Caspar, the ghost writer?
It was always going to happen. Public schoolboys do not react well when grammar school boy oiks achieve something to which they can only aspire. My having an article published by The Daily Telegraph, that bastion of conservatism, hitherto the reading material for the upper middle classes, landed gentry and those that were sent by their parents to schools with names like Wellington, was too much to bear, so to say I was looking forward to meeting up with a prime example of this ilk, an old Wellingtonian himself, to discuss this was an understatement of the highest order.
Thus, with a smirk on my face as wide as the Grand Canyon, I headed for Valbonne Square for an encounter with chief fag toaster himself, Mr Clipbeard, to discuss the merits of said article which was published this week and you can read by clicking here. I had taken the liberty of forwarding the link to it just to be sure that he was fully aware of the public relations debacle that was about to engulf him.
His first retort questioned whether its publication in this very sober journal was a set up for “Jim’ll Fix It’, a popular TV programme from our youth in which Jimmy Saville sought to give no – hopers a chance to live their dream. Magnanimity had, as I had expected, no place at this dinner table. His next line of attack was to ask who wrote it. Surely I had a ghost writer? He said, although this one I did not understand. What would Caspar have to do with it? But no matter, nothing he said could permeate that feeling of well-being that resides with me even now despite his continual attempts to belittle this achievement. I do hope it is such a bone of contention that he will continue his disdain at tennis this afternoon, then I will be certain it hurts. As soon as he calls me Boycie, a reference to the used car salesman character in another popular TV comedy series, I will know for certain I have got to him.
Mr Clipbeard makes his point about a ghost writer
Yes, tennis, the very last game of which I shall be playing in this chapter of my life, as we leave tomorrow morning for a new life in the UK, with only a brief week’s holiday back in Valbonne in late August. I have laid out my winter clothing because, despite a heat wave in England at the moment, there is a quiet certainty that I will be rained on at some stage the first day I set foot back there on Sunday. Two days to get back I hear you ask? It is perfectly simple. We have to travel through the heart of some of the best wine country in the world, so it would be a lost opportunity not to stop somewhere en route to sample the local delights, so where better than Beaune, the centre of Burgundy.
Also, I find it very difficult to drive past the magnificent Chateau Du Cocove, an oasis in the terminally boring and usually damp hinterland of Calais, so difficult in fact that I have decided not to drive past it at all, but to drive to it and stay on Saturday night for one last great culinary French experience before it is back to fish covered in batter, Cornish pasties, pork pies and other English delicacies.
You may think that my efforts to capture clients for Currencies Direct may wither and die when in Arundel, but nothing could be further from the truth. Although I accept the locals may have no concept of what is foreign exchange, I feel it is my duty to educate them, and who knows, perhaps there are similar tax exiles in residence who will understand?
Chris France
A journalist is born
There are days that start badly but then improve to heights undreamed of when wallowing in the slough of discontent. Such a day was yesterday. Let me start with the good news. A poorly educated council house oik (the description of my good self regularly employed by a number of my public schoolboy friends) yesterday added the description “journalist” to the self-composed list of qualities, which include “successful author”.
In England, the leading conservative daily newspaper on a par with The Times is The Daily Telegraph. It is the newspaper of choice for those public schoolboy types. Imagine then my delight that they informed me yesterday that the very first article I had ever submitted to them, or indeed any newspaper had been published. You can see the article by clicking here.
The small recompense that they will pay me is as nothing against the entertainment I shall glean over the coming days as my chums realise the enormity of the public relations coup this represents. I cannot wait to meet Mr Clipbeard this evening to discuss this triumph. I know he will be pleased for me.
I think a celebratory cigar this evening?
It was just the kind of uplifting news to set against the increasingly depressing prospects of returning to England and there was something else that was depressing me. I have a hunch that it had something to do with tennis but, no, its gone, but no matter, a new career in journalism, starting with one of the most prestigious publications in England, even the world is sufficient to erase any disappointments that may or may not have occurred yesterday.
Even the prospect of the day ahead today being littered with a string of tasks I have been set my that nice lady decorator, most of which seem to involve me in furious manual labour in the heat of the day is not enough to remove a smirk from my face, a smirk that will become a chuckle when I meet up with some of my better educated peers this evening.
Obviously I must make the most of any time available to me in between to complete my work with Currencies Direct as there are still any number of lost souls out there seemingly oblivious to the fact that their banks are fleecing them each time they make a foreign exchange transfer. There is a better way, a brighter way, a cheaper way to do this, click here for details and to apply.
So two more days and it is the end of my life as I know it. I know we shall be back for a week at the end of August, but then there is the rest of the year when I shall be based in Arundel, albeit interspacd with trips to Ireland, Italy, India, Australia before Christmas (one must get used to this exile gradually breaking up those long expanses of boredom, cold, wet weather and expensive wine by taking regular breaks to deal with the monotony). I shall take some solace in English real ale, but it will only partly offset the sense of desolation that is about to wash over me. Who knows, if the tax situation in France can be clarified, I will be able to return in exaltation sometime next year. I live in hope.
Valbonne Square then this evening, although not at its best because of the influx of tourists, which of course ironically will now be all the more pronounced due to the publication of my article in the Daily Telegraph, but I shall sit with a cigar later and contemplate what I am leaving behind.
