A pole apart
It just had to be a quieter day than the previous two. A massive party on Saturday followed by an even more massive boat trip and lunch a lunch at Tahiti Beach in St Tropez had to take its toll, and I knew for whom the bells tolled, it was for me. I know it was a Monday but there was no option. However it took 3 good bloody mary’s at lunchtime to re-establish good humour.
But we are hardy folk down here in the Cote d’Azur and once the heat of the sun had abated slightly and a full siesta had been properly taken it just seemed right to have a couple of beers in the web just to cement the recovery. Almost inevitably there was an opportunity to trawl through the myriad of pictures that had been taken over the two days and you will not be surprised to know that I have featured one such animal today. Yesterday’s picture featured an animal in the shape of ageing Lothario Nick Davies. He featured again today with a different kind of animal, a nice lady decorating pole dancing animal.
Pole dancing aboard L’Exocet
The case for the defence will, I suppose, contend that the mast of Master Mariners Mundell’ sailing boat l’Exocet could have easily been mistaken for a pole, and with loud music emanating from the galley, mistaking it for a pole as in pole dancing is an error anyone could have made. Anyone that is who had consumed a skinful. Those that have had previous experience of party loving Nick Davies will also know that he needs little encouragement to join in, well, with anything at anytime, with no thought of the consequences. Indeed, I do not believe he knows the meaning of the word. (Is that where one thing leads to another?). Thus today’s picture came into being.
Earlier, with hands shaking and double vision encroaching, I had managed to complete the usual days work for Currencies Direct, but post bloody mary’s siesta and cold beers I was ready once again, until about 11pm when I crashed and burned.
It was at around 4am that I became aware of talking, laughing and yes, it has to be said, cackling disturbing the quiet summer night-time peace of Provence. It seems that the nice lady decorating pole dancer suddenly remembered that she had a great deal to discuss with the lovely steely eyed, occasionally blonde, Lisa Thornton Allan and sprog 2 who arrived back home last evening. Such was its importance of those discussion that it could not wait until morning, but when she came to bed I asked her what was the subject but she could not recall. I do know that they were sufficiently well gone to have started drinking from the Peachy Butterfield 10 litre wine box which is left in the pav for Peachy’s private delectation and delight.
It’s an interesting wine. During the day and before a party kicks off one would not touch it with a barge pole, except for fun, but in the certain knowledge that if the barge pole comes into direct contact with the noxious liquid that it would be somewhat shorter when removed due to the abrasive qualities of the liquid inside. There is only one person whom I know can stomach it, unless one has an unhealthy alcoholic stomach lining is in place. Hence the reason it is left in place for him. For the white wine loving girls to drink red is a rarity, to have dipped into the Chateau Bargepole was astonishing. However, Le Grande Peche leaves for his summer holidays in the darkest north of England shortly and there is only about 5 litres left, so it might just stand one more visit from him.
Chris France
Toe in the water on the way to St Tropez
Being a little late for the trip to St Tropez aboard the Master Mariner Mundell’s L’Exocet, the wonderful sedate and thus inappropriately named sailing boat, was perhaps understandable given the events of Saturday when a luncheon party finished a little after midnight. A number of our party were feeling a little shabby as a result and a tad forgetful. As it would be very rude, I cannot reveal whom among our party it was that tried, on a trip to a very expensive eaterie, to leave his wallet behind before revealing this fact, just at the point at which he thought I would not have time to turn back, but Slash and Burn Thornton Allan may feel the colour rising in his cheeks as he reads this.
The trip along the Estoril coastline fueled by beers, prosecco and rose was sublime. The restaurant is one of those that has its own tender to ferry customers from their boat to the beach. It was there waiting for us at Tahiti Beach and transported the sailing party to the restaurant and that’s when the trouble started. I have a particular aversion to techno music at any time of day but at 4pm on a Sunday in a great restaurant on one of the best beaches in the world? It has cemented my hatred of the genre. Some old school rap would have been entirely acceptable.
It is true that I had a mild sense of humour failure until at last the cacophony abated somewhat. Amongst those accompanying us on the trip was Nick Davies, the man renowned for taking his clothes off on beaches in St Tropez. He is still barred from Cinquante Cinq after the last time despite the rugby tackle performed on him by his lovely wife Lise just too late to avoid some impressionable children to be traumatised by this horrible spectacle. It is fair to say that whilst not wishing to witness such a spectacle myself, it would have been fascinating in a macabre way, a bit like witnessing a car crash. Anyway, this time unwanted nudity was avoided, probably because he is jet-lagged after returning from Bankok. I have a picture of him today aboard the boat but quite what he is trying to do to that nice lady decorators foot is open to question.
Nick Davies gets a toe hold
Amongst those sailing with us in more ways than one was a young lady to whom I shall refer to as Dangerous Jackie Lawless. A charming and beautiful innocent slip of a girl at first I thought, but a few of her stories about running a building company and her life in general, including having once been married to the owner of a Premiership football club revealed hidden depths and a complete grasp of colourful language. That’s all I am saying at this stage as she has promised to consider opening an account with Currencies Direct so as long as that application is forthcoming shortly, nothing embarrassing need be revealed in this column.
