The neighbours must love Pink Floyd
“I am tired and will go to bed early” said that nice lady decorator as we took a late afternoon trip into Antibes on the train to buy something or other which was very important to one of us, but for the life of me I cannot recall what it was. As I write it is coming up to 2am and I can hear her listening to Pink Floyd in the pav at neighbour-incensing volume whilst I try to get the earplugs to block out the cacophony. I like Pink Floyd in small doses and at sensible volume, neither of which I am hearing at the moment. In fact I cannot hear my own brain. The gendarmes will surely be here soon to put me and the rest of Valbonne out of its misery. That, or I will have to bail her out again tomorrow.
On the way back on the train from Antibes, after a couple of pints of Murphy’s and several Desporado’s respectively at the Blue Lady, we decided to stop at the very French Mouans Sartoux for dinner, and very good it was as well, and at 50% of what it would have cost in Valbonne during this, the tourist season. It was at this point that she got the second wind.
Earlier, tennis had been postponed because try as I might, I could find no one willing to partner Mr Clipbeard. That he is boring and a poor tennis player is not how I would describe him, although there are others that would. Another court has been booked for this evening and so far I have six rejections of the opportunity to partner him. Perhaps I can find someone who does not know him.
My picture today was taken beside the stream that runs behind the Auberge de la Source in Sophia Antipolis on our daily march to throw off the effects of Riviera living.
A walk along the river
So now there is barely two weeks to go before the rain will stop in England as I leave the Channel Tunnel and land on English soil for the forseeable future. I am certain that my arrival back will see the sun emerge from those pesky clouds and all will be well, in fact I predict more hose pipe bans by the end of August. I am often asked how I will deal with the enforced move back and I say “badly”. There is some small solace in that Arundel looks beautiful, the Arundel Festival looks like a mini Edinburgh Festival and the house we are buying has a small garden with a gate into the next doors pub garden, so, I don’t even have to go off my property before I get to a pub. If it has wifi, or if my wifi reaches the bar then I think I know where my new office reception area will be.
You may think that living in the UK for much of the rest of the year might interfere with my missionary work on behalf of Currencies Direct, but nothing could be further. From the truth. I have converted almost everyone in Valbonne, a task made easier now as the rate is now above 1.26 euros to the pound, but if I have missed anyone click on this link. Arundel offers a whole new market for me to exploit. There will be any number of locals dreaming about moving to France after the recent “summer weather” they have been experiencing, and I will be on hand to help guide them through the foreign exchange process.
There will be other rewards, proper real ale will be readily available, as will sausages, and Lords will be more easily accessible in mid August for the Test Match against South Africa, but I shall be hanging on to the thought that we shall be back in Valbonne for a last fling in late August before hunkering down for the winter.
Chris France
Pool resources
The whole world is changing. I am having to move back to the UK for much of the rest of this year, banks can no longer be trusted, and neither can Mr Clipbeard aka Mr Clipboard, well-known as the pedantic time keeping ogre who has, wait for it, both changed the timing of tennis at the Vignale today AND then cancelled. Is nothing sacred? It was something of a surprise then, that he actually turned up at the Cafe Des Arcades in a packed Valbonne Square last evening having booked a table. I took up this point with him, that the two words with which I most associate him are “anally” and “punctual”. It is fair to say that he was not best pleased by this observation.
A tirade aimed at non public schoolboys (ie me) followed but I forgave him as he is currently living in a household of nine where he is the only male (although perhaps a chromosome test might be relevant just to be sure).
The lovely Mrs Clipbeard was there and was excited about an invitation she had received, and extended to those present, to what seems to me to be an opportunity to watch paint dry. That nice lady decorator gets all excited by anything to do with paints, decorating and especially a paint making company called Farrow and Ball. Imagine her delight then to be invited to champagne reception at Raymond Blanc’s Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons in September to hear a talk about paint. She is already spitting feathers as it seems that oil based paints are being phased out and she needs an explanation of exactly what is being done to ensure that she can continue her decorating duties without recourse to water based paints.
I was not aware that they are being phased out, and, like all right thinking people, was not remotely interested, however I know she is very concerned and will have something to say to these people. Elephants Breath (the ridiculous name of one of their colours) will be as nothing compared with the vitriol that they will be receiving if no alternative is forthcoming.
It is now hot here, so hot that even I, a confirmed non swimmer, have had to seek solace in our swimming pool for extended periods in order to cool down so that I am able to concentrate on the best ways of securing new customers for Currencies Direct. What is sometimes a little disconcerting whilst so engaged is to hear a loud splash and then find a spaniel swimming by with a tennis ball in his mouth as my picture today shows.
Dog with tennis ball, no this is not Wimbledon
This is Max, the fine old family (stone deaf) pet loved by all and he is welcome to use the pool at any time. There is however another dog who also uses my pool but he uses it without my permission. I have explained to Banjo, the calamitous canine who survives only due to the patronage of that nice lady decorator, in words of one syllable that he must not go on as he is not welcome but he feigns deafness and takes no notice.
And so today there is now a huge gap in my diary this morning due to the aforementioned unreliability of Mr Clipbeard. That nice lady decorator is out for the day, decorating, there is no tennis, no lunch, and I have to start packing for England. My life is coming to an end, just a little over two weeks to go.
