temptation of a pint at the Black Horse in Clymping, and then to The Bridge at Amberley for another disappointing pint of the second best beer in the world, Timothy Taylor’s Landlord. I had heard that it is a difficult beer to keep and the landlord at The Bridge does not seemed to have mastered the art, which is very disappointing given how infrequently Landlord makes its way south. It is far too good a beer to be allowed to languish in the frozen tundra-strewn north that is Yorkshire.
Fine young filly in Chichester
Later in the afternoon The opening theme tune to Strictly Come Dancing was certainly not the tonic I needed to raise me from the sloth of depression, which had developed as I surveyed England’s lack of sporting achievement this afternoon; massively underachieving in India for the test match, and then getting soundly beaten by the Australians at rugby on home turf. This was exactly what I did not need just before setting off for the penal colony. The whole idea of going to Australia was to rub their noses in the Australian lack of sporting achievement on the cricket pitch, the rugby field and the Olympic Games. Their comeback into the real sporting world is ill-timed and very unwelcome and has denied me at least part of the entertainment I was banking on to make the trip more fun.
With that Nice Lady Decorator declining to cook, we decided once again to avail ourselves of the very far-sighted offer from The Kings Arms in Arundel to eat a takeaway in the pub . They even have menus on a rack from the Chinese and Indian restaurants who will deliver from the pub. I had wondered how the pub expect to generate income from offering this facility and discovered it last night; there is a fine of £1.50 for making a call and £1 for receiving a call on a mobile phone, so by the time you have called the Indian twice (because I had forgotten to order any rice during the first call) and the restaurant had called back to find exactly where we were, I was £4 out of pocket. Actually I am being slightly disingenuous here, as all fines are donated to the RNLI, a very worthy organisation that recently rescued a certain “Desperate” landlord off the Cornish coast last month.
Taking of James “Desperate Dan the Landlord”, it is with he and some other pub regulars with whom we are scheduled to venture onto the tennis court this morning. The day has dawned bright and sunny and crucially, without the wind that blew off course our previous attempt to play .
So, off to Bangkok tomorrow via Manchester where I shall be on the lookout for people who can benefit from the foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct. I do not expect to discover any new clients in Manchester, that will have to wait until I reach warmer and more affluent climes.
Chris France
Technology baffles old fart
My ability to adapt to new technology has been sadly lacking for as long as I can remember I once told my business partner in 1996 when he put email into our offices; “it’s a waste of time, I will never use it”. I have learned to use BlackBerry’s over the years and come to trust them until recently, so, with both Sprogs badgering me into it, I have acquired an iPhone 5. As I write this (from my office rather than on my new mobile device due to failed technology, or more likely baffled old git struggling with new technology) I have a list of questions for Mr Jobs’ successor. Why won’t it let me join a wifi network, why does it not detect a mobile signal, why is it so crap for typing. I am hoping for some enlightenment when I have posted this.
On the way over to Chichester to collect this over rated slab of uselessness, we spotted that The Black Horse at Binstead, which has been the subject of a reputed £1 million refurbishment, had reopened, so on the way back we popped in. The omens were good, a lovely old pub in a dominant position overlooking a golf course with far-reaching views towards the South Downs, a nice garden, Bentley’s, Mercedes, and Range Rover’s in the packed car park. The problems started as we walked in. The place has been completely stripped of any character it might one have had, a dreary colour scheme set off with green, yes green, upholstered chairs, nasty pine look tables, and by the look of the few meals that came past us whilst we enjoyed a pint, The British batter-making champion must be employed in the kitchens. He (or she) also probably does a line in microwaved individual steak and kidney pies. Very nasty indeed, so nasty that we left quickly and found some solace in The Old Cottage pub next door to Fontwell race course, comparatively nice after the Black Horse despite its proximity to the Travelodge.