The trip back was just magnificent. The Mediterranean sunset viewed from the sea has to be one of the best views in the world. With the moon rising (and by that I do not mean seeing any nasty crescents lurking beneath Mr Davies shorts) we managed to achieve a feat the Master Mariner Mundell had been convinced was impossible, we ran out of wine. Well it was after midnight before we parked in Porte de la Rague.
I would wager that today will be somewhat quieter. I am counting on it, I am getting too old for this.
Chris France
Pig roast progresses
The leaving party for Slash and Burn Paul and steely eyed goddess Lisa Thornton Allan was a massive success, if measured only in terms if bottles of wine consumed. Some 40 people were present for much of the pig roast and some 80 plus bottles of wine had been emptied before I snuck off to bed a little before midnight. Lunch can be so drawn out don’t you think?
As was to be expected a myriad of stories came to light during the day. Let’s start with the lovely Lisa herself. She revealed that she had recently read an article about gangling and ungainly England footballer Peter Crouch. It seems that he was asked what he would have been if he was not a footballer and said “a virgin”. She then added to the amusement by allowing those blond genes out of control for a second or so by saying “he has gone up in my self-esteem”.
I don’t know who started it, or indeed why it started but I was involved with some discussions about something called Gnome World which may or may not be a real theme park. I did not have time to research this before publishing, but also wanted to consider what sort of attractions such a park could offer without the benefit of looking at their website if it exists. Would there be gnome throwing competitions for instance?
Slash and Burn Thornton Allan took some great pictures of the garden before the onslaught, one of which I show here.
Poolside before the arrival of the pig roast
My style guru, and Currencies Direct discerning customer Mr Humphreys was free and, arrived wearing orange shoes and a red T-shirt, gave us all a lead on what we should be wearing this summer in the south of France. He told me that in the days when he actually had a job, working for a local council in London, his work involved running the LGBT scheme. I inquired as to what that might stand for. The Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Trans-gender building association was set up to help these four sexual oriented groups find work in the building trade in the area. Yes, the local “right on” local council was prepared to spend tax payers money to make grants to people who were willing to employ workers from these sexual groupings. The trouble was that his hands were tied (no not in that way) by being disallowed from offering any grant unless the hairy arsed builders open heartedly welcomed the concept of members from these groups into their teams of contractors. He was not allowed openly to ask them, they had to volunteer an open-minded approach. Now call me old-fashioned and perhaps it is an unfair stereotype, but I cannot imagine any builder I have ever met (perhaps with the exception of Peachy Butterfield) embracing the concept of willingly employing such people without some financial inducement. When I expressed this opinion to Mr Humphreys, and asked him how many contracts were awarded he looked a bit sheepish (again nothing to do with the people he was trying to help) and he admitted they never placed a single contract.
Many other stories have been stored and may dribble out in the coming week. In fact some may be discussed today as we have been invited aboard the wonderful sailing boat the Exocet, owned by the Master Mariner Mundell to go round to St Tropez, to Kon Tiki Beach, for a late lunch amongst the great and the good and the Russian hookers who seemingly frequent the place. I shall report back tomorrow.
Chris France
Hot air over Valbonne
I have so missed her. Lisa Thornton Allan, not featured in my photograph today, is the blonde steely eyed goddess and trophy wife of Slash and Burn Paul Thornton Allan. She is a very intelligent, articulate university educated woman but just occasionally the blonde gene takes precedence and these are often moments to remember. They flew in from London yesterday to take the credit charge of their leaving party today (despite the fact they left about a month ago), the responsibility for which until now has been left to that nice lady decorator whilst they have been sunning (sic) themselves in Muswell Hill for the last four weeks. Superb planning, plan a party, use someone else’s house and delegate the organisation to the owners.
They have taken to long walks on Hampstead Heath to try to forget the weather in the UK and were out on the Heath when suddenly the Red Arrows aerobatics flying team scorched overhead on their way to a fly past at Buckingham Palace for the Queens Jubilee celebrations. Excited at this sudden explosion of spectacle and with no children accompanying her, she exclaimed to the dogs “Look, Missy and Bertie, the Red Arrows” It is not reported if they were suitably impressed.
Her husband, and Currencies Direct client Paul, is a brilliant artist and has a design company called The Big Picture. OK, I have been nice enough to him now. Regular readers will be aware of my antipathy for all modern art and my certainty that all lovers of it are being fooled all of the time a la mode of the kings new clothes. Last night over a nightcap in the web after dinner in Valbonne Square, where he took this picture, he revealed that his Art degree, which he achieved with Honours, was based on a piece depicting “mans impact on the environment”. The work comprised a house brick tied to a piece of string and suspended in the middle of the room. Scratching your head yet? He went on to explain that as anyone entering the room would have to walk around his work, presumably to stop one banging one’s head, his theme was clearly laid out (or tied up?). Thus his Honours Degree award. I think if I had seen it I would have been banging my head on the ground.
