Tempest dead on time
So then to The Tempest, 0ne of Shakespeare’s plays being performed as part of the Arundel Festival and directed by Jack Shepherd (the actor who play Wycliffe and who bizarrely was wearing shorts) in the rain which, as predicted, began several hours before the performance of the play. The rain began in earnest at around 3pm and reached tempestuous proportions by early evening, but by the scheduled start time, it had abated as my picture today, with the stage set against the backdrop of Arundel Castle, shows.
The calm before the storm
This was however the beginning of a cruel joke. Almost as soon as the first actors appeared, the first splashes of rain were evident. Within a minute this had turned into a torrential downpour, so severe that the on stage microphones began misbehaving and had to be turned off. That nice lady decorator had taken the precaution of bringing an umbrella, but of course as soon as she unfurled it, restricting the view of all behind her, she was required to close it and sat miserably under the central piece of the material which was acting like a stupid looking hat whilst we watched stupid looking actors.
I am not exactly sure when the driving rain turned to sleet but I think it was half way through the first half of an interminable mumble of disjointed prose and old-fashioned nonsense, so at the interval I assumed that we all wanted to leave to dry out. I had not banked on Auntie Pam and her school mistress backbone. She is 84 and was determined to sit it out and shamed me into staying for the second half, which incidentally was marginally less uninteresting than the first half.
Thus we sat in the rain with the wind rising close to gale force with the temperature dropping like a stone, soaked to the skin and beyond, surrounded by better equipped lunatics with that indomitable English sprit. They, including the Duke of Norfolk, were enjoying the hardship, I was not. I am fresh out of indomitable.
For those that consider that France is a bureaucratic nightmare, try this. I use a nasal spray to help keep the old sinuses clear and have some prescribed by my French doctor. On France, I can pop into the pharmacy with the empty one and get a new one. In England, I need a doctor’s appointment (next Thursday) and the repeat prescriptions have to be submitted 4 days before you need the medication. By that time my condition will have worsened considerably. Never mind though, I shall be in Valbonne on Monday so all will see the doc Tuesday morning and all will be done and dusted by 10am, two days before I can even get an appointment here!
Afterward the play had droned on for over 2 hours we were desperate to dry off so popped into the White Hart in search of something warming and were then seduced into going up to the Red Lion where an excellent white roots reggae band were playing, the place was rammed, hot and rocking so we sat at the bar gently steaming in our damp attire. Auntie Pam did not join us.
Three more days remain of the Arundel Festival but we shall miss the last as we fly to France. During these two days I expect to double the number of new Currencies Direct customers that I have signed up to 2. Sadly we missed Screaming Les and the Mindbenders last night as their performance clashed with the play, which was a shame, with a name like that and topping the bill on the Jubilee Stage they are unlikely to be ordinary, although that does not necessarily mean good, maybe next year.
Chris
Abba ration
The uninspiring and rigid more-than-my-jobs-worth attitude has finally ground me down and despite the George and Dragon at Burpham being a pretty pub with slightly above average food, I think yesterday’s lunch time visit will be my last for some time. Why employ people working in the service industry when they would be better off servicing cars? No, there could not have a larger bowl for nuts, no, we cannot get a smile, no, I cannot serve you because I am counting up something or wiping down a surface or making notes, no, there is nobody else who can serve you, no there would be no tip. Valbonne and a smile awaits.
Last night then for a sharpener at the White Hart before taking in “Abba on the Hill”. Staged outside the Kings Arms, the Abba tribute band were bereft of a couple of guys as my picture depicts.
Abba, without the two dodgy blokes
The real group had four people, this group had but the two girls. Perhaps it should have been billed as AB on the hill, or Abba go down hill? It was good fun though and there must have been 500 people in the audience, which completely swamped the pub, so those of us desperate enough for a drink resorted to going along the road to the Eagle and bringing drinks back, including my new friend who has promised to open an account with Currencies Direct.
Today, lunch is scheduled at the Black Rabbit on the banks of the River Arun a couple of miles outside Arundel. We have new bikes and, if we did not have the stern but wonderful retired school mistress, Auntie Pam, staying I would have cycled there along the towpath. Not back you understand, oh no, that could have been dangerous. I would have sent for sprog 1 to collect man and machine, finally getting some pay back for the years of taxi service I have had to perform for him.
Let me say something about our second-hand bikes purchased from a dodgy looking garage in Littlehampton; mine is a lean mean mountain bike with go faster saddle and 21 gears. It may also have reverse. That nice lady decorator chose one with only two criteria in mind; the colour and that it must be able to support a wicker basket on the front. Style, gears, brakes were all considerations that were dismissed as unimportant, the basket was everything. This morning will no doubt be spent hunting for just the right one.
Then, as the rain threatens to sweep in we shall be sitting outside this evening witnessing The Tempest. From the weather forecast it seems likely that we will be experiencing some particularly English local special effects along the same lines. I have my umbrella and winter jacket at the ready and am just about certain they will be pressed into service.
Just two more days in England and then its back to Valbonne for some rest and recouperation. That is what I thought anyway, but it appears that man mountain Peachy Butterfield and beautiful wife Suzanne will be arriving on Tuesday so any respite will be brief or non-existent. He will probably be blue from two months of “summer” weather up north in Chester and will almost certainly be requiring large infusions of rose wine. I am sure he has been drinking the same up north, but in Valbonne you have to put ice cubes in the wine rather than waiting for them to form in the glass.