Taking the theme of pubs next to inappropriate old buildings, my picture today is of a quite average pub in Arundel, the St Mary’s Gate under the shadow of the Roman Catholic cathedral. Quite handy for the cardinal to pop out for a quick one during those interminable Catholic services.
St Mary’s Gate, Arundel
So it being a Friday, the slippery slope down towards the weekend commenced. Friday night is pub night, so we went to the pub next door, the White Hart where we were lucky enough to run into the voluptuous Kathryn, the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, the O”Meg”a goddess and James”Desperate Dan” the landlord, who coincidentally was in his own pub in the busiest night of the week. The girls were both thrilled by getting a mention in this column and delighted with their new epithets, although it is fair to say that they hid this delight very well. The phrase that sticks in my head is “I am never going to tell you anything about me again”.
Today, after having a row with Vodaphone and trying to return to my old Blackberry, I will be having a row with UPS who failed to deliver my new cricket shoes yesterday in readiness for our trip to Australia, which starts in a rather low-key way on Monday. We fly to Manchester to connect with the emirates departure for Dubai and Bangkok. I think the idea is to achieve the greatest possible contrast in weather from leaving England to arriving in the warm. Manchester is, of course , one of the coldest and wettest parts of this lovely country. I must check the Currencies Direct exchange rates.
Chris France
Purple rain (hut)
Sprog 1 turned up unexpectedly requiring food, drink, washing, clothing and more food. His car looks like it has experienced a particularly wet Glastonbury, both inside and out, due it seems, to getting stuck in mud somewhere (do they have mud in Guildford?) and having to be towed out. The driver’s door won’t open and it looks like a muddy skip inside. It is burning oil, the back tyres are worn, it rattles, leaks oil and misfires, but other than that it is fine. That is what I tell him when he complains. I well remember my first car which was so rusty I used paper mache to fill in the gaps. It worked fine until it rained. Kids need hardship, it toughens them up.
Surprisingly he was up before noon and volunteered to go for a walk along the beach with us, his doting parents. I smelled a rat immediately, such out of character, ingratiating behaviour indicated to me that he knew we would end up in a pub, and so we did, the Sea View at East Preston. If there is a sea view then you need a ladder, the sea was certainly not visible from the ground floor where I was standing, straining for a glimpse of the waves, even at the peak of a spring tide (is there no such thing as an autumn tide?). I did however get a nice full-on view of the adjacent caravan park, stuffed full of Top Gear bait. Juan les Pins this is not. My picture today is of him enjoying up market student accommodation on the nearby (but not visible) beach.
Purple haze?
The massive re-edit of The Valbonne Monologues was finished in the early hours and dispatched first thing to the formatter. By mid evening, I had heard nothing, which is bad news. Some Christmas stockings are perhaps going to be bereft of the finest book to be written in Valbonne this month.
Now tell me, what is the difference in the effect on the lounge carpet between me walking into the house forgetting to remove my (dry) shoes, and the dogs being invited into the lounge after dark? Answer; there are clearly different rules for dogs. Do they wipe their feet? Oh, to be that high in the pecking order. Perhaps, when being yelled at for not removing them, I should not have said that if standards were applied evenly then that Nice Lady Decorator should be bathing the feet of her dogs before they are allowed in? My alternative suggestion, that they were fitted with slippers before venturing past the kitchen door, was also singularly not welcomed.
Then it was ironing. Most husbands I know have wives who do all their ironing. I am unlucky enough to have one that considers ironing to be character building. I have become used to doing women’s work and am actually quite good at it, but that is not to say that I enjoy it. I do not. So the idea of ironing clothes ready to fold up in a suitcase, only to be ironed again when the clothes are unpacked and want to wear whatever you have ironed is anathema. Yes, that Nice Lady Decorator wants everything ironed at least twice. I very nearly made an another inappropriate observation; I wanted to suggest that rather than just twice, why not iron it all again in Bangkok, and then repack it and then iron it all again when we get to Adelaide. Luckily, I saw that a sense of humour failure was bubbling and headed myself off at the pass.
