Ski season over shock
I hear some underground rumblings from Peachy Butterfield yesterday (not unusual it itself) about my cutting remarks over the quality of the wine he habitually consumes. The emphasis in his household is on quantity rather than quality. Let me be clear, with most wines drunk by normal people one removes the cork to enable the aroma of the “crushed fruit” as Peachy describes it, to be savoured and enjoyed, but with Peachy’s choice of wine it is important that it is uncorked early in order for the smell to be dispersed some time before intended consumption. Frankly the longer the better.
Sunday in Valbonne in early summer is a splendid place to be. That nice lady decorator loves a car boot sale and with the French equivalent ( a vide grenier) spotted taking place in the village on the way to buy a paper, I thought I could settle into an espresso in Valbonne Square with my Sunday Times in the full knowledge that she would spend a happy hour or so trawling over other people’s rubbish, and thus leaving me in peace.
However, before that she had finally got around to taking off the ski rack from the Hyundai skip, by which I mean her car. The ski resorts have all been closed for months but it seems she had been at the very least rather hopeful of getting some more skiing in this season. I think it was the chortling yesterday at Help For Heroes quiz event about still having the ski rack in place that persuaded her to come to terms with an end to skiing. By the time this task had been completed, she looked shattered so we settled instead for a bloody mary at home.
skiing anyone?
Talking of that Help For Heroes event, it seems I underestimated the sales of my book, 16 were sold, taking the total to 198, dangerously near to 200 and into the last two boxes of this never to be sought after, limited first edition. Us successful authors must do our bit for charity. In all over 1700 euros were raised on the day, a fantastic result from a garden party.
Today there may be an uplifting plan to have lunch on the beach on the way to the airport to see off Mac The Knife, our visiting token plastic surgeon. I would have said that I did not feel cut out for this after the weekend we have just had but that would have been the kind of cheap joke that I have been determined to slice out of this column. As I write, there is no certainty that the engagement is firm but I live in hope. Can I say I am putting on a brave face about it? or could that be misconstrued by Mac The Knife?
Before the beach though, there is the small matter of doing some work. In addition to my music interests, this requires me to spread the word a little wider about the benefits of Currencies Direct. If all my readers signed up today I would not have to mention their lovely services in every column.
Just a month left in France now before we leaving for the watery drought stricken land of England. At least they are getting all that rain done and dusted (inappropriate use of verb) before we return. There is just not that much rain in the world for the current weather to last until July. Mark my words, it will be sunny and warm in Arundel from mid July until the end of September when I hit England in earnest.
Chris France
Help for heroes
So yesterday afternoon off up into the hills of Bar Sur Loup for a delightful afternoon quiz in aid of the worthy charity Help For Heroes. It was staged in the gardens of the lovely Fiona Macleod, co-founder with Karen Hockney of Premier Mardi, as my picture today shows.
In deference to this cause, I decided to offer copies of my book for sale with the entire sale price of 10 euros (about £8 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) being donated to the charity. When I told that nice lady decorator of my decision her reaction was “are you trying to get rid of them?”. She can be so hurtful. To sell 11 books on the day taking the total to 193 was a very rewarding event for both myself and the charity. I do hope my accountant is reading this and will prepare the relevant tax deduction for this charitable donation. Perhaps his input here could be described “help for hero(s)?
Some garden hero helpers
From there we adjourned for dinner at the house of Man Mountain Peachy Butterfield in Valbonne. Also present was the Naked Politician who dropped the bombshell, he is no longer a politician. There was however no mention of any curtailment to the naked part of his epithet, although thankfully, and mainly because his “handbrake” in the lovely form of his wife Dawn, precluded any disrobing on this occasion, at least while we were there.
I was also introduced to a charming visiting plastic surgeon, chairman of BAPS (the British Association Of Plastic Surgeons; you couldn’t make it up) Douglas “Mack The Knife” McGeorge who made a number of incisive comments, cutting to the heart of any discussions, and not putting the knife into anyone. Ok that’s enough surgical jokes. He did look a little embarrassed when Peachy announced again the his penis reduction surgery had been a great success and that as a result he can now wear shorts. Perhaps Mac’s “staff” had undertaken that particular long operation. By this time Le Peche Enorme was deeply into his stride having spent much of the afternoon paying massive respect to a bladder of the freshest Macclesfield Malbec, still steaming from whatever vile process they use to produce the obnoxious liquid. Quite how the conversation turned to circumcision eludes me as I write this, perhaps it the presence of “Mack The Knife”. Anyway, my notes are hazy as by this point I had managed a few glasses of a rather nice St Emilion Grand Cru that I had sneaked in when his back was turned. I cannot quite recall in what context but he contended rather too loudly (especially if any of our new friends were Jewish) that circumcision was a procedure designed to impede masturbation (although the mechanics of exactly how this might be achieved leave me a little mystified) but he said to be certain perhaps doctors should cut their arms off. As I say, I was a little hazy by that time.