Doubtless he will be laden down with gifts from the frozen north, perhaps some mounted road kill? I wonder if he has lost any weight during the summer? Perhaps he is a little less rotund, or maybe I can use the non existent word “rotundra”. After the briefest of thaws he tundra must now already be hardening up for the long winter.
Chris France
Morris men menaced
Last evening then to the Fullers pub, The Woodman Arms just outside Arundel, a beautiful thatched pub sadly badly affected by its proximity to the nearby A27 and its resultant noise. So after a couple of early evening pints of London Pride in the late afternoon sunshine (yes, sunshine) in their pretty pub garden, we went in search of more noise. It did not take long to find it as a party was taking place in the pub next door and the Arundel Festival Jubilee stage just up the road was also vying for audio acknowledgment at the same time.
Deciding we might as well join them if we could not beat them, we ventured out for more aural carnage after meatballs and orange mash. That nice lady decorator has found her cook books, but either she does not know how to use them, is colour blind or we were served designer orange mashed potatoes. I was sufficiently mellow and thus unguarded to mention the orangeness, and perhaps I should not have mentioned David Dickinson, the peculiarly orange TV presenter in this context as this was clearly a mistake and she took umbrage at my comments. The meal was perfectly wonderful as long as you were prepared to ignore the luminosity of the mash, but the taste was exquisite. However, I was not allowed to express that part of my opinion. By that time I was in the stocks, awaiting stoning. Perhaps I deserved it (the stoning not the orange mash).I think the culprit was carrot.
She was a bit touchy which I think had been caused by the Morris Dancers. Amongst the street performers during the festival are a team of them. She is not a fan of the pointless stick wielding and distinctly English pastime and I think her dislike must have been evident for all to see. This picture captures the spectacle a moment after her laser beam stare of disapproval had been directed at them in Arundel High St. Turning ones back is scarcely sufficient but I guess all they could think of at that moment.
Quick, pretend we can’t see her
A rather overpriced and under attended evening of world music on the Jubilee Stage passed us by as we ended up, as is becoming increasingly usual, at the White Hart, very close to home for a nightcap and to see if I could find further customers requiring the services of Currencies Direct. On this occasion I was unsuccessful.
Sprog 2 is off to the Reading Festival today so once again I experienced a “bung removal” as the late and great Steve Marriott would have described it. This involves the removal from my wallet by said sprog of any bank notes that the nice lady decorator has not found and already disposed of. I thought she would appreciate some fatherly advice about predatory males, too much drink and drugs but her retort, that she had seen enough of all three in her own family, whilst harsh but probably fair, cut me to the quick.
The Arundel Festival becomes a little more full on today, building up to a crescendo on Monday evening with fireworks at the Castle, which we will miss because…we will be back in beautiful Valbonne! In the meantime we have a number of delights to enjoy; “Arundels Got Talent” caught my eye plus “Screaming Lez and the Mindbenders”. I might also be tempted by Dr Jam and the Funk Crumpets over the next few days. Then on Monday, joy will be boundless as I expect to be in the Cafes Des Arcades in Valbonne Square before nightfall.
Chris France
Star wars in Arundel
It is rather embarrassing when you go into your new local pub and that nice lady decorator says “Hi Henry” to a charming young chap whom I did not recognise. More so when he says, “I am not Henry, and I told you that last night”. He is, as I think the girls say, “easy on the eye”, but I suspect she has done herself no favours by mistaking him for someone else. Perhaps she should have raised her eyes above his waistline?
We took in the Arundel Festival once again, which is splendid fun, but sometimes struggles to define its identity. Arundel is a quintessentially old English town with much 17th century architecture set against the splendour of a Roman Catholic cathedral and of course the well known landmark Arundel Castle, the seat of the Duke of Norfolk. The festival offers a wide range of art, drama and music including world music, jazz, rock, soul and even some hip hop, but I failed to see where this chap fitted in.
Star wars or land of the fairies?
We watched a band called the Amalgamation who were playing on the Jubilee Stage in late afternoon. These comprised a bunch of old rockers who were all the wrong side of 50 and the wrong side of talented but they did their best and “entertained” us with their idiosyncratic versions of major rock hits. Amongst the artists to be butchered by them were The Beatles, John Lennon, Pink Floyd and Thin Lizzy. Perhaps Fat Lizzy would have been a better name for the group? Or maybe “50 shades of grey?” White hair must be in fashion in that strata of rock society. The application of Grecian 2000 had clearly been a concept that has passed these boys, these old boys, by.
That nice lady decorators answer, under the influence of several glasses of Pinot Grigio to their announcement that they were about to attempt their own version of Robbie Williams “Angels” was “are you sure?” Later on towards the end of their set with the sun, which had made a late appearance after a grey start, setting directly behind the stage and shining into they eyes of the audience, the singer shouted excitedly “anyone want any Status Quo?” Following a resounding response from the crowd of “no!” He announced that they were going to do some anyway. “Rocking All Over The World” may perhaps have been referring to rocking chairs? It was however great fun so I guess they achieved their aim of entertaining the crowd, albeit perhaps not in the way they intended.
