The delights of northern food
Back to the web in Valbonne was bliss. Shedding the long trousers, jumper and putting on the shorts, which were still sufficient until way after dark in late September was a reminder of the good life we have left behind in the south of France. Do not get me wrong, Arundel is probably the best place to live one could find if living in England, and I have enjoyed living there but real living is down here in the Cote d’Azur.
We arrived back in paradise at about 4pm and by 5pm were tucked onto the web, our outside bar, with the lovely Suzanne and the gargantuan Peachy Butterfield who proceeded, I was going to say gradually, but what I really mean is quickly, to empty a bladder of rose which he had “rescued from a boat trip in the week that was taking up valuable fridge space.” It was at this stage that we were subjected to that most wonderful trait of the south of France; spontaneity.
The first to arrive unannounced was Currencies Direct client Paul “Slash and Burn” Thornton Allan who told a story about my style guru Mr Humphreys whom he had encountered at “church” at Cafe Latin earlier in the week. According to Paul, Mr Hunphreys was keen to try some designer fake tan, clearly concerned about possible sun damage to his delicate skin. He applied it to the most delicate of areas and then for good measure to the rest of him and awaited results. With nothing apparently happening he had another go and then another before taking to his bed amid some disappointment. In the morning he awoke and discovered that the lotion had in fact worked wonders but to the extent that he “looked like Ghandi”. Seemingly now he is the only person wearing long trousers in the middle of summer.
Next to appear, although this had been on the cards, was the Master Mariner Mundell, keen to keep us chaps focused on the Bistro Rally today despite some forecasts of some rain in the morning. He was also attempting to keep the whole day afloat for the WAGS who were understandably disappointed that support vessel Sea Breeze was a very late non starter. One of the many phone calls he made to his competing captains revealed that there was some space available upon one of the boats but it was limited, and subject to a parade of the hopefuls, clad in swimsuits before the start. Clearly the captain did not want any fuglies ( f…..g Ugly’s) on board. This seemed to us chaps to be a perfectly reasonable precaution but was met with some hostility by the girls present. This seemed a little bit ungrateful considering the lengths to which the Master had gone to ensure their participation. Of course those lengths did not extend to allowing girls on L’Exocet during the race “this has never happened and never will happen” was his quite understandable attitude.
A couple of others showed up a little later but by this time the rose had done much of its best work in obliterating my memory. It is a bit weird being a guest in one’s own house but we were entertained in sumptuous northern style with what was referred to as a “chicken dinner”. There is no mucked about food involved; what you get is roast chicken, roast potatoes and in something of a departure, and obviously aimed at the guests rather than our host and guardian Peachy Butterfield, piles of steaming vegetables. This is all garnished with a special northern delight; gravy. There was a tense moment when he appeared to be unhappy that the gravy was not lumpy enough, that apparently viewed as being a sign of its virility, but he was polite enough to let is pass with just a fleeting insult to his long suffering wife and cook, the lovely Suzanne.
A northern beetroot
Once dinner had degenerated into sampling some Lemoncello which Peachy had “discovered” in its hiding place in the garage, there was more discussion about the proposed “audition” for the girls to see if they were suitable crew for one of the other boats today. In order to put the attendant beauties minds at rest, Peachy suggested that he use his new iphone app” fit or fugly” to ensure that they all passed muster. It takes a picture of the subject and by careful measurements of the features of ones face pronounces on a scale of 1 to 10 whether one is fit or fugly, fit being 10, fugly being 0. The application must still be in the development phase at it produced some alarming results, giving Peachy himself the lowest rating of the night, a 2, but was working sufficiently well to pronounce me as the fittest amongst the dinner guests with a 6.
Chris France
Strictly not dancing
The idea of a support vessel for the Bistro Rally which takes place on Monday has hit choppy water. Sea Breeze, the fantastic boat that was to take up that role, of transporting and entertaining the WAGS as the chaps wrestled L’Exocet to victory, has been blown off course by strong winds in Sardinia, where she is due next weekend. As I write frantic efforts are being made to secure an alternative. I did find a boat available as a result of a misdirected email but it is in Chichester and the owner a tad unwilling to have it flown to France in time.
Last night to the White Hart in Arundel for John The Builder’s birthday, some excellent food, courtesy of Boco Nuevo, some live music and to watch the Malcomson family dance. The three brothers that were there are immediately identifiable as they are all completely bald and almost identical. Their dancing style was also clearly a rehearsed family tradition. To ensure that their nephew, who is also completely bald and has the same dancing style and would otherwise only have been identifiable due to his age, he sported a full beard. I have a picture of John the Builder which does not fully capture his dancing style, but the chap behind him is clearly impressed as his expression shows.
Does this need a caption?
So with the long overdue autumn rains about to begin in England, our escape to France this morning is very timely. The shorts are packed, the sun cream at the ready and I am assured that the rose will be properly chilled. I shall be chilling in the web by this evening trying to cool down rather than keep my coat on to keep warm as I was last evening. What bliss!
I believe Currencies Direct client the Master Mariner Mundell will be plotting a course to the web this evening to discuss how we are able to accommodate the WAGS during the Bistro Rally now that Sea Breeze has set sail for waters new. There is a chap beyond retirement age I know as Sir Bernard, who has a wicked smile and a penchant for ladies much younger than he who will be entering his boat in the race. He has the opposite view to the Master (who prohibits girls aboard during the race) about the make up of his crew preferring an all female cast so there may be an opportunity here, although it must be said that none of the WAGS to whom I have spoken relish the idea. He is reputed to have a very “hands on” woman management style.