Before I go though, there is a packed schedule of events starting tomorrow with that tennis. Then we are aboard L’Exocet this coming Saturday for the Cannes fireworks, and thereafter may take Bluebell the camper van down to Callian, near Lac St Cassien for a champagne and chukkas polo event on Sunday for some horseplay.
Chris France
Plane evidence
Who would have children? I have made it clear to mine that they were their mother’s idea and I had very little to do with their conception. Much as I love them now, having to reject an invitation last night to dine with the most stylish man to emerge from the sixties, Anthony “Dock Of the” Bay, and his impossible young and gorgeous wife, Amanda ? because we had previously promised to take the sprogs out for a meal, stuck in my craw. Anthony may have been wearing either his bottle green crushed velvet suit, or maybe his silk Indian house coat, both undoubtedly fantastic photo opportunities for this column, and, as he is not yet a customer of Currencies Direct, I would have had a chance of converting him.
He mentioned that he had considered sending me an email expressing dissatisfaction about our non-appearance. It was to have taken the theme of “how dare a grammar school oik refuse a gracious invitation from a former public schoolboy”, but had decided against it as he thought it might appear in a slightly edited form in this daily column, but nothing could be further from the truth. It would have been heavily edited.
Anthony was, of course, present at the lunch at the turn of the year at the Auberge St Donat when a number of public schoolboy bullies held me down and forcibly removed my luxuriant beard, and then claimed it was an accident. Indeed it was from this lunch that Mr Clipbeard had his named changed from Mr Clipboard. Anthony claimed that he never took part in this event but I was able to show him this rather grainy photograph taken on the day which forms the basis of the case for the prosecution.
Food fight?
The physical assault on my person on that day had very little to do with my beard, minor irritant that it was intended to be, but was in fact rooted in jealousy. My first book had just been published, to considerable acclaim at least in this blog. Many of these chaps consider the whole idea of a self-made man like myself, from what they consider to be a lower caste, writing and publishing a book, to be an affront, which required punishment or at least a little humiliation. Mr Clipbeard had bought a copy and then proceeded ritually to torture and eventually destroy it. This would have hurt had he not paid for it, but a sale is a sale. The book, a living, vibrant commentary about the lives of the idle rich in Valbonne, was then the subject of an attack, which I felt as if it was my own soul being abused. Fire was used, one of my genitals (one of which they claimed was visible on the front cover – in fact it was my knee) was attacked and many pages were ripped out and used as paper planes. Anthony claimed that he did not involve himself, but when I found and showed him the incontrovertible evidence in this photo he changed his story, saying that he was merely passing the paper plane, shown in his hand, back to a fellow public schoolboy, but in the time-honoured “food fight” manner to which these chaps are clearly accustomed. It is a shaky defence and one that I intend to destroy in much the way my book was destroyed.
I expect to be back at the scene of this attack tomorrow lunchtime after the Moustachioed Old Gits (the MOGS) have once again dismissed the challenged to play tennis with Nick “Trousers Down” Davies and Mr Clipbeard which will be followed by the traditional lunch. They are under the illusion that the MOGs can be beaten but they have the same brittle confidence of a certain taciturn Scotsman who was once again a loser at Wimbledon yesterday.
Chris France
Cricket boules?
I was told, at the outset, that it was going to be a quiet pre Wimbledon lunch. Of course it was a last-minute call, my finding out for certain that we had a luncheon engagement with Suzie and Norman Philpot barely an hour before lunch was convened at Auberge de la Source at Sophia Antipolis.
Quiet was the inoperative word, otherwise how could the quiet lunch have ended with us going back to theirs, that nice lady decorator finding herself fully clothed in the swimming pool whilst I donned cricket pads and bat and faced a bowling machine set at 80 miles per hour? I have a picture of this as today’s feature in support of my position. Surely every right thinking ex-pat should have a bowling machine for use on a boules court?
Boys with toys
The exact sequence of events is still a little hazy, and as I write I have no idea who won the ladies version of Wimbledon, or indeed if it actually took place. Norman and Suzie Philpot are dangerous and beautiful respectively. She was no less beautiful when laid on their hall floor “sleeping” in the early evening after boules, cricket and copious amounts of wine, and at which point departure seemed the best course of action. He is dangerous, full stop.
Earlier, we had partaken of the usual power march around the local forests, where we have found a plum tree producing the best fruit in the world, and from which we took strength in order to deal with the privations of lunch. As I write, that nice lady decorator, who had a girly dinner planned for this evening, sadly now cancelled, at least as far as she is concerned, is snoring blissfully in a way she will utterly deny tomorrow. Sensibly, I have made a video recording of her snoring. You can never know when such evidence might come in useful in the defence of crimes I have not yet committed.
So last evening did not really start at all. Awaking from a late siesta at around 9pm was a privilege to which I alone was privy. That nice lady decorator was, in boxing parlance “out for the count” and thus I was forced to feed myself. It is a fact that most men have no idea how the cooker works, and only a rudimentary understanding of something called a microwave, so an Indian take away from Valbonne’s Le Kashmir seemed the best course of action.