Chris France
An evening flowers
There is always a moment during the irksome completion of ones daily tasks in the south of France, when one dreams of lunch, even if time constraints look like they make such an idea impossible on paper. Such was the case yesterday when we had completed the so called “booze cruise” across the border to Italy and back by 11 30. Consider this; 36 bottles of prosecco, 12 bottles of a decent red, 2 bottles of Absolut vodka, a bottle of Havana Club rum and a 5 litre can of virgin olive oil, all for under £200, about 250 euros at todays’ Currencies Direct exchange rate.
With such success it seemed an obvious reason to celebrate, so we did, by going to lunch at Auberge de la Source at Sophia Antipolis, and, although the celebrations were somewhat muted by the attendance of Mr Clipbeard, this was offset in more than equal measure by the fact that the lovely Ashley, his wife, came too.
Amongst the very important issues discussed was a blog (not my own on this rare occasion) I had seen on Facebook called “50 sheds of grey”. This seems to me to be a development of the wonderful Monty Python sketch about Arthur “two sheds” Jackson, which if you were too young, and missed at the time is too difficult a subject to recount here. The girls amongst us became much more animated as this discussion developed, but I have to admit I did quite understand why. Grey sheds seems an unlikely subject about which to get excited, I guess I will never understand women.
So after a successful lunch, and an afternoon cap at which point I spotted the first blooms from our hibiscus, pictured today, followed by a short siesta, it was back to work to prepare for the trek into the Stygian depths of the north of Europe, ie England at the end of the week.
Red Hibiscus
Tennis last evening was postponed due to Blind Lemon Milsted acknowledging that his forehand was almost beyond redemption and pulling out on some spurious pretext, so spurious that it was not even revealed to his partner, me. However we all know that there is a problem here, and like the supportive friends we would like to be and are not, will do the best to expose this weakness when next we see him, this morning at 11.00am sharp unless he becomes even more spurious. On the tennis court, cool (forehand) hand Luke he is not.
Last night was a bit of a write off. It had started full of industrious intent. Our electrician had been jumping around to the commands of that nice lady decorator, fixing a few electrical problems and as he finished in early evening I thought he deserved a beer before I got down to making another load of cement. I had my old clothes on, a barrow full of sand and was bracing myself for more hard labour when I got a call from Roly and Poly, asking if they could pop round for half an hour. That’s when the trouble started. I should have known when they arrived carrying two bottles of wine, and they finally left around midnight. Had they arrived 10 minutes later, I would have had a wheelbarrow shaped lump of concrete to contend with.
One interesting footnote which I know will be of interest to the Reverend Jeff related to a discussion we had about some religious friends of Roly and Poly. At one stage I was told that they had “been to hell and back” with some issue or other. I suppose it is only the religious ones that are able to get back?
Chris France
Confirmed, Banjo repulsive
With the sun out in England for about the first time this summer, there was an inevitability about yesterdays thunderstorms, the first rain in two months. Actually it was quite refreshing sitting in the pav watching the lightning and rain gradually reduce the temperature to a more comfortable 25 degrees.
As I was sitting there last evening awaiting drinks after another day of toil and trouble (I did the toil, that nice lady decorator supplied the trouble), I spotted the “Repulsive” container, featured in today’s picture, a spray designed to deter cats and dogs from entering a particular area. It was purchased because some neighbours cats had decided the pav was a good place in which to sleep overnight and something had to be done to disavow them of this opinion.
He must have modelled for that picture
Pleasingly, the “repulsive” container featured a picture of a dog that was the spitting image of Banjo, the name of the truly unpleasant hound owned by that nice lady decorator. Perhaps I should not have written “Banjo”, under the picture of him on the “repulsive” spray in felt tip pen, but with him being allowed into the pav on account of the storm, I could not resist the opportunity to see how effective this product could be. Sadly, he seemed more repulsed by the storm and rain than the spray, and just when I was about to extend the experiment to a no doubt very satisfactory conclusion, certainly for me, that nice lady decorator arrived, dripping wet but with a two Bloody Mary’s in her hands and a look in her eye. I admit I was torn. A Bloody Mary was very tempting but on the other hand a wet and repulsed Banjo was also a great lure. In the end one look at that nice lady decorators’ expression and I chickened out and took solace with Mary.
Last night, with the Auberge St Donat closed, we had planned once again to try out the Fontaine des Vins in Valbonne which is under new management, but with the rain continuing, doubtless brought with them by the hordes of pesky tourists that have arrived this week, this idea was given a late swerve.
Tomorrow morning we shall head for Vintigmilia, just over the border in Italy to collect sufficient stores of olive oil, parmesan, prosecco and a cheeky little red that I have found, sufficient to keep out the cold and wet of England until we are able to return. Frankly to do that job effectively we would need a pantechnican with a trailer, but we shall have to make do with cramming as much as we can into the 4 X 4.
There is a danger, assuming that these irksome storms move away, that we will have one last beach lunch before departure on the way back. Cagnes Sur Mer is favourite, but tomorrow will tell. Well, I will tell tomorrow in this column. If it keeps raining expect a report on tiddlywinks played at home.
