The three amigos?
The wheels of commerce are gradually turning again. Being in London overnight I took the opportunity to ensure my empire is running smoothly, which took nearly all morning, well, from 11 until 12 and then of course it was time for lunch. I am now learning how to use twitter; what a curious waste of time it is, all this social networking, time spent being social by being unsociable in front of a screen. However it seems it is a necessary evil in the current world of business and that many potential clients of Currencies Direct could be unearthed in this manner, thus saving them from being ripped off by their banks. I must be getting old.
Not as old as my old pal and filmster (he would say film star) John Otway who is firmly into his 7th decade whereas I am a mere stripling by comparison. No bus pass for me for at least 15 months. However, it is fair to say in response that I have never been famous enough to find people on the street wearing masks of my face. I show a picture today of exactly how famous John Otway has become. He even got onto Channel 4 news on Sunday night.
spooky
Back then to Arundel to regather before the trek up north in mid-week. I need to pack a shovel, extra provisions, fuel, a mini generator and pepper spray to ward off wild animals which means most of the population. My destination is Chester which was deemed sufficiently far away from civilisation to give me time to finish my book. No distractions you see.
I know it is extreme but The Valbonne Monologues will not write themselves. They must be finished by the end of this month to make the proposed launch on 17th December back in Valbonne. Going somewhere wild and desolate, where there will be no entertainment and probably even no TV to distract me is a great idea, but there is one small problem in that I believe there is a pub somewhere in Chester and I have reason to suspect it sells real ale. I do hope that I do not find it, that book is a vital element for many a Valbonnaise Christmas present list and I would hate to disappoint them. My fingers are crossed that I shall be able to announce its completion imminently unless I find that pub and it selling the second best beer in the world, Timothy Taylor Landlord, and it is open.
Before that I have one more day left in civilisation, of which I intend to make the most. At least I had intended; a nice lunch stretching into the afternoon, a short siesta, a couple of pints, a nice dinner with some St Emilion Grand Cru, a fine cigar and then a cognac to send one off to bed. However that nice lady decorator has a schedule in mind that is far less alluring. A tough cycle ride in the scudding rain, a paperwork mountain, a trip to DIY store Do It All (I wish they could do it all for me), a light green leaf salad for lunch, various menial tasks for the afternoon followed by quiche for supper and a day off the booze.
She contends that my god like figure is more like the shape of Buddha nowadays and that something must be done. I contend that I am well-built and heavily muscled, especially around the stomach area, but I can feel I am not standing on the moral high ground, more rolling about on it. I am also hurt when the name Billy Bunter is used, seemingly with me in mind and not in an affectionate way.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Otway The Movie premiere
What a day. John Otway’s 60th birthday present to himself, Otway The Movie, premiered at the iconic Odeon in Leicester Square yesterday lunchtime. 1500 co-producers (every ticket bought automatically qualified the purchaser to be listed as a co-producer of the film) crammed in to this famous cinema to celebrate this cinematic representation of his life. Following in the footsteps of the likes of Harry Potter, and James Bond amongst thousands other films that have been unveiled here, the great man himself thoroughly enjoyed larking about on the red carpet, even somersaulting on it for the benefit of the TV cameras and hilariously losing the contents of his pockets in the process.
Otway makes his mark on the Odeon
In yet another example of his guerrilla marketing tactics, of which he is a founding father, he subverted the ODEON sign changing it briefly to OTWAY as my picture captures before the authorities suggested it was returned to its original state. As with many premieres a number of people dressed up in formal black tie attire. I myself decided to adopt the eccentric writer persona that sits so easily on the shoulders of a successful author. Salmon pink trousers and handlebar moustache carefully waxed seemed to please some and I like to think that any abuse was light-hearted. There was a brief moment of tension when sprog 2, who was clearly too young to know, upon hearing that the nice lady decorator was wearing her classic 60’s Biba jacket exclaimed Justin Bieber?”. One laser beam look was enough.
The film itself in a documentary style was very funny and at times quite moving. I think my favourite piece was an interview with his mother about John’s first hit record in the 70’s in which she said “he hasn’t got a singing voice at all, I don’t know why they even kept him in the choir.”
Channel 4 news carried an interview and news story on their evening bulletin and more coverage was apparently likely but as I write I know of nothing else yet.
There was a short adjournment to the pub before heading down to the after show party where “The Otways”, his version of The Oscars to reward people whom had helped him through his career. My paying for his first recording in 1972 was sufficient for a nomination and I had my acceptance speech planned; thanking god, my family my friends and bursting into pre-arranged tears of emotion but sadly my speech was not required. Maybe next time.
What do you do when you have spent the whole day celebrating and the party is over, but it is only 7pm? You go to the pub of course and so a motley crew of Otway acolytes including Otway himself did so. It was a little later in the evening when sprog 2 managed to knock a full glass of red wine over that nice lady decorators yellow trousers. The only good news about this is that it was not me that was responsible.