Being summer, and with the Indian besieged by tourists, I was informed that my order would take some 45 minutes to be prepared. Luckily, La Kavanou, the wine bar in Valbonne is close by so I ventured in for a short while. I know that I am not very welcome there after an unfortunate incident after my book launch, for which I was not to blame, when Master Mariner Mundell and his arm wrestling antics pushed us down the list of desirable customers. So low down the list that we have been forced to avoid it since. Anyway, I was welcomed with open wallet and spent an interesting half hour talking to a wonderful chap about the meaning of life and everything, and the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct. Customers are often found in the most unlikely of places, and if all goes to plan, the exorbitant cost of the take away may yet still be justified.
You may think that as it is Sunday today, that life will become a little more reserved, contemplative and quiet. If you do think that then I suggest therapy. I have no idea what may transpire. Perhaps we will just get the Sunday Times and then spend a quiet day drinking tea, bit somehow I do not believe that.
Chris France
Mognipotent
I have invented a new word which I think adequately describes the MOGS (Moustachioed Old Gits) which comprise myself and the Wingco’s superiority over all comers on the tennis court. Mognipotent somehow sums up the biblical scale of our omnipotence over any opponents who dare to challenge us. Yesterday for instance, we were challenged by Mr Clipbeard and Smouldering Nick Davies.
“Smouldering”? I hear you say? Sadly I was specifically forbidden to reveal why he has this new epithet, save to say that in his younger, I was going to say wilder days, a statement that is barely credible given current wildness quotients, there was an unfortunate incident involving fire. That is all I am permitted to reveal.
I cannot even say that he lit up the restaurant, as that may be misconstrued, or that after his tennis defeat he had to be hosed down, I am even precluded from going into the darker side of events that occurred in his childhood (in the late 1890’s?), instead I am asked to concentrate on his “lighter” side. I can say that he was no “match” for the MOGS.
Lunch then was taken at the Auberge St Donat, the French equivalent of a transport cafe except the food is very good. Amongst those present was the Master Mariner Mundell who has kindly invited us aboard L’Exocet for the Cannes Bay firework festival on Bastille day, the 14th of July. I believe that the firework displays are best viewed from the sea rather than the crowded coast. He is currently living on his boat and last week he came to our house in order to clean his car. I cheekily mentioned at lunch that I had expected him to come the next day with his washing. His retort, that it was in a bag in his car, was not quite what I expected, and I can hear our washing machine straining at maximum as I write.
Mr Clipbeard did not attend lunch, which was a bad show, merely partaking of a beer before leaving. His excuse, that he was lunching with his parents, was clearly a fabrication as I am certain that they left for Scotland last night. I believe that he hates being beaten (with the obvious exception of course of being beaten in that kind loving, public schoolboy manner of his youth) at anything by anyone, least of all tennis by an oik like me.
In all there were three Currencies Direct clients at the table and four others whom I have yet to convert. I know where they live so it would be better if they signed up now to avoid the constant sales pitches, cajoling and whingeing which makes up my sales armoury.
Slash and Burn Thornton Allan from The Big Picture sent me a gloomy picture of life in England, where the sky is currently emptying itself of rain to be sure that it will be dry from late July when my exile commences. I felt the need to return the favour, so I took this picture illustrating the privations that we are experiencing at present. Can you see that there is no ice in my post lunch, pre siesta, glass of rose? Life is tough here as well.
Things can be tough here as well.The nearest ice is over 30 metres away in the fridge.
There is talk of lunch today at the charmingly redeveloped Auberge de la Source set in the woods just outside Valbonne on the way to Antibes. So far it is only talk that I have overheard in the form of a muffled one-sided telephone conversation. Doubtless all will be revealed when that nice lady decorator awakens.
Chris France
“Strictly” for the elderly
So as I was saying yesterday, after I had been dragged away from the plethora of beauties dining in Valbonne Square on Wednesday evening, I sat down to dine with Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villas and his lovely wife Marion (he is clearly batting well above his average here), and Mr Clipbeard.
Again, the subject of those paintings of me (see blogs passim) became the focus for a range of insults to be hurled at my good self by a couple of public schoolboys, one of whom had just had his arse metaphorically smacked on the tennis court and had been at the receiving end of a triple dream scenario finale (too complicated to explain again, read yesterdays column). It was whilst I was deeply into this explanation in some detail of why I consider myself a successful writer, amid, it should be recorded, hoots of derision, that the ultimate proof of that unfortunate fact arrived for the defence. Two charming and obviously well read and discerning young people, came to our table and were fulsome in their praise of this column. The subsequent claims from my creatively challenged male dining partners, that this was a set up, was clearly belied by the fact that they were obviously regular readers, as they were keen to discuss many of the themes explored in this daily missive. There can now be no doubt in his mind; the grammar school oik is approaching local celebrity status for his literary offerings.
This morning there will be more tennis doubles. The MOGS are scheduled to take on Mr Clipbeard and another chap whom I cannot name (although Nick Davies, a regular tennis player may well have his phone turned off between 11am and 1pm today) as I have taken the trouble to crop his face out of my picture today. I did not think he would benefit from being identified for obvious reasons. It was taken at Tahiti Beach in St Tropez last weekend where I think it shows a rather elderly gentleman dancing with his “neice”.