This is your cheesed off Currencies Direct fat controller signing off for today.
Chris France
Beach cycling
It’s a disaster and all my own fault. My first book was about 230 pages long, and the second one was expected to be about that same size, but guess who had not factored in the obvious? putting 200 pictures in it would nearly double the number of pages needed and make the book stupidly thick and vastly more expensive. And I like to think I am clever. Stupidly thick could easily apply to that lack of foresight.
The result is that, barring a miracle re-edit in record time, a compliant printer and a book formatter prepared to work the whole weekend, there will be no Valbonne Monologues this side of Christmas. I have not completely given up, but I am pretty certain that the launch date, provisionally scheduled for 14th December will not be met. The sponsors, French Mortgage Xpress, Currencies Direct and Blue Water Yachting will naturally be devastated if that is what transpires. It may be that I can get some copies for those who were banking on getting signed first editions for friends and enemies as presents for the festering season, but this is by no means certain.
With all this chaos going on, and the sun out, I took to my bike cycling from Clymping to Middleton in pleasant sunshine from where I took this picture. I wanted to think through what needed to happen, whether to change to an A4 format, but with the lovely Lin from the English Book Centre describing that possibility as “nasty”, and I don’t want anyone describing it in those terms, certainly not before it is released, that idea was quickly abandoned. There will be enough of that sort of insult once it is out in the open.
The authorities are rebuilding the sea defences where I tend to walk or cycle, and, as you can see have banked the shingle up and flattened in such a way that it can be cycled over, albeit that a bit tricky in places, and when you see a spring tide as today, the corrosive effect off a high tide is amply illustrated. Add high winds to that tide and you will get denudation of the defences, hence the annual rebuild.
Rebuilding sea defences at Clymping
We were determined not to have a drink, but the lovely Catherine Panto (oh yes she is) who was walking with that Nice Lady Decorator whilst I was on my bike, wanted to get a coffee, and the only place we could find open was Fullers pub the Elmer at Elmer Sands, which serves coffee and London Pride. Now I like coffee after a meal, but it would stick in my craw to go into a pub serving the best beer in the world and order just a coffee. So we didn’t. Just the one you understand and then back on the bike to work it off in spring-like sunshine. We even managed to sit outside on their sunny terrace, a special treat that I take so much for granted in Valbonne at any time of year.
With a whole month of likely partying ahead starting on Monday, when we fly to Manchester to meet up with John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees and the lovely Rachael, to fly to Bangkok for a few days on the way to Australia, it would be fair to expect a moderate amount of celebration in respect of the first holiday we have had since err… October, and I like to live up to that expectation. Having never before been to Thailand but always having loved Thai food, I am so looking forward to it. I am also looking forward to the hotel in Bangkok as apparently we will have our own butler, and it is free cocktails between 6pm and 8pm, so I am reasonably certain we can drink back the extra cost in two hours of each of the three days we are there.
Chris France
Parade of nations kit unveiled
I was going to have a quiet day working on promoting the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct and tidying up the last printing details for my new book The Valbonne Monologues, but there is a problem; with all the pictures I want to include, and being the same format size as my first book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur”, it would run to 450 pages, which is absurd. Discussions with the printers will continue today, but I now have doubts as to whether it can be ready for 14th December, the planned launch date. Watch this space.
The reason I expected a quiet day was that The Nice Lady Decorator had a girly lunch planned with her new friend, Bryan Ferry’s housekeeper. The rock god apparently resides in nearby Fittleworth and the fiercesome and witty Kathryn the Keeper, the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, decided to lunch at the rather lovely George and Dragon at Houghton.
I was dragged into this scenario as I was required to be taxi driver, thus their intentions were fairly clear; a great deal of wine was expected to be consumed whilst the coven gossiped about life in general and men in particular. It seem that the Nice Lady Decorator’s drinking partner describes herself as that doughty sheriff because she has “been running men out of Arundel since 1999.”