The balloon goes up for the Thornton Allan`s leaving party
A story has reached me of a comment made about my first book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur”, also available for Kindle, from “Plastic Mac” Douglas McGeorge, renowned plastic surgeon who recently purchased a copy. He said and I quote “it was as funny as “Wilt” by Tom Sharp”. Impressed, I mentioned this last night to that nice lady decorator but deflation was immediate when she pointed out that he was sufficiently comically challenged not to have realised that the British Association of Plastic Surgeons may have been shortened to BAPS.
As I write I am awaiting delivery of a huge porker in readiness for a pig roast, a gastronomic lowlight of a Provencal summer, which is intended to feed the 50 or so invitees to said leaving party, which commences at lunchtime today and will be attended by the great and good and many who have featured in this column in the past. I am expecting to collect a wealth of material to keep me going this week, so I must trot(ter) off now to help set fire to it or whatever they do. I have some petrol in the garage, that should give it a nice flavour. I do like a bit of crackling.
Chris France
Valbonne pig roast shock (for me)
The annual French mid summers day festival “Fete de la Musique” was embraced by Valbonne for the first time last night, and although the square was buzzing, and that nice lady decorator had to pull rank to ensure we got a table at the Cafe Des Arcades, it did not have the edge of the music events staged in previous years in Mouans Sartoux.
I was however lucky enough to espy Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals and able to ask him in front of a crowd of thirsty ex pats how he got on at tennis the night before (when he lost horribly to the MOGS), but it seems amnesia has set in. Poor chap, I believe he is only in his early 70’s, well at least that’s what it looks like now that hair colouring seems to be part of his life, but I did not mention it in public, I have too much heart. Better that a small personal quirk such as this emanating from a bottle is revealed quietly in the best read blog in Valbonne. It gives people the chance to have a private chortle about him before they next see him. Laughing with someone is so much better than laughing at them don’t you think?, and so much easier when one is forarmed with that knowledge rather than suddenly realising that his hair has changed colour when the chap is in front of you. I am so thoughtful and generous of spirit.
The light was not good in the square and I only remembered I wanted a picture after the band had finished (pity they started) so this is not one of my best.
Valbonne Square at night, honest
Work however is always at hand and one never knows when one will be required to spring into commercial action. And so it was last night when I secured another client for Currencies Direct, thus making the whole expense tax allowable. That is my position and my accountant will know that no negotiation is possible. It will be disallowed.
A big party is taking shape at the weekend. Slash and Burn Thornton Allan and child bride, the steely eyed ice cool Lisa are having their leaving party in our garden on Saturday. This is a rather curious state of affairs as they left France for London about a month ago. What a good idea then, to sell your house, get the money and then requisition one of your friends houses to throw the leaving party in the full knowledge that your own house will remain unscathed. Seemingly it allows one to attempt facets of culinary entertainment that one would never consider in one’s own garden. A pig roast is apparently booked for Saturday.
The only people who seemed to know nothing about this until today were myself, and maybe the pig, but even he (or she, lets not be sexist about this) may have had more idea than I. They arrive from Muswell Hill this morning and will apparently take in the supermarket and the wine merchants before descending upon us.
A pig roast? In Provence? It is probably a fine decision if one lives in the frozen north of Britain, anywhere say north of a line between Bristol and The Wash, where people probably huddle around the burning pig fat in order to keep warm but Valbonne? It’s in the 80’s Fahrenheit now. At the time of writing I have no idea where thus giant piece of bacon will be prepared. I am not even certain I have been invited.
Thus today will be overwhelmed by instructions from that nice lady porky party organiser for me to run hither and thither in preparation. It’s a pigs life.
Chris France
Hair raising tennis
At our irregular tennis gatherings on a Wednesday night it almost seems to be a matter of honour for the public schoolboys amongst us (and by that I mean everyone but me) to be late. Regular readers will know that a unit of time known as a “Wingco” is a minimum of 7 minutes, so in different circumstances, his being late by 2 “Wingcos”, and spending some time on the phone during the usual desultory warm up, whilst undeniably rude, may have put us a disadvantage, however as it turned out that was not the case. One of us was on time as usual, as befits a self-made organised man of commerce such as myself.
Quite how the MOGS, the Moustachiod old Gits, with a combined age approaching 120 could secure a victory over 3 sets in two hours in temperatures in the high twenties Celsius is one of those marvels that will be celebrated far and wide in this household, well, by me at least. Superior technique, superior strength and fitness, superior tactics all combined to ensure a famous victory. I am lying of course about the tactics bit. One of our (MOGS) quiet discussions about tactics when I suggested tha the Wingco to play a little less aggressively was met with a particularly aggressive retort from the Wingco using the f word.
At the root of this event is fear. Our opponents, Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals and Blind Lemon Milsted, frightened of defeat and the subsequent slagging they receive in this column, were finally coaxed on to the tennis court by the fear of the threat of receiving a white feather. Strange you may think, that the fear of receiving the traditional damning mark of cowardice was outweighed by the fear of failure on the court.
Over dinner afterwards Blind Lemon has recently had a haircut and it was noted that he looks a little like a geeky sixth former. I have a photo today, taken in Valbonne Square last week that reminds me of his hair pre haircut. However, why he should have that hair planted in an urn in the middle of the village is open to question.