As night follows day, Friday morning tennis is always enlivened by lunch at the Auberge St Donat for the tennis post-mortem. Anthony “Dock Of The” Bay will be there for certain, as he has already reminded me several times that I have promised to buy him lunch. The reason is because of some late afternoon discussion about who was paying for a bottle of wine at the lunch featured in today’s picture, that I never quite understood. I think, however, that I may have got off lightly as a bottle of wine at Tahiti Beach costs more than twice as much as lunch (including wine) at today’s luncheon venue.
Strictly come dancing, St Tropez style
Yesterday, I was summoned by Mr Clipbeard to play golf at precisely 4 50pm. A challenge had been laid down to the MOGS to see if they could spread their success from the tennis court to the golf course. Mr Clipbeard’s partner in this 4 ball was his father, visiting for the week, but Mr Clipbeard is so wrinkly and has lost so much hair that it is difficult to know who is the older, his father certainly looked the younger. However as he is a Currencies Direct customer I may have to edit this bit out. If I don’t remember to do so, please let me know.
Sadly the Wingco was unavoidably detained elsewhere, a fact we discovered on the tee at 5.04 pm (we had built in a couple of those units of time, “Wingco”s, to counter his inevitable tardy time keeping) so a rather meaningless but nonetheless quite useful 9 holes of golf practice was undertaken, with one former public schoolboy taking the whole thing very seriously. Me? I just like to play.
Chris France
Art in the toilet
I have invented the concept in tennis of the dream scenario. It is a rare animal that involves me serving to win the set. These are rare enough moments, but a double dream scenario is even rarer and is where I am serving for the set and the match. Imagine my delight then about the Moustachiod Old Gits, comprising myself and the Wingco, achieving a never before witnessed, unique, triple dream scenario last night against Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villas and his batman, Blind Lemon Milsted. Two sets up and with nothing more than pride to play for (and the lord knows they have little enough of that), our opponents slumped to 0-2 down in the third set. It was at that stage that I worked out that if we won the next 3 games we would be 5-0 up with me to serve. I may have mentioned this to them, it may have been discussed, loudly, by me, and I may have predicted such a scenario out loud, repeatedly as we won each game in turn, and so it came to pass. A triple dream scenario, winning all three sets, the match and the last set 6-0 on my serve. I now know what Christians believe heaven will be like if it existed, which of course it does not.
Earlier I thought I had smelled fear. The Wingco is of course habitually late, indeed I have measured a unit of time also known as a Wingco which is approximately 7 minutes long. This is the minimum amount of time he is behind schedule. Last night for instance he was a full 3 Wingco’s late. However when both of our opponents were similarly delayed I began searching in my tennis bag for that white feather, the tradition mark of the coward that I keep there for situations like this, in readiness for their eventual arrival.
As we sat with a beer outside the Vignale’s now open bar, a very good early sign from the new owners, to discuss this momentous occasion, I sensed that our opponents were a little less willing to enjoy the moment. It was just a slight feeling, a nuance if you like. I can’t quite put my finger on it but perhaps the expression “for f*cks sake shut up” was what enlivened my senses.
I changed the subject, well no, that is not strictly true, as it was once again all about me, to the painting competition staged at Marina Kulik’s painting class ( a picture of the “art” in the toilet I feature today). All present, with the obvious exception of the Wingco who refuses point-blank to read this daily column, “ghastly” he calls it, had seen some or all of the paintings, and whilst admiration for the artists was expressed, it seems that in some people’s mind the subject matter left something to be desired. The general opinion, in which I did not share, was that they had all performed marvels with so little with which to work. Jealousy can be so destructive.
A friend in the toilet?
Dancing Greg and his beautiful willowy wife, myself and Mr Clipbeard the adjourned to Valbonne Square for dinner and art. As I was the first there and was waiting for my table I espied a table nearly full of beautiful women, with just one seat left. Amongst the coterie of beauties were the lovely Lin Wolff from the English Book Centre who was very keen to know how the new book was going, and the willowy and wonderful Viv Frost, the girl who played a vital part in my new career as a successful author (not a concept that Mr Clipbeard was able to come to terms with later) by being the first to suggest this column could be adapted into a book. Alas, as I settled in, my dinner companions arrived and I was dragged away. There is so much more to tell that this will have to be continued tomorrow.
Chris France
Painting vote shocker
It does not take much for the fertile seeds of my over inflated ego to come to flower. The inspired decision to exhibit all the entries in the Currencies Direct sponsored “Paint The Cover of Chris France’s New Book” which you can see by clicking here did everything and more than I could hope for. Over 300 people so far have visited the site to decide which work had best captured the spirit of, well, me. How could I not enjoy every second? Correct, I did and continue to enjoy every second.
Opinion is split as to whether I choose correctly, but frankly I love being the bone of contention. Many people believe that the painting by the amiable Dutch man, Wim Teunissen , that is my featured picture today, was the best. He did his very best to “lobby” me before the result was announced by giving me three fine Cohiba cigars having given up smoking, and I respect that. I am always in favour of bribery. He received many votes, mostly it must be said from people with suspiciously Dutch names. Surely that will be no manipulation of the vote? Perhaps we need some international observers to ensure everything is free and fair? Perhaps I should take his suggestion that a chap from Holland should be put in charge?