It seemed a good time to head to china town for a bite to eat and so we happened upon the famous Wan Kei fast food joint where I explained to that nice lady decorator that the waiters were often very rude but the food is good. When they were quite polite she asked one why he was not being rude. He said they were only rude on Friday and Saturday nights. So that clear them.
And so it is all over, I have some work to do in London this morning when my activities in support of Currencies Direct will be re-invigorated after which a return to Arundel to prepare for the expedition up north.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Somersaults at 60
Its flat she said, referring to the Monarchs Way in Houghton Forest, you will be fine on the bike. I had stupidly mentioned that rather than walking I would go for a cycle before heading off to London. It was not flat it was gradually down hill (the story of my life) for about 3 miles, which was fine, but what went down must come up and by the time I got back to the car I was exhausted. I was also covered from top to toe in mud because guess what, my new bike does not have a mud guard and this is not dry and balmy Valbonne, thus is rain-soaked England.
To London then on the train from Arundel to catch up with John Otway before his big day. Somersaults at Sixty was the usual chaotic and funny John Otway show with what he calls The Big Band who miraculously been together for 15 years. It was a warm up for the real action, the premiere of his film today at London’s Leicester Square Odeon. Today’s picture was taken at the show and may be one of the first ever published of a man somersaulting on stage whilst still attached to his guitar. It is indeed a bit blurry but as Rolf Harris would say “Can you see what it is yet?”
A man of 60 should know better
Earlier that nice lady decorator had been treated to the rarest of sights, that of ruinously expensive sprog 2 working. She has a job (yippie, she has a job!) working at a pub in Gloucester Road between her studies and I would have liked to see her in action. Use of the word action hitherto had only been applied if she stirred from the sofa for the only thing she was able to do with gusto; eating my food or drinking my drink.
My hope turned to dust however when that nice lady decorator announced as we arrived at Victoria station that despite packing every item that she possessed into her suitcase she did not have a thing to wear and promptly went shopping for two hours. Thus she eventually went to see some action whilst I went to meet up with the great man himself. That nice lady decorator arrived in the interval.
The typical Otway fan is in his 50’s, male and likes real ale. The venue, a charming theatre just off Leicester Square in the heart of Theatre land had told Otway that the did not do any real ale in their bars, but when told that the majority of the audience would go during the interval in search of a local pub that did they relented and supplied no less than 10 barrels of different beers.
Whilst partaking of a few of these at the bar after the show I asked Otway if he had any plans for today.
So his 60th birthday present to himself. A film about himself, will premiere today in the pre-eminent cinema in the world, the iconic Odeon Leicester Square. The cinema has a giant screen to advertise its daily events and seemingly Otway’s face will be going up at around 7am this morning. He announced that he would be getting up early to see it. He is planning to appear on the famous balcony for the inevitable photo opportunity and then there is the red carpet. I shall be reporting events fully tomorrow.
Due to this hectic schedule I have found that I do not have enough time or space to talk to you about the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct, so maybe tomorrow.
Winter creeps nearer
After such a heavy retail experience yesterday morning I timidly suggested to that nice lady decorator that we should be rewarded with a pint of Harvey’s. Rather surprisingly she agreed and we went in search of a pub called The Sportsman in Amberley that we had been told had great views. On the way, and lost, we happened across this house looking fantastic with its Virginia creeper turning red, a warning that autumn is in full effect and winter is around the corner.
Virginia creeper points to winter
Allowed just the one pint before being returned to my office, to work on my book and secure new clients for Currencies Direct, I adopted a carefully nurtured hang-dog expression, added some carefully placed sighs and at the right moment dropped into the conversation that I would like to take her out to dinner in the evening. She must have mellowed because she agreed. Thus we popped in to the White Hart for a pint then went to get a take away to eat in the Kings Arms.
Dinner is dinner and it was very cheap. It is a splendid arrangement. The pub does not offer food itself but welcomes people to come in with their takeaways and have a drink, a very sensible idea and one that I welcome. They even provide plates, cutlery and sauces and clear away after you so it is better than being at home.
The most exciting thing for that nice lady decorator was the containers in which the food was supplied. A range of tupperware like trays all with lids which she pronounced would be ideal for mixing paint. I still think that this morning when she opens her handbag to an assortment of festering Indian food she will regret it.
The Kings Arms is a cosy intimate pub, so cosy that later in the evening John The Builder, who joined us, went to sleep mid sentence and only awoke as we were leaving. Uncharitably I suggested it was a ploy to avoid his round until I remembered he had bought the first bottle. He was obviously a couple off drinks ahead of us as earlier he had been briefly chucked out of the pub for lighting up a roll up. His brother is the landlord.