Post tennis dinner discussions at Capriccio at Pre Du Lac was the usual abuse of process, insults accusations and jokes as usual, with the non public schoolboy element recieving the most abuse. I just think they don’t like the idea of me being a successful author. It is a time honoured tradition that we are the last to leave and as you know I am a traditionalist at heart.
Tonight is “Fete De La Musique”, staged on mid summers day and celebrated across France with music playing everywhere until late. It has always been a strange anomaly that Valbonne did not take part in this country-wide musical feast and so we normally go down to Mouans Sartoux where there are dozens of bands set up on street corners playing. This year however Valbonne has got in on the act, with rumours off a high-profile UK soul band being flown in, so a plan has been hatched to wander in this evening and see what is happening.
Before that fun however, I must have fun of a more serious kind, collecting up some of those poor unfortunates that are still using their banks to move foreign exchange instead of opening an account with Currencies Direct. Usually I just use persuasion and cajoling, but with figures a little down this month I may have to resort to threats or even violence to get the message across. Do not mess with a tennis god.
Chris France
Prevaricating Pomegranate
What is more boring that watching paint dry? Even more boring that watching a dour English football team grind out a victory against world beaters Ukraine? Answer, spending the afternoon watching that nice lady decorator looking at paint drying. She loves to walk around and drool at cans of paint whilst stalking around a paint shop. It is worse than watching it dry because whilst it is in the can it does not dry very easily, so the whole process takes longer, much longer.
She is painting everything that moves, and much that does not, at the moment in readiness for the summer rental clients that we do not yet have. Indeed I have to keep moving in case I get painted, which, in a very different way I have recently with the competition to paint a picture of me for the front cover of the new book. It seems a “bring your own lunch” is taking shape for Monday July 2nd at Marina Kuliks Painting Studio in Plascassier where I shall be judging the entries and deciding on which work wins the prize. The prize of course is having the winning painting featured on the book jacket. It is a prize that any aspiring artist would want, honest.
Paint shops are of course the natural habitat of the decorating species, who get excited about things like oil based derivatives and Elephants Breath (this is apparently a Farrow and Ball colour but my attempt at humour, that as a comedy duo they were crap, so why are they so good with paint, fell on deaf ears).
By the time we got back, with a skip load of paint, with names like Sheep Slobber, Snowgoose Snot and Parrots Phlegm it was hot. 30 degrees is enough to do two things; 1/; to heat up the swimming pool to 25 degrees and 2/; to ensure that the afternoon was entirely unproductive, especially in terms of finding new clients for Currencies Direct. The only activity that can be undertaken in these conditions is the rigourous testing of the garden furniture ahead of the rental season, should we get any clients. It seems a lot of people will be remaining at home despite the weather to “enjoy’ the Olympics.
Pomegranate tree responds to unfriendly persuasion
My picture today is taken of my pomegranate tree which has suddenly gone mad and is festooned with flowers. Two years ago I had warned it that as it was so ugly in winter, being deciduous, that it had better start producing some flowers and fruit or it would end up as an addition to the log pile. With no discernible response at first I had sharpened my saw but on the day set aside for its cutting down to size it rained. Other jobs then crowded in on that nice old git gardener and it survived. Finally the tree seems to have got the message and is now playing ball and my little talk will soon, literally, bear fruit. A case of the prevaricating pomegranate perhaps?
Tennis, not normally known as a contact sport, is due to resume tonight at the Vignale Tennis Club. For the time being at least, our opponents, Blind Lemon Milsted and Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals, have discovered enough backbone to accept the challenge of the MOGS (Moustachioed Old Gits) which comprise myself and the Wingco, so the white feathers that I keep in my tennis bag can remain undelivered for the time being. Unless there is some late back sliding, or an unreported reverse, discussion about their inevitable defeat will loom large at dinner, traditionally taken after hostilities have ceased.
Chris France
A surprising goat
It looked like an interesting option. “Surprise de Chevre”, which, roughly translated, comes out as goat surprise. I am not a public schoolboy so I do not do animals, even if they are very surprising. In fact I am seriously considering becoming a part-time vegetarian. By that I mean not eating meat all the time.
This dish was on the menu at the Auberge de la Source last weekend and it made me ponder exactly how it was surprised. Had it been Welsh, or New Zealand Lamb then I may be able to hazard a fairly accurate guess as to why its eyebrows had been raised. Perhaps it was Greek Lamb and it was surprised Greece is still in the Euro?
A sheepish surprise
Talking of the Euro, I am longing for its break up as the opportunities for me to persuade people to open an account with Currencies Direct will be enormous.
That nice lady decorator has not stopped painting for the last two days. She appears to be painting anything and everything white. I swear that if I sat still for too long I would be feeling the tip of her paint brush as it were. She is still whitening all those lovely new dining chairs we did not need, to go with the new dining room table which makes one or the other of them surplus to requirements. I wonder what the next items of furniture will be due for some duplication? The fridge maybe? We only have the three of those at the moment.