My image at the Wim of the painter
Yesterday’s late afternoon solitude was disturbed by a rather vulgar two door convertible Mercedes, covered in bird shit, wheel spinning up the drive. It was Master Mariner Mundell who was in need of water. You would think he had enough water around him, living mostly on his boat, but that was not the point, he wanted mine. It seems that washing ones car in sea water when the sea gulls have paid their respects it is not recommended and the port authorities take a dim view of car washing in situ. Now you may wonder why I am telling you this, and you make take the view that this unannounced visit may be used as an excuse to break my iron will to have a full day without a drink, and you would be right. Having effectively irrigated all 2000+ square meters of my garden with his unsupervised use of my hose pipe, he demanded beer before setting sail. As a consummate host I complied, and a man cannot drink alone, so, yes, that nice lady decorator and I back slid.
The deed is done, the house in Arundel is bought and we take possession on 27th July. At almost the same moment, the Reverend Jeff was telling me that the Daily Mail or some other preposterous down market rag of a newspaper expects the current wet weather in England to last until Christmas at least. He was not joking. If I could get hold of that vertically challenged ex President Sarkozy, the man responsible for my having to leave France, I would find another use for that hose pipe. He would be getting as wet as I will be for the foreseeable future.
So in the meantime, like a condemned man, I must make the most of my last few weeks in France for some time. Tennis will take place tonight at the newly sold Vignale Tennis Club. The Vignale is an atmospheric but utterly run down tennis club that I have long thought could make an excellent country club, once the ancient matriarchal owner (she was 85!) let go of the reins, and now it has happened and it seems some Balitrand money will be invested, perhaps this will come to fruition. It will be too late to save our poor opponents though, they will receive the ritual thrashing they so richly deserve this evening, after which its off to see more art in the shape of the work by Kevin Kerslake at Galerie Valbonne.
Chris France
Judging a book by its cover
The decision is made. A painting of my good self by Sandra Seymour-Dale will feature on the cover of my next book, to be called either Valbonne Daze or the Valbonne Monologues, or perhaps a combination of both. Sandra wanted me to include her email address in case anyone wants a portrait painted. She can be reached at sandraseymourdale@yahoo.co.uk
There were seven completed entries, from Marina Kulik’s painting class, all of them very good in their own ways so I will include them all in the book when it is published in November. I have created a new page with all seven entrants. Click here to see them.
It was the sort of lunch I love. It was all about me (and Currencies Direct of course) so what could possibly go wrong? Well, a thunderstorm at the exact moment the decision-making process came to a head could have been interpreted on two ways. Either as a message from the gods to draw back before it is too late, or, the interpretation I favour, the ideal portent for the storming success that will overtake the literary world once the book sees the light of day.
What a devilishly good-looking chap
If I had a criticism of the winning painting it would be the inclusion of a demon dog on the brim of the hat. I think it would have been more apt had the heinous hound Banjo (for it is an image of him) had been on my shoulder, much as in the expression “a monkey on your shoulder” which is sometimes used to describe a bad luck omen or something you are trying to get rid of. Need I go on?
Talking of getting rid of animals, I heard a story at the very convivial lunch that followed the momentous book cover decision. It seems that one of the ladies from the group had a neighbour who moved abroad to Germany. When they arrived at their new home, the first thing out of the removal van was their neighbours cat. I asked what happened next? It appears that the neighbours did not much like the cat so it stayed with family that had moved. This gave me an idea. If any of you are moving soon, especially if it is a long distance away, please let me know, as Banjo enjoys long drives.
After lunch I did nothing. The partying over the past few months is catching up with me, and with the lunch today being the icing on the cake after Sunday’s drunken sailing trip to and from St Tropez, I did not even want a drink last night, I think I am now a broken man. On the plus side I expect to be repaired by tomorrow. If not, then certainly by Wednesday when the regular ritual thrashing by the moustachiod Old Gits of Messrs Blind Lemon Milsted and Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals will be followed by a quick look at the Kevin Kerslake photographic exhibition at Galerie Valbonne in the Square, followed no doubt by some victory libation and a pizza.
Today will be depressing as it will be taken up with the boring detail of the move back to the UK. Phones, Internet, Sky TV, parking permits, council tax, gas, electricity, water must all be dealt with ready for the rain-sodden return to the home land at the end of the month. I watched a little of Wimbledon this afternoon in between the showers and people were wearing thick coats in July for christ’s sake. At least when we have a shower, as we did today, it is over in an hour and then hot again. This will not end well.
Chris France
Gendarme restraint
Public school boys, don’t you just love them? Yesterday, aboard l’Exocet, the 47 foot long sailing boat owned by Master Mariner Mundell was like a public schoolboy reunion. Apart from the Master himself, there were two other of this particular species on board for the trip down to Tahiti Beach at St Tropez for lunch. You can identify them almost immediately. They exude a misplaced sense of superiority and almost every conversation contains a reference “school sports” as I think they like to refer to buggery.
Endless stories emanated, with beatings, homosexual acts and disdain for those amongst us (oiks) who do not share in their bizarre pride of, and in some cases, clear enjoyment of, the public schoolboy antics lacerating their soul to the fore. It started early with a chap called “Largy”, who, given his ability to consume alcohol is clearly short for Lager, mentioning that he was about to go to Venice and wondering aloud if “man on man” would be possible in a gondolier. He is an old Harrovian which is to say we was at school at Harrow. I wonder if former Borstall inmates are called Borstallians?