Then this evening, assuming a return to normality for the weather, and assuming that I have left my mark on sufficient numbers of potential customers to open accounts with Currencies Direct, I am scheduled to play tennis at the Vignale for the penultimate time before a brief one week return to Valbonne, after which I shall be exiled to Arundel for the foreseeable future. Mr Larg and his son (Mr Small?) will be mine and Blind Lemon Milsted’s opponents. Last time out Blind Lemon’s forehand was a disaster which found somewhere to happen, so I shall be expecting better things from him during this contest.
Chris France
A dogs dinner?
Pressure of house tidying work, and the seduction of a glass of wine in the pav last evening was enough for us to fail to make it to the reopening of the formerly very disappointing Fontaine des Vins, a wine bar in the centre of Valbonne that I, and a few enlightened locals, had attempted to buy last year. However, early reports from those that did attend, one of which used the expression “crap wine and crap seating” suggests that this may not be the panacea of the opening of a decent wine bar in Valbonne for which many of us had hoped.
The existing wine bar, La Kavanou could be decent and indeed was for a time, but as the English maitre d’ seems intent in encouraging children, french chaps who nurse a glass of wine for an evening and owners of yappy dogs determined not to be parted for a moment from their meat pies pets as customers rather than the free spending but noisy ex pats, it is, I am afraid, a place to be avoided for the most part, unless you number yourself amongst one of these above mentioned favored groups. There is also the problem of not being able to take ones drink outside, a disadvantage that the new place does not have to endure. I will however reserve judgement until we personally have given it the once over.
As we sat in the pav, with the growing realisation that in less than a week we will be returning to England, the enormity of what we shall be leaving behind made its mark. Where will she get her nails done in Arundel?
That nice lady decorator, who it has to be said is relishing the move back, has just had hers done, pure folly as she spent much of today with several barrows of cement (made by my good self) repairing some misplaced stones surrounding our pool. She was cursing the fact that her new nails were nor helping her texting accuracy. Eventually, when she managed to send the message, I suggested to her that she had nailed the typing but she was too tired even to slap me.
Sprog 2 has taken to doing a fry up for many of her friends most mornings. These friends, who mostly look they live under stones but are almost without exception from families far more affluent than I, seem to delight in being entertained at my house at my expense. The expression “grinding the face of the poor” comes to mind. Anyway, recently I was able to photo this output and my picture today is the result. I think she needs a boyfriend.
I think it is supposed to be 2 eyes?
There was half a plan to go for a pizza tonight at the Auberge St Donat but in another fine illustration of the word “entrepreneur” which sounds like it is a French word, the restaurant is shut tonight as it is a Sunday. No matter that they only open in the evenings for July and August because of the massive influx of tourists into the area and the evening warmth, no, French intransigence and refusal to adopt what they call “the Anglo-Saxon Experiment” in which the laws of supply and demand and a free market are central, seem to pass them by. Don’t you just love it!
So now I have just received from that nice lady decorator a list of jobs for today which include mixing more cement, lopping trees, cutting lavender, cleaning the bar area, getting a Sunday Times, watch cricket, mow lawn, pack clothes and clear garage. Does she not know it is a Sunday, a day of rest? It’s enough to make me consider becoming religious (only joking Reverend). I hope you notice that there is no mention today of the benfits offered by Currencies Direct.
Chris France
Sun goes down on red wine
I was in the car on the way to play tennis at the Vignale yesterday morning, listening to Riviera Radio when suddenly during an advertising break I was exhorted to visit the queer centre. That is what it sounded like, but it may have been referring to the leather shop called the Cuir centre, but in English the message seemed clear, or queer.
Perhaps my senses were heightened by the fact that I was due to play tennis with some public school types who always seem to have predilections in that direction. In any event, despite a very dodgy forehand display from Blind Lemon Milsted, my partner for the day, we managed to secure victory on the count-back. It was not a scoring system that our opponents, Largy and his son had encountered before. They were under the impression that the match was a draw as we had won the first set and the second had been tied before the pressing engagement of lunch precluded further play. To say that he was dismayed by his introduction to the Chris France tennis scoring system, which calculates the total number of games won by either side and declaresa winner, was perhaps an understatement. It is a system that is only invoked when it suits me.
Regular readers will know that one thing I love above all others, with the exception of winning at anything I play, is to hear talk about my blog or book. So initially I was impressed when Blind Lemon Milsted told me that he was going this evening to see a friend who was an enthusiastic reader of this column. It was however a bit of a downer when he said that her visiting times had recently changed. Jealousy can be so destructive.
Last night, after more gravelling and gardening in preparation for our imminent departure, we escaped late in the evening to the Auberge de la Source where they were having a music soiree, French style. Much as I love the French, the music that they enjoy is anathema to me and so, after a pleasant meal in lovely relaxed outdoor surroundings, but with Barry White songs rather too much to the fore we adjourned to the pav for a night-cap before what was planned to be an early night.
Clouds gather for my red wine stock
The best laid plans can collapse into a heap, and so it was that we stayed in the pav until the early hours discussion I know not what with gusto and intensity. Perhaps we discussed the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct to take care of foreign exchange needs? I just cannot remember. I do recall the reason it got out of hand was that nice lady decorator spotting the carefully concealed bottle sof one of the few red wines she will drink, Les Pierre Plats, a cheeky little wine from near Perpignan.