Today then takes us up to the smoke. London is calling so we shall go up this afternoon, visit sprog 1 who has, for the first time in her life, found gainful employment in a pub, then take a drink with the great pop and soon to be film star himself, John Otway, before casting an eye over his “Somersaults At Sixty show in Leicester Square. His 60th birthday was earlier this week and this is a prequel to getting his birthday present to himself, a film about himself. Otway The Movie premieres tomorrow at The Odeon Leicester Square, the same venue at which the new James Bond film “Skyfall” will début in a few weeks time. The balcony and the red carpet will both be pressed into service. I need to decide what to wear.
Once the fun is over I must face the worst. I have to go “up north” for about a week. This obviously requires great fortitude, the packing of provisions, the fitting of bull bars to the car and checking the anti-freeze levels. I will also be packing a shovel so that I can dig our way out of the snowdrifts that will doubtless be covering the tundra. At least the midges should now be in hibernation but I shall miss the benefits bestowed by electricity.
So dear readers, the timely publication of your daily must read column may be in jeopardy from Wednesday onwards as I doubt the internet coverage will be widespread. In fact I believe the word internet up north is a colloquialism for catching fish.
Chris France
Lunch in ruins
“Dry clean only” it said clearly in large print on the label of the curtains which that nice lady decorator was stuffing in the washing machine. When I pointed this out to her she said that it was too late, the other pair were already drying on the washing line. So maybe they will still match when they are dry? Perhaps we should get smaller windows?
Talking of dry, that is exactly what I had been for nearly the last 72 hours when once again I became metaphorically a little more damp. However due to drivers commitments (wife had a meeting) things were just warming up nicely before Currencies Direct client Mr Clipboard was gone. Just a nice walk on the beach, a pint at the Black Horse at Climping and a slightly better than ordinary lunch at the Black Rabbit and then they departed into the early afternoon. From a south of France, Starship Enterprise perspective It was lunch but not as we know it.
Earlier in the morning when I was doing my Brad Wiggins impersonation on my bike, my own personal tour de France, I had stopped to take this picture of the ruins of Arundel in the sunshine. Brad and I have a number of connections; we cycle, we have a love of the mod scene (one of my clients, the late Steve Marriott was the singer in The Small Faces) and we have extravagant hair. Where Bradley has sideburns, I have a luxuriant moustache.
Around Arundel
With lunch disappointingly forshortened, and an after an attempted siesta, I awoke, if indeed I had been asleep, thirsty and decided that the White Hart needed our presence. We had not been for there in over a week due to commitments in France and Ireland and pubs can go down hill unless regularly vetted. I am happy to report that all was in order and the Harvey’s ale as good as ever.
I am instructed that this morning we shall be visiting Littlehampton. The phrase “kicking and screaming” comes to mind. I hate shopping with the same intensity that the nice lady decorator loves it, but there are some things I need and there you have it, I am going shopping. Thereafter I shall continue with editing “The Valbonne Monologues” the exciting tale of the idle rich at play in Valbonne that I shall hope to launch on a largely suspecting world just before Christmas. Of course to launch it then requires it to be finished by the end of the month and that means work.
There are two plans laid out for the evening. That nice lady decorator wants another night of abstinence, sitting by the fire watching drama drivel before the carnage of a couple of nights in London to witness a performance of John Otway on Saturday night and then the premiere of his film on Sunday. My plan is to break us in gently with a couple of pints followed by an Indian take away or a smart meal out in Arundel, then back for a cognac in front of the fire. I shall be putting the case for my plan today. It is clearly more sensible to be properly prepared for a couple of big nights out than to go at it cold as it were. There is always the propensity of peaking too early if one is not in full training.
It will be a weird experience on Sunday. I expect to see many old hippies crawling out from under stones to witness the premiere, perhaps even the Reverend Jeff, who has known Otway for even longer than I, may be there, although this being a Sunday and with him being at church this may be in doubt. I know that Ken Poodle (aka Paul Kendall) intends to be there and doubtless other old friends will emerge from the woodwork.
Chris France
Wilde writing deserves an Oscar
What to wear? With no style guru such as Mr Humphreys available, even if he was free, I will have to dress myself for the premiere of Otway The Movie on Sunday. Being a major star in the film, with a part reputedly running to some 8 seconds in total, my adoring public and the paparazzi will be keen to see what I am wearing on the red carpet outside the Odeon Leicester Square at midday. My feeling at the moment is the salmon pink trousers, cravat and smoking jacket, but I have not told that nice lady decorator. I have a feeling she may not approve. Might salmon pink clash with the red carpet? I may have to take a trip into Brighton in the next few to replenish and brighten the wardrobe. Us writers must look their best as I was saying to Oscar Wilde just the other day in Galway as my picture shows. Oscar was non-committal, even cold and distant but I know he feels the same.