Later he told an utterly tasteless joke about why a girl had two black eyes (because he had to tell her twice) and it became clear it was time to leave. We were sharing a taxi with Roly and Poly Bufton and after being dropped off and whilst having a last nightcap under the stars on a balmy evening in the web, we heard the taxi return. Roly had left their gate bleeper behind and was incurring the shrill wrath of Poly, so beautiful when she is aroused. He did his case no favours when he fell over and made a Roly-sized indentation in a large thyme bush. Perhaps I should not have said “time to go home?”
Chris France
Provencal summer flowers
On a perfect sunny Provencal day, and after a quick trot around the regular Friday Valbonne market with the incomprehensible Scotsman, the idea to partake of lunch took shape.
Before the incomprehensible and geographically challenged Scotsman departed we loaned him a map for his journey to Albi, over in central southern France, where he is due to attend a wedding on Saturday. Because of his ineptitude exhibited in following very simple instructions which had needlessly extended the simple trip from Nice airport to Valbonne (normally 20 minutes) into a 90 minute fiasco the night before, we thought it was wise. Albi should be a four hour drive, but given the form I have witnessed recently he should make it by Tuesday, several days after the wedding. Instructions in English were clearly too much for him.
Earlier I had chanced past Cafe Latin and although too late for church (the regular weekly worship of coffee and gossip hosted by my style guru Mr Humphreys – if he is free -). I came across the Naked Forker and Cathie The Culture (see blogs passim) sharing a coffee. Late for church; as the Reverend Jeff will lament, the story of my life.
Anyway, because it is all about me we discussed the progress of Marina Kulik’s painting class, and specifically how they were getting on with the potential cover artwork for my new book. It seems that many entries are finished and my judging will start soon. Please be sure that bribery will take a part in the process.
For many years we had said we should lunch at La Poelan, in old Valbonne but had continually passed it by in favour of a dash to the Cafe Des Arcades. Yesterday was different, we made it.
It has a terrace with seats outside but off the main drag on a side street where you meet people you don’t expect. That nice lady decorator chose to describe the road as a kind of back passage. She then proceeded to utter a string of double entendres on the same subject. Let me give you an example; walking past as we ordered our food was fellow golfer and pensions specialist Paul Howard with his parents who were visiting Valbonne. After he had said hello and continued on down the street that nice lady decorated said “you never know who you will encounter up a back passage”.
As if this was not enough to get my note taking blackberry twitching, a little later, when a lovely cooling breeze arrived (readers in the UK, I know it is a difficult concept to grasp but stay with me) she ventured the opinion that it must often be windy up the back alley. What a concept, windy up a back alley.
Yucca in bloom
Personally I was celebrating the departure of the incomprehensible Scotsman. I am sure he is a charming chap but like that Fat Fighters character in Little Britain played by the excellent Matt Lucas, when confronted by an Indian lady with an accent, I have no idea what he was saying. That nice lady decorating interpreter told me later that he is an expert in the culinary world. It seems that his particular speciality is the Haggis burger. I jest not. Whilst I was glazing over when listening to the guttural Glaswegian guests gob, that nice lady future haggis burger fabricator was talking notes and I fear that sometime soon I shall be forced to eat and pass comment on such an animal. I hope that I do not have literally to pass such a delight.
A busy day ahead, to an afternoon quiz in Bar Sur Loup in aid of Help For Hero’s sponsored now by Currencies Direct and then off to a barbecue in Valbonne.
Chris France
On the rain again
Yesterday’s column about Dyslexia and art received a few great comments, of which my favourite was “would a dyslexic, agnostic, insomniac lie awake at night and worry about whether there was a dog?”. I promised I would nick it and so I have.
Yesterday morning I was up at the crack of sparrows fart, ensuring that all my work for Currencies Direct was completed before play started in the third cricket Test between England and the West Indies at 11.30 French time. I had prepared my Pimms and cucumber sandwiches so as to be able fully to enjoy a quintessentially English summer day, a feature no doubt of the drought we have all heard so much about. Imagine my surprise then that when I put the TV on I saw that rain had stopped play starting. In fact the whole day was abandoned without a ball being bowled. At last the drought must be over. All day we were receiving calls and pictures of the weather in the UK. My picture today was to have been of that nice lady decorator on the phone commiserating with some poor wet soul back in England whilst drinking a glass of wine by the pool, but she saw it and the veto was applied. I do hope they could not hear her glugging that chilled Chablis, so instead I give you a photo sent by Slash and Burn Thornton Allan from the M1 in England yesterday.
Looks like a study in oils or water colours?
My attention was drawn to an article in the Daily Telegraph which reported a story about two international communities that are making a strategic alliance, or twinning as we call it. Dull, a village in Scotland is tying the knot with Boring, a small community in Oregan. This got me thinking of suitable towns to twin with the charming Swiss town of Wankdorf. The best I could do is suggest the up market hamlet called Happy in Texas. Happy and Wankdorf, a match made in heaven and the perfect antidote to Dull and Boring. I shall be watching the comments section of this column today to see if any of you have any other ideas for towns or villages twinning.
So last night the incomprehensible Scotsman eventually arrived from the airport. The twenty-minute drive took him an hour. He was apparently cursing the fact that all the locals were driving on the wrong side of the road the steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car. At least this is what I heard when I got the translation later. I do not understand more than a tenth of what he says, it was like watching tennis as that nice lady decorator, who understands the lingo, and the incomprehensible Scotsman traded stories. We adjourned to Valbonne Square under a slight chill. Although still in shorts, I did take a light sweater in case it cooled too much by midnight. If you are living in England, why not rent my house in summer? Bring sun tan cream.