When the taxi driver (me) turned up after lunch to drag them from the pub, the opposite happened and I was dragged into the pub to join them. This turned out to be a slippery slope as on the way home it was suggested that we pop on for a quick one at the White Hart, which, as my pump had been primed so to speak, and they were clearly thirsty, having only drunk two bottles of wine between them in an hour and a half and needed a drink, I stupidly agreed.
Thereafter events are hazy. I know that I ordered and ate a Thai beef salad, not having lunched with the ladies, and bottles of Sancerre and Rioja appearing, and I have some notes on the BlackBerry about egg sizing which I misheard as exercising. Quite why this is funny escapes me. As I said, hazy.
Providing some amusement for the Australians, the Nidderdale Taverners kit
If you want a measure of how the afternoon unfolded, or more accurately collapsed into a heap, I do recall sitting in the pub garden after dark, smoking a cigar and talking cricket with Steve the Wheelchair. Our Australian trip, when I shall once again pick up a cricket bat for the first time in years in readiness for the Golden Oldies Cricket tournament in Adelaide, starting in little over a weeks time, is looming into view and high in my thoughts. The picture above is of that Nice Lady Decorator modelling the team kit which I shall be required to wear at the opening parade of nations. Please note the ridiculous long white socks.
Yes, a parade of nations. It seems there are teams of old crusty cricketing codgers flying in from all over the world to take part a sort of cricket Olympics for the elderly. I can’t wait. Yesterday I emailed our leader, captain of the Nidderdale Taverners, Sir Thomas Ingilby, suggesting that the Australians, in particular, might derive some amusement from our curious attire, but he made the valid point that having lost the last two Ashes series, having a lamentable rugby team and with Yorkshire winning more Olympic medals that Australia, they should be allowed some entertainment, and who am I to deny them.
Chris France
Jesus loves you, even in Worthing
After a great day on Sunday amid sparkling sunshine and great fun, great wine, great company, great food and laughter, yesterday was the total opposite, raining from dawn to dusk, miserable and depressing. So what was to be done? The initiative needed to be taken, something uplifting and invigorating to throw off the November blues, yes! Or rather, no. A trip to Worthing, the old age pensioners capital of the south coast.
That Nice Lady Decorator wanted stuffing (for some upholstery she is doing) and had sourced a shop in the town where she could get wadding. It was that interesting. Rather ironically I had earlier been uplifted somewhat to spot this particular young lady whilst on a quick dash down to the post office in the rain. She was trying, and succeeding, to raise people’s spirits, although I suspect not in quite the way she did for me. I particularly liked the cone-shaped hat bearing the slogan “Jesus Loves You”. The Reverend Jeff would have been proud of her zeal, perhaps she even works for him? Anyway, she did her job, I laughed at the absurdity of her ridiculous optimism in the face of a disgusting drizzly day, and being faced by a religious cynic like me. I told her I would worship the Lord if he parted the clouds and made the sun shine there and then, but sunshine came there none. She agreed to allow me to take a photo of her only if I took one of her printed psalms, which I did, as we are short of paper with which to light the fire. I suppose a man desperately clutching at the straws of humour might say that she psalmed it off on me, but luckily for you, dear reader, that person is not me.
Praise the Lord
Once we turned from worthy Worthing with wadding, with the weather worsening, we went where? the Wabbit. You can see I had an attack of the w’s in the last sentence. The Black Rabbit serves food all day so that Nice Lady Decorator and I abandoned the good intentions of the various self-imposed goals we had set ourselves (mine in respect of Currencies Direct) and went down and partook of tuna and sardines respectively. That and a couple of pints of Tanglefoot, so yes, a poor start to the week of low-carb fasting that had been planned (not by me).