After they had finished we were threatened with an evening of Northern Soul, so, not being a huge fan of Wigan’s finest musical moments we adjourned for a swift one at The White Hart where we encountered “Henry” or whatever his real name is.
I did meet a chap who has a house in Spain and now lives in Arundel (perhaps his name was Henry as well?) Who can clearly benefit from opening an account with Currencies Direct to transfer monies between sterling and euros, so the evening was very fruitful and must be considered as part of my working week.
And so The Tempest approaches. Friday evening is earmarked for a visit by the favourite aunt of that nice lady decorator especially to witness some Shakespeare in the castle grounds. It matters not a jot that it is her only aunt, she would be a favorite in any event. Winter clothing will be required and more than likely, according to some dire weather forecasts, some industrial strength umbrellas. we can only hope.
Chris France
Head on collision stuns sheep
Inspired by Team GB and meeting the coach of the UK Olympic cycling team at Lords last week, coupled with an analysis of the area around Arundel being fairly flat, we have decided to buy some mountain bikes. There are some amongst my readers who will be saying that at our age we need our head examined and a few might even believe I would attempt to make a joke about psycho-analysis (cycle analysis) but that is a cruel and heartless slur. I would never contemplate such a thing.
In the meantime our exercise regime is based on walking which we try to do both morning and evening. The morning to try to rid ourselves of last nights hangover and in the evening in order to build up a thirst. Last evening we took to exploring an ancient Portsmouth to London via Arundel disused canal. We knew nothing of its existence until we found an overgrown canal sized depression and the remains of a 18th century swing bridge in the countryside around Binstead. It was whilst walking alongside this is crystal clear sunshine, which had replaced the earlier murky conditions, that I took this photo which proves how dangerous it can be for animals in the wild. These sheep for example had escaped from their field and had a head-on crash. I was lucky enough to be in position to capture the actual point of impact. Nature photographic awards must surely be just around the corner.
The moment of impact
A pint in a pretty pub garden at The Murell Arms in Binstead was notable in that they had in their garden a pen in which they kept pet rabbits. The may have provided some sport for Banjo before that nice lady decorator exerted some control, so we reconvened in Arundel to take in the festival events. A steel drum workshop on the Jubilee Stage was sufficient send us scurrying to the White Hart for a drink before a fish n’ chip supper courtesy of “The Trawler” across the road.
I love fish and chips, fish covered in mountains of glutinous fat filled batter, chips fried in fat and bright almost luminous green mushy peas (a token nod to the vegetarian brigade, and one of my five a day) and I am sure that my next cholesterol test will scale double figures (normal is seemingly under 5).
In contrast, a week from today I shall be back in Valbonne enjoying fresh fruit and the salad and vegetables that are at the base of Mediterranean cooking, but will have to expect my cholesterol levels will drop. It is a hard blow to take when one has spent the last three weeks struggling to reach the highest reading, but life is just that, a struggle.
In the meantime the festival continues apace and I am preparing for The Tempest. This should not be confused with the weather forecast, but is a performance of Shakespeare’s play at Arundel Castle later in the week. Cathie the Culture will know just how much I am looking forward to this, but with a former school mistress aunt of that nice lady decorator due to visit for a few days, it was her choice of which of the Bards plays we should attend. My vote for “The Taming Of The Shrew” being overruled by my favourite aunt in typically school mistress fashion, “utterly ghastly dear, we shall go to The Tempest”.
Once again I seem to be pressed for space to underline the benefit that anyone who deals regularly in different currencies can achieve by opening an account with Currencies Direct, a subject which I know is dear to the hearts of many who follow this column, so hopefully tomorrow I will find the space to go into it in more detail.
Chris France
Bathtub challenge
Lunacy is the only word that does it justice. Where in the world would you find 30 people prepared to make boats out of bathtubs, dress in silly costumes and then attempt to row up the second fastest flowing tidal river in the country? Answer, the Arundel Festival Annual Bathtub Challenge. Actually, most of the craft had two people or more on board, so the real lunacy count was considerably higher.
The “race” is one is the highlights of the Arundel Festival, an annual event which we witnessed yesterday. I have so many pictures of it but none do it real justice so this one will have to do. You will notice that one of boats has. Two. People dressed in blue telly tubby like outfits. It capsized just as the race got under way. As far as I am. Aware nobody frowned but that was more by luck than judgement.The only other annual event of which I am aware that has a similarly lunatic element is the Todd River Regatta which is held in Alice Springs in Australia. That involves teams of people putting their feet through the bottom of boats and running 10 miles down the Todd River which is dry at that time of year. However, when I was there a few years ago it was cancelled as there had been some vicious thunderstorms the river was flowing. Imagine, a regatta cancelled because of unexpected water.
Jolly Boating weather
With people prepared to do such stupid things to entertain others, it would have been rude not to have taken the best seats in the champagne bar, set right beside the River Arun, an achievement helped by being the first through the doors as 12.30. We figured we should get those seats as we were going to be their best customers. This was a near certain fact as we were joined by our old friends the Savins who had struggled through the wintery wastes of Buckinghamshire into the comparatively equable south of England yesterday morning. After a journey like that they were understandable in need to alcoholic sustenance.
