Cricket in no mans land
The first match in the Sussex Seniors tour took place in one of the most bizarre locations. It was close to Nicosia in Cyprus on a large piece of land controlled by the United Nations. It is in the buffer zone, a kind of no mans land, between the decidedly hostile (to each other) Turkish and Greek Cypriots. I will not beat about the bush; It was not the best pitch and outfield I have ever seen. Not that I was playing, my day is today when we go to a mountain ground called Happy Valley to do battle with a British army 11. The outfield was little more than flattened grassland and loose earth but actually played surprisingly well. At one stage it looked as if we had the potential to inflict a surprise defeat on out much younger opponents.
Amazingly for a bunch of old codgers, our team made a creditable 158 from its 35 overs, and it took the much younger opposition over 25 overs to get them. So a defeat, but not as crushing as might have been expected, especially as I had been assured that we always bat last. Seasoned Cricketers will know from the way in which this result has been reported, that something quite exceptional occurred in the innings of our opponents, but please allow us old chaps some solace in defeat. Several magnificent catches were taken, all against the odds, but when a young chap from the other side, who might have been caught first ball had there been anyone under 60 within 5 yards of the bat, made 50 in about 20 balls, you may be able to gauge the standard of bowling and fielding we were able to offer.
Cricket, Cypriot style
Cricket tours are especially the subject of a fines system. Any misdemeanors that occur on or around the field of play might attract a fine, which in this case will contribute to a last dinner at the end of the tour. They can be imposed for a particularly poor piece of fielding, bowling and batting, but also for minor transgressions such as walking behind the bowlers arm, or being Welsh (although I accept that this is not really a minor transgression). I was fined for being consistently unable to make the number 4 on an infernal modular scoreboard. It had to be explained to me several times by the lovely Peggy, one of the tour WAGS. Her first explanation, that it was achieved in the shape of a cup with a leg, which I never fully understood, was eventually changed to “think of a glass of wine with a stem on one side” and then I understood, but I accept that no one who does not understand cricket or has never seen one of these diabolical scoreboards will have the remotest clue about which I speak. It is roughly the same when I am banging on about the benefits of Currencies Direct.
So today is the big day. It is the reason I have come to Cyprus, apart from the company, the sunshine, and to get out from under the feet of That Nice Lady Decorator, who is frantically preparing our house for the myriad renters who will stay there whilst we take in the Isle Of Wight and Spain before arriving in Valbonne on 25th April. I had asked the captain to ensure that I did not venture anywhere near the local red wine and make sure I restricted myself to drinking nothing more than a few beers last night, but he failed in his duty. I did however manage to avoid the local brandy, which, after the effect it had on me a few days ago, can only be a good thing.
Chris France
Carnage in prospect
Cypriot red wine is fine for quaffing as long as you ensure your taste buds are completely stunned by the first mouthful. I had discovered that the first evening here in Limossol for the Sussex Seniors cricket tour to Cyprus, so that was the excuse for ordering more last night. As they were still not functioning as we went to dinner, I managed to drink even more of it than I had the night before but this time I avoided the brandy. Cypriot Merlot is not a product I would happily endorse.
It was an entertaining evening, (well, after I had droned on about the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct to the assembled multitude) or it was from what I can remember. The Alzheimer’s is catching… Sorry I cannot remember what I was doing to say. Actually I think the Cypriot red has some amnesic qualities. It has to have something to recommend it.
Earlier I had gone for a very pleasing and long brisk walk along the coast in sunshine and very pleasant temperatures, but finding myself thirsty on the way back, and the sun being close to the yardarm, I did stop in an attractive beach bar/restaurant to partake of a couple of beers whilst sitting beside the ocean with the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. It was on the way back that I took this picture.
Doggy sandcastles
All was quiet and peaceful at first until when going to relieve myself of the second beer, I became aware of some noise and laughter in the interior of the bar. It was a coterie of Sussex Seniors doing the same as I. Preparing for the first cricket match today. I was invited to join them. They do say that preparation is everything. This preparation involved lunch, beer and a few glasses of wine. Tactics were discussed and it appears that whoever wins the toss, the opposition bats first. When I asked why that was, I was told that the local league side whom we are pitted against today, Mouflon, are all fit youngsters who can play and that Sussex Seniors always get thrashed. Now I had assumed that we were going to play against chaps of our own age. So they bat first and get 300 and then we bat and see how close we can get. I said that if that was the case I am glad I am not playing until the Sunday, but was told that in the next match we were playing an army team that regularly beat Mouflons. It seems we are all in for a lot of ball chasing and then being pinged by youngsters who can play over the next few days
Because we are seen as an international team, and the word Sussex implies that we are a county team, our opponents take the game very seriously and no quarter is given for our ages, many of whom are older than me. The word carnage springs to mind. Initially I thought I would have liked to play in both games before I leave on Monday evening, but now I am happy that I will only be subject to one runaround.