With just a week to go before the sunshine of Bangkok and Australia beckons, I took delivery of the tour merchandise, the cricketing paraphernalia of shirts and caps required to be worn by team members, all emblazoned with the name of our team; the Nidderdale Taverners. There were also in the package some long white woollen socks, the sort than come above the knee, and some dark navy shorts that are rather too short. It seems that in the opening parade for the Golden Oldies Cricket Festival, team members will be required to wear this outfit. If it is meant to scare the Australians, amongst the teams against whom we shall be competing, then I suggest whoever conceived this look is made aware of that Nice Lady Decorator’s reaction when I donned the outfit. It must have been at least 15 minutes before the hysterics had subsided. There is something cathartic about being laughed at, something that raises the British bulldog spirit, and so I drew myself up to my full height and resolved to wear this outfit with pride (although only the once, for the parade). If the ridiculous socks were designed as an instrument to build team spirit, then it was a masterstroke. Team togetherness will be vital if we are to impose our cricketing will on the opposition and, shared adversity is a proven instrument in team building.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Any port in a storm
Meg, the beautiful dark-haired, blue-eyed, willowy beau of Desperate Dan, the Landlord, Boycie the Bookie, Desperate’s father, and his partner the lovely Sheena, duly arrived at ours for lunch yesterday after a short warm up in the White Hart.
Meg; short for Megan? I asked innocently, as she had that Catherine Zeta-Jones look of the Welsh valleys about her. She fixed me with those startling blue eyes, at that moment frozen ice blue and said; “No, short for Omega”. The intensity of the look for one fleeting moment, reminded me of my own mortality, it being Remembrance Sunday to pay tribute to those fallen in battle, “And I have a twin brother called Alpha”, she continued as the eyes softened to their normal calm serenity. It was not, it seemed a subject for discussion but undaunted I pressed on. “I prefer a woman who comes first” I said, obviously, I thought, referring to Omega being the last letter of the greek alphabet, but she gave a measured look that implied she was not at all sure that was what I meant. I think I got away with it.
After trying to get a little warmer with some Ridgeview, an English sparkling wine, and failing as it was pronounced so poor by those who tried it, the warming accelerated nicely with a nice 2006 St Emilion Grand Cru and then a very acceptable magnum of 2009 Lussac St Emilion.
By this time, I was ready to taste the Dow’s 1985 vintage port. There was the small matter of eating some of that Nice Lady Decorator’s cooking to overcome, but it was a revelation (perhaps we had caterers? was one unworthy thought that sprang to mind). That done, the port was opened. The bad news was that almost everybody present wanted some, so my hopes of retaining some for a rainy day (any port in a storm?) were dashed.
Lunch!
By this time dear reader, you will understand that clarity of thought and deed failed somewhat, but with my faithful BlackBerry by my side, I made some notes. However, reading them this morning gave me no enlightenment as to what was discussed. How, for instance, should I interpret the following entry; “black magic woman seeks milky bar kid, ansaphone was chocca”?. I have racked my brains but cannot recall writing it, or indeed the context.
Lunch broke up about 8pm and I have a vague recollection of smoking a cigar, a recollection that brought a dustpan and brush with my morning tea. It seems that ciga ash is spread far and wide through the house and it has been suggested rather forcefully that it is my job to clear it up. I briefly considered the jocular “I’m married, why have a dog and bark yourself” routine before wisely and meekly agreeing that I would hoover thoroughly this morning.
I shall not complain as yesterday was a wonderful day. We had earlier built up an appetite with a trip to the beach at Clymping in sparkling sunshine, a brief look to pay respects at the Remembrance Sunday parade in sparkling sunshine, and a pint in the pub next door with sparkling sunshine flooding in, followed by a lovely lunch with new friends.
Today is miserable and dank as usual, but yesterday was special. However, I am uplifted as the first email of the day is confirmation that my book launch has attracted a third sponsor in the shape of the perfectly formed Peter Bennett from Blue Water Yachting who joins French Mortgage Xpress and Currencies Direct as major brands vying for visibility and credibility by being identified with the Valbonne Monologues, although I accept that they may not quite see it in those terms.