Some 30 entries were received for the race up to somewhere near the Black Rabbit pub and back, but by the time we left only 2 of the bathtubs were back in view. I expect to see debris going up and down the river on the tide for the next few days at least. The spectacle was oddly enhanced by a brief but loud thunderstorm just before the start. It crossed my mind that it might be quite dangerous to be in a metal bathtub on a river with lightning around, but I guess the entrants were already resigned to the possibility of dying whilst taking part, so what did one more risk factor matter?
A light lunch of barbecued fish at The White Hart was followed by what seemed to be the briefest of siestas but probably was not, then in the evening after a couple of resharpeners we walked up to Osteria, an Italian brasserie in the village for some frankly underwhelming lasagna, although to be fair in complaining about my meal I was in the minority. The restaurant I wanted to go to upstairs was closed. It always closes on a Sunday, even during the festival. This is such commercial nonsense that I think it could be run by a French man.
There are 5 or more bands playing again this afternoon and evening at the Jubilee Gardens, and again, I feel it is our duty to support the Festival which is actually run by a charity. There is also an art tour where you go and visit various local artists in their studios, an attraction I am seeking to avoid, a ghost tour which I am frightened of taking and Shakespeare plays at the very imposing Arundel Castle. I have heard that we are going to see The Tempest at the weekend, weather permitting as the plays are staged in the open air. Rather apt don’t you think if The Tempest is cancelled due to a tempest?
Finally, no mention today of the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct due to lack of space.
Chris France
Who ate all the pies?
Every properly educated person knows that chips, when consumed in England, require Sarsons Vinegar. I think there is a law about not using it. So to say that I was stunned when that nice lady decorator told me that we did not have any was like being told wine does not need a glass, or that Banjo, the appalling whining canine owned by that nice lady decorator does not need a muzzle, Palpable nonsense.
We were sitting down to an English “dinner” which comprised a steak and kidney pie, some home-made sausage rolls from the Farmers Market and chips purchased from the chip shop across the road. An English feast of the type that is adding to my girth by the day. You will note that vegetables did not figure, but we were allowed some baked beans. Do these count as one of my five a day?
The Arundel Festival is underway and has been blessed yesterday by the sort of weather we expect to experience in my beloved Valbonne. Many bars have sprung up over night, one in the old ruins across the bridge and one on the gardens of a delightful house right on the River Arun some twenty yards from my front door. With its wall bordering the River and serving champagne and wine and with music on the stage across the river, we spent a perfect English Saturday afternoon drinking wine and listening to music. There is no real hardship in having four licensed premises within 100 yards of my front door. I do not have the heart to complain about the noise, she will shut up eventually.
Earlier we had walked around Arundel where because most of the roads have been closed all the cafes and bars have tables spilling out onto the roads and pavements. There is an English tradition that old towns employ a Town Cryer. My foreign readers may be forgiven for wondering why a beautiful English village has to have someone permanently depressed, but it is not like that. From what I understand the Town Cryer is a chap whose job it is to make the sort of announcements we all now receive via Facebook or email. Hangings, people being put in the stocks and witches being burnt at the stake were all entertainments that would have been announced by a Town Cryer, a sort of noisy walking talking notice board. I have a picture of the well fed Arundel Town Cryer today.
Oh Yez oh yez, who ate all the pies?
“Who ate all the pies” is a refrain often heard at English football matches when a player or a referee is deemed by the paying public to have over indulged in food. I am not saying he is fat but…actually I don’t know what I am saying. He cannot have eaten all the pies as we had one for supper.
Today we are to be visited by old friends the Savins. They are traveling down from snowy Buckinghamshire for a bit of sunshine and it looks like they may be lucky. It seems that the weather forecasters are predicting a full day of sunshine, the third on the trot. How long can it be before drought is once again declared?They are keen, as am I to see The Bathtub Challenge, a boat race undertaken by people who have built boats out of bathtubs. expect a full report tomorrow
Regular readers will know and expect that as today is a Sunday, a day of rest, I shall not spend time in this column discussing the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct. No, I have assumed that anyone who is enthralled by the daily goings on in either Valbonne or Arundel as faithfully reported in this daily blog, will have already opened an account.
Chris France
Insane Usain impersonation
Lording it at Lords, the spiritual home of cricket on an idyllic day in St John’s Wood in London began with a couple of glasses of Veuve Clicquot as play started at 11am. Earlier we had journeyed into the far north of London, Camden to be exact, to do voice overs for Otway The Movie, the premiere of which will take place at the Odeon in Leicester Square on October 7th. Already 90% sold out, if you want to come and be a co-producer of the movie, buy a ticket now by clicking on the link. There will be an after show party. If you want to go, email me, I may be able to help.
That nice lady decorator and I have both known John Otway, writer of the book “Rock And Roll’s Greatest Failure” an autobiography, since the mid 1970’s so have a small contribution to make to this cinematographical masterpiece. And so then to Lords as guests of Adidas in their corporate box where we were watered with a continuous diet of champagne, wine, beer and Pimms, and fed on sumptuous salads, duck, salmon, cakes, deserts and later even cucumber sandwiches. The weather remained fine throughout, a change from yesterday when, in a rainstorm, I took this picture of Nigel “Medina Palms” Rowley who was demonstrating the Usain Lighting Bolt pose, but clearly wanted to keep his champagne glass close to him whilst so doing. I think this was very wise.