It will also be the first time I have been required to take a passport with me to a cricket match. I am going to watch the game today (I am being held back to make my debut tomorrow) which I think is being staged in Nicosia. There is some issue between the Greeks and the Turks in Cyprus which requires the presence of the United Nations and the British Army and it appears there are various checkpoints to be negotiated and the pitch is in an army base. Very relaxing then.
Chris France
Tourists on tour
The art of batting is all about timing, and I have timed getting man flu to a tee. That Nice Lady Snuffler has been dealing with the consequences of the much milder symptoms of this dreaded affliction that affect a woman for at least the last ten days, during which time I swore that I was not going to catch it. It caught me instead.
It is so unfair. Just as I arrived yesterday in Cyprus for the Sussex Seniors Cricket Tour, I get the dreaded lurgy. On the plus side, I have probably managed to infect everyone on the Easyjet flight to Paphos. There is some crazy selfish solace in that.
After booking in at the Mediterranean Beach at Limassol, and a quick unpack, it was time for the tour bonding over a beer or two. There are 35 people travelling and it makes for an unwieldy group, and mostly couples, but I was collected up by some kindly souls and we went in search of food. We did not venture far, across the road to Frankz in fact, where I was able to take some time to explain the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct to my captive audience, whilst partaking of a couple of bottles of a cheeky Cypriot red wine. You know when a cheeky kid becomes unpleasant, well, the wine was a bit like that. Amusing at first when one sees the bottle, but rather nasty very quickly, in fact as soon as the first drops reached the back of my throat.
The Mediterranean Beach Hotel, coincidentally right on the Mediterranean coast
I recall that there was much talk of the forthcoming cricket matches and the venues, but I am little short on detail this morning. I think that Cypriot red wine must have some amnesiac qualities, although it was not sufficiently mind numbing that I can forget how bad it tasted. Maybe the post dinner brandy was to blame. Anyway, I feel a lot better this morning, but suspect the effects of the brandy will soon rub off and I will begin to suffer.
The cricket commences on Saturday, but I am being held back until the second game on Sunday. With 17 players on tour, the games have to be spread amongst the tourists, so I have an extra day to allow my dodgy ankle, my niggling side strain, my arthritic knee, my slightly damaged wrist and my swollen bunions to recover before I venture on to the cricket field for the first time in Cyprus. Oh the joys of getting old.
What is truly inspiring is that I at 60, am amongst the younger contingent in the party. There are many older than I and still as keen to play. I suspect that the fielding standards will be significantly below what might be seemed acceptable but I know it will be fun. The first game, which I will attend as a spectator, takes place in Nicosia. It will be the first time that I have been instructed to take my passport to a cricket match. There is apparently some local difficulties between the Greeks and the Turks that requires a large British army presence and they are providing the facilities for the match. When enquiring about just what those facilities there will be, especially with reference to a bar, I was shocked to discover that one is expected to get changed in the open air, which is mildly amusing, but that there is no bar, which is much more distressing. Plans will need to be made in advance.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Cypriot cricket tour commences
The newsletter issued by my newly adopted old codgers cricketing group, the Sussex Seniors, now affiliated to Currencies Direct is called, rather tellingly, “From The Graveyard End”. I received my first copy yesterday and was astonished and delighted in equal measure to see two pictures of a certain senior and renowned author (in his own mind) the life of whom, if you are a regular reader of this column, you will know is steeped in debauchery and drinking. The fact that both photographs seemed to depict a mature cricketer in two technically very correct stroke making poses was a testament either to the style and poise exhibited by the batsman in question, or the patience of the photographer. I know which scenario I would prefer to believe.
By the time you are reading this erudite column, I shall almost certainly be seated aboard a plane, courtesy of Easyjet, high above Europe with a glass of something cold and sparkling in my hand en route to Paphos in Cyprus in readiness for the Sussex Seniors cricket tour. I have still to discover the identity of the joker who decided to book the team on such an early flight, but when I do he will be roundly chastised at the very least.
The Norfolk Estate
I had earlier attended the final cricket practice for the team at the Arundel Castle indoor cricket school but had been denied the customary debrief at The White Hart due to the paucity of the turnout. A mere 6 players arrived, but given the early departure today, perhaps that was quite decent. Of the few that did arrive, the majority cited packing as the reason not to adjourn to the pub, and indeed it seems a number of the tourists had arranged to stay at Gatwick last night. This is just not cricket. I shall be insisting in a much more leisure led effort from my team mates in the coming days.