There is a dog in our household who at the moment is black and white, a sort of miniature Friesian cow. Banjo is always pretending he is whiter than white whilst his protector, that nice lady decorator, is around. He could certainly benefit from being painted out of the picture, and events took an exciting turn in this respect the night before last. We arrived back at the house after dark to be confronted by our French neighbours colloquially known as “The Twats”. They wanted to bring to our attention that Banjo had been howling whilst we were away. For a short period of time TNLD had decided that this was the end of the line for him and had finally seen the light and accepted that he was damaged goods and that he would have to go. I can tell you that the nightcap we had before bed was one of the most satisfying I had ever had. Delight turned to rabid disappointment in the morning however, instead of being on his way to being re-homed, or better still…..he is to be fitted with a corrective collar which will allegedly stop him howling. I have seen these collars and they emit a small electric shop to impede barking. For me however the electrical charge is way to small. I think one with a taser strength delivery should be found. Maybe I can modify it when it arrives?
Obviously with Englands football match in the 2012 European Championships tonight, I will be taking control of the remote for the TV. Midsomers Murders and Poirot will not be getting a look in as the home country storm into the final phase, or more likely, fall at the last hurdle as usual. Actually, can a footballer fall at a hurdle? I think by tomorrow we will have discovered they can.
Tennis may convene tomorrow evening unless there is more back sliding by my opponents. Of course my enforced absence last week from the traditional Wednesday hostilities was for honest and straightforward reasons, I knew that after a big lunch with pals I would have been in a state that may have slightly undermined my tennis skills, and can in no way be compared with the nervous excuses I have heard from Dancing Greg Harris or Blind Lemon Milsted.
Chris France
Semaphore, decorator style
As it was Fathers Day I contend that it was an honest mistake. I caught a reference from that nice lady decorator about a good rubbing down and she said my reaction to that statement was a deliberate misinterpretation. Apparently I knew that she had to rub down all those new wooden dining room chairs ready for painting. It seems to happen to me all the time. Earlier this week for instance I had been talking about redirection of male. This is a post, after all.
Before she started all that nonsense we went for our traditional morning march in the woods nearby where I was able to take this picture. Quite what she was trying to do eludes me. Fans of Harry Worth may have some idea, but clearly that particular TV series was completed and aired a long time before either of is were born.
Spot that nice lady decorator
Once she had become bored with all that rubbing it was not that hard to persuade her that I should be taken out for a drink to celebrate my day, so, late in the afternoon we headed down to the Auberge De La Source for a sharpener. It claims to be open all day, slightly rare outside Valbonne so we thought we should put it to the test. We managed to get a couple of beers but food was not an option there so we headed for Valbonne Square in order for that nice lady decorator to buy me dinner. As she was paying we went slightly up market to the Terra Rossa which backfired a bit as my steak was not very good.
One mis steak can lead to another and so it proved when I tried to tell the story of a friend of a friend who always had a different fugly (effing ugly) girl in tow. He was known as Sledge because he was always getting pulled by dogs. Now I thought that was funny but it was not an opinion shared by that unsmiling but still nice lady decorator.
The working week is beginning and my missionary zeal for spreading the word about Currencies Direct is undimmed. Did you know that using your bank to send foreign exchange can cost you more than 3% each time? That’s £30 in each £1000, enough to have two lunches at the Auberge St Donat. You know it makes sense, apply for an account here.
Last week I received copies of the painting that have been submitted in the competition run by Marina Kulik’s painting class, seven in total and all really good. Marina has suggested a prize giving lunch, the idea of which of course I loved as once again it will be all about me. This will happen in early July and all will be welcome, details as soon as I have them.
This of course means I have to get on compile it. At first that nice lady decorator suggested Halloween as a launch date, but changed her mind saying there is only so much horror a person can take. Now she prefers Bonfire Night when there is a tradition of burning things. I do hope she was not referring to my book. This time, as a successful author (which I contend I am having sold enough copies of my first book to more than break even) and in a gratuitous display of immodesty, there will also be a hardback edition. There will also be pictures throughout, so all of you people who have done stupid things when I have had a camera in my hand, beware.
Chris France
Salute to the decorator
That nice lady decorator is a totter at heart. The expression “Totter” in this context has nothing to do with the wearing of high heels under the influence of alcohol. It is a term I learned when in my teens when I was bringing my unique talents to bear in what I liked to call the waste disposal business. Yes I was a dustman for sometime after passing my A levels (shocking according to my pals at the time) and turning down a place at somewhere called “Swansea University” which is surely a contradiction of terms. But I digress, the term was used to describe those poor unfortunate people who cannot resist a good look at piles of refuse and collect items of supposed use from the steaming pile of garbage at the tip.
That nice lady decorator cannot resist a car boot sale or a second-hand furniture shop, so it was with a sinking heart that I accepted and obeyed the command to hitch up the trailer and drive her to the second-hand store in Antibes, where she had seen a dining table she liked. “But we already have a big dining room table” I exclaimed, however it seems that we don’t like the existing one and need a different one.
As if this was not enough to bring my day down, having loaded the bits of the new dining room table into the trailer, I was about to head home when I was appraised of a change of plan. She had decided that now that as we are the proud owners of a new dining table, we obviously needed new chairs to match. “But we already have 12 dining room chairs”, I whimpered.