On the voyage over I accused him of being half cut, but he said as he was jewish he was fully cut, and that was sufficient for me to “end” that particular conversation.
Allo allo, whats all this then?
By the time we got to the restaurant, his loud pronouncements on his chosen theme attracted the attention of the local gendarmes as my picture today captures. I suggest that Largy, the chap who seems to have lost his hair, is exhibiting a love of men in uniforms. At one stage he even made the subject of getting tied up to a mooring boy buoy sound a little tacky. His stated aim was to form the BBB party, a political organisation to Bring Back Buggery. I could go on as I have notes on my blackberry about “potage d’homme” and several other items, but enough is enough.
Once again, food of the highest calibre was served up at Tahiti Beach which will surprise many who unfairly consider that loud music, sand and great food do not necessarily go hand in hand. I include myself in the surprised category. The lack of wind meant that we had to motor instead of sail for much of the time, but on the way back in the evening there was sufficient wind for some excellent sailing. If only there had been a dearth of wind in Bluebell, our VW camper van which was our bedroom for the night, parked at Port De La Rague. I cannot go into detail, all I can say is that on this rare occasion, I was not to blame.
Before that, a nightcap aboard the boat at about 1am had to come to a premature end as the gendarmes were once again threatened by the owner of a nearby boat who understandably did not want to listen to the “Largy” theme, which had developed somewhat both in terms of the subject matter and volume. It seems if he has a volume control then it turns in one direction only.
Now, let’s talk about art. Today is the moment of truth for one aspiring artist who will no doubt be overjoyed to have their work selected to appear on the jacket of my second book, due to be unleashed on a largely unsuspecting public in November this year. The judging will take place today at Marina Kuilik’s painting studio at lunchtime today. I do so look forward to any event that is all about me. The event will be sponsored by Currencies Direct although they don’t know that yet.
Lunch in St Tropez
Call me a tart if you like, but when the opportunity to spend the planned 70 or so Euros on a round of golf with the Landlubbers was set against the late offer of revisiting Tahiti Beach at St Tropez aboard a private yacht, what can one do? It will still cost me 70 euros for lunch, but that will be after a cruise down the coast of the Mediterranean, a nice lunch, a shed full of rose, dancing with girls a third of ones age, drinking a great deal of, well, everything and the floating back.
The alternative was to be baked on a golf course, spend a great deal of time looking for golf balls in deep forest, finding every bunker that Adolf Hitler ever invented and discussing the fact that trees are 90% water. It took a great deal of consideration but in the end I erred on the side of debauchery, and I don’t mean the golf.
It all started when Master Mariner Mundell tacked into our garden just after lunch demanding beers and rose, and who am I to be contrary? He was after some pictures from our trip to the same place last Sunday, and had popped in on the off-chance, having previously ensured we would be in. These public schoolboys don’t like to leave anything to chance. When the Ipad was a tad uncooperative on the photograph front, there seemed no alternative but to do it all again today. The invitation was issued and immediately accepted by that nice lady decorator and hence golf today was postponed.
Tahiti Beach last weekend
Mr Clipbeard received a warning (in triplicate) that we would not now be in Valbonne at the appointed hour this evening (bad show, on report no doubt) and this morning I must venture to local supermarket, Super U, now open on a Sunday for the next two months (hurrah!), to secure supplies for the intended voyage to St Tropez.
Almost as the Master departed, Le Grande Peche and delectable slim line Madame Peche hoved into view, demanding similar treatment. Yet more rose and some prosecco were pushed into service to accommodate said needs, brought about by their tenancy ending for summer and needing to store stuff in our garage for summer.
The lovely Suzanne raised the temperature a little by guiding me through some of the gardening tasks she had been required to undertake this week. She has an innocent look about her that can be deceptive. This is best illustrated by her pronouncement that she has a gardening bikini. Better than that, it seems it is a micro bikini, and is fuschia pink. Frankly, by the time I had considered the options it could have been rancid polecat pink and I would still not had enough room in my mouth for my tongue, but old age does that to you. Peachy refers to her as “the old coote” which coming from a fat northern git is a bit hard to take. I remonstrated with him that his description was a little harsh but he said that as a coote was water foul (not his spelling) such a description was like water off a ducks back. No, I do not understand either.
So rather delightfully, plans have been altered and St Tropez now beckons. As it is the weekend, I need not feel guilty about doing little for Currencies Direct, but then one never knows who else will be aboard L’Exocet, perhaps there will be a potential customer? Certainly when it comes to submitting the standard outrageous bill for lunch to my accountant, I do hope so.
Chris France
Lost golf tee found
Whilst that nice lady decorator would support the catastrophic canine Banjo through thick and thin, contrary to my basic instincts, and frankly the instincts of any right thinking man or woman, we do agree that the senior dog, the amiable springer called Max requires special attention. Thus yesterday, in the face of the injury he had sustained whilst out walking, that nice lady decorator found some bandages and a bottle of the astringent antiseptic TCP in order to administer repairs. This should never been confused with PCP, or Angel Dust as it is known in some quarters.