After a brief hiatus, brought on by the lack of fortitude of a bunch of old cricketers, I was able to persuade That Nice Lady Decorator to join me in an early evening walk along the banks of the River Arun at Amberley, and then to partake of a couple of pints of proper English beer before retiring to the a White Hart for some tapas courtesy of JAK, the new restaurant facility based at the pub. It was there that we encountered Nearly Hairless Nick who was keen to inform me that the reason for once again washing his car was down to the Saharan sand that had been evident in the rain that had fallen the night before. If I tell you that my car was also outside at the same time, and did not require any cleansing, then you may form the opinion that such a fixation with owning a car with not a speck of dust on board is a bit OCD, but I could not possibly comment.
So it is about to begin. Who was it write the song “an old cricketer never leaves the crease”? It seems perfectly to sum up what is about to befall me . It seems that there are matches on both the Saturday and the Sunday, the temperature will be in the mid 20’s Celsius and I am guaranteed to be selected for one. That will probably be enough. I have played only 4 matches in around 10 years, and 3 of those were in Australia with the Golden Oldies when I was still in my 50’s. Now I am an old codger , I can only hope that my body can match my aspirations.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sunny day puts paid to diet
Following my comments yesterday about a crapulous cricketing catastrophe in old Ceylon, where The mighty England were thrashed on the cricket ground in the 20:20 World cup by a part-time team of tulip growers from Holland, I happened upon the display in today;s photo at the entrance to Arundel Castle. Very pretty and much prettier than the cricket.
I thought the whole world was against me. 5:2 diet day number two on the trot had me contemplating chucking the bathroom scales out of the window. Clearly they must have been made in Holland. How can you go 24 hours with only 600 calories, cycle hard for 40 minutes, walk a mile and a half at a brisk pace and shed no weight whatsoever, not a gram? I was thinking that there might be the clanging of broken weighing machine in the street this morning if another starvation day goes by without any change. Someone needs to examine my constitution, extract the fat genes and manufacture them so that the starving of Africa will lose no weight when they get no food.
Tulips at the entrance to Arundel Castle
Other than my spat with all things mechanical (even the chain came off my bike when I was cycling) and the Oliver Twist rations, it was looking not a bad day as the sun reappeared quite unexpectedly. It had been dank and drizzly and awful as I mounted my steed but by the time I had cycled a couple of miles, the sun was beginning to burn through the mist and, although still damp underfoot, it became quite pleasant. I was thinking that it would have been a perfect early evening for a pint of beer in a country pub, but those vicious bathroom scales had conspired to deny me. Then I was rescued from this slough of despair.
Perhaps That Nice Lady Decorator spotted my wistful look at a picture of food, or my dribbling when she mentioned something about taking wine to France, because suddenly at lunch time she said “bugger the diet day, you don’t get too many sunny days in England, shall we walk to the Black Rabbit for a pint?”.
Was it a test of my resolve? Was the correct response to mention something along the lines that my body is a temple and I am at worship? However, regular readers will know that these misgivings evaporated in a nano second as I thought about a two and a half mile walk along the river on a beautiful spring day in England, with a pub at the end of it. I agreed.
The Black Rabbit is a splendid establishment, pretty as a picture nestling beside the River Arun. It is well run and the food is as good as it can be when served on such a massive scale. My reluctance to go there is based only on the beers available. Hall and Woodhouse make some of the least edifying beers on tap, but they must be becoming aware that their policy of only selling their own beers has had a negative effect as they now have a new brew, Holy Moley, which is quite decent. Before that, a trip to this lovely pub was often gazumped by a trip to a different pub based solely on its beer offering. Anyway, with the floodgates open, we walked back the short way (only a mile and a half). It was as we walked through the garden of The White Hart that things began to unravel.
This morning, will be the last net practice with the newly affiliated with Currencies Direct, the Sussex Seniors, before we fly to Cyprus on Thursday morning for their cricket tour. We shall be playing at a ground called Happy Valley, a military base where they have splendid sporting facilities for the troops. It reminds me of that is Monty Python sketch where a soldier is complaining about the basic training and using guns and the like. When asked why he joined the army he did it was “for the sport and the travel”.
Before that though, there will be the vital debrief following the nets. This will commence over a few pints of Harvey’s in the late afternoon, prior to a mad inebriated packing experience ready for the off at, wait for it, just before 5am in the morning for a 7:40 flight to Paphos. I need to find out who booked these flights.
Chris France
Wheelie bin’s days are numbered
A nadir amongst nadir’s. The less than mighty English cricket team were defeated by Holland in the 20:20 cricket world cup qualifying round for the finals in Sri Lanka, in a pathetic effort by a bunch of well paid and pampered cricketers disgracing the England shirt. It is a pitiful end to a long run of failure which commenced when England first set foot in Australia last winter. The Dutch are part timers for Christ’s sake, and yet they smashed the hapless England team to pieces. Beaten by a bunch of no hope tulip growers. Can it get any worse? Only if they employ that alleged half wit Ashley Giles – apparently according to the Reverend Jeff, nicknamed The Wheelie Bin when he played – to run English cricket. That would be the most tasteless of April Fools jokes.