This is of course a catastrophe of the highest order. Quality red wine is frankly wasted on women. There, I have said it. No doubt I shall receive howls of protest from my female followers, both of them, but facts are facts, especially if you see things from my perspective. Anyway, the last of my stocks of this little beauty were laid to rest in an orgy of meaningless discussion.
Readers languishing in the UK will doubtless be pleased to note that the weather forecast for Vallbonne today indicates the possibility of some clouds later, something we have not seen since early June, and, even the possibility if a thunderstorm on Sunday, so in those circumstances, there is no way you will get a non swimmer like me anywhere near a boat, thus Sundays proposed trip from Antibes to Villefranche sur Mer has been err…..sunk.
Chris France
A line about washing
As I sat in the web just before sundown I thought the beers tasted a bit odd. The bottles bore the legend ” Pure Malt” but it was after the third one had no effect, that I had a good look at the bottle and found to my distress that they were alcohol free. What is the point of that? Its like unsweetened sugar, or bland curry, or soya meat, what purpose does it serve?
Apparently they were bought for now departed sprog 1 who had wisely declined to drink them and then in a misplaced sense of helpfulness, having inspired the drinking of all my real beers, he kindly filled up the fridge with bottles full of this filth. It is a cruel trick to play on a thirsty old man.
Obviously with the first day of the Test Match between England and South Africa on Sky TV, all my work for Currencies Direct had to be completed before the first ball was bowled, but as previously explained, if one works at the intensity I do, a full days work can be completed in less than an hour.
My picture today is a disaster. It was meant to be a moody shot through this crystal ball looking at the sunset. Firstly I missed the sunset, then, having taken the shot I noticed the peg in the background. The washing line can clearly be seen. A washed up shot from a man who himself should be pegged out to dry.
Lets put a line through this
More tennis beckons today, which means yet again I will miss church at Cafe Latin, my final chance before I depart for England next Friday. What I will not missing under any circumstances though is the traditional post tennis lunch at the Auberge St Donat, where I seem to have spent a lot of time lately. A new grouping tomorrow may put me alongside Blind Lemon Milsted against apparent misogynist and old Harrovian Largy, obviously short for lager. This challenge will be dismissed by the Mognipotent one, although with no Wingco patrolling the net, it will be a rather different experience.
Last night I slipped up to the pav for some cheese and biscuits and a glass of Les Pierres Plats, a favorite Roussillon red, whilst that nice lady decorator flopped down exhausted and went to sleep watching Poirot. What a coincidence? because that programme does the same for me. She has an excuse though, she is madly cleaning, boxing stuff and generally preparing for our move next week and is so tired she even rejected a last minute invitation to meet up with Roly and Poly, with whom we are supposed to be going on their boat for lunch in Villefranche Sur Mer on Sunday. I say supposed because I have seen the weather forecast and I am not sure I am quite ready for thunderstorms at sea and there is the small matter of the vast amount of work to do prior to next Friday’s tearful farewell..
And so, just a week to go although we will return for a weeks holiday at the end of August. I have decided to keep blogging through the move if only to spite the Wingco and Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’ Azur Villa Rentals who we happened upon on Wednesday evening dining at the aforementioned Auberge. This was the evening dear readers, when he claimed he was unable to play due to pressure of work. He was dining with his lovely wife the maid Marion. You will not be surprised to hear that I gave him a fearful hard time, richly deserved for such an obvious act of cowardice. Rackets at dawn I say.
Chris France
Read nothing into this
It was important to get a good nights sleep and go to bed early as I had been designated to undertake an airport run this morning to take Sprog 1 to catch his plane back to England. I say this morning but really it was late last night. 7am? What kind of time is that to be getting up?
Any sane person of my age knows full well that it is vital not to get up before 9am, and then only in extreme cases, weddings, funerals etc, in order to be on top form for the day ahead, thus about 10.30 am is the optimum, otherwise, ones normal bed time of 2 30 am is compromised. One can also be compromised by ones bank if one is moving foreign currency and does not have an account with Currencies Direct, but that is easily rectified by clicking here.
That I agreed to make this sacrifice of getting up almost before I had gone to bed was really a stab at self-preservation. Once the two teenage lay-about magnets (sprogs 1 and 2) have departed I will get my house back and will be able to end the patrols and spot checks necessary to protect the integrity of my fridge. I am not accusing my two darling children of being lay abouts, merely that their presence attracts the cream of local teenage laziness, all of whom seem constantly to be thirsty or hungry or both. None of them seem to have homes of their own to go to.
I did consider not going bed at all and staying up until 7am but with the first cricket Test Match between England and South Africa commencing late this morning, and for which my complete attention is required, there really was no choice. Earlier I had hidden the TV remote to ensure it was not hidden from me when it becomes time to watch the cricket, to be contested by the teams ranked 1 and 2 in the world.