Exhausted by this activity, and with the arrival in the late afternoon sunshine of Peachy and Suzanne Butterfield, who were on their way to the Mougins School Pass Out Parade otherwise known as graduation, and who were in need of a restorative graduating glass of rose, a bottle or several were opened. It has been very hot recently, and in our house a couple of ice cubes are often dropped into the wine to ensure it does not get warm. What was a bit of a surprise was that the piece of ice that was assigned to my glass smelled of TCP. As I sniffed the wine, the overpowering aroma knocked me to the floor. “I needed a bit of ice to cool his foot” said that nice lady decorator, but why she had to put that particular piece back in the freezer so that it could be served to me in my rose is a question to which I did not receive an answer. Had it been the lunchtime after she could perhaps have argued that it was the hair of the dog?
We stayed in. Just think of that for a moment, we stayed in whilst living in the Cote D’Azur in summer. It is such a rare treat not to have a social engagement that I really enjoyed it. We sat under the stars with a glass of red Roussillon wine from a tiny vineyard called Terrasous that we discovered a decade ago and which remains one of our favourites, in the warmth and in complete harmony and at one with the world. That was until that nice lady decorator attempted to alter the style of clothing that both sprog 1 and 2 were planning to wear for the post graduation festivities. She has never fully embraced the concept of the subjective, or indeed of personal sartorial choice and she clearly has a monopoly on opinion, a monopoly that both sprogs, in their infinite wisdom, chose to question. There will be blood.
My picture today, rather than being taken by Currencies Direct customer Slash and Burn Thornton Allan from The Big Picture is actually a picture if the man himself. I snapped this earlier in the week in the web when he finally managed to find the golf tee he had been looking for. Quite why it looks like it has been burned at one end is a bit of a mystery. Perhaps that is why it had a rather evocative aroma?
So that’s where my golf tee went
Once again today there is nothing specific in the diary but hey, this is Valbonne in the summer. I will wager that the day will not pass without some kind of social activity. Tomorrow is different. Already I know I am playing golf with the Landlubbers at Chateau Begude and meeting Mr Clipbeard in Valbonne Square in the evening so crash helmets and goggles to the ready. He has been away from France for months, has a thirst of Peachyesque proportions and an appetite to match. There will be casualties.
Chris France
Tourists sail in
Life in the Cote d’Azur is beginning to collapse for the summer. The normal exemplary service at the Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne is being seriously denigrated by the arrival the tourist. Once they arrive in larger numbers, usually in summer, getting a table becomes more difficult, the service levels decline because of sheer weight of numbers and last night some food had to be returned to the kitchen.
A little like mosquitoes, but no less annoying, tourists are supposedly in short supply this summer, but whilst the spraying of the River Brague and the lakes, such as the Etang in Mougins, seems to have worked magic in reducing the mosquito population, there is apparently not a similar treatment that is as effective on tourists.
There have been some worthy attempts to stem the tourist tide, the Euro crisis which has reduced the comfort for them. The Olympic games being staged in the UK has also stemmed the tide, giving them an excuse not to come over here but nothing has been as effective as that spraying.
Don’t get me wrong, some tourists are very welcome. As long as they have either rented my house, become Currencies Direct customers or have bought a copy of my book then they are very welcome. However, quite a large proportion of tourists have done none of those things and I think a bit of spraying would in these cases be in order. My picture today, again taken by Slash and Burn Thornton Allan illustrates just the sort of thing these tourists crave.
Aboard L’Exocet on the way back from St Tropez
Talking of irritating tourists, I must also prepare for the imminent arrival of Mr Clipbeard (formerly known as Mr Clipboard) on Sunday. He will be here for the whole of July, so I must be strong in the face of adversity. Actually that also describes him very well, “Mr Clipbeard, the face of adversity”. He will be wanting to lose to me at tennis and golf during his stay and I will be doing my best to accommodate him. He will of course be pathetically pastily pallid having not seen the sun since last year but I think that makes him better looking.
Last night then, into Valbonne after some singles tennis, which my opponent correctly predicted would not be covered in detail in this column due to lack of space. The house guests have gone and the rental season approaches, if we get any clients, and the return to England, which now looks like it will be delayed for a couple more weeks is looming ever closer.
Before that, I have a lot more to cram into life before donning the winter clothes and putting a brave face (and goloshes) for the winter weather in summer which seems now to be the norm back home. One such event is the informal “bring your own” lunch at the studios of Marina Kulik between 12 and 2 on Monday, where I shall be making the final decision as to which painting I shall feature on the cover of my second book, provisionally entitled “Valbonne Daze, the Valbonne Monologues”. It is the kind of event that I love, being all about me. If anyone wants to come and watch me enjoy it all being about me contact Marina Kulik.
Next Wednesday there is an exhibition of photographs at Galerie Valbonne by Kevin Kerslake, who has directed videos for or photographed a number of rock n roll artists over the last three decades including David Bowie, REM, Nirvana, Quentin Tarentino and hundreds of others. It starts at 7pm until late and I feel it is my duty, as a rock n roll icon myself, to support such an event. That and it is in the Square at Valbonne thus offering a nearby opportunity for a nightcap and supper.
Chris France
Mediterranean sunset
Are inflatable balloons better than non inflatable balloons? This was the apparent contention of Slash And Burn Thornton Allan as we sat down to barbecue chicken at the home of the lovely Julie and the slightly less lovely, but still cuddly, Peter Bennett, Head honcho at Blue Water Yachting last night. Slash and Burn seemed quite unaware that an uninflatable balloon is, in effect, just a piece of plastic.