Talking of Spain, Ashley Giles is so well organised and exhibits such attention to detail, he seemingly once manufactured some t-shirts which were supposed to bear the legend “the king of spin” (he was a spin bowler in his day), but when they arrived the said “the king of Spain” instead. I bet he is still even using his bank to make foreign exchange transfers rather than doing the sensible and organised thing and signing up for an account with Currencies Direct.
A clear road ahead for English cricket?
OK, non cricket fans, I have vented my spleen. As I stirred myself from my pit a little early at 10 pm for the penultimate net practice for my own playing dreams before leaving for Cyprus, I realised that it was a damned diet day, the first of two back to back, which is just what you want to face on a Monday morning, still suffering from the effects of a splendid weekend. Of course the weather would not last and though not cold, the rain began spitting in the afternoon and it looks like summer has finished already and it is autumn again. Roll on Cyprus and then Spain and France.
Anyway, cricket practice went well. I managed to avoid being defeated by Lloyd, the 76-year-old bowler wearing his purple crocs, so a move forward. I was able to give my Kevin Pietersen bat a proper seeing to and will be cleaning off the edges before the last session on Wednesday.
So by the time you are reading this, I will probably be weak and collapsing through lack of food. I will probably be a gibbering wreck as well, but that is closer to normal for early in the week, but the prospect of my first trip to Limassol, indeed Cyprus, the Mediterranean and a cricket tour is a heady cocktail to which to look forward. On cricket tours when in my late 20’s it was often the case that none of the team would be in bed before 4 am and on one occasion in Jersey with the Hampshire Mercenaries, when I was captain, some of my team mates arrived to breakfast straight from the bar where they had been all night. I venture to suggest that on this tour, most of us will be tucked up in bed with a cup of Horlicks well before 11 pm. The ravages of age.
Packing up the house for rentals and being away for over two months takes a bit of planning. It also means that the Nice Lady Decorator has to live up to her name and, err… decorate. I am never allowed to use paint brushes as I am to do-it-yourself what Darcy Busell is to sheet metal welding. I am dangerous with tools and it has long been the case in my household where I am absolutely banned from wielding a tool of any description. I admit that I may have played up to that reputation in the past, but it is an eminently sensible arrangement. That way the job gets done quickly and efficiently, there are no breakages and no injuries.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A pawn cock tale
I think the chef at The George at Burpham is a closet chess fiend. We were there yesterday for Mothering Sunday, when, in my limited opinion, us chaps could hope to be mothered, but it seems I was wrong. The annual celebration of motherhood was marked by a splendid lunch at this wonderful pub with Nearly Hairless Nick taking charge of the occasion. Obviously, he must have finished cleaning his car before he began work.
The meal commenced with That Nice Lady Decorator partaking of the pawn cocktail. For once, this is not a blog typo, but a genuine spelling error on the menu. I would have liked to say I was castled by the menu choices but that would have been the type of joke that is far below the standard you have come not to expect in this Currencies Direct inspired column.
I did consider a paragraph of more chess jokes but on balance I decided that my readers might be a little board by that. We had the King and Queen of roasts, beef and pork and sat next to a bishop. Ok that’s enough. There was no bishop in the pub. It was a splendid occasion finished perfectly for me an excellent rhubarb crumble and custard.
Nearly Hairless Nick made some comment along the lines that he enjoyed a bit of pawn on a Sunday which made me think that a purveyor of questionable material may be referred to as a pawnbroker, but then again…
New born lambs, hopefully munching away at the mint.
Although the weather was not as nice as Saturday, it was warm enough once again to get the roof down on the Merc. We took this picture of new born lambs on the drive over. It was a beautiful quintessentially English spring scene and made me hope that roast lamb was going to be on the menu, but alas no. I mentioned this to That Nice Lady Decorator, who exclaimed “but you can’t eat Sydney!”. It was the name she had given to a three legged lamb she had reared many years ago after it had been rejected by the farmer and was about to be shot. She was never very comfortable with me trying to get Sydney to eat mint. I saw it as an opportunity to marinade him from the inside. Roast lamb with mint sauce, yum.
I have been asked by the Reverend Jeff in the reply section of this column why I have not commented on the latest cricket debacle to befall the English team at the World Cup 20:20 finals in Sri Lanka. The reason is that because of another woeful performance by an idiot fast bowler, who should not be in the English team, against his fellow countrymen of South Africa (does anyone else have any suspicions?) conspired to leave our batsmen with little chance of rescuing the game (although they came close), and I did not trust myself to speak after watching it. I have calmed myself now. The tablets must be working.