A few days in France, probably our last of the year, will be followed on Thursday by a trip to Ireland. The Galway Bay Oyster Festival will take place the following weekend and we will be there. I have my Oyster card at the ready and will be expecting to drink some Guinness. I happen not to be an oyster fan but it seems that a lot of fun and frivolity is a part of this 4 day festival and having been only once to Dublin, I am keen to get wet in Ireland proper.
Then in a couple of weeks time, Otway The Movie premieres at the Odeon Leicester Square. Unless left on the cutting room floor than yours truly will feature along with that nice lady decorator, helping to tell the story of one of my oldest friends and self proclaimed rock and roll’s greatest failure John Otway. I and about 1700 co-producers (every person who has bought a ticket automatically become a co-producer) will be treated to Otway posing on that famous balcony, walking up the red carpet and the premiere of the film which is of course a story of his life.
Chris France
Unforgettable bread
It was during a conversation at the pub with builder Johnny “The Builder”Malcomson, who has taken to wearing a battered straw hat to hide the scars on his head sustained when hitting his head on our low beams, that he revealed that one of his brothers lost half a leg in a motor bike accident. It seems his brother still plays golf well, amputees golf, balancing on his one good leg and even still taking the wagers from his two legged mates. He then innocently said that when he won each time he didn’t have a leg to stand on.
So pleased is that nice lady decorator with her new fireplace that she insisted last evening in inviting about 10 people around from the pub to see it. They had a straddle a pile of rubbish and packaging that Banjo, the heinous hound owned not by me but that nice lady decorator, had kindly liberated from the kitchen bin and decorated the floor with his very own interpretation of modern art. Both are rubbish.
It is whilst she was doing her proud showing off bit I had the rubber gloves out and was trying to clear up.
It is John The Builders 50th birthday celebration to which we are invited this evening at the White Hart. I believe the catering will be undertaken by the excellent restaurant team located at the pub, Boco Neuevo, which will be considerably better I expect than the sandwich emporium of which I took a picture in Littlehampton yesterday. Perhaps this is where Clive Panto came to pick up supplies when entertaining us to lunch last Wednesday?
not, surely?
There is half a plan to go walking and lunching today as it is once again astonishingly forecast to be fine. The George and Dragon at Houghton has been mentioned which sounds good, a six mile circular walk less so. Then home to prepare for tonight and pack for the glorious home coming to Valbonne tomorrow.
We fly tomorrow afternoon arriving at about 5pm for a sun downer in the web. It will be so nice to sit outside in shorts again. The arrangements for the Bistro Rally, the annual sailing race from Port de le Rague to Les Iles des Lerins off the coast of Cannes, are well advanced with a crew of 11 or 12 including many of the usual suspects, many Currencies Direct clients; The Wingco, Blind Lemon Milsted, Slash and Burn Thornton Allan, Dancing Greg Harris and of course our captain the Master Mariner Mundell. I say 11 or 12 because at present there seems to be some doubt about the role of one Peachy Butterfield. He wants to be aboard the support vessel, the beautiful 55 foot Sea Breeze owned by Roly and Poly Bufton where he wants to “look after the girls” who are prohibited from being aboard for the race itself, but I think he may be kidnapped and press ganged into joining the exclusively male crew aboard L’Exocet for the race. Please don’t forewarn him because he seldom reads this column.
Of course this could backfire horribly. Firstly, as his T-shirt proclaims; Fat people are harder to kidnap and secondly his enormous bulk will significantly increase the ballast aboard, unless there is some mysterious wind to weight ratio plan being hatched by the Master. All I know for sure is that it will be important to drink the wine aboard as quickly as possible in order to lighten the load. It is the very least a vital crew member can do to help the cause. I expect a win and will be at the bookies across the road this afternoon to see if they will take a bet.
Chris France
Ups and downs of living in England
That nice lady decorator wonders why I hate England? Let me tell you. Having paid £56 for a day return on the train, let me clear about this, that is about 70 euros at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates, to go to London and back from Arundel, some 50 miles, I was faced with such a ridiculously overcrowded carriage on the way back that I had no choice but to overflow into 1st class, deciding I would pay the difference, but oh non that is too simple, I was forced to pay a £20 penalty excess fair to get to the next station, after which it was my duty to find the conductor and upgrade to first class if I wished to stay. This daylight robbery illustrates perfectly why in an ideal world I would have nothing to do with this country. £76 to get to and from London and no seat? I think I am going to sign on as unemployed or become a refugee. Jesus , I am so glad I do not have to commute any more, what an outrage. If I had a job I would give it up in protest.
I tried the “don’t you know who I am” to the ticket collector, but do you know what? He didn’t. A further outrage, I cannot stand ignorance, it is as bad as expecting people to know who you are… err…
So a day communing with the great and the good in the works of modern technology and the digital music world, in London and guess who had to pay for lunch? Another healthy English meal of sausage and mash which although unhealthy and stodgy was a hundred times better than the meal provided for lunch by Mr Panto on Wednesday. The Reverend Jeff made for him a shrewd comment yesterday that he hoped it would not turn out to be Cinders, but mostly it was (chorus led by Mr Clive Panto; On no it wasn’t).
My picture today was taken earlier in the week when we were walking near Amberley on the banks of the River Arun, and just before we found The George and Dragon pub with its fab terrace pictured the day before yesterday.