Chris France
Its in the sand
Get a leg of lamb for Sunday lunch, she said. So I went to the local butchers and they wanted £29. “I don’t want the whole herd” I said, but the joke was lost our friendly local meat emporium. We once owner a three-legged sheep when I lived in Buckinghamshire. Sidney was his name, and there must be a joke here somewhere but I can’t find it.
We are entertaining some chaps for lunch today so I asked that Nice Lady Decorator where was my port decanter, and, by implication its contents. “In France” she said. The chances then, that our guardian of the French house, Peachy Butterfield, has not already found it and decided to relieve it of its contents, are zero. It also presented me with a problem. I had rashly told James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord, one of our guests this afternoon, that I had a 1985 port which we should tuck into after lunch, so, in order not to lose face, another chunk of cash disappeared to replace the port I thought I had, and I still don’t have a decanter. Despite being a Portuguese product, port seems so perfect for an English post lunch tipple in front of a roaring fire accompanied by the aroma of a good cigar, but somehow it does not work in the sunshine by the pool in Valbonne, where you need something with an ice-cube to accompany a Cuban.
The good news, of course, is that as a result of events scheduled today, I will be able to circumvent the standing, no carb (except for beer and wine, obviously) three-line whip, at least for a few hours.That means roast potatoes. Excuse whilst I have a quick dribble.
Actually, it is really handy to have a great butcher and a shop where you can buy a Warre’s 1985 port or a Cohiba cigar within walking distance of our house in Arundel, you just have to have deep pockets when you need something.
Yes, lunch is scheduled at ours today for a select few, mainly because we don’t have room for more than about 8 people, so I hope the one bottle of port will be enough. By that I mean I hope no one else wants any.
Elmer sands in the sunshine
Yesterday became a bit of a blur as we set off to go to Elmer Sands (pictured above today) for a walk and a cycle but somehow got stuck in Felpham between Middleton and Bognor as the village looked quaint. Whilst the walking was not so good, the pub we found post-exercise serving Timothy Taylors Landlord, the Fox, started the decline. One is never enough and then two increases the speed of the descent. Thus when we arrived back with the jobs we both had in mind not seeming quite so important, and with a lively thriving pub next door, what can a man do when his wife insists on one for the ditch?
I just want to state categorically that I do not recall going to sleep in the White Hart and am convinced it is an invention by that Nice Lady Decorator to discredit me. Nothing short of photographic evidence will be accepted.
This morning has dawned bright and sunny, if a little chilly, so what better way to start a Sunday (when I have my customary day off from working on the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct) that a trip to the beach with the bike to build up an appetite and a thirst. A couple of pints in the pub, roast lamb, St Emilion Grand Cru, port, stilton and a cigar? Bliss.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Going round in circles
My favorite comment for the back of the jacket of The Valbonne Monologues, when describing my first book, is “as intellectually challenging as reading the Dandy with a hangover”. I cannot reveal the name of the person who coined this phrase as it has been kept from me.
There are a number of other wonderful quotes, even a couple that are complimentary, but they are from people who have not suffered the character assassination for which this column is justly renowned. It was a masterstroke to offer those most abused in this daily missive, and in the new book, the chance to make a quote for inclusion. I was very gratified when almost all approached were happy to contribute. As you can imagine, there was quite an acerbic tone to many of them, but reading the dozen or so offerings all together seems to portray the contents of the book in a balanced and entertaining way, something of which I am regularly accused of failing so to do myself.