Talking of cricket, the penultimate cricket practice before the Cypriot cricket tour with the Sussex Seniors next weekend takes place this morning at Arundel Castle indoor cricket school. I am hoping not to be bowled again by a purple croc wearing pensioner with a moth eaten sweater, but it is always a danger. I have calculated that, taking into account the 5 days in Cyprus, I have just under 6 more days in Arundel before heading to the Isle of Death Wight for a few days then off to Spain and France until the end of June. If the weather was always like it had been on Saturday then I may have had some reservations about leaving, but of course it will not be, which is one of the main reasons I moved to France 10 years ago.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A sunny day in England!
There are very a few places in the world that surpass a day like that experienced in Sussex yesterday. When the sun shines in England, it is warm and English country pubs are available to be patronised, there is no better place to be in the world. The problem is that it seems so good as it so rare. Exercise is so much less tedious with the sun on your back and these two elements, when combined, create a thirst. Thus we decided to go in search of a Decent pub with a nice garden. I may have looked like an idiot as the only one of the customers in shorts but nothing was going to spoil my day. I even wore sunglasses for the first time in England this year. With the top down on the Merc, we set of for a wonderful pub, inside and out, The Fox Goes Free at Charlton, pictured today, and then moving on to the nearby Partridge whose garden was more sheltered.
Two pints and two pubs down, and the ridiculous drink driving limit reached, we headed back to Arundel, still with the top down and a temperature of 18 degrees Celsius, almost balmy by UK standards. On the way out we had seen Nearly Hairless Nick washing his car again, ready to go to the Goodwood Members Meeting, to which he had invited us at £75 a pop. We had politely declined. One of the really good things about living next door to a pub is that one can buy a pint of proper beer and then drink it in ones garden. It was too much of a temptation and one that I certainly had no qualms about giving in to. Once That Nice Lady Decorator had donned her swimsuit and a bottle of wine, I realised that the afternoon was going to disappear in a haze, and so it did.
The garden of The Fox Goes Free
Today is Mothers Day and so the only mother in my family is going to get even more pampered than normal. Her first treat will be me explaining the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct for all her foreign currency needs and then I shall be taking her to lunch at the George at Burpham. There is a curious dichotomy here. Fathers Day appears to pass me by without and discernible change in routine, whereas Mothers Day is heralded for a week or so before and is milked for all it is worth. How can this be?
Anyway, it gives me a chance to see if the menu has improved after my comments a few weeks back. I have been told that my recommendations have been brought to the attention of the chef, and a long meeting of the staff followed to discuss what could be done. The power of the blog! Unless there has been no change…
After today, I have just three days left and two more nets before the gathering at Gatwick for the Sussex Seniors cricket tour to Cyprus. It is an island that I have never previously visited and I expect it to be warm and inviting. On the contrary, when I get back early next week, I shall then have just three days to prepare for a visit to another island, the Isle If Wight which I expect to be cold, damp and uninviting. It is as if I must face one more interlude of cold and damp English weather before catching the ferry down to Santander and subsequent local exploration before driving across Spain and France eventually to arrive in Valbonne on 25th April, quite simply the most wonderful town in the whole world.
Chris France
Play not a turkey
The practical half of our relationship, That Nice Lady Decorator, or Nice Lady Heating Engineer as she was called yesterday (you will see that I never contemplated referring to anyone as an old boiler) sorted out the boiler problem herself. Fed up with a stream of engineers turning up and failing to fix it, she worked out that the problem had to be a blocked flue and made a hole in the pipe to unblock it. She then unlocked her tongue to give the hearing engineers a lambasting and I was able to have a shower after my bike ride. The bit I did not like was standing out in the rain with a hose pipe inserted into a drainpipe in the dark at 9pm the night before, pretending to be the Decorators able assistant.
Freshly showered and thirsty after a very dry week, we decided to pop into the Spotted Cow in Angmering whilst waiting for the garage to reopen after lunch to fit the personalised number plates to the soon-to-be-a-skip new Decorating Audi. Timothy Taylor Landlord was the main attraction, with the haddock fish cakes coming a closish second and the horrible reconstituted chips come up a firm last. What is so hard about cooking proper chips? Even the frozen versions you get at supermarkets were better than these. Anyway, the pub could be better but is not bad overall. It is in a nice position and has a garden with views over the allotments where, I am told, they have music on summer afternoons so the jury is still out.
The lovely Kelly, sporting festive hat, but what is Sprog 2 doing in the background?
After a couple of sharpeners early evening at The White Hart, we duly attended the Victoria Institute to witness the Drip Action Theatre production of a play called The Price Of Everything, which completes its run this evening. It was described as having some dark humour, and although I enjoyed the whole thing, I failed to see much humour in a failed business man shooting his dog, his wife, his daughter and himself.
Falling out of the “theatre”, we found that there was a band playing across the raid at The Eagle. I have used inverted comments because the building is a fantastic old relic (a bit like myself) but is in need of a great deal of loving care. Recently handed over by the “people of Arundel” to a newly formed charity, hopefully with the help of fund-raising and the National Lottery, it can be restored to its former glory.