A short walk from a pub
Today, being Friday, I shall begin the gentle unwind from the business peak of yesterday. I have set the alarm for 11am sharp in order to make the most of the morning and shall be looking at that nice lady decorator expectantly at lunch time to see if she will waver from her determination to avoid strong drink this week (with the obvious exception of Wednesday of course). A party on Saturday evening at the pub next door will set us up nicely for the trip to Valbonne on Sunday, as there will be no discussion as to who is going to drive.
We shall be staying in our house in Valbonne as guests of our guardians, Peachy and Suzanne Butterfield and I have seen a picture today of the pool boy hard at work readying the house and garden for our return. That boy is Peachy himself and represents the first real work he has done since 1987.
The visit is of course mainly because of the Bistro Rally on Monday from Port de la Rague when I shall be impersonating Roger the Cabin Boy aboard l’Exocet with a bunch of public schoolboy chaps, captained masterfully by the Master Mariner Mundell. I do hope he has sufficient stocks of rose on board. I believe the Wingco will be bringing his guitar and amplifier and I fully expect once again to be singing “We Are The Champions” again at massive volume after the race.
Chris France
Pub to the rescue
“The chimney is talking to me.” So said that nice lady decorator after we had returned from lunch with Clive “on yes he is” Panto. At this stage, after a long lunch, and a visit to two pubs for very early doors on the way back, she had become tucked into my hoard of St Emilion Grand Cru. This is disaster which befalls me on occasions. She is normally content with a vacuous white wine like Pinot Grigio, or Prosecco but occasionally she exercises her taste buds, usually when I have opened something decent.
Perhaps that was the reason she decided to have a conversation with the chimney? I asked innocently if the chimney was listening or what it had to say? But coherence had deserted her. She is justifiably very pleased with herself for her decision to remove a hideous modern construction which had been built as she had guessed correctly to hide a lovely original 15th (?) century inglenook fireplace at our house in Arundel. So pleased that in her cups she felt that the chimney and fireplace were very happy with her. I formed the opinion that part of her brain had frazzled and gone up in smoke, up the chimney.
Lunch was, as I had predicted in this column, the usual culinary catastrophe when left in the hands of Mr Panto. Dear friend that he is, he is to cooking what Jeremy Paxman is to flower arranging, unsuitable. This is really a bit of a surprise because he is so good at eating it, a fact amply illustrated by his rotund shape.
For some time, before arriving back from the tennis, the idea that we might go and have lunch at a pub seemed to have some traction, but once Clive had thrown his hissy fit and pronounced that all pubs in the area served shit food, and refused to go to one, he proceeded to emulate them by all by a factor of 10 producing food of an even lower standard than any pub in any area. Burgers and sausages do not, in my opinion a quality meal make but he professed himself content.
My picture today was taken from the terrace of The George and Dragon at Houghton just outside Arundel where we had stopped for some light refreshment and in search of real food on the way home.
Sussex countryside obscured by two late aftenoon pints
Tennis was the normal triumph for one often too modest person. If there is one thing Clive Panto hates, it is losing to me at anything. A trained barrister turned comedian and entertainer, he has been very eloquent about my first book but not in terns that I have enjoyed. Thus towin all 3 sets in various formations was very satisfying. He even miscalculated after losing the first two sets against me, by becoming my partner as we split up the weaker players for a final set. He relapsed too late that either I would be the only one of the 4 who could claim to have won all 3 sets, as transpired, or he would be the only player to lose all 3 sets. Very satisfying and so unlike the lunch he prepared.
Today I must venture into London for the first time since the start of my English exile. I have some real music biz work to do and have decided to concertina it all into one full day in the smoke. . I may even have the time to pop into Currencies Direct to check out the latest exchange rates, and I may even stop for an early evening beer with old pal John Otway who is putting the final touches to his film Otway The Movie which has its premiere at The Odeon Leicester Square on Sunday 7th October.
Chris France
Tomatoes die shocking death
A man who can move mountains. That is what I have become after successfully reducing the pile of debris in the yard to zero by filling, moving, packing and tipping about 70 bags of rubble. What is that expression about bringing the mountain to Mohammed?
It was on the way back from the tip, with the sun out once again that we spotted The Spur pub at Slindon and diverted at the last moment for a couple of pints of Courage Directors, a tipple of which I used to partake in my youth at the Derby Arms in Aylesbury. In no way can that be to blame for a short siesta. It was the exertions of moving several hundred tons of rubble that caused me to seek solace in my pit.
My picture today was taken after lunch on Sunday. It is of Arundel Castle cricket ground, one of the most beautiful in England, and where Uncle Fester, a Currencies Direct client, apparently played a lot of his cricket. Under the influence of alcohol I suggested that he may like to join us in Australia for the Golden Oldies Cricket festival later in the year in Adelaide, but thankfully when I awoke with a start on Monday morning and realisation dawned on me of the magnitude of the mistake, he made it clear would be unable to be there.
Arundel Castle cricket ground
That nice lady decorator shocked me today when she exclaimed she had “killed two babies”. After a brief moment of doubt it became clear that she was referring to her tomatoes. She also ate a fully grown one which, by implication, seems to suggest that she finds murder in some circumstances socially acceptable. Let me explain; she went to pick a tomato from the plant in the yard garden and in doing so inadvertently pulled off two small green babies. She was distressed about this but then went on to munch a fully grown one. There is a message here. All tomatoes deserve to die horrible deaths as they are the spawn of the devil. I am afraid I do not have the stomach for such a horrible act, that must be left to people who like the taste of the filthy things.