A late pizza in the square was followed by an adjournment to the pav to enable the incomprehensible Scotsman to drink back dinner, which that nice lady decorator had forced him to buy. I left them to it. “Drinking back” is a Scottish concept, where the buyer of dinner attempts to secure effective repayment for the cost of dinner by drinking their own body weight in wine. From what I saw, and the number of bottles littering the pav this morning, in typical Scots fashion, he got his money’s worth.
Chris France
Dyslexia in art
I am told the drought in England is as bad as ever, but I do not want my readers in England to get the impression that all is good in the garden of the south of France. Oh no, we had some cloud again at times yesterday keeping the temperature down to a chilly 24 degrees at times, and one of my local readers, the Naked Forker (see blogs passim) has revealed that a bird shat on her arm yesterday whilst she drove along yesterday with the window down. You see it is tough down here as well, although I accept that readers in England may not understand the concept of an open window. This is seen as a lucky omen in some circles. It must have been a really good shot. For three years I have driven around all summer (that is from March to November – this for my readers in England) with the top down in the Merc and never once been lucky enough for that to happen to me.
The Auberge De La Source restaurant on the edge of Sophia Antipolis has been revamped and has reopened. I always liked it because you could get alligator and ostrich on the menu when we first moved down here some seven years ago. Its idyllic setting in the woods by a river was also very alluring so that nice lady decorator persuaded me to take her up The Source, as it were, once my tennis match was cancelled.
I say cancelled but all I received was silence and ignorance from our leader, Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals. I shall have to secure a white feather for one particular tennis pairing, well two I suppose. I confirm that the MOGS, the Wingco and I were both available to play at our regular Wednesday meeting but it seems our regular rabbits, our opponents, were not quite so available, indeed not available at all. I shall be writing a letter of protest to the committee.
Anyway, back to the Auberge De La Source. We managed to secure a couple of drinks but they only open for dinner on Friday and Saturday. The garden area has been delightfully revamped, even to the extent of the siting of some typical modern art pieces. I took this picture of one of them. As you can see it is a flawed piece as I am certain the artist was trying to evoke a sense of fair play, of ensuring that one pays ones debts, but when moulding this worthy creation perhaps more attention should have been spent on the spelling. IOU is just three letters. How is it possible to get them in the wrong order?
Art in the dyslexic world
So, hungry, we headed to the Valbonnaise, the scruffy, cheap and great fun family run restaurant in Valbonne. It was a surprise then to come across renowned caterers Adams and Adams, Kate and Andrew, eating on an adjacent table, having closed La Pomme Rouge to concentrate on their catering business. This will feature in the blog roll on the right as soon as their Currencies Direct account is opened and functioning. Andrew, you know it makes sense.
This evening an old friend, an incomprehensible Scotsman, is coming to visit. This will almost certainly involve us in staggering up to the wonderful Valbonne Square, the first port of call for a visiting tourist. I often find the French hard to understand but that is as nothing compared with the Glaswegian drawl with which we will have to contend. Luckily that nice lady interpreter spent some time up north in her youth so she will be able to relay the gist of what he says. Frankly it is all nonsense anyway.
Chris France
Egg on face or face on egg?
So as I manfully fight off the worst case of man flu I, or probably any other man in history has ever suffered, I have been languishing on the sofa, having to watch yet more Jubilee nonsense.
This enforced period of “relaxation” has given me time to think back over what has been going on over the past few weeks. One thing I had forgotten until today was that last week when our invitation to dine with some Germans was brought forward from 7 30 to 6 30, Peachy Butterfield said it was because they did not want us to arrive fashionably late, between 19.39 and 19.45. This cannot be construed as a mention of the war and if it was then I think we have got away with it.
Sprog 2 departed yesterday back to England to do some work experience at Flying Pictures who do most of the aerial stunts for James Bond and Harry Potter amongst others. Before she left she kindly made her mark on the eggs in our fridge as today’s photo shows. I think I can see the bad one. I think it is called Banjo. That nice lady decorator described him as a natural gun dog. For me the gun part works, as long as it was pointed at him. You may think I am being a bit harsh here but I am fed up with going to the supermarket each day to replace the cheese Banjo has stolen and eaten the day before.
Egstatic
So no lunch for me, just trying to get back in some sort of shape for the next saga in the tennis wars tgis evening, and here saga could be an operative word. My partner in the MOGS, the Moustachiod Old Gits, the Wingco and I are unashamedly into our sixth decades but our partners, Blind Lemon Milsted and “Dancing” Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur villas exhibit a little more vanity than the MOGS. I don’t want to say too much but I have seen evidence of hair colouring. You will note the link to Cote d’Azur? This is because Greg has given me carte blanche to be rude about him as long as I include a link for his company. He is of the deeply flawed opinion that he and his partner are better tennis players than the MOGS which is palpable nonsense and a fact that I intend, despite my ailment, to make clear tomorrow evening.