I questioned the lovely Kelly, pictured today in a fetching hat she was wearing in the Kings Arms in Arundel last Christmas – who is a stalwart of the charity involved in this restoration – about whether the people of Arundel knew that it had been handed over. I am currently one of those people and I did not know that I had partially owned it, but more importantly I did not remember any recompense for said hand over. I shall be consulting my lawyers Messrs Mean Grasping and Fickle about suitable redress.
After the quite decent band at the Eagle had finished and the most appalling soul music through the PA replaced them, we set off for home, only to discover, as we were passing, another band playing at the Red Lion, and so given my music business background felt it our duty to pop into what was our 4th pub of the day. You never know where you may find your next customer for the foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Boiler men in for a roasting
So after my return to commuting for one day, I could have murdered a drink when I got back home late, in fact well after 3 pm. It was not to be however, as the diet day decree denied a decent drink. I had to satisfy myself (wait for it, you innuendo hungry people) by further high intensity training on my bike followed by a walk around the Norfolk estate. I need to be as fit as possible for the up and coming over 60’s cricket in Cyprus next weekend.
At nets yesterday I had thought of asking for a runner on tour because of a still slightly dodgy ankle, but the dawning realisation that the whole team probably needs runners as well, made me keep quiet. I have just seen that the flight time next Thursday to Paphos is 7.40am. What kind of joke is that? It is only a few hours after bed time. I may just stay awake and go to the airport. It seems that there is the best part of about 30 of us going, and whilst I have to return on Monday, (can’t miss the Isle of Wight, apparently) the rest of the lucky blighters are out there for the best part of two weeks. However there is good news; the Sussex Seniors have agreed to become Currencies Direct affiliates, acknowledging that the best foreign exchange services are offered by those far-sighted chaps who encouraged me to start writing this daily column.
This scene is from the beach at Elmer Sands, but may resemble the offices of a certain boilers fitters if it still doesn’t work later today.
Today is a non diet day and I believe lunch is planned with Barry “Teddy Bear Times” King, magazine publisher extraordinaire. I am led to believe that in addition to the this erstwhile teddy bear publication, he also publishes magazines about crocheting, and dolls houses, but what else could he do to expand his empire? I shall be discussing the possibilities with him at lunch today. Maybe something for all those worm lovers out there? Maybe “Wombat Weekly”? What about “Accountants At Play”?
The plan at present is to visit The George and Dragon at Houghton, or maybe The Bridge or maybe The Holly Tree but frankly I do not care either way, as long as there is food, beer and wine available. As I write the arrangements are being discussed, and eventually the decision will be handed down. I shall expect That Nice Lady Decorator to be reaching into her rarely disturbed wallet, because I suspect I am being lined up for a big one on Sunday, as it is Mothers Day. I will need my biggest credit card.
Before that, this evening, we are booked in for the Drip Action Theatre performance of The Price Of Everything at the Victoria Institute in Arundel. I liked one particular comment on the email I received from Bill Brennan, the head honcho, saying the bar was well stocked and newly improved. I was more impressed with the stocking comment. This assumes that our boiler has been fixed and that I have not had to bail out That Nice Lady Decorator from the local jail. She has quite rightly been balling out the boiler company and their installers as the less than a year old central heating boiler has broken down three days in succession. I have become mildly riled by the situation, but I would not use the word mild for herself. I fear that the answering machine of the installers may have melted down under the hot torrent of abuse that is now in its memory, and awaiting the arrival into the office of the incompetent shower. Oh no, I used the word “shower”…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Nearly Hairless Nicks car?
I just missed Nearly Hairless Nick undertaking his daily washing of his new car, but managed to get this picture yesterday morning as I headed off for my daily cycle. As soon as one sees a screwdriver in the hands of the owner one knows it does not look good for the car, which although new to him is so old it should be in a museum. Perhaps that is why it was parked close to a sign for Arundel Museum Staff Only?
There was a museum theme running through the events of yesterday, or perhaps it is more a story of where my life is heading. By lunchtime I was deeply ensconced in my second sporting activity of the day, cricket nets at the Arundel Castle cricket school with the Sussex Seniors. This is followed, almost inevitable when old cricketers gather together, by a debrief in the pub. Shortly I shall be going to Cyprus with some of my new soon-to-be-teammates to play cricket for the first time since 2012, which was only the second time I had donned cricket gear since 2003 when I “retired to play golf”. I felt it was vital, pre tour, to get to know some of the chaps a little better, and what better setting that The White Hart embellished with a couple of pints of Harvey’s Best?