Cooked tomatoes are perfectly OK. Once they have been exorcised of that horrible earthy taste, they are perfectly edible, indeed baked beans are so socially acceptable now as to be described on the Heinz can as one of your “five a day” fruit and vegetables, a fact that I only discovered today. Fruit pastilles cannot be far behind.
Rather unbelievably the weather forecast today is good (after an early frost, obviously) so there is a very good chance that we shall indeed play tennis this morning. Knowing what a traditionalist one of my opponents Mr Panto is (chorus; oh no he isn’t) I have gone to special lengths and ironed my tennis kit. I am sure that he will like my lime green matching shorts and shirt that I had made to measure in Kenya for the princely sum of £4. I am hoping for praise and adulation from my fellow tennis players for my daring tennis fashion statement (my style guru,Mr Humphries, if he were free would understand) but have a feeling I cannot quite define that the colour green may give rise to an outburst of the green-eyed monster, jealousy. It is clearly a “must have” two piece that any self-respecting tennis player would love to own. Hopefully he and fellow tennis player, similarly to Mr Panto a public schoolboy and university graduate, Mr Clipbeard, will be able to contain their jealousy and will be better behaved than normal, but I suggest you remind yourself to look at this column tomorrow just to be sure.
Chris France
Political incorrectness gets just desserts
After the full on shenanigans of lunch with Uncle Fester on Sunday, I was happy to know that no socialising was on the cards for yesterday. His politically incorrect, albeit hysterically funny, antics could well have ended with the police being called and a scene not unlike this one, a reenactment of the Mods versus rockers confrontations in the 1960’s staged at the Goodwood Revival Festival at the weekend.
Police move in on trouble makers
My day yesterday was far less interesting consisting, as it did, of not one but two trips to our delightful local tip (or recycling station as they now call them) in a continuing attempt to lift the shadow cast by the mountain of debris that has emerged from our house in pursuit of an old inglenook fireplace. Dr Who’s tardis comes to mind. How can the rubble from an old fireplace fill up a large yard (or cottage garden as that nice lady likes to refer to it) to the height of nearly 100 feet? You may be surprised given my well documented avoidance of physical hard work that I volunteered to help speed up the clearance. Something had to be done, it was in danger of obstructing the side gate into the pub. Never let it be said that when there is an emergency my shoulder was not to the wheel.
Real work, and editing my next book was a tad difficult in the circumstances. Wheelbarrows full of cement being propelled across the lounge carpet, dust from the belt sander, dust from the debris, dust from brick work all conspired to interfere with this tremendously rewarding task. By 10pm, all was settled and still until the late screening of the recording of Downtown Abbey was underway, then there was a whole lot more confusion and fuss.
Today I believe I shall also have the pleasure of more trips to the tip and another day without alcoholic sustenance. I guess some penance needs to be made for the months of excess that preceded our taking up full-time residence in Arundel. However help is on the horizon. Tomorrow, weather permitting (a sad reality now that I am out of the warm bosom of Valbonne) I shall play tennis for the first time since returning to England. This must of course be followed by lunch and I am so desperate I an even looking forward to Mr Clive “Oh No It’s Not” Panto’s cooking. I have used the word cooking but incinerating may be more accurate. If it is to be a barbecue then I shall also stock the car up with the charcoal to which much of the food will be reduced. I believe he has an industrial strength garden barbecue cooking set up which he customarily sets to “pulverize”.
Before he is allowed to stamp his carbon footprint into the heart of South East England, we are set to play some doubles with Currencies Direct client Mr Clipbeard and a friend of Mr Panto (weird concept I know but stay with me here). Clive is a very funny man but in terms of disarming rudeness, he is right up there with Norman “Uncle Fester” Philpot about whom I wrote yesterday. His knowledge of obscure rules of tennis is unsurpassed and are inevitably biased to suit him. His hatred of my slow lobbing tennis technique does not endear me to him, nor does my status as a successful author. From his educational crows nest, my schooling also leaves a very great deal to be desired and this is a theme that will no doubt be taken up by Mr Clipbeard (so named if you recall for his removal by force of my lovely beard in a restaurant “accident” late last year, his previous epithet Mr Clipboard, a reference to his overbearing nick picking and entirely unspontaneous organisation of the minutiae of his daily life). But I have run out of space so more tomorrow.
Chris France
Uncle Fester lives
This man needs a health warning. Not because he is unhealthy himself, it is just that Currencies Direct client and friend “Norty” Norman Philpot aka Uncle Fester is a dangerous individual. It started with a couple of pre lunch sharpeners at The White Hart next door. Thereafter we wandered down to the Black Rabbit, a pub restaurant in an idyllic setting on the banks of the River Arun just outside Arundel to get lunch underway properly. At his age he is able to get away with being at the same time disarmingly charming whilst also being incredibly rude. The secret is in the smile. He was correct in that the water served was in a jug half full of fairy liquid, but asking for ‘the fat man” behind the bar to come and explain himself was pushing just beyond the borders of good taste. He was however determined totally to breach any semblance of good taste with his subsequent suggestion to the young and pretty waitress, which had me intervening to say that I would be returning my naughty uncle to the old people’s home as soon as he had been fed. It was that or the police may have been called.