Rowley makes a Bolt for it
Amongst the great and the good who were invited into the box, which held about 20 people, was Bradley Wiggins Adidas Agent and a gritty Australian called, rather inevitably, Shane, who was head coach of Team GB Cycling. I asked him if he had cycled to the ground and I am sure his retort “on your bike” was in jest. Actually a thoroughly nice approachable man, his only drawback seemed to be that as he was an Australian, our arch cricket rivals, he wanted to see England beaten by South Africa. I challenged him on this as how could he be so keen and work so hard to help secure England so many Olympic medals yet so want to see them beaten at cricket. He said it was his day off and anyway it was team GB, not England for whom he operated.
We then dashed back to Arundel for the start of the Arundel Festival. When I say dash I mean after 20 minutes of extended good-byes as that nice lady decorator does like a natter and doesn’t do “dash”, especially after a day drinking champagne. Boy can she talk. If there was an Olympic sport involving talking she would be a shoe in. She was paying such close attention to the cricket that as they players left the field at the close of play she suddenly asked what was happening. When I told her it was close of play and time to go, a wild-eyed frightened expression crossed her brow as she said “but my glass is empty, surely they haven’t stopped serving champagne?”. Indeed they had not, so she had one for the ditch.
On the way back on the train I was able to spend some quiet moments going through the business cards I had collected during the day and just whom could benefit from the opening of a Currencies Direct account. One particular South African sports agent could well be that lucky person. He was so delighted that he invited us to Cape Town next year. I think it would be rude not to accept.
Chris France
English rain innovation
There is a film called The 39 Steps. Had it been just 39 steps to the bar at Lords then I could probably have dealt with it with just a lot of whimpering and miserying. But 75 steps? Down then up carrying beer? Each time? Outrageous. What were the Lords thinking of?
Lords is of course the home of cricket and is located in St Johns Wood in London as any right thinking human being would know almost from birth. Cricket is also the best game known to man, surpassed by no other contest. Forget the Olympics, forget football, forget everything, even games that may require a brain, cricket is the ultimate, and Test cricket, five-day games played an international level, are the cream of the crop. Add in the fact that Lords is the spiritual home of cricket and you will see why having to do a step class to get a pint was so disappointing for me. Please do not forget that I had to catch a train leaving Arundel at 7.30. I was not certain the train service would start that early, or it may have been the late train from the night before.
It rained of course, but only at lunch time when we had set up our picnic on Harrison’s Lawn, one of the immaculately kept outdoor grassy areas inside the stadium so that the coronation chicken could be suitably crowned. With us were Nigel Medina Palms Rowley who on this occasion did not don a wet suit and cricket pads at a cricket match as he had done many years ago on a cricket tour to Jersey. He still has a mad streak which surfaces occasionally. Talking of mad streaks, we were also accompanied by old pal and senior Adidas commercial manager Ben Dobson who found a novel way of keeping the rain off his eccentric mauve suit as my picture today illustrates. Don’t worry Ben, it will look better when it has shrunk. It could hardly look worse. Fashion is such a fleeting concept often out of the grasp of even the great and the good.
Is that a man with a plate on his head?
Of course, standing outside whilst having lunch in a monsoon is a particularly English trait which hardens the resolve of the soul, and is the type of activity those pesky public schoolboys constantly witter on about when talking about “character building” and the “stiff upper lip”. Cold showers at school and cross-country races in plimsoles through the freezing mud, you know the sort of thing. However, I left England for France, to the lovely Valbonne, to where I shall shortly return for a brief holiday, precisely to avoid this sort of weather, so I am afraid I must admit to being unhardened, even soft bellied, and, at the height of the storm my stiff upper lip was certainly quivering.
Last night then to the famous Sea Shell Fish And Chip Restaurant in Lisson Grove where we were joined by that nice lady decorator who had eschewed the cricket in favour of more mundane tasks yesterday and arrived in the evening. However, she has made time in her busy shopping schedule to be available at Lords today where we are both guests of Adidas in their box. It will be tough going and I am sure you will spare us a thought later this morning. I believe the champagne will be served from 10 am onwards, an hour before the start of play.
The annual Arundel Festival also starts today so after the end of days play and no doubt a couple of pints for sustenance before taking the train back, we should be able to experience the event first hand for the first time. I looked through the list of sponsors but was unable to find those wonderful purveyors of foreign currency Currencies Direct, which was a surprise. Maybe next year?
Chris France
A proper breakfast or a dogs dinner?
We set off yesterday morning in mild temperatures but under glowering skies to walk the dogs at Rustington, with the hangover nurtured nicely, and by the time we reached the sea it was blowing a hooley and lashing with rain. “Whats wrong with you?” said that nice lady decorator as, after 30 seconds in the freezing wind tunnel of rain-lashed horror, I was back in the car. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, she was wearing oil skins and a caribou hide jacket. Fine for her, not for me. A good hearty English breakfast was required to restore order as my picture today shows.