Museum parking for old crocks
During the practice, a photographer arrived to take photos, ostensibly for the new Arundel Museum. He wanted an iconic shot, a smartly dressed vintage cricketer in full flow and it fell to me to be that vintage cricketer. Or rather that is how I interpreted the decision of the photographer to seat himself in the gallery and photograph my renowned Geoffrey Boycott style forward defensive. When in the changing rooms, I mentioned this to the exalted ranks of the counties finest over 60’s cricketers and was met with a few guffaws. I think that is what they were, but at our age you cannot be sure.
Today I must journey to London at what us known colloquially as the “crack of sparrows fart”. Yes, I shall be up and on the train from Arundel well before dawn, at 9.15 in fact, several hours before one can expect daylight I would think. I have important business to attend to in respect of one of my iconic clients from the 1960’s, The Small Faces. The fact that two of the group are no longer alive in no way lessens the import of my mission, which is to discuss the marketing, and take delivery of, a box set of their recordings. It will be a long day as I do not expect to see Arundel again until nearly 3pm, by which time I shall be exhausted and gagging for a pint. But it gets worse. A diet day has been decreed by That Nice Lady Decorator, despite the fact that, in my humble opinion, any further degradation of my whippet like status will put me in danger of disappearing up my own backside. She, however sees something a little more rotund, and so beer for the fat boy today.
Beer will in fact have to wait until Friday, when we are due to got to a The Victoria Institute in Arundel, newly incorporated as a charity, to witness a play by the Drip Action Theatre Group of “The Price of Everything”. I am told that it is gripping drama with twists of dark humour, which petty much sums up how today may go. The dark humour must be in the pub denial scenario, unless it is today’s picture of Nearly Hairless Nick and his new jalopy.
Chris France
4 years of blogging!
4 years today, the stirrings of a literary explosion, in my own mind, took place when I first put pen to paper (it was so long ago, writing in this way was still acceptable). This daily column, which has excited, inspired and probably bored as many people as the 138,000 hits it has received since its inception, came to life after a meeting with Currencies Direct where I was introduced to joys of blogging. I had asked what the word stood for and was told it was an abbreviation of the words web log. And so began this column, intended to collect up people being abused by their banks when moving foreign currency.
More recently, for some reason I cannot fathom, it has become the home of a nest of limericists who daily exhibit their rhymes based on the daily content in the comments section of this column. It has developed from a news source for Valbonne in France, where I have a house, and then later took in the delights of Arundel when I was forced to move from France due to a ridiculous tax situation two years ago.
An aged author celebrates another milestone, or is it millstone?
Not that I am complaining too much. If one has to spend a part of one’s year anywhere in the UK, my first choice would be Arundel. I guess having a house which is next door to a decent pub does set it up nicely, and having 6 pubs in the village and around a dozen restaurants helps, but the architecture and mainly the people are what makes it special. It seems that if one is born and bred in Arundel, one is entitled to call themselves a mullet. I don’t know why but it was this of which I was reminded as we encountered Nearly Hairless Nick outside washing his new BMW (for the third time this week; he must be trying to wash the paint off).
Nearest Hairless had invited us to join him at the Goodwood Members Meeting this coming Saturday and we had thought it a generous gesture after all the abuse he gets in this column, but were happy to go along to see what it was all about, mainly because it was not going to cost anything and he had volunteered to drive. He was under the impression that guests were gratis, but was disavowed of this when talking to the box office to ensure his invitees were on the guest list. Apparently we could be, but it would have required £75 per head to become guests, so we politely declined, which he was generous enough to swallow without complaint (but not generous enough to swallow the cost) saying we would see him on Mothers Day where he has secured us a table at the George at Burpham, where he offers some small service. He told me that and had discussed with the chef the limited menu remarked upon in this column, and which is something which he now assured me has been addressed. The food has always been consistently good, and if the menu can match it, then it could become a jewel in the Sussex culinary crown.
He described Mothers Day as “a pain in the butt”, and when I took him to task as the mother of my children was present, when rebuked said “well it is for me”. I mention this because I feel it might offer some useful food for thought for the limericists I mentioned earlier. One does have to listen to ones customers, however irksome that may be. I think I see where Nearly Hairless is coming from.
Sussex Seniors nets at lunchtime today, where the inner sanctum of the county’s senior cricketers spend some hours in the net at the Arundel Castle cricket school and where the bowling machine will be ramped up to 65 miles per hour, will give my dodgy ankle another workout before I shall join them in the White Hart where I shall be giving the Harvey’s Bitter a similar fulsome testing.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Cured or pickled?
The beach at Elmer Sands, pictured today, is very much like where we were last week on the beaches of Barbados, if you ignore the scuzzy seaweed, block out the clouds, colour in some sunshine, add a few palm trees and imagine the water is turquoise and that the temperature is 20 degrees Celsius warmer. In other words, nothing like it.