My picture today was taken in London, when we were there earlier in the week, and shows an interesting steering system for a bike which I had not seen before. Circular handlebars? Does that mean one would continually go around in circles? It looks like something to open a hatch on a boat. Talking of bikes and cycling, we have found a fantastic cycling venue on the beach at Elmer Sands, just past Middleton towards Bognor Regis (who would name a holiday resort “Bognor”?). That Nice Lady Decorator has some pictures of the golden sand which I shall dig out for tomorrow. I cycled much further than normal as it was so pleasant in some much-appreciated autumnal sunshine. In fact is was so nice that we stopped at the Elmer, a Fuller’s pub in Middleton, with a view to sitting on their sunny terrace to have a Friday lunchtime pint of London Pride, but true to form, as soon as the pint was in my hand, the clouds rolled in and we huddled in the swirly-carpeted, old-fashioned hell that was the inside, escaping as quickly as possible for another pint at the Oyster Catcher, a pub outside Clymping, the Black Horse unaccountably being closed.
Bizarre steering gear on a bike
We have resolved on Friday evenings to try out some of the restaurants Arundel has to offer and had dinner at Pappardelle, a charming restaurant on the first floor overlooking the High Street and small pretty market square. The king prawns were tough, the roasted vegetables were poor, and a nice piece of sea bream for that Nice Lady Decorator and Italian confit of duck was insufficient to rescue opinion. Atmospheric and delightful inside, disappointing and dull food-wise. Although not a formal restaurant, more a tapas menu, Boca Neuvo at the White Hart, where we ate the Friday before, is infinitely superior.
Currencies Direct have agreed to sponsor the book launch, along with French Mortgage Xpress, in Valbonne on 14th December. All we need to do now is confirm the venue. That is two sponsors in two days. Opportunities still exist and I shall be hoping to hear from Peter Bennett from Blue Water and Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villas shortly.
I have realised that we will be jet lagged to hell for the big day as we fly back from Sydney on the Wednesday, the fly down to France on the Thursday staying with our house guardians, Peachy and Suzanne Butterfield, which is a health hazard in itself, before the launch on the Friday, market day. But at least I have those shoes…
Chris France
Book launch shoes
I have bought myself some book launch shoes. Staying overnight in London gave that Nice Lady Decorator an opportunity for some retail therapy, and it was a chance she grabbed with both hands. She certainly needed two hands to carry all the booty to the station for the trip back to Arundel. Thus I could either twiddle my thumbs (it was too early for the pub, even for me) or join in and so I have some shiny gaudy new shoes and it is all her fault. I was going to try to describe them but they are so deeply unpleasant, and I like them so much I decided to take a picture of them instead. Girls be warned, this is what can happen when chaps have to join in the Christmas retail feeding frenzy.
This is what happens if I am forced to shop
Upon arriving home, I found I had received an email from our leader, the captain of the Nidderdale Taverners, the cricket team for whom I shall play in Australia in a few weeks time. It was addressed; “Dear Chris and Ian”. I think he was referring to that Nice Lady Decorator who, outside this column, is known as Issy. This means I am concerned on two counts; firstly, the implication that my partner could be a man, and, if that is not the case, then my wife has the name of a man. I responded to say that, at this stage, I would not mention this to her, so please keep it to yourself.
Following this in-depth exploration of the shops in the West End, and arriving back in in Arundel off the train, we headed for Clymping Beach to make the most of the fact that it was not raining. Exhausted thereafter, that Nice Lady Decorator suggested a pint at The Black Horse and I was so, drained by the days activities that I succumbed.
As of today, I have finished the book, now the battle will be to print sufficient numbers for the Christmas demand. I am projecting sales of up to 50 before the festive season has finished festering. Delusions of literary grandeur, caused by the 217th sale of my first book “Summer in the Cote d’Azur”, have forced me to consider producing a hardback version of this weighty tome, The Valbonne Monologues, this time containing pictures. A cynic might think that the inclusion of pictures will ensure that the suspects photographed will, for the large part (and here I exclude the Wingco for”ghastly” reasons) need to own a copy, and a cynic would be right. But it is worse than that, or better from my perspective; most of the subjects whose pictures are included have families, and some even have friends. I am banking on the embarrassment factor. It is a similar phenomenon, although on a smaller scale, to a joke, video or picture going viral. You will note the genus of viral is virus. Maybe people should stock up with anti-bookotics.