One writer photographs another
I have now gone two and a half days without a drink. I can’t sleep, I am irritable, and I am thirsty, but help is at hand today with the arrival of Mr Clipboard aka Mr Clipbeard. Under pressure from some of my readership, now approaching 80,000 in total, I have decided to revert to referring to him as Mr Clipboard as it sums him up to a tee. That does not mean I have forgiven him for his leading part in my enforced beard removal debacle at the end of last year, causing his temporary name change, far from it, not forgiven, less forgotten. My time will come and revenge will be sweet. I still have that picture of him naked and dancing in a snowstorm….
But I digress. He is arriving in Arundel tomorrow morning whereupon there is a list of activities we will undertake under his carefully crafted itinerary, which I have failed to study but I know it involves lunch somewhere at sometime. I also know he is partial to a pint of Harvey’s and will not be driving, having of course delegated and commissioned a driver, namely his much more attractive and lovely wife Ashley, so a splendid prospect after such a dry 48 hours (actually it will be nearer 65 hours between drinks which I consider to be a dangerous precedent for my liver.)
We went yesterday to the surgery in Arundel to introduce ourselves. That nice lady decorator had made the appointment 10 days ago, however when I got there it was only for her, the first appointment I could get was 17th October. That is exactly 2 weeks away. I could be dead by then. I think I shall retain dear old Dr Ireland in Valbonne. I could fly over to France, make an appointing with the doctor, see a specialist, get blood tests done, get the results, get a diagnosis, have an operation, recover and fly back from France before I can see a doctor in England. A disgrace. I shall need the logistical forward planning skills of Mr Clipboard if ever I decide I shall be ill in England. Hopefully I shall be back in France before much else drops off.
My efficiency levels for Currencies Direct are at a low ebb. No one in Arundel appears to have any money and no one appears to have houses abroad, the natural habitat for chaps like me, agents for currency exchange experts, thus I am now freer to work on my music interests. However I am finding it all very time-consuming. I do hope it stops soon
Chris France
Oyster hangover
I would have liked to describe that nice lady decorator as a Treasure but who was it recently who described their wIfe as a treasure, and then went on to ruin it by saying she looked as if she had just been dug up?
Yes, you have guessed it; silly jokes. After days, no weeks of a hectic whirlpool of frantic socialising, the inevitable cold turkey withdrawal symptoms are upon me. I am in the recovery position as I write this, which means I am slumped on the sofa in the evening with a glass of pineapple juice, wearing a grumpy expression and watching a rerun of the Jonathon Ross Show whilst listening to the wind beat the rain against my windows.
It has been a hard day. Take commuting for instance. My office is so far from my house that I must take at least 7 giant strides to reach it from the back door, plenty of time in which to get wet but more poignantly, 7 strides to get back to the house. However for the return journey I must go past the door from our yard which leads into the pub. I did not notice it yesterday morning as I was focused on the work ahead for Currencies Direct and the world of popular (well, not that popular) music, but on the way back this was purgatory and makes the commute that much more difficult, but I am nothing if not determined. Actually I was very nearly nothing at about 6pm when I began the long trek back and could hear people laughing and drinking next door, but that nice lady decorator is right, we need a few days off.
What she meant was a few days off the booze not a holiday. And so it is coming to pass. And it will pass again tomorrow before lunch on Thursday with Mr Clipboard when the iron rod of discipline will be put away for a couple of hours and the real world as I see it returns.
A full day in the office is not something I have done for some time, perhaps not in this millennium. It reminded me that I tried work once and I didn’t like it. It caused me to spend 40 years of trying not to get a proper job.
So with no social contact other than with that treasured nice lady decorator and with the demon dog Banjo back in the fold and inspecting the bin closely, the highlight of my day was watching and waiting for him to attack the bin in the kitchen at lunchtime whereupon I could administer summary justice. He just knows how to irritate me. He knows that I know he is thinking about it but he is too clever to do it whilst I am keeping an eye on him.
Oyster opening championships
Thus my thoughts wandered back to events at the Galway Bay Oyster Festival last weekend from where I took the picture above of the oyster opening competition.
Today looks like a further dose of administrative hell, logistical nightmare and digital disaster. I am relaunching my rap label Music Of Life into this brave new digital world and despite the appointment of an excellent label manager and website designers to do all the hard work for me, the soft touch of my administrative genius and specialist knowledge has been called into constant use. Anyway it should be mostly delegated by the end of today.
My thoughts today will turn to what to wear for Otway The Movie at the Leicester Square Odeon premiere on Sunday. My cravat, smoking jacket and plus fours may not sit easily with the red carpet and with the paparazzi in attendance, well, a couple of photographers anyway, there to capture events on the day, and with myself featured briefly in the film, I shall need to convey the correct image. If only I had my kilt with me here in England.
Chris France
For Guinness sake
A last breakfast in Ireland, (non vegetarian this time, as I took the precaution or ordering it myself, rather than allow that nice lady decorator to select for me a vegetarian breakfast as happened yesterday) was taken at a charming bakery cafe the Griffin in the centre of Galway. Tucked behind a bakery, it comprises a series of small rooms lit up by peat fires to ward of the damp and cold sweeping in from an autumnal Atlantic whilst I was warding off the hangover from hell. It has been there since 1918, about as long as my hangover.