Reading glasses keep an eye on the tennis
Last night, after some keenly fought tennis at the Vignale, where I found a novel way to store my magnetic reading glasses whilst on court as pictured today, we adjourned to the Auberge St Donat for a pizza. Traditionally this is a boys own evening, the kind of which is much beloved by the Wingco but I had decided to surprise him by inviting wives and children to join us. To say he was not pleased may be a slight understatement. The giant moustachioed one was bristling with indignation, muttering constantly about tradition, and girls and children should never be present, until the consumption of several carafes of table wine had calmed him after about 10 minutes. In this respect his ability to dispatch large quantities of wine in a very short space of time rivals, and even exceeds, the combined abilities of the aforementioned teenage lay abouts.
To add to his discomfort, that nice lady decorator decided, rather than to leave these teenage locusts lurking on our property, home alone, to invite them out for sprog 1’s last night and join us at this traditional boys gathering, thus the normal tennis 4 became a rather unwieldy table for 12. In this context, the detailed analysis of the earlier tennis did not have its usual intensity, and I confess that I too partook of a little too much wine which is why I cannot recall the result. I do remember that it was a very good game of tennis between four chums in the sunshine and it that which is the most important aspect. Winning or losing matters not a jot in these circumstances as we are all winners to be able to enjoy such an event.
Chris France
Truffle kerfuffle chuckle
I only want to talk about the second set, as, during the first set the sun and heat seemed to get to the Wingco and he came over all aggressive, trying to hit the cover off the tennis ball. Once I had calmed him, normal “service” was resumed and an honourable draw agreed after two hours in gruelling heat.
It may have been the heat, or more likely that fact that an airport run (for a Currencies Direct client) which precluded him joining Mr and Mrs Clipbeard and that nice lady decorator for lunch at the Vignale that was the problem. After lunch, and a siesta, I awoke and took this picture of some Agapanthus just in bloom by the pool. All is well in my world at the moment but literally the storm clouds are gathering.
Agapanthus in bloom
It is now just 10 days before we leave to go back to the UK, however the news is good, the jet stream which has so plagued the weather over there in the UK for the last three months is on the move northwards, which will no doubt please northern refugee Peachy Butterfield. St Swithins Day was dry, and the old saying suggests that August will be the start of 40 days of dry weather.
Lunch at the much improved Vignale Tennis Club was good and Mr Clipbeard only mentioned this column in disparaging terms three or four times, which is a move forward. As he said recently, although in rather different circumstances, he cannot resist the temptation to have a go; “its like peanut butter in the fridge, if you know it’s there you just can’t leave it alone”.
That gastronomic delight reminded me of a conversation in which I had been involved in the day before with Roly and Poly Bufton at lunch at Auberge de la Source. We were discussing truffles, those pungent pieces of mouldy fungus much loved by those gourmet types, of which Leslie (Poly) is one. Seemingly there is restaurant, I think in Nice, specialising in truffle dishes. Now I don’t mind a bit of rum truffle baba or ice cream from time to time, but I am afraid the evil smelling version leaves me a little cold. It seems these little blighter’s taste only last about 3 weeks, hence the price. When partaking of a truffle at said restaurant last year, she had to send it back because “it had no taste”. Frankly, that would have been a move forward for me, but no matter, in fact come to think of it I have been thrown out of better establishments than that for having no taste, but I digress.
The truffle was sent back and there was some altercation in the kitchen. I suggested that I would be wary of sending anything back anywhere unless it was accompanied by a hesitant attitude and at least a smile, as there are stories about waiters and chefs dealing with difficult customers by abusing their food. It was at this moment that the expression “truffle kerfuffle chuckle” entered my head. It made me smile but that nice lady decorator gave me the look of a less than benevolent waiter.
More tennis this evening as I attempt to play as often as I can before departure. There may be no outdoor tennis for months,if ever, in England and I am not sure I shall enjoy playing in a hangar. Mr Clipbeard and Nick “trousers down” Davies will be our opponents as yet again, “Dancing” Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals received another white feather for cowardice. He claims “pressure of work” but his clients arrive and depart on a Saturday so what’s to do all week?
Chris France
Wish Denied
No plans existed for lunch or any sort of entertainment until well after midday (try 5 minutes) when we received a call from Roly and Poly Bufton demanding that we join them for lunch. As it happened, I took the call and explained to them in some detail why we could not indulge them due to some gardening alterations, in which we were deeply involved, that had been imposed upon me by that nice lady garden designer. I described it as a fatwa, which I think meant that a fat bloke had to do a lot of digging, but once I handed the phone over to that nice lady lunch organiser, the day took on a different perspective.
She decided in an instant that their suggestion should receive an affirmative and so, with a silent prayer, I divested myself of my gardening apparel, took a shower and spent some time tending my luxuriant handle bar moustache, just to be sure that my adoring public would not be disappointed should they encounter me in Auberge De la Source. As it turned out, I need not have worried. There was only one admirer of this column at the table, indeed in the restaurant, and that was the writer.
Perhaps I am being disingenuous. The lovely Leslie (Poly) has admitted to dipping into the salacious delights of this daily missive, but had some words of warning. The theme of this was how would I be able to continue this labour of love, maintaining a newsworthy focus on Valbonne, when living in exile in Arundel, which I shall be forced to do in less than two weeks time. “How will you continue your missionary work with Currencies Direct whilst living in the UK? ” was one of the questions she did not ask.