It was almost as if last night that as they are leaving today to head back to London, I was deliberately being fed with material for this column by him, such was the range of snippets I was able to capture on my blackberry ready for today’s missive. His mad professor countenance often conveys the almost certainly true perception that he is off somewhere with the fairies, arriving back into conversations after a little cerebral time-travelling in a rather disconcerting way. Often one can be talking about him and that vacant “the lights are on but nobody is home look” is on his face, but then suddenly he will make some incisive and pithy retort giving the wholly false impression that he has been with you throughout.
Last night there was a conversation about insomnia and I thought he had glazed over and entered a different astral plane, then he snapped back to reality and announced that he had been awake for three hours between 3am and 5am. Call me pedantic if you like but surely that is only two hours?
Any pirates around?
When I suggested he was slightly arithmetically challenged, (not artistically challenged as he took this fab photo today) he accused me of picking on him, which I do not deny. As an example, he brought up the story in yesterday’s offering, about how he lost tooth. I suggested that with the missing implant he looked a bit like a pirate, especially as he was tucking into some after-eight mints at the time. I think he had eight pieces, or would that be pieces of eight?
Conveniently for an arch observer like my good self, he went on to complain about what he would have to go through before his tooth could be properly repositioned. Polygrip was mentioned and I asked if this might be the name if his parrot. Then he was gone again, with that mad far away look we have all come to love.
Talking of looks, his steely eyed goddess of a trophy wife, Lisa, who is rather too young for him, has one of those looks that I often receive from that nice lady decorator. It is a sort of laser beam stare of such ferocity you forget who you are. I was the unlucky recipient of one such beam last night after she had said that she could count on her hands the number of times something or other had happened. Certainly less than ten. I laughed at this mathematically challenging concept but then the laser beam was tuned to stun. Suddenly I had a look on my face. “Rabbit in the headlights” sums it up.
Earlier in the evening, the MOGS had administered the now regular ritual humiliation to Currencies Direct affiliate Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals and Blind Lemon Milsted on the tennis court. Three sets to nil is a rout, a humiliation of the highest order, and had not the Wingco been determined to smash winners from every point in the last game of the last set, we may have had a whitewash. Indeed we had a “whitewash point” but his attempted booming forehand return of serve sailed out of the court and landed in nearby Plascassier.
Chris France
Waiter, there is no wine in my glass
There are phrases which you hear in the south of France that you may never hear in England. The phrase that was used at lunch yesterday by the as beautiful as she is scary Lisa Thornton Allan at the Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne Square was: “it’s too hot”. Indeed it was a little hot, 29 degrees is a bit too hot, so for the first time I am looking forward to getting back to England in mid July for a bit of a cool down. I think I may be delirious.
The after effects of the big weekend were still lurking so it was a quiet lunch before, in the evening, I was dispatched the airport to collect locust 1, aka sprog 1, who was flying in for a couple of weeks in order to drink all my wine and beers and eat all my food. Sprog 2 arrived last night so the locust denudation has already commenced. Where did they learn to drink like that? I blame their mother.
So after a nice but rather expensive lunch, I felt it was a good move to embrace a siesta before heading to the airport to pick up the principle locust. Dragging the girls from the square proved a little difficult but eventually it was achieved, but not much before 5pm.
Whilst we were enjoying a post prandial afternoon cap in the web, another story emerged from Slash and Burn Thornton Allan whilst aboard the boat on the way (or the way back, he cannot be certain) from St Tropez at the weekend. At some stage on the trip he lost a tooth, a titanium tooth implant no less, a shoe, probably a Gucci, and some Armani sunglasses. To lose one item might be considered unlucky, two items raises some doubts but to lose three items, including a tooth? What was he doing? Actually I know what he was doing but simply cannot discuss it.
When eventually his losses became apparent the next day, or perhaps the day afterwards he was mortified. Normally he makes a profit on everything including and especially his foreign exchange transactions as he has sensibly opened an account with Currencies Direct, but these were losses that were hard to bear. He said that the repair bill for the tooth alone could run into thousands, but unexpected help was at hand, or rather at nose. It seems that fate was smiling upon him however because at some stage a little later in the afternoon he sneezed and then found his tooth. It almost took my eye out as it went past me at 200 miles an hour and tried to embed itself in my oak tree. We decided that a proper description of this miracle should be hitherto described as a corker snorker.
Perhaps part of the blame for this unfortunate chain of events might be illustrated by this enhanced picture taken by him at Tahiti Beach in St Tropez on Sunday. I do like a waiter who is prepared to go just that little bit further to ensure that his clients don’t get too thirsty. Taking away the empties before the table gets too full is so important, don’t you think?
But those are all empty?
After his return, during the evening I was alerted by sprog 1 to an expression I had not previously heard. He was referring to a friend who had a predilection for the larger lady, but I am not sure the expression “a chubby chaser” is politically correct?
Surely, the week has to quieten down at some stage? I hear you ask, and perhaps this is the day. House guests the Thornton Alllans have some business to do this morning and so mercifully at this stage I do not think I am required to lunch. However as tonight is their last night before returning to the rather damp benefits that Muswell Hill have to offer, I am by no means out of the woods yet.
Chris France
Chris France's Blog 