We said our goodbyes to our fellow travelers whilst running back over the events of the last few days; the Guinness, the oyster festival, the impromptu street performances, the rescue of one of our party from an “adult” emporium, his subsequent attempts to retrieve the unfortunate DVD (he claims not to recall purchasing) from the fire where his long-suffering wife had dumped in disgust once his guilty secret was revealed, and laughing at a number of events not yet reported in this column.
With a few hours to spare between this wonderful late full Irish and needing to be at Knock airport for the trip back to Gatwick, we headed off for some exploration of the west coast of Ireland where, in normal circumstances, I would have looked forward to a pint of Guinness in a classic Irish country pub. I found this sign on a pub in one such village but am not entirely certain that it’s sentiments are correct, especially for me yesterday.
Not necessarily true all the time
So we left the wind and the rain of Ireland for a softer, more caring wind and warmer rain in Gatwick, at least it seemed warmer and drier perhaps due to several large Bloody Mary’s at Knock airport, not a bargain at 21.60 euros a go, that’s over £16 at today’s very favourable Currencies Direct exchange rates.
Back to the grindstone today and a few days of abstinence and quiet contemplation replacing the mad last week of social mayhem. A book to finish writing, a record company to relaunch, both time-consuming projects are best undertaken with a clear head. A week of quiet solitude, recovery and recuperation is my goal with only the potential aberration of a lunch on Thursday before Otway weekend turns my head.
John Otway is one of my oldest friends and the main reason I have spent 40 years trying not to have to get a proper job. I met him when I was a dustman at 17 and paid for his first record in 1972, 40 years ago this year. After that I never looked forward. I have been involved with most of his madcap schemes in that time culminating in Otway The Movie which premieres at midday this coming Sunday in London, followed by his 60th birthday party. This will culminate with a presentation of “The Otways” his take on an Oscar and I have reason to believe I am nominated in a section rumoured to be “personal banker and loan shark” which is how he libellously described me in his book “Rock And Rolls Greatest Failure” which paradoxically was quite successful.
One blot on the landscape of life is the impending return from dog kennel prison into my life of the headstrong hound unaccountably admired by that nice lady decorator, Banjo. I have not missed his regular forays into the waste bin, his artistic ability of being able to redistribute used wrappers and old foodstuffs in the kitchen, his thievery and his ability to defecate almost at demand in the most inappropriate places at the least appropriate times. It seems he will be released today. If I were on the parole board I would be wearing a black cap if a hanging judge. Of course I will be delighted to see the old family retained Max, the real dog who wickedly is sent to keep the deranged Banjo “company” when he is on remand.
Chris France
All at sea
I enjoyed a vegetarian breakfast. I need that concept to be parked for a few moments. Obviously a proper breakfast cannot possibly be proper without sausages, bacon, black pudding and enough cholesterol to help one towards a reading in double figures, or so I thought. Being in the loo (an occupational hazard when one gets to my age and has been subjected to an intensive 3 day course of what Johnny O Sullivan calls “Vitamin G” – Guinness -) that nice lady selected my breakfast from the menu at the charming Nimo’s a stone shack on the port at Galway whilst I was considering the latest exchange rate news.
The vegetarian breakfast brought together such unwelcome bed fellows as a fried egg and spinach. Clearly the egg was a given but spinach? For breakfast? No right thinking man without that nice lady decorator as a wife could accept that. Then I remembered that it was that nice lady decorator to whom I am married and, being a coward at heart, I ate it, and it was fantastic. I can hardly believe I am saying this, I will probably come over all cuddly and pink and start changing babies nappies or something now, but there you have it. I have discovered I am a closet vegetarian. Peachy Butterfield will now be able to give me the vegetarian option (fu*k off) if ever he opens the restaurant of which he has been dreaming.
The shock of this dawning realisation was tempered a little when I thought about it and found some solace in the fact that Guinness is made out of hops and barley, and wine out of grapes, so the signs of rampant vegetarianism were there for all to see, I had just missed them. Thus I decided to celebrate this new found character fault by taking on board a great deal more vegetarian material. mostly in the form of Guinness through the rest of yesterday, just to confirm my new status. Then I consumed some crushed grapes for good measure.
The idea to go to the Weir restaurant was abandoned so I will have to wait until tomorrow to enjoy further the Irish coastline, a picture of which I feature today.
On the way to Doolin from Galway
Yesterday was a big day for sport, especially in Ireland. The All Ireland replay of the previously drawn Hurling Final took place between Galway and Kilkenney at Croake Park. If you think hurling is a minority sport, consider this; 82,500 people attended and they could have sold as many tickets again. That is as big as a sold out FA cup final at Wembley for a much smaller country with a fraction of the UK population. We were lucky enough to be in Galway when it happened. Although the result did not go as the locals had planned, the Ryder Cup golf, on every TV in every bar in Galway with the notable exception of our dinner venue, Fat Freddy’s, (chosen rather inevitably by the female contingent) did. There can be no better place to be to experience such a win, unless it was in America, but I guess celebration there may have been a tad less popular.