That Jubilee nice lady decorator has been earning a crust today by decorating, but she was in front of the telly the moment she had finished the first bottle of Bourgogne Aligote as the sun went down. She then excitedly proceeded to talk me through some of the more notable events. At time like these she is the master of the bleeding obvious, perhaps it is the blonde hair. It seems for instance that a Hurricane is not a wind. This gem of information was relayed to me as a Hurricane aircraft flew over Buckingham Palace. Another piece of advice she despatched was not aimed at me but at one of the trumpeters, who was advised to keep his trumpet horizontal to stop the rain entering the spout. Did I mention the rain? One last point, a bit of bad timing and the fusillade of shots from the soldiers could have downed that Lancaster bomber.
Normal service will re resumed tomorrow. I shall be diligently seeking to save more lost souls from the ravages of their banks whilst single-handed keeping the music industry functioning. I will not mention Currencies Direct because it is obvious what a right thinking person will do having read this column and realising how much could be saved on foreign exchange transactions.
Chris France
Jolly boating weather
Being incapacitated meant that my cunning and well laid plans to avoid the first day of Jubilee overkill lie in tatters. The first part of the plan worked perfectly. I knew that the satellite signal to Sea Breeze, the boat upon which we enjoyed a fabulous day out yesterday during the Jubilee Thames Pageant, would be intermittent and as a result we would not be able to see it, and so it proved. What I had not bargained for was that the nice lady decorator had recorded it all. That and I was ill enough not be able to leave the house yesterday and was thus subjected to the full scale of the madness. All this fuss over a tube line.
I know we Brits do ceremony very well, and it is a remarkable event but 4 days of non stop coverage? Why can’t I see edited highlights? ten minutes would have done it. Perhaps my judgement is clouded by being poorly, and talking of cloud there seemed to be rather a lot of it in London and a good deal of rain (long to rain over us?).
Where are the sun decks, the champagne, the sunshine?
Today’s picture was taken of the TV showing the Jubilee Line pageant with me in a permanent foetal, man , position on the sofa. This is boating UK style in summer. Mid June and everybody wrapped was wrapped up in scarves, hats and wrestling with umbrellas and trying to keep out the wet and cold. This is a classic example of the British stiff upper lip spirit which I have lost, in fact my lip is quivering like a jelly at the prospect of returning to such hardship. Boating in the south of France by definition tends to be a much more rewarding experience.
Compare the spectacle above with what we experienced on Sunday for example. There I was in shorts, stripped to the waist, muscles rippling in the warm sunshine, glass of champagne in hand, gazing out over the sunny Mediterranean. The choice was what to have for lunch and what factor of sun screen to apply. Compare that with the weather on show in the picture. The choice is what gauge of galoshes to wear and what industrial strength umbrella to employ. No chapsticks required in the south of France.
It being a bank holiday in the UK meant that I had little work to do today on Currencies Direct. I have a policy of respecting and adhering to holidays in both the UK and France. In France this means there was hardly any work done at all. Three bank holidays in a month in France, none on the first or last day of the week means “Le Pont”, known as “the bridge”, so if the holiday lands on a Tuesday or a Thursday, there tends to be a lot of “sickies”, extending the weekends nicely.
The South Of France English Theatre continues tonight for 3 nights in Nice, tickets are available on the door. Last nights performance was cancelled due to a thunderstorm but the last three performances of this Ira Levin masterpiece will be well worth seeing. It is a well acted and directed play and welcome here in the South of France.
At last the air is clear and full summer will now take full effect as soon as I recover from Man Flu. My thanks go out to Pinman who thoughtfully researched the issue of Man Flu and came up with this website which explains perfectly from what I have been suffering. I am vindicated as it is clear from the research that women can never truly comprehend the horror of man flu as it attacks only the XY chromosome carrier, thus women are immune.
Chris France
No torpedoes in the pool
We were in the car on the way back from the Valmasque contemplating the value one can extract as a customer of Currencies Direct, when a wine expert came on the radio talking about the complexity of wine when opening it. I have never found a problem opening wine. It is not a complex task, it just needs a corkscrew and a bit of knowledge and some dexterity, plus a decent thirst. What is complex about that? Maybe he had a tricky cork?
A splendid day yesterday aboard Sea Breeze, the wonderful new Fleming boat, owned By Roly and Poly and berthed at Antibes got off to a fascinating start. Regular readers will know that we had two charming Germans friends of our hosts aboard, both of whom are doctors and neither saur krauts, in fact they were both very jovial.
We had been to dinner with them the night before and they had read my comments yesterday relating to Basil Fawlty and Dads Army so I was a little wary of what would result. They had said that the contents were “very amusing” in a manner I did not find entirely convincing, so when Uli, who is also a research scientist (whom the lovely Leslie Bufton described as “like the horny captain of Das Boot”, the film about a German submarine) you will understand that my senses were working overtime. I think it was when he shouted “torpedoes away” as we cruised the channel between the lles Des Lerins and Cannes that I began to become really concerned.
He was referring of course to two fast-moving jet skis, so distant that an “Eagle” eye would have been required to spot the wake. Maybe it was the binoculars, or maybe the forced smile when our hosts gallantly tried to explain the humour the British find in TV series Fawlty Towers, or maybe it was the cold cures I was consuming at regular intervals washed down with wine in order to try to ward off a cold I had suddenly developed that magnified my sense of paranoia? In any event I am sure I did not imagine the order to drop depth charges.