With the food order subject to a pre warned 40 minute delay, and the roast beef off the menu, due to the earlier unscheduled arrival of a massive chapter of motor bike fans on their Harley Davidson’s, doubtless on the way to the Goodwood Revival who had all ordered the roast beef, he ordered…..the roast beef. The waitress was very patient and explained quietly and calmly again why he could not have the roast beef and listened patiently to my explaining to her that my father was slightly demanding.
Eventually he made a choice of food, with some considerable help from his wife and friends. His dubious “charm” continued throughout the meal, delighting himself, amusing me, but irritating that nice lady decorator. Personally I found his naughty Uncle Fester act, somewhere between the Munsters and Terry Thomas to be a very amusing part of lunch, however there was one dissenting voice.
It would seem to me to be an acceptable part of his character to be a little, shall we say, hands on, and he did not disappoint. He was however disowned at one stage by his lovely wife Suzie. Calming down a little as we tucked into the second bottle of quite acceptable Argentinian Malbec, he decided on a coffee but refused to believe a double espresso was just that, two espresso’s and sought clarification from first the pretty waitress and then “Billy Bunter” as he described him from behind the bar. Billy was most helpful and took the frankly quite unacceptable abuse in his stride and with a smile. He was not prepared to be drawn for instance on the subject of who ate all the pies. When it was explained to Uncle Fester that a double espresso was as we had said, he refused to accept he had been wrong, preferring to describe it as being poorly advised.
The ridiculously long bill for lunch
Having extracted ourselves from the pub without casualties, except for the damage inflicted by the bill, the delivery of which is pictured above today, and having made as much recompense as possible to the still smiling staff in the form of over generous tips, we popped into the wonderful Arundel Castle Cricket ground on the way back where Uncle Fester further tested his humorous (in his opinion) comments upon the West Indian and England ladies cricket teams who had just completed an international T 20 cricket match. Suffice to say that I shall wait until the dust has settled next year before I make my application for membership.
Chris France
Nice little run around?
In sparkling sunshine we set off for the Goodwood Revival Festival, an event aimed at recreating the glorious post war tradition of Goodwood. Motor racing was where it started, the site having been a major airfield during the second world war after which the owner, the Earl Of March, turned it into a race track in 1948.
Some years later It fell into disuse until it was revamped in 1998 and turned into a revival festival of all things from the 40’s to the 60’s with a bias towards motor sport. It is an excuse to dress up in period costume, drink champagne or Pimms and look at loads of wonderful old cars. An ideal afternoon out for me.
I’ll take two. Can you wrap them?
Being a big Bentley and Rolls Royce fan it was perhaps inevitable that my picture today is of one of the classics from that stable. It was for sale, a mere snip at £275,000. I checked in my back pocket and I did not have quite enough, maybe next year with my book writing publishing advance.
I know that buyers of my new book will be looking for a certain quality, but once they have got over that particular hurdle, they will at least hope that it will be funny and thus the editing of this tome is causing me a few problems. It is fair to say that at present it is funny, but more in the way of when one smells something a bit odd and asks “what is that funny smell?”. It is not what I intend so considerably more work is required and I have come to realise that to make it ready for the provisional release date of November 5th, Bonfire night, could end up with it being very smelly indeed.
I can almost hear the sharp collective intake of breath that will accompany the reading of such momentous news. Many who had thought that their Christmas present quandry had been solved with my book will have to consider other presents instead. It will be a particular blow to those who had planned to give it to people they don’t like.
After a few hours immersed in the middle of the last century, a pint at The Oily Rag free house and a glass of Pimms and another browse around the thousands of classic cars we headed back to Arundel. A short pit stop at The White Swan allowed us time to be in the (builders) yard of our cottage in time for a sun downer, it having been a fantastic day out in glorious sunshine, I even had the roof of the Merc down for probably the last time before next May.
The sun was glinting on the pile of rubble, now reduced to the size of a dead elephant, and the continued reduction of which to the tip I have a sinking feeling will comprise much of my activity in the coming week. No wonder the book editing is slow.
Disappointingly, I have heard nothing yet from my three new Customers Direct customers secured in The White Hart on Friday but they will not escape. I know where they all live. A late lunch is planned today with the very dangerous Norman and Susie Philpot. I have heard The Black Rabbit mentioned as they are open all day for food, but I remain unconvinced about the quality of the food there, wonderful setting though it is. At least Norman will be unable to injure me in the same way he did when last we lunched at his house in Valbonne, bringing out his bowling machine and firing cricket balls at me at 90 miles per hour.
A final note, yesterday one of the comments on this page suggested that there was a typo in yesterdays column, when I said I was lynching with Clive Panto this coming Wednesday. I had to point out that actually it was a very clever play on words. Those who have experienced Clive’s cooking in the past will understand.
Chris France
Goodwood deadwood?
After the kangol kastastrophe over the last two days, sleep the night before last was a welcome release from noisy hell. It did not last forever because as I was dreaming of quiet solitude all I could hear in the background was this infernal hooter, the kind you find on an Austin Healey from the 1960’s and then I awoke to that exact sound. Mr Clipbeard, aka Mr Toad of Toad Hall had arrived early, on his way to breakfast, with my tickets for the Goodwood Revival Festival which started yesterday and runs until Sunday. He was aboard this splendid vehicle with a couple of pals. Mr Clipbeard thought he was being jolly daring wearing a rather fetching red bowler hat as can be seen in my picture below today. I wonder what my style guru, Mr Humphreys would have made of that if he was free.
Picture of the co-op.