As a great deal of Guinness and then red wine was consumed during the day there were inevitably a few little tit bits of the sort so beloved by regular readers of this column. I think my favourite of these was John “800 Years Of Repression” O Sullivan asking me if I was in touch with my mangina. It was noisy in the pub and I thought he was making some reference to my new book to be called “The Valbonne Monologues” but I was mistaken. Apparently my answer “I am completely focused on it but have not finished yet” was not what he had expected.
Chris France
Prison uniform?
Bog or blog? That was the not Freudian slip made by Jude “where is the Baileys” O Sullivan when confronted yesterday morning with her party time picture in yesterdays column, a picture she claims was taken without her knowledge despite posing for it. Today’s picture is of the two almost identical male twins with whom we are communing at the Galway Bay Oyster Festival.
You will notice that they are wearing exactly the same shirts, a faux pas of the highest order. I shudder to think would be the reaction by my style guru, Mr Humphreys, if he were free.
Spot the difference?
Talk at breakfast was all about the night before. Dilip, on the right, the perfectly formed rotund Indian South African is a renowned oyster shucker and when discussing the oyster opening competition the night before, asked me why I did not enter him. For one moment I thought I was back amongst those public schoolboy ex pats in Valbonne. Momentarily I panicked and clenched and was still on edge until a pint of Guinness after the sun had passed the yard-arm afforded me some relaxation.
So we went to the World Oyster Opening Championship which was won, entirely coincidentally by an Irishman. My green trousers and luxuriant handle bar moustache gained much attention from a number of Irish colleens and a lot of international rugby types that insisted on being photographed with me. I am certain they were not taking the mickey.
We we’re treated to a great afternoon of Irish culture featuring Irish dancing, Guinness, a crooner, Guinness, Oysters, fabulous seafood, music and more Guinness. It was a very fine afternoon and stretched into the evening. After we left It all got very out of hand ending up with Dilip falling into an “adult” shop on the way back to the hotel and using the kitty to buy a very doubtful adult video which was promptly confiscated and trashed by his wife as soon as Johnny and I revealed its existence by mistake.
Once we had rescued him, there was an embarrassing moment on the way for a pit stop point at the Kings Head when he joined in with a street busker. I have the video of his fake saxophone playing, complete with all the moves and as I write I am trying to figure out how to get it on to youtube. Once I get home on Monday I will crack it.
Today is our last full day in Ireland and as a write it is blowing a hooley and raining sideways, so what better way to spend a Sunday but go to a restaurant, preferably by the sea. We may even go to the one owned by the family of the new World champion Oyster opener which is apparently not far away.
Back to reality later tomorrow, and some serious work on the next book. I had resolved once I got back to allow no alcohol to pass my lips until Saturday when we shall be in London to see John Otway perform ahead of the premiere of Otway The Movie next Sunday at the Odeon, Leicester Square. However, Mr Clipboard tells me he has a “window of opportunity” for lunch between 1.18 and 2.53 on this coming Thursday so I will have to squirt some beer and wine into the back of my throat then to ensure it does not touch my lips.
Finally, the more astute amongst you will have noted that I have not yet mentioned the benefits that can be bestowed by opening an account with Currencies Direct for any foreign exchange transactions. That is because it is Sunday, a day of rest and I am in a catholic enclave where they take this kind of stuff very seriously.
Chris France
Party time
I did not have space yesterday fully to extol the virtues of the a “Haggis meal” with chips and curry sauce to which we were subjected by the O’ Sullivans, who instigated the gathering in Galway where I am at the moment and which included my diminutive South African mate Dilip Soni and voluptuous wife Cathy. I am taking a few days off from mentioning Currencies Direct. A riot of carbs after an evening of Guinness. It has to de done, as does the Irish breakfast we had yesterday morning.
I was eyeing up “The Full Irish” which included black pudding and a mountain of toast but that nice lady decorator kindly intervened and told the waiter I would have the mini breakfast. “But..” was as far as I got before two laser beams swiveled upon me and in their glare I cannot recall exactly what was said but I think there was a reference to “fat bastard” although I have no idea about in what context she used the expression.
As we walked about the quaint old town yesterday morning, I was struck by the fact that wherever you go you see signs supporting the towns hurling team who have a big match, the All Ireland final, coming up on Sunday. I had always understood hurling to be a way to describe vomiting, so perhaps the team will be training up on haggis, chips and curry sauce? It seems that projectile hurling is all the rage here.
From breakfast, after feeling like a little hurling of my own, we headed out in the car for the sights of Western Ireland and from where I was going to feature a picture, but that was before we went to the opening of the Galway Bay Oyster Festival.