I remained on my guard during this sun drenched day with senses heightened and nervously jumping at every rifle-like explosion of the Prosecco corks. Eventually in the afternoon after a fabulous lunch I was lulled to the edge of sleep by the heady combination of fizzy wine, rose and lemsip.
When I awoke I was not at my best but received precious little sympathy from that nice lady sailing person for my predicament. In fact I swear I heard her saying that I was “over achtung”.
Arriving back into Antibes at around 6pm in a state of delirium (is that one of the 51 states?) I remember being frog marched (quite apt being that we were in France) to the Blue Lady pub which was unaccountably closed, and then to the Hop Store for some Guinness where I noticed the excellent Blah Blah have a residency on Wednesdays. “Kill or cure” said that nice lady decorator, but in fact neither state was reached. I am still alive and I am not cured.
A nightcap in the pav
We arrived back to the pav for a nightcap, where I took this picture, to recap on the wonderful day we had just had. This was after taking the opportunity to eat some Thai food at the Elephant in Antibes which was pretty good if a little pricey.
Today I intend to stay in my pit for much of it to try to throw of this lurgy that has overcome me. Chaps amongst my readers will a probably know about Man Flu, one of the most distressing conditions than can befall the male population, slightly more physically debilitating than childbirth, and not understood by women.
Chris France
Dead red
Last night then to dinner with a number of the usual suspects but with the addition of some charming German friends of our hosts. Peachy Butterfield popped around during the day to collect the Lucifer Child (his daughter) who had crashed out at ours the night before with sprog 2 who is home for a long weekend, and we discussed what amusement we might face when faced with our new Germanic friends during the evening. We decided that one joke we must not do is ask him his occupation, otherwise he may say ” no, just for a few days”. Perhaps it would also have been a good idea if we did not mention the war? Discussion about Basil Fawlty and his attitude to Germans followed and whilst we amused ourselves we accepted that our dinner guests might not be similarly entertained, and resolved that Fawlty Towers was off limits.
Anyway, all’s well that ends well and it was not a late night as we have a big day today aboard Roly and Leslie (not Roly and Poly as the Lucifer child had referred to them) Buftons boat, indeed we believe we are the first guests he has ever welcomed aboard, Roly having just driven “Sea Breeze” from Southampton to Antibes over the past three weeks. Anyway, 8000 litres of diesel later the boat is here and today so are we!
The evening started with a tincture in the web under the same cloudy skies that have plagued us on and off all week and I blame for the cold that has descended upon me. Peachy has his own personal boxes (not bottles you will note) of execrable table wine stored at ours that he seems to enjoy which is fine by me. It is said that life is too short to drink bad wine but on the basis of the stuff he drinks he must be pretty near immortal.
Almost perfect camouflage
So, off to meet the Germans, me adorned in my new dark pink cashmere sweater which so nearly matched the plates (as one can see from today’s picture). I said before we arrived that I just hope it doesn’t go to penalties. This caused me to receive a yellow card from that nice lady referee early on. A red card would probably get me shot. Before we left for the dinner engagement, I went to the fridge for some wine to take and said Handy Hock anyone? As I pointed out on the way home, that line as from Dads Army so still onside.
There was one tense moment. Peachy was keen later in the evening for some reason to go outside, perhaps he was a little hot, so to find the patio doors locked was a shock in the short term, but he was released in the end, and was able to escape to freedom. There was also a moment when I mentioned Basel. Peachy thought I had mentioned Basil as in Basil Fawlty, a subject which we had previously agreed was off limits. What he had not understood was that I was talking about the Swiss city of Basel, close to another notable Swiss town, Wankdorf.
Actually the Germans Uli and Brigitte are charming, and we will meet them again aboard the boat today. I am particularly keen to find out more about her, an eminent and well endowed (sorry Lin) German female doctor and her stripping off at a party in the 70’s. It was something we all did then, or at least us chaps encouraged the girls to do. She was a little coy about the details but I am sure I can tease then out of her today. That or I will make it up, as usual.
Chris France
Look, no hands
If there was one reason to make one less unhappy about having to leave France in about six weeks time is the news that the recent unseasonable storms have destroyed almost the entire grape crop in the Var over near St Tropez for the next two years. Horizontal hail stones have been blamed and it feels like I may have passed something similar myself after the last few days. So with the prospect of Var rose’s not being available next year and the year after, I shall have to reconsider my antipathy to a return to England. It could have been worse of course, what if a similar catastrophe befell Bordeaux? There would scarcely be any reason for living.
With one’s house guests finally departed I had been feeling rather shabby as a result of the over indulgence they had forced us to endure for the last five days, even to the extent of considering partaking of a restorative pint of Guinness at the Queens Legs, but in the end, the shabbiness won and so, slumped untidily on the sofa in front of the build up for the Queens Jubilee celebrations, the highlight of last evening was a cup of tea.