Just after he left when I was contemplating returning to my pit for a few more zed’s there was a knock at the door. It was Acker the log man whom I remember meeting in the pub last weekend. What I did not recall however was ordering a massive delivery of logs which, although welcome, were not welcome yet with the yard where they were to be stacked looking like Hiroshima as a result of the day before’s fireplace removal.
It did not stop there. Once again electricians and builders arrived seemingly with the sole intention of destroying the relative calm of the household, so after a very wearing morning lightened only by laughing at the copy of my next book I am currently editing (you could take that the wrong way: I was laughing with it, not as many of my public schoolboy chums will no doubt be doing, laughing at it) we made a late decision to pop next door to the White Hart for a spot of lunch. That’s when the trouble started.
A number of renegades from Goodwood, some resplendent in Veuve Cliquot yellow sunglasses, which were free with any magnums purchased, gave me the rare sniff of potential custom. There was quite a gathering in the pub garden in fitful sunshine. The services of Currencies Direct have not been widely sought by the people I have met in the village, indeed I would suggest that some have never been abroad, some possibly having never been as far as Brighton but magnums of champagne being bought and drunk pointed to a more sophisticated clientele.
I found amongst the group to whom I was talking that there were fellow cigar lovers amongst them so I broke open the humidor and brought out some of Havana’s finest as this called for a cigar. It was a master stroke as it led to my discovering three new clients for their excellent currency exchange services, a triumph for cigar networking. It is the kind of success that sends the non smoking brigades self-righteousness up in smoke.
Pleased with my days work I celebrated with a few more glasses of wine but by 6pm that nice lady decorator retired hurt, emotionally drained she called it, and disappeared. I seem to recall I batted on in the pub for some hours but do not fully remember why. I do hope I did not order any more logs.
Being a Saturday no builders or other workmen are expected so the house will be calm, so a perfect day to go out then. All week I have been aurally assaulted at home and the one quiet day we shall be out. It seems that 95% of people attending the Goodwood Revival will be dressed in clothing from the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s but having little advance warning I have nothing suitable to wear unless I find an old tweed jacket at the charity shop down the road this morning. If only I had access to my style guru Mr Humphreys back in Valbonne. He would have had a solution if he was free.
As you see if you are a regular follower of this column (which you can do by selecting the “follow” button below) you will know that our attempt to have an alcohol free week is in tatters after a bright two day start, but there is always next week. Except for Wednesday when I shall be lynching with Clive Panto (oh yes I will), then Tuesday is live music at the Eagle and then….
Chris France
Postman Pat stalked by aliens?
My wine has arrived from St Emilion. If ever there was a saint who should be exulted above all others then it is he. (I assume he was a he?). As I write I am looking at 4 cases of his finest produce sitting in the living room awaiting the purchase of a new wine rack.
Today I shall be having a late breakfast with Currencies Direct Mr Clipbeard who has some excess Saturday tickets to the Goodwood Retro Festival which starts today. Already I have spotted a number of classic old cars in the area, and some classic old chaps and it seems there will be many more descending on us as the weekend gets underway. Any suggestion that I include Mr Clipbeard amongst the old chaps reliving their youth is entirely accurate.
Talking of classics, I came across this figure of Postman Pat outside a shop in Arundel recently. I had planned to make some facetious comments about having a nose around but when I looked at the photo more closely I discovered a similarly attired figure in the background. What is this all about? is this figure some kind of alien postal service representative? At least they had the decency to hide the beak under a hat unlike Pat whose nose is naked for all to see. Of course if he had no nose, how would he smell? The Reverend Jeff will be unable to resist this one.
Kids, look away now, who is that on the left?
Yesterday, a lovely sunny day incidentally, obviously a cruel trick to persuade me that winter in the UK will be acceptable, persuaded us to go cycling. That and the continuing cacophony of the kangol that is gradually reducing our house to a pile of debris. As I write I am sitting in front of a very old inglenook fireplace which until yesterday was covered by a modern monstrosity. I am also covered in dust and there is debris all around, in fact the pile of hard-core in the yard is probably visible from outer space with the naked eye. All is well though as that nice lady decorator has announced that she is happy with the results And more importantly because she was right.
We went in search of the so called Centurion Way, a cycle track that it was said ran along the route of a disused railway. It did not, it ran alongside a main road so we decided to go to Bognor Regis to cycle along the promenade. I know the name Bognor does not summon up images of the promenade at Nice or Cannes with their wonderful beaches and breathtaking backdrop of the Pre Alps, it having more a background of seedy fish and chip parlours, but given the sunshine and given that it is a wide expanse of flat concrete we thought we could try to imagine being in the south of France. We set off only to find that cycling is not allowed on the Promenade. A tourist train towed by a tractor is allowed but no bikes. I am sorry I do not understand. Perhaps there is a conspiracy here to keep people fat? Allow nothing but fish and chips, pasties or burgers to be sold on the sea front and then discouraging people from exercise? A farce.
We did not stay. Instead we went for a couple of pints at the Murrell Arms in Barnham to moan. However, just along the road was a cycle track heading back to Bognor but I was full of London Pride and a jacket potato with chilli con carne (no sumptuous menu at Auberge St Donat available) so did not enjoy the 10 mile ride as much as might have before lunch
Chris France
A do-er whines
You could hear the kangol machine from northern France. That nice lady decorator was determined to prove for certain that there was an original inglenook fireplace behind the hideous new brick build surrounding our 17th century fireplace in Arundel. There was only one way to find out, a method that looms large in her operating system, smash it to pieces and take a look.