A cholestral concentration
Preparations must be made for my trip to Lords tomorrow. I have been appointed wine monitor for the day. My instructions are to have available 6 bottles of white wine chilled and a couple of bottles of a decent red ready for lunch on the lawn today. As there are 5 of us meeting there, we will obviously have to supplement these meagre portions with beers or, more likely, visits to the Pimms and Champagne tents. I think there will be some cricket to watch as well, weather permitting. My problem is not the wine but the chilling. It will be fine if the weather is like yesterday morning, leaving them outside should get them nicely chilled. I may have to keep the red wine close to my body all day in order to achieve anything like room temperature.
I mentioned my chilling problem to the sprogs, but it appears that the younger generation attach a different meaning to the word. There was nothing else for it, I would have to go shopping for some wine chilling sleeves. I tried to sneak out on my own because, as all men know but few will talk openly about, the retail experience when undertaken alone and by a man is immensely more time efficient than when undertaken with a woman present. However, the shopping alarms went off in her brain, so my quick dash to Chichester became a shopping marathon, topped by a visit to a garden centre resulting in most of the town being deforested and moved to Arundel. Kew garden now has fewer plants than us.
The good news, apart from the usual good news that surrounds opening an account with foreign exchange special its Currencies Direct, is I have found a method of chilling the white wine that should work. The bad news is that I will have to get up almost before I go to bed in order to get a train that will get me to London in time for the toss up. England must win to keep their status as the No 1 Test playing nation, and whilst I dream of success, my head tells me a draw will be the best we can achieve.
A night out in London beckons after dinner at the Sea Shell in Lisson Grove, one of the most famous fish n chip shops in the world. I think I will order a steak and see what happens. We shall be joined at the cricket and for dinner by Nigel “Medina Palms” Rowley whom I shall attempt to keep fully clothed throughout. This has often been a problem in the past, most notably at my house in Valbonne some 3 years ago when he and a certain high profile dentist, whom I really cannot name, having tested the local rose wine to undressing point were at one stage naked aboard a wind surfer in my swimming pool. A dining room chair was also involved but that is all I can say without risking writs for libel. My defence, that my 15 year old daughter has photographic evidence, should be enough to come to a reasonable settlement.
Chris France
A fishy smell?
The obvious problem of a combination of having a pub next door, and rare lovely weather was a perfect storm that found us in the pub at just after 3pm following a day machetying the wisteria. For the uninitiated, that means cutting back a large bush.
Being sprog 2’s 18th Birthday meant that the house was swamped by teenage locusts hungrily tucking into my provisions, and eventually 7 of us made it up to the China Palace. At first, that nice lady decorator was gleeful as she thought it was going to be another visit to a shop selling china and was somewhat deflated when she found out it was in fact a chinese restaurant. It is a little known fact that Currencies Direct can deal in the chinese currency, so as this was effectively a business dinner I have kept the receipt for the usual animated discussion with my accountant as to what percentage of the cost might be an allowable business expense.
But before I go into that, let me discuss something that I saw being offered as an attraction on Brighton Pier the day before yesterday, a fish pedicure. Literally, if one so desires, (and in this particular case one does not) one places ones feet into a tank full of a particular type of fish, who will then attack and eat all the dead skin on your feet. Given the size of many people enjoying the low quality treats for which this iconic structure is renowned, and thus almost certainly the size of their feet I doubt if the fish there would ever go hungry. There are many jokes I could make about this practice, many ways to skin a cat, but I don’t want to put my foot in it.
Fish and feet rather than fish and chips
I mentioned this “attraction” whilst the teenage rampage was ordering at dinner. Any suggestion that the timing of this revelation was a desperate attempt to reduce the appetites, and therefore the bill which I was paying, of the ravenous teenagers is as despicable as it is true, but to my surprise the majority had experienced such a “delight” in various parts of the world and expressed satisfaction with the results. Gone it seems are the days of the visiting chiropodist, which is a shame because that was one of the things I was looking forward to in my fast approaching old age. I am now a mere 18 months away from a free bus pass.
So after a very good chinese dinner beneath a wonderfully ornate 17th century carved and suspended ceiling, shared with the excellent Townhouse restaurant next door, a brief sharpener in the Eagle in Arundel, I thought we were safe venturing home as the pub next door, The White Hart, takes the precaution of closing at 10pm on weekdays. However, when we returned, well after 11pm, we heard some of the locals still in the yard garden testiculating (waving their arms around and talking bollocks), so decided to do join them and do some testiculating ourselves. I think that is when the trouble started but cannot recall for certain. One of those present was still in the same seat she had been at 3pm.
The weather this morning is back to English normal, cloudy, drizzly and windy so its off down to the seaside with that monstrous mutt Banjo to get blown away and wet. If I can get away with it I shall be taking a tennis ball with me to launch into the massive waves so don’t be surprised if you hear me shouting “fetch” at the top of my voice.
Chris France
The dead centre of Brighton
A sudden invitation to go to Brighton to meet up with Mr Clipbeard for lunch proved irresistible. There are shops there you see, and that nice lady decorator has an obsession with shops. It is not just visiting then she likes, oh no, money must be spent in order for the full satisfaction to kick in. So we headed on the train from nearby Ford and were on the famous pier within an hour in the rain. Not heavy rain you understand, but that nagging irritating rain that you only seem to get in England, in summer.