Comments on this column yesterday revolved unsurprisingly around the stories the day before of a house owned by a friend in Wankdorf. It was hard for the less busy amongst my readership to avoid grasping the staff of hope I had given them to enjoy. The Reverend Jeff suggested that I should guide my flock away from erection and towards resurrection. Of course true resurrection lies only in opening an account with Currencies Direct, stopping banks from shafting (there we go again) the customer. Pinman researched some other tall fooball stories on the web about being (in) Wankdorf. “How would you feel about playing for the team, Wankdorf?”
And so an evening of quiet contemplation was almost inevitable but the break will be brief, with a dinner invitation tonight and a luncheon invitation aboard a boat on Sunday. It was whilst casting around for a picture for today’s column that I happened upon this one. Recently departed house guest Janie was determined to sample my panna cotta and chose an interesting method. Perhaps they did not have spoons in her house hold when she was growing up, or perhaps she had already eaten all the silver ones.
How to eat a panna cotta
Just one evening of Jubilee overkill and I have already had enough. Perhaps it was just being sprawled on the sofa feeling wretched but I think I shall be avoiding the TV over the coming four or five days. I feel the same about the Olympics, the hype on the TV is already at fever pitch and beginning to irritate me, almost as much as that ridiculous Belgian detective, the man with a live snail for a moustache, Poirot, another waste of TV production facilities on the same level as Midsomer Murders, both series an utter waste of TV time in my humble opinion and both beloved by that nice lady decorator who likes to keep at least 40 hours TV of this nature stored on our Sky planner system.
So off to bed last night with a cocoa and a Resolve, the last-ditch hangover cure, moaning about improbable Belgian detectives and with high hopes that I will feel more sociable in the morning. These were dashed, pebble dashed in fact as was our hallway, pebble dashed by one of the dogs. In my mind there absolutely no doubt as to who is the culprit. Banjo has twice this week broken into the kitchen to steal and eat food. Off with his head.
Chris France
Cigar heaven
After a very nice lunch at Le Bois Dore, a restaurant that we do not usually frequent because the wine is ridiculously expensive, we were invited back to the “maison”, well, one of the maisons of the Buftons who had joined us for lunch. The lunch was particularly lovely because it was at the expense of my some time golfing partner, Peter Savin, thus I was searching for the most expensive option I could get away with.
The plan to go to Lou Fassum was scuppered earlier when my host discovered that their “menu du marche”, an expensive but still comparatively reasonably priced option when compared to their ridiculously priced a la carte menu, had been suspended for the summer. Not being the one paying, I did my best to persuade him that it would be worthwhile and how wonderful was their terrace looking down the valley to the sea but he was rightly unmoved. With so much competition in the restaurant world close by in Valbonne and the surrounding area and a recession eating (sic) into their income one would have thought that bringing in some thirsty ex pats might have been a commercially sensible option, but no, this is France where commercial reality is so often absent, so the Bois Dore it was.
It became clear over a sumptuous meal on the nearly as lovely terrace of the Bois Dore that the Buftons once owned a house – or maybe it was a friend – in Switzerland at a place called Wankdorf. Regular readers of this column will know that information such as this is fuel to the fire of innuendo and gossip for which this column is justly renowned. What a handy place to live I suggested innocently. It has good air and road links so I thought it was handy. Subsequently the lovely Leslie Bufton said “I wasn’t going to mention it, but for a long time I had to go there twice a day”.
As soon as she had uttered those words in the context of Wankdorf she looked at me and suddenly regretted it. With my blackberry in my hand to take notes in order, as it were, to take in hand this piece of information, and in justifiable fear of the consequences she dug that hole of innuendo deeper still; she knew that my reporting antenna was primed and still she said she knew that “she had it coming”.
Lunch was charming, as was the waiter who was trying in broken English to explain the cheese option on the Menu Du Marche “pas de goat” he said, and I was mightily glad about that.
The perfect end to a day
I took this picture as I was sitting in the pav last evening constructing today’s missive with a Monte Christo to hand, considering the relative merits of living in Wankdorf, and thinking about the Swiss Franc when I remembered that I had yet to mention the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct.
So it is over. Our house guests leave this morning and I for one will be finished with strong drink for a few days. I know it is the weekend and the Queens Jubilee celebrations next week but a man can only take so much. I have my second book to complete ready for a launch later in the year. That nice lady decorator suggested Halloween as a good date but I think she may have been being slightly disingenuous. It is now about a quarter of the way through to completion so perhaps it is a good target date.
Chris France
Childish strutting
“I can only stay a week and I don’t do animals” so said a certain female house guest, whom I cannot identify (but who was dubbed a GILF by Peachy Butterfield when he met her for the first time this week) when confronted with a brief tour of the wonderful D5, the boat owned by the naked politician.
This was on Tuesday afternoon after lunch and on the way to the web, a big memorable day, so inevitably yesterday was considerably quieter, certainly in daylight hours as recovery and nursing of hangovers was required.
Over a quiet lunch in the web after golf, of which more later if the pressure of space permits, certain details of rather poor behaviour by a grandmother who should know better were brought to my attention. As long as the usual ten euro bribe is passed to me in a timely fashion no one need be any the wiser. This is not blackmail, merely reputation integrity insurance.