She has a point and it is a question to which at present I have no answer. I am waiting for divine intervention but as yet I have had no guidance from the Reverend Jeff. Maybe I should dial 1 800 TALK TO GOD? The lovely Leslie suggested that I read Bill Bryson’s, “Notes On A Small Island”, apparently a book about how to deal with encountering an alien culture. She suggested it might give me some ideas.
After lunch, delayed somewhat by a sign in the street about a tortoise having been found, we took post lunch solace at the web, awaiting the arrival of local tortoise expert Lucy Bennett, pictured here today. Any suggestion that I have used this photograph merely because she is young and beautiful is as scurrilous as it is true.
Personally, I prefer them as they are
So the afternoon was lost in rose and an early evening siesta was required in order to restore some equilibrium. It was a difficult task given the descent upon us by a horde of locusts, teenagers claiming to be friends of Sprog 1 and Sprog 2, determined to ensure there was not a beer left unopened or a glass of rose un-drunk. To say that they were very successful on their mission would be an understatement.
Later, in readiness for my dose of Shakespeare in Arundel, the enjoyment of which the Revered Jeff sought to question with his comment on this column yesterday scoffing at my interest in the other great bard, that nice lady decorator and I sat and watched a film of The Tempest featuring Dame Helen Mirrren and Russell Brand which was so bad it shook my faith in the writings of my fellow author. If anyone made as bad a film of my work then, assuming that a production of this sort may be more likely to occur after my demise, I shall be back from down below to haunt them.
Chris France
Modern art fiasco
Having conceded the first set 6 – 1 in poor conditions on tennis court number 11 at the Vignale yesterday morning, where the position of the sun is a hindrance to quality play, Mr Clipbeard was chipper, claiming “the blog was writing itself”. This is a comment that I often make when something funny and reportable in this column is or has just occurred.
On one level I was pleased to hear this comment as, once again, the subject of my daily writings was the topic of discussion, and, as you all know by now I love it when it’s all about me. The Wingco, who has held a consistently negative view of this daily missive, at once attempted without much success to change the subject. As it turns out, Mr Clipbeard was correct as, two sets later, having changed courts, the Moustachioed Old Gits were triumphantly downing a victorious beer having trounced our opponents by two sets to one and the blog had indeed begun to write itself.
No, no and no
Several beers were consumed during the post-mortem, or indeed the victory roll depending on whether one was a loser or a winner. After tennis, I adjourned to discuss this momentous victory with that nice lady decorator and I am afraid that I have to report that she was less than impressed with my fulsome description of this famous triumph. I can still hear the words “who gives a fu*k?”. Women will never fully understand tennis, or winning.
Dotted about Valbonne at the moment are a series of hideous sculptures of the kind beloved by the French and the kind of idiots who see merit in the entries for The Turner Prize. Modern art is of course a complete con, fooling all of its followers all of the time. The only reason I am glad to see such a beautiful village festooned with so much garbage is that it gives me something to write about and photograph, as I have here.
I was going to describe this piece as a” load of bollocks” but as you can see, the bollocks are in the wrong place, above the penis. This is a measure of the lack of talent of the artist, getting a simple detail like that wrong. I have been told I am a Philistine, but I have no idea why the lack of appreciation for modern art might signal me as a man who would collect stamps.
Anyway, after another hot day, we sat down to dinner outside with Sprog 1 and Sprog 2, who hitherto had no idea that this is to how they are referred in this column. They were very pleased, not. With it being so hot, the best time of day now is after the sun has gone down. Note to self; sometimes cool wet weather can be welcome. I shall keep this note with me when I am “enjoying” same in England.
Actually the Arundel Festival look like fun. Loads of street entertainers, loads of music, Shakespeare, and even a “bath tub challenge” where entrants build a craft to negotiate a mile long stretch of the River Arun. It seems that locals can never have enough of getting wet. Being a confirmed and determined non swimmer I shall be restricting myself to reporting on events rather than taking part.
You may have spotted that I have not yet mentioned today the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct, a way of saving up to 3 per cent on your foreign currency transfers. I make no excuses for this glaring omission, I simply forgot until I read this through, hoping that I had completed the customary 600 words, my daily target. 608 now, no 610…….
Chris France
Fireworks postponed
Mr Clipbeard as an acknowledged nut when it comes to new technology. He is the first to buy a new bit of kit as soon as it comes out before it has been tested and shown to be useless. I bet he even bought a Sinclair C5. Last night as we sat on his wonderful terrace watching the sun go down over the Estoril hills, he showed us his latest retail triumph.
We were on the terrace, from where I took this picture ,as the Cannes Firework display was postponed until Monday due to wind, and being a poor sailor and, with that nice lady decorator a little under the weather, we decided not to accept the Master Mariner Mundell’s kind invitation to what he called “plan b”, which probably would have meant him having lots of fun sailing madly on a force 6 whilst his guests aboard parted company with the gallons of rose they had consumed before departure.
What is that wine glass doing to the view?
But back to Mr Clipbeard. Flying in last week on Easyjet, he had been attracted by one of their very worthy offers to buy an Iphone cover enabling you to use it underwater and take pictures. Basically it is a plastic see-through bag into which you place your Iphone and for which he paid a ridiculous 20 euros. I could have sold him something similar for 2 euros. Anyway he was very pleased with his purchase and was in his pool trying it out when he received a phone call. Sadly, that is when the design fault was revealed. You can answer your phone underwater but the bag is obviously sealed and no sound can be heard.