It is precisely this “hands on” attitude that she uses to get to the root of the problem that is so scary, but I guess it eradicates doubt. She had employed a chap called John Malcomson, a builder, a soon to be Currencies Direct customer and a renegade from Spain with a perfect upper class English accent and no hair whom we had met in the pub next door recently. He is the owner of the loudest brick dismantling machinery known to man, and had it set at “head bang” for most of the morning. Of course, as we are embarked on a non drinking phase which had lasted hitherto for over 2 days and every intention of remaining alcohol free we were possibly less able to deal with the dust the rubble and the noise, which was so excruciating that we were forced to leave the house, and so our resolve to avoid a drink suffered an early blow.
I contend that it was not my idea without making any comment as to whether I thought it was a good idea or not. All I know is that we ended up at The Black Rabbit and had a passable meal and a little too much wine and I blame that nice lady decorator.
Before deciding on lunch out, in order to escape and avoid the cacophony, that nice lady decorator had taken to her favourite medicine; Retail therapy. There are very few things that set her pulses racing more than this. Even my Adonis like figure, semi clothed and glistening with oil surprisingly has less effect. So even after I had put the finishing touches to a bath of fake tan with a gallon of top grade 20/50, she preferred the idea of shopping. I shall never understand women.
We happened upon a shop called “Junk and Disorderly” which I thought could have summed up several of my friends rather nicely, where she discovered the sign which I feature as my picture today. Why she feels this is funny is beyond me. I say again, I will never understand women.
A sign of the times?
This a very silly sign with no humourous merit. The very idea that this blog could be accused of whining is ridiculous. I have never whined about anything in the past and it is really cruel to suggest that I do so in this daily column. I could go on whining about it but I think I have overdone the joke now.
With sprog 1 arriving home from college to be fed, we popped up to The Eagle in Arundel where live music is the feature on a Wednesday but I think we need the Trades Description Act to be invoked. Live music needs somebody to be alive and there when performing and although she was there I am not certain the singer even had a pulse. I have seen amoeba more animated.
So today has started bright and sunny but the metaphorical clouds are already looming. I can see dozens of bags of rubble and another big pile lying in the yard which I am certain will need moving today as the fireplace destruction project is only half done. You will know that I have already tried the “shrapnel” defence (the spurious claim that a piece of shrapnel moves around my body rendering me incapable of physical hard work) so it looks like a morning amid the rubble for me.
Chris France
Dog roast?
If it was his grave that he was digging then I could accept the destruction of part of the garden. Yes, it is Banjo again. The crap cocker spaniel who survives in this household only because that nice lady decorator acts as his protector. It is like he has a permanent minder. If I dug a huge hole in the garden without permission and then wallowed in it, dribbling and then went into the kitchen depositing globules of muddy damp dodgy doggy gob about the place, I would expect a slap at the very least, but he appears to live a charmed existence, receiving just mild admonishment for a crime worthy, in my opinion, of a little black hat and a hanging judge, or perhaps just being burnt at the stake. In fact I have a picture today which gives me some ideas.
Doesn’t need to be a pig….
Earlier during the customary morning walk we came across a golf course on the coast near Littlehampton called, rather cunningly Littlehampton Golf Club so I thought I would go in and see if it was worth joining. Golf in France is a relaxed easy-going affair with little attention to the fastidious boring rule book mentality which was much in evidence in English golf clubs when I was a member of one some 10 years ago. I reasoned that given the current straightened financial circumstances, the recession and stories of golf clubs being short of members, this might have had some effect in loosening some of the officiousness. I was wrong. I could see the eyes looking at me as I went into the pro’s shop. I did not have my shirt tucked into my shorts and was not wearing any socks, two heinous sins in the world of stuck up golf. They were just waiting for me to ask for a green fee so they could say “you cannot play dressed like that sir”. However I disarmed them. Firstly I adopted a facial expression that did not seem much in evidence, I smiled. Then I asked about membership. Suddenly my dress sense was no longer an issue. A snobby golf club with memberships still available says all I need to know. I shall not be joining.
I may be doing them an injustice, but “no you cannot play just 9 holes”, “no we don’t hire clubs” and no we don’t smile did not endear me to the place.
Later, more retail delight awaited me. At first I resisted but as I was overcome with the quality of my book that I am editing, I needed a rest so I was persuaded to join that nice lady decorator in a trip to Chichester. Now I have a shiny new office chair which will no doubt make the editing of high quality material even easier.
The Goodwood Revival festival starts on Friday and I was considering popping down at the weekend. Luckily I spoke to Currencies Direct customer Mr Clipbeard today for whom this is an annual event who told me that normally the Saturday and Sunday are totally sold out. I checked on their website and he is correct, and you have to pre buy your ticket.in adcance. Luckily he has a couple of spare tickets for Saturday, so I shall be meeting him on Friday morning, the day he is going, to collect them. It seems that it is traditional at this festival to dress up in clothing from the 40’s 50’s and 60’s which would not represent a great change in wardrobe in his case, but would mean a sharp contrast for my good self. It also seems that he will be borrowing a 1936 Bentley for the day. Toad of Toad Hall anyone? Parp parp..
Chris France
Modern art; A commentary
The first full day of drudgery, life in England, which was a parting gift to me from the hyperactive vertically challenged former President of France, Mr Sarkozy, ended for me at 9 30pm when I could take no more and went to bed.