Dinner was taken at Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne which was another quiet affair apart from the thunder that was rumbling around and the noise of the rain drumming on the awnings. The weather continues to be less settled than normal. I am told it will be better in England which actually would not be impossible given what we have suffered this week. I have even twice including last night had to put the top up on the Merc.
I was late for dinner because I had been playing tennis at the Vignale with thunder and lightning lurking around but at that stage just a few spots of rain. This was clearly not conducive to the skills of my partner and fellow mustachioed old git the Wingco. We won the first set but thereafter my memory became slightly hazy as to what occurred. In my mind I am certain we won but cannot be sure of the exact score.
Today, for the final day of the visit of house guests The Savins, we have half a plan to go to Lou Fassum for lunch. This has to be my favorite top end restaurant, but given the prices it is one visited only on special occasions. Peter Savin however is treating us. It is a very special occasion for him as he is celebrating some kind of recent hollow golf victory, one that I cannot recall. Any suggestion that I may have been on the losing side and that this loss was perpetrated deliberately in order to secure a sumptuous lunch at someone else’s expense is poppy cock. I have a picture today of a strutting peacock I took in Havana in March. I think you will get my drift.
A silly show off routine.
I see that the stirling to euro exchange rate touched 1.25 yesterday amid the ruins and imminent collapse of the single European currency concept, so the best time for years to move that sterling into euros via my old friends Currencies Direct. Please do not use your banks, you may well be ripped off, a little like I feel today. I have twice this week had to witness an old man being photographed with a 10 euro note (now worth a mere £8) stuck to his forehead In some kind of juvenile celebration of I know not what. It is not clever and it is not funny.
With the Queens Jubilee celebrations about to overtake events in the coming days doubtless some social invitations will emerge but at the moment the diary is clear. At least mine is, but there is a decent chance that my social secretary, that nice lady decorator has a full schedule. I wonder if I will be invited? Probably only if someone is needed to pay.
Chris France
No Dutch caps to be seen
How can lunch starting at 12.30 get so out if hand? It was supposed to be a quiet affair on the beach at one of my favourite restaurants Le Petite Plage at Juan les Pins.
Peachy Butterfield was regaling us with stories, photographs and even videos of trying to get the naked politician back on his boat after he became tired and emotional after a big lunch the day before. and then he got the call, the entire luncheon party were invited aboard D5 in nearby Antibes for afternoon drinks on the poop deck.
Had it stopped there then a great deal less carnage would have ensued but I blame the Buftons who chanced by having arrived in Antibes that very day on their trip bringing their new boat from England. It had taken three weeks and they were desperate for some company so after we left D5 the naked politician headed off for his wedding anniversary dinner in Monaco and the rest of us descended on the web.
I think it was about 9pm when Peachy revealed that his six-pack had turned into a party seven. I had a hidden agenda in that I am due to play golf again today with house guest Peter Savin and he is often prone to a hangover so perhaps it was slightly unfair for me to bring out the 10 year old Macellen malt whiskey and the brandy at around 10pm. I need all the help I can get after things did not go according to plan in the golf course on Monday, which sadly I never found enough space to cover in this column. I have a picture today looking down the first hole of the Grande BastIde where will play again today as we could not get a tee time at St Donat.
Golf hostilities recommence today
The Butterfields will have house guests themselves in the coming week, after we have served our time under similar constraints. Theirs is a leading plastic surgeon and his wife. He is the chairman of the British Association of Plastic Surgeons. The irony of being at the head of BAPS had apparently eluded him until Peachy brought it to his attention.
The lovely Janie Savin, who is blonde and beautiful and was described yesterday as a GILF (a bit like a MILF but a grandmother) by the man with the party 7, has not been watering my fake plastic banana palm on this trip, no, she is way too sensible for that. I cannot recall how we got onto the subject but her blonde genes took over yesterday when discussing Dutch caps and how they were made. The rest of the party knew them to be a valuable contraceptive aid but clearly she had not taken this on board because during a discussion about the manufacturing process Janie wondered aloud why they would need such a process for a mushroom.
So the day long saga broke up before midnight, I think, and whilst I am feeling a bit shabby this morning as I write this, I am hoping that my golfing partner is suffering more. That 10 euros is on its way back home. A full report on my triumph tomorrow I would hope. I shall also be making mention of the advantages of having an account with Currencies Direct then rather than today.
So next week it will be June and my last full month in France this year. I am expecting England to be somewhat less frenetic socially when we get back there to a little house in Arundel and my liver will doubtless celebrate that. In the meantime I shall continue to report the goings on amongst the idle rich in Valbonne but am undecided whether to continue this column after I leave. Perhaps it will morph into Arundel news, (arundelabout.com?), who knows, perhaps I will rely on hearsay, half-truths and my ability to magnify, misinterpret and invent stories to pad this daily missive.
Chris France
Dandelion thief caught in the act
With the wine flowing in the pav last night, that nice lady decorator demanded music. We have one of the first Ipods ever made (I think it has valves) which means it is something less than reliable unless you talk to it nicely. If you then add to the mix her distrust of anything vaguely technical, and her patience which reduces exponentially with each glass of wine consumed, and that lunch had turned into dinner and then degenerated into the pav you will realise that I did well to prevent said Ipod being thrown together with its docking station, into the swimming pool.