The Wingco and his lovely wife Maryse was also aboard the terrace. The gathering had been an impromptu response to the firework display being postponed, and the last-minute idea was to drink the wine and eat the nibbles that we had prepared for the boat trip. The Wingco, who still maintains that this daily column is “ghastly” despite claiming never to have read it, was determined to do his best to ensure there was no discussion about it because in his words “nobody reads it”. I wish I had been able to capture his expression when his wife said “I read it” and then the equally beautiful Mrs Clipbeard admitted that she too read it and thought it was good. It was very rewarding for me and then the paintings created in Marina Kulik’s painting class for my next book came up in discussion (click here to see them). Opinion was mixed but overall the feeling was that I had made the right choice. Anyway, I became slightly embarrassed that the discussion was all about me so I tried to change the subject. “That’s enough about me” I said, “now let’s talk about my blog”.
Tennis will reconvene this morning, and it will be very interesting as we have the usual bright sunshine as I write but a force 6 mistral is blowing. I am not sure if my usual lobbing game is best suited to playing in a gale but I am about to find out. Obviously, playing outside may be an alien concept for my UK readers who, it seems, mostly play their tennis inside huge hangars, another aspect of life in England to which I am not looking forward.
As it is Sunday today and therefore a day of rest, I shall down tools as far as my work with Currencies Direct is concerned, because as the banks are shut today they cannot rip you off with exorbitant charges in the form of poor exchange rates. However tomorrow will be different. They will be open and ripping. Sign up now, you know it makes sense.
Fireworks in Valbonne
As we sat at lunch at the Auberge St Donat, Mr Clipbeard was extolling the virtues of Le Clos De Pins (pronounced “Clo” for my non-French readers), a new restaurant at nearby Roquefort Les Pins. I am not sure if it was deliberate or not, but the Wingco mistakenly thought he was praising Northern Irish singer Clodagh Rogers, responsible for the UK’s entry into Song For Europe several decades ago or more.
I mentioned that I had once been involved in Song For Europe some decades earlier as manager of Belle And The Devotions, the UK representative in the competition in, I think 1982, but I do not think they believed me, but they do know for certain that I am a local coordinator for Currencies Direct.
I am afraid that I have to report that one particular public schoolboy present was a huge fan of our Clodagh and admitted to his first sexual feelings, and it seems results, when confronted with pictures of Ms Rogers in the 1970’s. Of course, as he is my friend, I could never reveal publicly who was this love-lorn teenager but I would be prepared to bet that Mr Clipbeard is, as he reads this, experiencing some tumescence.
Lunch was, once again, all about me. The theme was how the public schoolboy bullies (as, except for myself, all the other lunchers were from that ilk) could best punish me for this witty and erudite daily column and book (which, if I am honest, is not how any of then viewed either publication). I think it was when I mentioned that this week I will pass 70,000 hits on this web page that the trouble started.
As all present are invited aboard the Master Mariner Mundell’s boat this evening, a litany of jealous ritual abuse aimed at me was discussed which I think was designed to try to reduce or “water” down my daily output. Keel hauling was mentioned, with special mention for the barnacles on the boat that might be able to sustain further physical damage, along with plank walking and, rather inevitably, buggery, cutting off one side of my luxuriant handle bar moustache, and one of them went as far as saying I was a cad. I am constantly amazed at how bullying has left its mark on these chaps. When I suggested that, in fact, what they were contemplating amounted to same, I was told that I did not understand what real bullying was all about, and that this was just a bit of fun. Real bullying, I was told, was much worse.
Further denigration of my achievement of leaving my poverty stricken roots behind and managing to drag myself out of the gutter by sheer hard work and ability (again, not how they saw it) was illustrated by one comment concerning the curriculum of Belleville School, in deepest south London which I attended as opposed to the very public school Wellington: “we had athletics, you had car theft”.
Fireworks in Valbonne
Earlier, we had exhibited all the qualities admired around the world as Englishmen. We had played tennis at midday in scorching 32 degrees and unremitting sunshine, the only court of 11 in use, where an honourable draw was the result prior to lunch. John Coward, the BA pilot and Mr Clipbeard’s partner was unable to clear that final hurdle to join us. Let us thank god his Boeing 777 did not suffer the same fate when he was the co pilot when the engines on the plane he was driving cut out on the approach to Heathrow some years ago. That hurdle, the airport perimeter fence, was mercifully scaled, but only just.
Last night then, into Valbonne briefly for the pre Bastille Day fireworks, some of which are pictured today, preceded by a pizza and a pichet at the Valbonnaise, but the early to bed as I have more tennis at the ridiculously early time of 9am. Floodlights will be required.
Chris France
Sun sets on gourmet food
One of the lovely aspects of living in France is the gourmet food available from any number of local restaurants, and the quality of the diet in general, with the emphasis on the lovely fresh local fruit and vegetables. So with the nice lady decorator busy in the kitchen after returning from London, and with wonderful aromas reaching me in the web last night where I was nursing the first beer of the day, from where I took this picture, I was understandably salivating over whatever it was she was creating. She has been away over 30 hours and as I hardly even know where the kitchen is, let alone any of that machinery that does the cooking, I was hungry. So what was the treat……? A tray of scotch eggs and some small pork chipolatas.