So after visiting a second second-hand emporium and loading the 11 new chairs she had bought into the trailer (imagine, there were only 11, how will we cope?) it was back home to allow her to begin painting them all. Now call me stupid but if you want to have painted table and chairs, why not just buy them in the colour you want? Or better still paint the ones you already have? Why buy wooden furniture and then paint it all? Another question that has been lurking at the back of my style-challenged mind is why paint all the furniture in the dining room the same colour? I was sufficiently unwise to allow that question to leak out of my mouth. I do not want to talk about the consequences.
Anyway, after minor surgery and the application of some plasters, I began work on and select a picture for today’s column and to prepare for an afternoon with Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs to christen his new smart terrace. It is a lovely construction with far-reaching views over his estate, up to the perfume capital of Grasse and down to Mediterranean. Well, you would be able to see the sea if the diving board had been built along with the pool he promised he would build in the last millennium. It is rather a sore point for his fiery but dazzling red-headed wife Pat. I mentioned it once and I think I got away with it.
Another image from post lunch stupidity earlier in the week.
Being Sunday, I will not berate you all today about opening an account with Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange movements. That will be left for next week. There is half a plan to venture to the beach today but with temperatures predicted to be 28 degrees today it may be a little too hot. This bit especially for my readers in the UK.
Chris France
Beauty dogged by dog
In a desperate attempt to off set the physical effects of the profligate ex pat lifestyle enjoyed (or would endured be a better word?) down here in the sunny south of France, that nice lady decorator and I go for a walk every day. This is not a stroll but a full on power walk up as many hills as we can manage. Without that counter balance I would be dead.
The problem is that, like yesterday, one sets oneself out to have a day without a drink, in my case dedicating the whole day, well most of the morning, well certainly between 11 and lunchtime, to working on spreading the good word about the value of opening an account with Currencies Direct. The combined effects of old age and last weeks man flu yesterday then sent me for a siesta in the afternoon. When I awoke, I was preparing for a little cycling but then Peachy arrived unannounced at 5pm.
His visit was on the spurious pretext that he had some stuff to deliver to us. Once unloaded it was inevitable. I tried to head him off at the pass “Would you like a cup of tea?”. “No, a glass of wine please” intoned Le Grande Peche and once again the foundations of good intent for a more healthy lifestyle crumbled like a dam trying to hold back an English drought.
It had been a lovely morning down by the River Brague as my picture today would have depicted had it not been invaded by the calamitous cocker Banjo. A pleasant siesta and then, 5pm, the sun going down, the temperature perfect, the provocation of a Peach and bang, back on the sauce.
The beautiful Brague with a mangy mutt
I am told by several of my friends who have moved back to the UK that one of the biggest things they miss in comparison to living down here (apart from the obvious one, the weather, and here I must make reference to the “once in 50 year storm” that is supposed to be hitting the UK as I write) is the spontaneity. The joy of suddenly finding yourself in a social occasion you had not expected is one that I savour.
Less spontaniously today, Saturday and the first day of the weekend, regular readers will not be surprised to know that we are invited to lunch. Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs has invited us over to his estate in order to discuss a trip to India and Australia later in the year. India is on my Bucket List (as in things you need to do before you kick the bucket) and especially watching England play Test Cricket against India in India. It appears that our friendly local internet inventor is also interested in both cricket and India, so we have a fairly firm plan to go to Mumbai (formerly known as Bombay) in November. This will be a stop off on the way to Adelaide in Australia to play cricket in the Golden Oldies Cricket Festival. Clearly an itinerary of this complexity will take some planning and what better way but to sit a the Internet’s new terrace in the sunshine, and just try to imagine what the swimming pool he promised his wife 20 years ago might have looked like, whilst discussing the complex arrangements over a refreshing ale or several. I promised not to mention the lack of a pool again after what happened last time, so if you could just ignore that bit I would be very grateful. I expect to be home by 5pm ready to go cycling again. I am the eternal optimist.
Chris France
Space for a curry?
This was no ordinary hangover and I blame the Incomprehensible Scotsman. Concentrating on the wonders of Currencies Direct has been very difficult. I could not understand most of his mumblings but when someone late in the afternoon guessed the word “curry” from the torrent of his guttural, phlegm soaked and spittle encrusted utterances, he became very animated. We gleaned from this that he wanted a curry for supper. Thus it was his fault that after a big lunch on Wednesday, a lot of poor behaviour, the emptying of both of Peachy Butterfield’s 10 litre wine boxes, that we ventured into Valbonne for a curry at The Kashmir, and very good it was too.
There is something mystical about the lure of a curry after a skinful, a magical mystery of Indian proportions. Obviously the Scotsman, being Incomprehensible, could not communicate with the Indian waiter who I am convinced was a fan of Little Britain. Matt Lucas’s Fat Fighter character, who cannot understand a word the Indian woman is saying, was reprised in reverse on Wednesday evening in a hysterical interlude. Perhaps we should not all have kept saying “sorry?”, or “again” every time he spoke. Even the indian waiter joined in. As a result I still do not know, and nor does he, what he ordered. Whatever it was he said it was good, at least I think that is what he said.