There are three main events over the next few days, one of which is the Mardi Gras ball tonight where masks are encouraged. I suggested that was especially for my diminutive South African pal Dilip, but he did not get the joke. Anyway I digress. I do not know exactly what I expected but I did not expect the highlight of the evening event to be subjected to 8 contestants opening oysters as fast as they can accompanied by an ever more excited compere in a massive unheated tent.
Now let me give you a warning. It leaves something to be desired as a spectator sport. A load of guys wrestling with oysters does not, for me, entertainment make, however diligently the compere tried. After several hours getting cold and listening to a band who seemed to have had personality bypasses, this spectacle was enough so we left and went instead to the Quays pub, a labyrinthine pub in the Latin Quarter with at least six bars plus a band who did a range of passable covers of songs created before 1980. However, starved of entertainment but not starved of Guinness, some of us enjoyed it a little more than others as my photograph today seeks to capture.
What, no Baileys?
When we arrived in Galway the night before, and spent an hour circling the city looking for our hotel in a rainstorm with no map, we could not find anyone amongst the throngs of people on the streets from whom we sought directions who was not drunk. It was like being back in Valbonne except no one comes out when it rains. They seem to like the rain here.
They were celebrating “Arthur’s Day”. It was today many years ago that Alfred Guinness gave his name to the stout ale known the world over. It seems Jude O Sullivan decided one day of celebration was not enough and, despite running out of her secret supply of Baileys she normally keeps in her handbag, managed to maintain equilibrium.
Chris France
Drunken sailors?
Which way are we going?
A star is born
If you never watch another video ever, I urge you to click here and witness Blind Lemon No-Surname at the peak of his ad-libbing powers accompanied by the Wingco on guitar, who had just had his customary Josef Stalin haircut.
He has been given no surname for reasons that will become obvious once you have viewed the clip. He has a professional career that he would like to continue. It is an impromptu adaptation of Bob Marley’s “No Woman No Cry” in a south of France version of Jamaican patois recorded on an Iphone after the Bistro Rally from Port de la Rague on Monday. Truly inspiring. I have not seen such inspired rapping since I was actively involved in running my err…rap label I co-founded, Music Of Life.
Blind Lemon has seen it and, on the basis that in his opinion that it will not go viral (he is wrong), and with the added precaution of disguising his real identity, he has approved it. I predict 1 million hits within a month.
That nice lady decorator has had babies. Three baby tortoises have hatched in the wild in our garden in Valbonne and I have a picture of one of them today alongside a blackberry to give it some scale. She was less pleased than when faced with similar events in the past, she has had babies most years since 2004 when she transported her tortoises to the warmth of France, and they began breeding. It is now probably because it is now an annual event, she has tired of the work involved and I believe £50 may secure ownership if one of these reptiles.
Blackberry beside tasty snack?
Deciding on the venue for lunch on the way to the airport in Nice yesterday was a bit tricky, because we were due at the airport at 1pm, but success was attained at nearby St Laurent Du Var, where we were served with an excellent Moules Marinier, or if you were Peachy Butterfield, a vein sapping, fat infested, cheese covered Cordon Blue.
With the recent rains, the swimming pool has one again taken on the appearance of an infinity pool which required some attention. This reminded me of the time in early summer when the pool required some technical attention, and that nice lady decorator, who, to be fair, had imbibed well, was on one afternoon a little unhappy with the pool services company who had failed to appear at the appointed time to effect repairs. Her repeated refrain of “Quest que ce votre problem?” Will live with me until I die.
Gatwick was dry when we arrived, but from the look of the surroundings it was the first time in several days when it had not been raining. It was of course important to pop into the pub next door to ensure all was well, and it was as it was buzzing due to Goodwood revellers who had tired of the horse racing and raced instead to the bar of The White Hart.
There is no rest for the indolent. After a frantic morning dealing with my ever more complicated business empire (I thought I had semi-retired?) Including finalising a couple of new clients for Currencies Direct, we shall one again be exposed to the joys of Gatwick Airport as we head to Ireland for the Galway Bay Oyster festival which starts tomorrow. We are flying to a place called Knock. Those of you amongst my regular readers who expect me to make some reference to knock-knock jokes know me too well. You can’t knock a knock-knock joke in Knock. Who’s there?
Chris France
Calmer waters?
Stories and indeed videos have begun to emerge from the Bistro Rally on Monday. I have already received a number of photographs of very questionable antics from the day and expect to be able to reveal details shortly. Those of you who would like to avoid publication know the drill.
I think amongst the highlights was the ad lib rap version of “No Woman No Cry” by Blind Lemon himself, and as I write attempts are being made to upload the video clip to Youtube. Accompanied by the Wingco on guitar the most debauched behaviour took place after we had returned to port and the entire contents of the bar had been consumed. Roger The Cabin Boy had man mountainfully shouldered the immense task of ensuring a smooth flow of alcohol from fridge to thirsty revelers until everything was gone. I say everything but I think there was some egg nog left. There always is.