It seems that as we will be away for an extended period we must “eat the freezer”. Apparently, as the freezer, well one of them, needs to be empty by the 25th July, our proposed leaving date, in readiness for when the summer guardian arrives, we have either to eat or trash its contents, so it looks like I am in for some gastronomic treats in the coming weeks.
For instance, I am not sure how I will react, with the temperatures hovering around 30 degrees during the day, to an unfrozen Christmas Pudding, which I happen to know is currently languishing in there. And who bought and frozen mince pies? At least it will be a period of rehabilitation with English food.
Sunset for healthy eating.
Yesterday was too hot to do much and it looks like being much the same today, so what a sensible idea it is to play tennis today at 11am. A slight change on personnel today in that we have found someone who has not played with Mr Clipbeard for some time so may have forgotten what it is like. John Coward is a British Airways pilot who lives locally and is famous for being the co pilot of the Boeing 777 that crash landed at Heathrow a few years ago, just getting over the perimeter fence when the engines cut out. I do hope he has enough stamina to make it through the match without cutting out early. The usual jokes will undoubtedly reappear, for instance, should he hit the ball in the bet, cry of “up a bit” will be irresistible to some, such as myself. The lob may attach “what goes up must come down” and the like. I think you get the picture.
There is just a chance that we will pop into the Auberge St Donat for lunch thereafter as another tennis quartet involving Milsted (Blind Lemon), Harris (Dancing), Bay (Dock Of The) and Mundell (Master Mariner) play at a similar time, although the quality may be somewhat lacking, their enthusiasm is touching, although their commitment is open to question as they book just an hour whilst we shall have two hours. What is that expression about Englishmen and the mid day sun?
It appears that many of the above together with respective spouses will be aboard L’Ecocet, the Master Mariner’s boat for the Bastille Day fireworks in Cannes, and fireworks of a different sort may also be expected as The Wingco is reportedly bring his guitar and amplifier.
On a slightly different note Roly Bufton called to ask what was the form for taking a boat into the Bay of Cannes as he would like to take his, and there will be hundreds of other boats doing the same. He had previously sought advice from the naked former politician who advised him to anchor, then stay anchored for sometime until all the drunken boat parties had left before returning to port. I do hope he was not referring to us.
Chris France
All aboard for the fireworks
What sort of chap reneges on post tennis dinner on the spurious pretext that his wife expects him back for dinner? Could it be the same kind of chap that decides, amid another thrashing, that he does not like the surface upon which we are playing and whines to such an extent that we switch the match from clay to a hard court after he has lost the first set? I cannot reveal who was responsible for both these misdemeanours but I will say that Mr Clipbeard is a cad and a bounder.
It is a long-held tradition that, unless apologies are received in writing in advance, anyone selected to play tennis on a Wednesday evening is expected to partake of a post tennis pizza. Simply dipping out of this arrangement without warning is an example of impossibly bad manners which, if I am honest, is a fitting description of the general behaviour of a former Wellingtonian public schoolboy whom I shall not mention, but he knows to whom this refers.
It is bad enough that our leader, Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villas pleaded that he had a migraine or it was his period or something and had made his excuses (and had the received the white feather for cowardice) not to play, but at least he did not let us down at the last moment. Thus myself, the Wingco and Nick “Trousers Down” Davies took Pizza at the Auberge St Donat, newly open for the evening in summer.
It appears that all three of us, together with respective spouses, plus even a certain backslider, whom I have mentioned above but not named, are invited aboard Master Mariner Mundell’s boat (the subject of my picture today) for the Bastille Day fireworks in Cannes this coming Saturday evening. I am reasonably confident that the three of us who did adhere to last evenings dinner arrangement will show up, but am less confident about the manners and reliability of the fourth.
Fireworks aboard on Saturday
The Master can take only 12 aboard L’Exocet, but has come up with a cunning wheeze to increase the numbers. By taking a Rib, a kind of dinghy with us, which seats 11, we can tie it up to the boat and bingo, we can have 23 aboard at anchor. The Wingco is bringing his guitar and Blind Lemon Milsted is expected back from the States where he has gone to see a man about a job, I feel an evening of ad-libbing musical firework nonsense may not be far away.
That nice lady decorator flew back to London yesterday to help the unremittingly untidy sprog 2 clean out her room at her digs in Kensington. She has taken with her the largest and most durable rubber gloves (called Marigold), some industrial strength detergent and a paint scraper to see if she can return the room to a state in which we have some hope of retrieving the deposit, so last night, there was no one at home to nag look after me, thus I had in mind a quiet night cap in the pav whilst I contemplated all the work I have not done for Currencies Direct.
Stupidly, I had forgotten that sprog 1 was at home looking after my beers and wine and he had thoughtfully invited about twenty thirsty teenagers to help in that effort. I know I should have retired to my bed and not spent at least an hour regaling them with stories about my career in the music industry, but I just know when I am being funny. At least I think they were laughing with me not at me.
Chris France
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