Having become a little damp, something that in different circumstances may have been quite welcome, we took refuge in a very seedy looking bar, and, feeling like death itself I was then faced with a very real reminder of dead and dying as my picture today illustrates. It was a magnificent sight but a little too poignant a comment on Brighton in general and myself in particular for me to enjoy to the fullest. I also have a magnificent picture taken on the pier that will have to wait until tomorrow.
A macabre sight on a macabre sea front. Juan Les Pins in August just clinches it
Whereas the famous Brighton Pier and the sea front offer all that shows English seaside resorts at it worst, amusement arcades, roller,coasters, a fun fair, chips with everything, sweet shops and snotty nosed ill-behaved children who need a good slap, comprising the seed stock for the next generation of the uneducated great unwashed, the area around the station known as the Lanes is full of life and vibrancy. Small shops are stuffed with an amazing array of merchandise firmly aimed at the Bohemian, hedonistic, vegetarian student and the gay fraternity. Tattoos and piercings were, for me, a little too widespread for comfort, the accepted opinion that a subtle tattoo can be alluring not having gained much traction locally, but the area is alive and buzzing.
Paradoxically, lunch was taken at the atmospherically disappointing Hotel Du Vin, disappointing only in that there seemed to be dozens of lively places where it may have been more fun to lunch, and probably a lot cheaper. However, Mr Clipbeard who, in his infinite wisdom had made the reservation, was in fine form and looking forward to reconvening for another go on Friday at Lords for the final cricket Test of the summer. This will be the last match in the series against South Africa, where England have just shot themselves in the foot by dropping star player Kevin Pietersen from the team. The reason given was texting misdemenour, reported by the opposing team, a master stroke of undressed genius to get our star player, and the man who helped us gain a draw in the second Test and whom the South Africans fear the most, dropped. Seldom have I seen a clearer case of gamesmanship (not to be confused with sportsmanship), a dark art at which I am particularly well practised, achieve such a stunning result.
Sprog 2’s 18th birthday today will no doubt be another of her famous wallet lightening exercises, which began last night with an invitation to the pub next door to buy her a drink. She would not listen to excuses that she is not old enough, and accepted an apple juice with poor grace. I did however mitigate the damage by spending some time chatting to another young lady who can almost certainly benefit from opening an account with Currencies Direct to save money on foreign currency transactions. At least that is what I believe.
Chris France
Band (should be) on the run
Sunday is traditionally a day of rest, so I was hoping that I could give my liver a rest for at least a full day, but it was not to be. The car boot sale at Ford was not as we had thought but was a market, the car boot sales happen on a Saturday but that nice lady decorator was undeterred in her quest for retail satisfaction and managed to buy, amongst other things, two pigs ears and two ears of beef. Yes, it is as bad as it sounds, pigs ear and cows ears featured amongst her retail triumphs.
So stunned was I at the sheer unpleasantness of being able to buy ears from dead animals in order to amuse other animals that I briefly considered becoming a vegetarian. Shocked, I think the only antidote was to be found in a pint of beer so we adjourned to the nearest pub, the Black Horse at Clymping for a restorative pint. That was not quite sufficient fully to suppress my distaste so we called in at the Ship and Anchor north of Ford on the way back. It is a lovely pub but it is set in a caravan park and sadly the clientele betrayed that fact. The menu was led by the phrase “proper pies” and once I had seen that and the number of caravans surrounding us, I knew we were in trouble.
It is not that all of the inhabitants are ugly fat thieving didicoys, that would be to apply an unfair stereotype, but most of them were. Perhaps I am being unfair being a camper myself, but there is a world of difference between owners of classic camper vans touring Europe in a music loving old hippy, free-love style of living to the chaps who have a static caravan which has never moved from a field near the south coast of England. One is a hedonistic chaser of teenage dreams of a utopian love-not-war theme, the other is a fat slob with a builders bum, a whippet in tow and a dog end hanging out of their mouths.
We managed to sneak out without being mugged and arrived back in Arundel to the strains of a brass band playing on the grass beside the Waterside Cafe, so what was to be done? Several glasses of wine is the answer. I have a picture of the scene today. The Worthing Silver Band were destroying, in a loving, caring, amusing and truly English sort of way the best that Freddie Mercury and Queen could offer. It was that nice lady decorator who was the first to identify “We Are The Champions”. Other triumphs included the theme from Grease and, no I cannot go on. A siesta was required.
The worthy Worthing Silver Band give Queen a run for its money
Like most of the population of Britain and I guess much of the world, I sat and watched the Olympic closing ceremony on TV. Was it only me? Could all the good bits could have been compressed into about 15 minutes? Why spend three hours laboring a point? Yes, we did it all quite well, and it was quite a good Olympic Games but what a load of fuss. Highlights for me were Muse, the Who, Eric Idle, Imagine, Russell Brand, Annie Lennox, Ray Davies and the Spice Girls, the rest if it should have remained on the cutting room floor, although I admit that is a bit tricky when it is a live show. Interesting that some of the performances sound quality was far superior to others. Pre recorded anyone?
As usual on a Sunday, no time to mention the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct. That can wait until tomorrow.