He has now left, and not before time, to return to Glasgow where he was pleased to see that the temperature was 12 degrees and it was raining. He could hardly wait. It must be an exciting time when the tundra softens in the old home town enough for the midges to rise in clouds from the semi frozen vegetation. His colour whilst he has been with us for two days had changed from pallid blue/white to raging crimson in the unaccustomed sunshine and he had been worthy bait for every mosquito in the south of France. In fact we have seen very few so far this year, but his magnetic personality attracted almost all of those that were in the vicinity.
Now I mentioned bad behaviour earlier, and it is often a joy to discover that I have taken pictures which I had forgotten. Such an animal is featured today. An animal in a more literal sense in the shape of which man mountain who for some unexplained reason wanted to remove his shirt at some stage. Worried that his nipples may get sunburnt, he asked for volunteers to help cover them up as I think is captured on today’s featured image.
I think it’s a boy
I cannot be certain who was unlucky enough to have been charged with this task but are those decorating hands I see before me? Also, try as I might, I cannot remember any reason for this photo.
Back to the hangover. Even as I write, late in the evening, I am still feeling the effects. Even a late afternoon pizza and pichet in Valbonne Square to see off the Incomprehensible one did not shake it off so I took to me bed early to ensure I am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning. This is as opposed to having a serious dose of post curry billy browntale this morning, but then that is probably too much information for those of you who like to read this gibberish over breakfast.
A thankfully quiet day is on the cards for today, but already there is a cloud on the horizon of sobriety. Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs has invited us on Saturday afternoon to discuss details of the Australian and Indian trip planned to ward off and slice in two the horrid English winter. I suspect wine may be drunk. Quelle surprise!
Chris France
A whisper or a kiss?
Once again we went to the Auberge De La Source on the edge of Valbonne and once again we were hoping not to be thrown out for over drinking.
It did not start well. That nice lady decorator loves an olive, so having polished off a plate full she decided that the pips should be cast into the river running beautifully alongside where we were sitting. Elvis Costello once wrote a song called “My aim Is True”, however the expert decorator amongst us took no notice and proceeded to pepper some charming French people with olive stones. Luckily they thought it was funny, in different circumstances this act could well have brought forth a stony silence.
Inevitably, amongst our party was one Peachy Butterfield who was determined to exhibit his new Iphone app called “Fit Or Fat’. It takes a picture of you and then analyses what it sees and gives you a rating between 0 and 10, 0 being fat, 10 being fit. I was the first to volunteer for the analysis, and whilst the app did its calculations, Peachy was heard to say that if I came out fit he would show his arse in Burtons. Fate has a lovely way of punishing those that make silly statements, and although 6 out of 10 was a marginal pass, the app said “Fit” and that was enough for me to ensure that the this ill-judged statement gets its just reward. It is official, I am fit and soon, when next I venture into Burtons I shall expect to witness a rather unpleasant unveiling. I shall just check what we are doing today. I think there is a Burtons in Cannes where I must venture this week for Currencies Direct.
Lunch was a little drawn out, and we were as usual the last to leave. However, a number of the party remained thirsty so regular readers will know what happened, we adjourned to the web in a vain attempt to satisfy that thirst. My picture today shows Peachy and Roly doing their very best to “enjoy” the afternoon. Quite why Roly is wearing a mink coat and Peachy is kissing him is not clear. Perhaps there is some secrets yet to escape from the closet?
Roly and Peachy after lunch, naturally
I would like to be able to report that the day ended here, by the pool with a glass in hand. However, it did not. The hard core amongst us overcame conference calls and short naps to emerge from the afternoon and seek a curry. Once the Incomprehensible Scotsman heard that we have a curry house on Valbonne there was only ever going to be one outcome.
It is at this stage that I have to reveal that there was a surprising early casualty. That nice lady decorator could not be revived from her power nap and did not come for a curry. We had half a plan to reconvene with Rupert Scott who had been with us for lunch but had left early to oversee his building team. He calls then the Communards, but probably not to their face. Tattooed and bald they may be, but gay? Perhaps not.
Talking of gay, it seems that Roly and Poly have decided to employ a gay skipper to be captain of their boat. This is such a potential rich vein of material for this column that I think it could write itself for the next few days. My polite enquiry as to whether his name was Roger, and whether he had a cabin boy will have alerted them to the literal danger that confronts them. At no stage should they ever address him in this manner “Hello Sailor”. Some of my dearest friends are gay but I have solemnly promised not to allude to any sexual orientation when (if) ever invited aboard again. For instance I shall not be making any comments about up hill gardening, shirt lifters or nine bob notes.
Chris France
On the Source
It is customary for our dogs to be removed from our garden as soon as possible in the mornings in order for them to become bear-like, that is to shit in the woods.
For the proper dog, Max, this involves taking him somewhere remote, where he will politely find a place off the beaten track to complete his ablutions. For the heinous hound, the catastrophic cocker, Banjo, the dog owned by that nice lady decorator, being polite is an alien concept. For him, defecating in the middle of a path, or ideally, at his most determined and malevolent, saving it up in order to defecate on my lawn is a favoured option.