Once I had taken command of the situation and the technology I was directed as to what music to select. Our house guests, The Savins, hearts’ lie in the 50’s and 60’s whilst that nice lady decorator gravitates towards the 70’s and later so eventually I found the Traveling Wilberrys, an album made by George Harrison, Roy Orbison and Bob Dylan, icons from the correct eras with an album made in the 80’s which seemed to find favour. All was well until Peter Savin asked if the singer was Bob the Builder, not spotting the immediately identifiable voice of Bob Dylan. That’s when the trouble started.
“Its Dylan” she said and his “Wasn’t he in the Magic Roundabout” did not go down well either. I eventually managed to steer the musical direction down a less contentious route and order was restored.
Earlier in the week I had taken this picture of that nice lady decorator gleefully clutching a huge bunch of dandelions which she had scrumped from some poor souls garden. I am sure there must be a valid reason for her gathering up these weeds but cannot immediately think of one.
Tea leaf
Before the water music scenario outlined in the first paragraph, and the ability cogently to argue and discuss important developments in world affairs was eroded by alcohol, we had been discussing the euro and its possible demise, and, in my opinion, the certainty of a Greek default and how much Currencies Direct might benefit once we have the return of the Drachma, the Peseta the Franc and the Lire. But what of Greek euros? When the Greeks default, what would be the effect on the Greek euro notes and coins? Would they still have any value? This sent everyone scurrying to their wallets and purses to check their money. Euro coins are normally identifiable from which country they emanate as each nation has its own markings on one side, and euros have been crossing borders for years. I was surprised to find several Spanish and a couple of Italian coins in my pocket. So what would happen? Are euro notes similarly identifiable? I think we need to know,
Sometimes there is a certain karma to events. Yesterday that nice lady decorator decided to cook two chickens. I said there was no point, one would be enough for our needs with lunch on the beach today at Juan Les Pins with man mountain Peachy Butterfield scheduled, and a minor disagreement unfolded. Imagine my amazement this morning when I was dispatched to make the early morning tea to find the untouched cooked chicken no longer residing in its tray, and nowhere to be seen, and with horrid hound Banjo smacking his lips and surrounded by chicken bones. Instant karma, he will have his arse royally kicked by that nice lady decorator when she sees the mess shortly! How satisfying.
Ok, now to the golf yesterday… Hang on, I have written my customary 600 words and run out of space, maybe tomorrow…
Chris France
Drinks ploy may fail
Is that umbrella heavy? She said from the comfort of her seat at the bar. “Don’t forget to keep your back straight”. This was the comment I had to endure as I wrestled with the umbrellas to keep the sun from disturbing that nice lady decorators first glass of rose of the day. House guests the Savins had arrived and with the sun at least within sight, if not exactly over the yard-arm, the rose had been opened and hostilities commenced.
Yesterday in this column I had ventured the opinion that if the rose was not flowing by midday then I was a Dutchman and so I am happy to confirm that I am not a Dutchman. My picture today illustrates this perfectly.
The taste of summer
Several hours later, after a very pleasant lunch at Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne Square, the first port of call for visitors from England, we all indulged in a siesta, mine taken in front of the TV watching the cricket. England versus West Indies under clear blue skies in Nottingham whilst cowering inside away from a violent thunderstorm which had begun to build up during lunch was a chastening experience. For me it is the ultimate irony that friends who were last week bemoaning winter temperatures, wind and rain when we saw them last week in Yorkshire, were confronted with rain and thunder down here in the Cote d’Azur whilst forced to watch the cricket in England on the TV played under clear blue skies and with temperatures in the high twenties. As it was today I was almost happy to be moving back to the UK. Obviously things have changed since I left and English summers are now marked out by months of sunny warm and dry weather.
Golf today (weather permitting) will be the usual gritty battle between myself and Peter Savin. It is a battle that has been ongoing for at least ten years but not all of the battle takes place on the golf course. No, there is a deeply psychological element to it which is acted out on the days and particularly the evening before the first ball is struck. There is an enormous difference between sportsmanship, where one acts honourably to ones opponent and accepts the result of the contest with openness and honesty, and most of all plays fair, and gamesmanship which is where winning is everything and almost any tactic can be brought to bear to ensure the win. I would have said that my particular forte is gamesmanship. This year however I have been out thought so far. Normally my tactics are effective if slightly transparent. Supply a great deal of wine, preferably of differing colours, ending up with a heavy red, persuade ones foe to partake generously of all three, bring out the lemoncello and then the brandy at the right moment, abstain ones self from excessive drinking and then book an impossibly early tee time the next morning to take maximum advantage of the resultant hangover.
What I had not factored in is a never before seen and steely eyed determination of my opponent not to over imbibe. This is a departure, and very disconcerting as a result. Thus as I venture out to the Grande Bastide Golf Course early this morning, well before you have read this, it is having conceded a hitherto unexpected psychological disadvantage, so strong indeed that I believe I shall not be able to report the result tomorrow due to lack of space. Regular readers will know the ominous signs of one of my specialties, selective reporting.
Selective reporting means that I can choose what I publish thus it will come as no surprise to regular followers that I recommend the services of Currencies Direct.
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