Before that, with all the boats tied up together in the channel between the Iles Des Lerins, and before the degeneration of events I took this picture of the sea.
The calm after the storm before the next storm
Another contender for Bistro Rally performance of the year was the Mick Jagger impersonation by Largy, the picture of whom in this column yesterday caused some merriment.
With the weather once again not at its best, the traditional luncheon venue of the Auberge St Donat was pressed into service. Amongst the new people I encountered was a lovely Irish girl called Celine McCaullagh. Whilst showing herself over the course of quite a long lunch to be a committed wine lover she went on to assert “I am a potato hater”
This conversation came about because I mentioned that I was going to Galway for the first time this weekend with John “800 years of repression” O Sulllivan and his more than amply endowed (sorry Lin) Baileys loving wife Jude. The conversation began to get a little heated after I innocently asked how the potato diet was going, a diet that a lot of Irish people over history seem to have followed. I think she was amused, but I asked our driver if she should check the car for bombs before set off back home.
After a siesta the Master Mariner Mundell arrived to get copies of various photos and videos taken during and after the race on Monday. These included those that had been taken by that nice lady decorator from the support vessel and our on board steward extrordinaire, man mountain Peachy Butterfield (who claimed last night to be keeping a low profile, a physical impossible feat for a man who is almost as wide as he is tall). This had the result of delaying out proposed dinner at Cafe Des Arcades, which was fortunate as another storm erupted and we were able to change venue to the Valbonnaise, the charming family run restaurant in Valbonne.
Jaded was the best description of proceedings, events the day before had taken their inevitable toll so sadly there was little of note to report. Today we fly back to what looks like similarly dismal weather in England where I shall be catching up on my duties for Currencies Direct, before heading off to Galway Bay tomorrow for the annual Oyster Festival, where we fully expect to get wet both inside and out. It will be our first ever trip to the west of Ireland which ever one with whom I have come into contact over the past few weeks who has been says is a life changing experience. We shall see.
Chris France
Largy releases lager
It was one of those very special days. The Bistro rally took place yesterday amid a backdrop inland of rain and thunder, but out on the ocean the race unfolded in patchy conditions with a westerly wind providing some wonderful sailing.
The crew, slightly motley it has to be said, proved lamentable in early practice for the race. I had heard of tacking, indeed I thought the adjective tacky could have well be applied to many of the crew of l’Exocet. It was after two terrible practice tacks, where it seems the imperative is not to lose boat speed, that resulted in one of our crew suggesting after one particularly disastrous turn, that we were going backwards. Help was at hand however in the form of The Master Mariner who banished most of the “crew” to the superstructure and resolved to sail the thing himself. The five-minute hooter sounded, but the hootee obviously ran out of breath because neither the two-minute warning nor the actual starting hooter were audible so the start of the race was chaotic, as was some of our sailing after the early beers had kicked in. We gradually eased ahead of all but one boat and thought we had come second, only to discover that the “winners” had been disqualified for passing the start line 40 seconds before the official start time. So once again victorious.
Amongst the crew was The Wingco, renamed the Winchco for the day, Peachy Butterfield who did a very credible job serving drinks from the galley as Roger The Cabin Boy, an epithet that had old Harrovian Largy dribbling with anticipation (he likes a drink, what did you think I meant?) The competing boats then tied up together after a brief squall and as the sun came out a massive lunchtime party ensued.
The rose charged blue sky sail back from the Iles des Lerins was sublime. Some of the “crew” were enjoying it so much they did not want to miss a moment on deck, even to go to the loo, as my picture today captures. I think that is one reason why the Master insists on an entirely male crew for the race.
Largy tests the wind direction
We found some space for the WAGS aboard a lovely boat which the Master rather disdainfully described as a “diesel chucker”. Whilst I love sailing, the idea of being served champagne not by Roger The Cabin Boy but a pretty girl in a bikini on a flat deck in delightful sunshine has its merits.
After we had parked at Port de le Rague, an impromptu sing-song developed aboard in the early evening with the Wingco at its heart. There had been a guitar and amplifier aboard a Dutch boat, when we had been tied up which The Wingco had found but after a particularly rousing version of Jimi Hendrix “Voodoo Child” he appeared to have been disinvited aboard. Some 25 people from other boats crammed on deck and it was starting to unwind when we decided to leave. That was because the lovely Suzanne who was driving could take no more abstinence so we headed home to the pav for a nightcap.
Today there is talk of lunch and then even more talk of an evening in Valbonne Square, which seems to me to be compulsory when one has been away for some time. I shall of course endeavour to do some work today for Currencies Direct to justify my measly commission. Then on Wednesday, a sad day because it may be our last day in France this year. Galway Bay and its oysters awaits.
Chris France
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