His output yesterday morning was remarkable. His deposits were, well, what can I say, a little less drought ridden than is desirable. Of course a responsible owner will understand that it is their responsibility to clear up any mess.
It has thus come to my notice that the nice lady Banjo owner has taken to using some tools when undertaking the clearing up process when out walking. It appears that she has a traveling trowel for the crappy dog. Frankly a noose would achieve a better result.
It is fair to say that after a big day on the beach in the sunshine on Monday (UK readers, stay with me) followed by a fairly large evening in the pav that neither of us were at our best yesterday morning after a rather desultory walk. I had just finished my days work at 11am when a jaded but still nice lady decorator suggested lunch at the Auberge De La Source, a venue which we had previously agreed to put under the microscope today. When I reminded the decorating person of that and pointed out that we would be lunching in the same place two days running, she said it was worth a recce.
The newly revamped Auberge De La Source
Whilst enjoying a very good value lunch in the sunshine as my picture today suggests, somehow the conversation tracked towards actors and lookalikes. I ventured the opinion that in my younger days I looked a bit like Russell Brand. To my surprise that nice lady decorator agreed but then came the sting in the tail, she said that when I was young I acted like him as well. Becoming animated, she said that was why she had finished with me all those years ago, because she was worried about STD. STD? I said, and she retorted that she did not mean Subscriber Trunk Dialling (you have to be of a certain age to understand this). It dawned on me that she was alluding to Sexually Transmitted Diseases, or communicative diseases. I suppose writing this daily blog is some kind of communicative disease.
Of course, much of the time at the moment I am preoccupied with my enforced forthcoming move back to the UK. That is the reason why I am trying to cram as much south of France living into the next month. Apart from finding untapped masses that have yet to have the benefits of Currencies Direct unveiled to them, I have begun to consider my wardrobe for summer in the UK. Arundel will be very different to Valbonne. I said that I was worried about the bright colours I like to wear down here. That nice lady decorator suggested that as Arundel is not far from Brighton, the unofficial gay capital of England, and that I would fit in well, but that I should be more worried about my enormous porno moustache. It seems she thinks I may attract attention of a different kind.
So today we will return to the Auberge De La Source near Valbonne with a larger party to undertake an ex-pat stress test. This is where we collect together a bunch of hard drinking noisy Brits in the sunshine and try to ascertain if the restaurant can handle the consequences. A full report tomorrow?
Chris France
Back to the souture
To Juan Les Pins for lunch on the beach is a bit of an extravagance on a Monday, but I contend that we are living (at least for the moment) amongst extravagant people and unless we join in we would look out of place. That and you never know where you will meet the next customer who is ready for the benefits of an account at Currencies Direct.
A sharpener in the web was required before we set off for the seaside with Peachy Butterfield, his gorgeous well stacked (sorry Lin but she does not like to be called statuesque) wife, Suzanne and Dougie “Mac the Knife” Mcgeorge, the visiting plastic surgeon. On the way we discussed his epithet in this column and he expressed a liking for it, saying it was better than “Plastic Mac” or “Placcy Maccy” as he is known in some circles. I could discuss this further but have drawn a veil over the subject, which should suit Peachy who has now added selling curtains in the south of France to his list of inactivity.
Once joined on the beach at Le Petite Plage by the Naked Former Politician and his lovely wife Dawn, the suitability of the conversation for inclusion in this column became sufficiently dubious as to be thrown into doubt. I dubbed it a case of back to the suture. A number of doctors jokes and stories, some very funny indeed, unfolded but sadly most will have to be excluded. I would love for instance to have been able to tell you how best to numb nipples. One facet did occur to me though as we were talking. Although there seems to be very little difference between the spelling of hospitality and being hospitalised, there is clearly a great gulf in the meaning, unless you go private.
The pav this morning with that nice lady DJ’s tools of the trade
It is always a mistake when that nice lady decorator gets her hands on the Ipod and docking station. I try to keep it out of her sight, especially if she has lunched well, had a siesta, and then awoken determined to carry on in the same way as she had before everybody had left. The reasons would be obvious to anyone there in the pav last night. There are parallels with the concept of the perfect storm. Her superb decorating skills are neatly counter balanced by her utter ineptitude with anything remotely technical. Her patience after a few drinks is, at the very least, not noted, and her dissatisfaction with things not going to plan means that those things that choose to offend her can get thrown around. Once I had won the battle for the music system not be thrown into the garden and it was functioning in some measure, I was then treated to her utter certainty that by singing along to classics like “See Emily Play” and “Nights In White Satin” that she was somehow adding to the aural experience. If one is stupid enough (as I was) to throw the slightest doubt about the quality of this enhancement, she increases the volume exponentially until they see or actually hear the light.
Today then, once the ringing in my ears has subsided from shrill to dull pain, I have work to do before the Incomprehensible Scotsman returns this evening from the wedding in central southern France, if he made it, and if he can find his way back. Regular readers will already be aware of his inability to speak English properly, let alone French, and will be familiar with his cartographically challenged nature. A map to him reminds me of another song which was butchered last night “I’m On The Road To Nowhere”.
Chris France
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