It started with opening the post to find that I was to be prosecuted for allegedly speeding in a the white van I had hired in July to collect all our stuff from storage. Just the mention of a white van had my middle finger flexing. It continued with a visit to the charming offices of Arun District Council to sort out a parking permit, and being given the wrong one, so I was lucky enough to be able to drive into Littlehampton twice in order to sort it out.
The internet printer will not work, the internet keeps crashing, it rained again whilst I was unloading all the goodies we had brought from France, Banjo has returned from prison no worse for wear and I am on the wagon, but after three months of non stop partying I really didn’t fancy a drink. I must be going soft in my old age.
There were upsides; I booked the flights back to Nice in order to attend the Bistro Rally on 24th September, I paid for the Golden Oldies Cricket Festival in Adelaide in late November, and I found the flights and hotel confirmation for a trip to the Galway Bay Oyster Festival later this month. In order to face the horror of an English winter I shall need breaks from time to time. A 6 month break would be preferable but fate (and by that I mean that nice lady decorator) will not allow it.
To rub it in I saw a procession of photographs from Peachy Butterfield on Facebook, who is looking after our house in Valbonne, enjoying himself in the sunshine, but instead of using one of those shots I have one today of him enjoying himself in a slightly different way. He obviously shares my views about modern art.
The stature needs a bit of tweaking
So what does the week ahead hold? A great deal of work on the music clearances for a documentary project for a 60’s legend (sorry Paul if you are reading this, I will get this done today or tomorrow), the constant search for new clients for Currencies Direct and of course the continuation of my second book. All rather sedentary pursuits which will be interspersed with some cycling and walking. Even the walking will be spoiled by the presence of that dog.
That nice lady decorator has commenced what she does best, decorating. This means noise and mess so no change there. We shall be taking the sledgehammer to a modern brick fireplace which we suspect covers an old inglenook fireplace so it should be quiet. Luckily I have a garden shed known as the office where I can apply ear plugs and hope the internet holds together long enough to allow we to get some work done.
There is one social occasion on the nearer horizon, a visit to see Mr Panto (real name) and Mr Clip beard (not real name) some time next week. I am promised the chance to play tennis and have lunch. Clive Panto is always good value. He is an entertainer with whom you are forced either to laugh with or laugh at. A diminutive man with a haircut reminiscent of another of his ilk, Coko the clown, his rudeness is legendary, his wit sabre like, his tennis remarkably good for a man so palpably unfit and he is a public schoolboy and Oxbridge man (ie was at either Oxford or Cambridge but I deliberately refuse to remember which because it bugs him so much) who, like most of his sort, abhor the ideal of a chap like me, a grammar school boy, writing a book and pretending to be a serious author. I am really looking forward to it.
Chris France
Driving me up the wall
Boring snoring that nice lady decorator called it. We were on the ferry from Caen to Portsmouth and the early start yesterday morning was obviously too much for the collection of crusties who had reserved reclining seats in the Pullman Lounge. The fact that we had also pre-booked these seats and what that implied in terms of our respective ages was conveniently overlooked. To paraphrase Stealers Wheel, we had snoring to the left of us snoring to the right, and we were truly stuck in the middle with some errant noses. It was driving us up the wall which reminded me of a picture I took on the Iles de Re earlier in the week which I feature today. I thought it apt having met cyclist Bradley Wiggins agent at Lords last month.
Bike illegally parked
Relief came in two ways; the sun was getting warmer by the minute and just when we could stand no more and were contemplating a stroll around the deck over the ships tannoy system came to the rescue with details of a wine tasting on deck 8. We managed to extract ourselves from the old age snorers lounge on the pretext of trying some very ordinary reds aboard the P and O ferry Normandie.
With the sun out and a glass of a much better Bordeaux in my hand and a Sancerre in that nice decorating hand we took solace on the sun deck to enjoy another perfect summers morning. Astonishingly, the weather remained fine, even as we floated into Portsmouth. I began to hope that we would have a six week Indian summer in Arundel?
Having not had the opportunity to sample English beer for some two weeks and with the pub next door open and buzzing, it does not take a clairvoyant to know what happened next. We popped in for a quick one, ended up having several quite quick ones, then a few slower ones, then some very slow ones until we came to dead stop sometime in the evening. In between times, and within 2 hours of arriving back at Arundel, predictably, the clouds rolled in, the wind got up and splashes of rain were soon in evidence. The nice thing about having a pub next door is that when long trousers and a sweater were suddenly needed they were at very close hand. Two minutes to go home and change and get back to the pub.
So that’s it, the long summer party is over and I have work to do and not just for Currencies Direct, I have a book to finish writing, and a load of boring music biz administration stuff to attend to. I must also address a waistline ravaged by three months of mad partying so carbohydrates will be but a fleeting concept in the coming fortnight unless there are any unforeseen diversions, such as a retro festival at Goodwood next weekend, of which I only became aware yesterday. Barring the unforeseen, the next big event is the Bistro Rally from Port de la Rague to Cannes on 24th September for which we will be popping over to France.
Those lovely people at the South Of France English Theatre will be back with their adaption of Boeing Boeing at the Pres Des Arts in Valbonne on 9th November and have some excellent value sponsorship packages available. They will be taking the show up and down the Riviera. They are also staging their locally renowned Rockfantazia music show at the same venue on 28th and 29th September, a cruel reminder that my days to be in France in the coming year are sadly limited.
Chris France
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