Chris France
Burpham after food
So we walked to Burpham, sadly pronounced Burfum by blog hating locals obviously to avoid any columnist such as myself making any jokes about wind. I am so disappointed when people see the shallowness in my writing and react accordingly. The walk took about 40 minutes on the way there, and about two and a half hours on the way back. It would be rude of me to reveal who amongst us fell over 7 times on the walk back, or to discuss what occurred on one occasion after a fall, or the repeat episode when we got back and headed for a siesta, but if I were to mention the old adage of waiting ages for a bus and then two come along at the same time, you may get my drift.
Lunch at the George and Dragon, which has a very good reputation locally was not a triumph, mainly because we quite stupidly chose from the rather limited printed menu and, after ordering discovered a range of special dishes available on the day, chalked on a blackboard. My pork belly with celeriac was quite good but that nice lady decorators pint of prawns was not. A load of pregnant shrimps was far too fiddly and unsatisfying, but luckily satisfaction came later for her albeit in a rather different way.
By that I mean of course that was very satisfied by the Pinot Grigio on offer, so satisfied that it took 6 glasses to sake her thirst. It was a beautiful summers day but one thing with which I have become reacquainted and wish I had not is stinging nettles. I took this picture of the Waterside Cafe in Arundel as we set off. It seems that during the Arundel Festival which starts next weekend, this is transformed into a champagne bar for the 10 day festival duration, a real hardship that we will no doubt be forced to support for charitable reasons (the festival is operated by a charity).
Waterside Cafe, soon to be champagne bar
Another disaster delight that is denied us in France but seems to be prevalent in the UK nowadays are car boot sales. There is often something similar in Valbonne, where they are called vide grenier (literally empty your loft) but as that nice lady decorator will tell you, size is everything. Also, the range of detritus available to buy is that much wider. Personally, I shall be on the look out for a couple of mountain bikes, although with one amongst us often not good on two legs, two wheels might be even more dangerous. Has anyone ever seen a mountain bike with stabilizers? The sale takes place at a village called Ford, which is also host to Ford Open Prison, a prison for low-level offenders not considered dangerous to the public, like, presumably, petty thieves. Does no one else see the irony of a car boot sale being located next to an open prison? It is very thoughtful of the organisers to give the inmates an opportunity to sell and ill-gotten goods to the general public with no questions asked.
If it remains sunny, and there seems to be some doubt about that, I believe it may prove thirsty work and a pub may feature after the no doubt crazed buying spree in which I shall not be involved.
I am on the countdown to my return to Valbonne later this month where I shall be able more easily to continue my work with Currencies Direct. Flights are booked, shorts will be packed and wine will be drunk. Peachy Butterfield and the lovely Suzannne will be joining is at this time. I wonder if there is anything left in his 10 litre box of appalling red wine that he left before he left as it were?
Chris France
Public schoolboys just cannot leave it alone
Oh dear, yesterday seems to have passed me by without my noticing. As I awoke this morning I have a hang over, a sore throat and I smell of curry. I recall certain events, such as deciding to have a walk around Arundel and having reached the other side deciding to stop for a pint in a quintessentially beautiful English pub, The St Mary’s Gate. There they were selling an ale called Hopping Hare and then and I recall popping into the Kings Arms for a pint of London Pride on the walk back. Given the warmth, I had developed a thirst again by the time we got home so diverted into The White Hart next door for a pint of Harveys.
This should not be construed as malicious boozing, the tour had a developed a scientific research element, balancing the relative merits of three English real ales. Conclusions? I hear you say, well, I have decided that the research may have been unsound so there will have to be a new research programme, but not today as my head still hurts.
It seems that someone in the pub next door was recommending that I try their house Cote Du Rhone red, but I said I preferred the Rioja, so as I was in the mood for research I decided to try both alongside each other and as far as I remember that’s when the trouble started.
By this time the sun was going down and it being so near the Arctic Circle, it was probably about 9pm and that is when it all goes a bit hazy. I remember sprogs arriving in the pub yard which adjoins our house to fleece me of some cash, talking someone into opening an account with Currencies Direct, that nice lady decorator conking out and retiring hurt at about 10, but the sore throat and the curry? I see that one of my Havana cigars has gone and on a brief early visit to the kitchen I was appalled by the smell of curry and the half eaten remains of a Lamb Jalfrazi and various evil smelling containers containing, well, I know not what. I was about to wake up the sprogs and remonstrate with them over the mess that they had left when I had a sudden flashback and realised that I may have been the guilty party. As that nice lady decorator said this morning “the next time I suggest a walk around the village we must not go into every pub we pass”. It is a good point, well made.
For sale indeed
The picture above is especially for those public schoolboys who number amongst my friends and, to a man, refuse to admit they read this daily column. They seem to have invaded the estate agent business. Mr Clipbeard has form in this area having been in charge of the estate agency when Suzie Lamplugh went missing. As I may have mentioned before, they all seem to share an affinity with and some may have a passing nod towards homosexuality and so when I saw this sign, I knew it was just that, a sign.
Today, after the daily retail therapy (there is no space left in this tiny house, what more could she want to buy?) We will go walking. The plan is to skirt the river Arun, the railway and the fields and try to find the George and Dragon at Burpham for lunch. Ordnance Survey maps have been laid out and my entreaties for a taxi have fallen on deaf ears, so unless I can feign illness, or successfully employ the old “shrapnel moving around” defence, I shall be walking for miles later this morning. It is not that I don’t enjoy walking, I do, but not with a hangover of this intensity.
Chris France
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