Now all that remains is to finalise the arrangements for the launch party in Valbonne. Viv Frost has taken charge of arranging it on behalf on The English Book Centre in the village. As it stands we have a date; Friday the 14 December, so if any of you corporate types are looking for a wonderful sponsorship opportunity, get in now whilst the prices are high. No doubt desperation will set in within a week or so, but you never know. I already have two in the shape of French Mortgage Xpress and Currencies Direct, although the latter don’t know about it yet. I also have some wonderful quotes for the book jacket…
Chris France
A dogs life
It was not until during our morning constitutional on part off The Monarchs Way near the George and Dragon at Houghton thinking about Currencies Direct when Banjo began to exhibit signs that he may have taken the hot-sauce-laden bait in the kitchen bin, which, predictably, he had emptied again during the night. He had taken everything else, so when he started snorting, spraying glutinous globules of gob over a wide area, and whimpering, my hopes rose, and for a moment I thought I had hit pay dirt and he had licked off and swallowed the fearsome sauce, but it turned out that his problem was merely a seed burr stuck up his nostril. I was all for ramming it right in to that twisted little brain but I knew that the Nice Lady Decorator would not approve.
I love dogs generally, indeed we have a lovely old springer who is delightful, although now totally deaf, of whom I have a picture today, who would never consider raiding a bin. Sadly, we have been the unlucky recipients of a bad ‘un, although that Nice Lady Decorator continues to wear those rose-tinted spectacles, which seemingly render her incapable of registering that the dog she loves is a fearful thief, a cad and a bounder, with the emphasis on bounder. I am sure that if I were guilty of ten percent of the crimes he commits daily, I would have ben shipped off to Dignitas years ago. Doggy Dignitas, that is the answer.
The lovely Max, the proper dog, taking a nap in the car
I don’t know if you chaps have ever had to provide a urine sample before? Until yesterday, nor had I, and it is physically impossible to collect such a specimen without making a mess as it were. Think of it, one hand to open one’s flies, one hand to ensure correct directional control and one hand to hold the sample tube. Three hands. It does not work, one of these tasks must be trusted to luck. I do not think I am a lucky sort.
So to London last evening on the train for that period of ritual humiliation; Parents Evening. Victoria station is so alluring a 6pm on a damp, cold Wednesday evening in November, in the midst of rush hour, I cannot find the word in my limited vocabulary to describe it. So we arrived at Ashbourne College in Kensington to meet Sprog 2, who was on tenterhooks, rightly so as it transpired. Perhaps I am being a bit harsh, teachers always make you feel guilty about one’s Sprogs’ lack of application, that is their job. All I can say is that Sprog 2’s teachers are doing the most wonderful job. I think that sums it up.
So a couple of glasses of Bordeaux, a couple of pieces of sushi, and we were off to the pub. As that Nice Lady Decorator is on a diet, and so, apparently, am I, she makes unilateral decisions; “no, we are not hungry”, “No we are not eating tonight”. I had been allowed a zero carb breakfast at 2.30pm and then she expects me to eschew food for the rest of the day. So yes, it all went horribly wrong. I am all for trying to reduce weight, but one low carb meal a day does not work for me, and so, in the absence of a sensible healthy meal, I was forced to order something highly unhealthy and batter strewn late in the evening, because without it, I would have started to digest my intestines. Result? : no progress on the diet and a row.
The Valbonne Monologues goes to the printers this afternoon, after I get back from London. I have invited quotes for the back cover from those dealt with most harshly in the book, but there is a chance today for me to consider other quotes from you, my dear reader. If you want something considered, please post it in the comments section below.
Chris France
@valbonne_News
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