We went down to the that beach on Sunday and it was brisk and invigorating, in order to work up a thirst for a lunchtime pint. Frankly I was for ready for the first one before I had walked ten paces, but I held out for a mile or more before we headed to the Holly Tree to find solace. I am mentioning this because it was at the root of why I felt so lousy yesterday. After an early cycle up to the Black Rabbit and then two hours of cricket nets with the Suffolk Seniors, I thought I would have been cured, but actually by early afternoon I felt like I had in fact been pickled.
It had been a splendid weekend with Simon “who ate all the pies” Barrett and his far too gorgeous (especially for him) wife Debbie, although I do think there may be times which I do not fully recall. For instance I did see references on Facebook yesterday and today about my allegedly spilling several glasses of wine in different pubs over the weekend. I recall one or two, but I put that down to natural wear and tear, and was probably not to blame. Perhaps there was a series of small, almost imperceptible, earthquakes which coincided with these unfortunate breakages? Nah, I am just a clumsy oaf.
Elmer Sands in March
A month from today we shall be back in the bosom of the most wonderful town in France, Valbonne, for a couple of months. The only down side is that this will preclude me from being available for selection for the Sussex Over 60’s cricket teams until July, but on the other hand, the weather, the wine and the scenery plus the pav, and the web (our outside bar, so-called because once you are in it is very tricky to get out), currently in than hands of our house guest, the Naked Forker herself, the beautiful and willowy Debs Frost, will be hard to resist. She is sensibly moving close by so that she retain links with both. I shall then be able to resume my tennis career and lunch once again at the Auberge St Donat. What bliss!
On Wednesday, there is a certain anniversary that I hope you will find it in your heart to embrace. It will be the publication (as long as I don’t foul up before hand) of the 1460th episode of this column, dedicated, as it is, to extolling the virtues of having an account with Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange needs. What is the significance of this? By my calculations, it will be four years to the day when this column was born. Actually, there was a leap year in 2012 (?) so it may be on Thursday instead. I don’t exactly know why but I am reminded of the immortal words of old pal Paul Kendall (aka Ken Poodle) who, when reviewing a local Aylesbury band who had a 4 week residency at The Bell Hotel, back in the 1970’s, paid a back-handed tribute to them by saying something along the lines that it said much for the band and their music that their audience was as big, if not bigger, on the first night of their residency as it was on the last. I don’t know why that popped into my mind, but some of my in-house limericists may have a take on that…
Chris France
Hot to clock
The morning cycle was harder yesterday due not only to the late night, but the fact that I did not realise the front brake was slightly on until I got half way to the Black Rabbit. I suppose the excesses of the night before were in part to blame and here I know Simon”who ate all the pies” Barrett is culpable. It was he and his lovely wife Debbie who has conspired to keep me up drinking wine until the early hours.
The four of us decided that we needed some sea air yesterday morning and took a stroll along the beach at Elmer Sands. The last time I was at the seaside could not have been more different. Barbados it was not. It started in sunshine and at first was not unpleasant but as the skies darkened, we only just made it back to the car before the onslaught of a hail and sleet tempest. Don’t you just love England and its weather?
I did learn something from the Pieman. It was just as we were considering to which pub we should go for a restorative Sunday lunch pint when I witnessed a splendid piece of driving avoidance. Obviously, with some distance to motor back to Buckinghamshire, just short of the Arctic Circle, the Pieman and his beautiful wife had to decide who was going to drive back, precluding the intake of more than one drink, and this is where my education began. The Pieman appeared to go over on his ankle and it quickly became evident that, limping like a man with a seriously damaged ankle and despite his feeble protests, he would be unable to take the wheel. They say every cloud has a silver lining and his particular lining was more to the benefit of his enormous stomach, in that he was able to have a large Bloody Mary and several pints of beer whilst his stoic wife limited herself to a small tomato juice. Genius at work.
The burning issue of time management
One they had set off, we left the White Hart, to which we had gone for a farewell drink and whose cheese and snack platter which is placed on the bar at Sunday lunchtime was sadly depleted, in search of a pub with less meagre rations adorning its bar. The Kings Arms in Arundel fitted that particular bill and so we stocked up with some cheese and biscuits, plus a scotch egg or two for lunch, accompanied by a pint or several of London Pride. The Landlord, Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson, who suffered a fire in an upstairs room recently, has a striking reminder of this event now hanging on the wall of his pub as my picture today shows. It is perhaps poignant that a landlords most famous refrain is “time, gentlemen please” when it is chucking out time.
Earlier, with the Pieman and his wife, we had popped into the Holly Tree at Walberton which has a truly eclectic selection of bar areas, ranging from the bizarre to the really weird, but has a nice feel, and one at which resolved to take lunch some time soon.
Cricket practice this morning is back in the agenda now that a proposed trip to London to do something called work has been postponed. I shall now be able to concentrate on honing my cricket skills and searching for more customers for Currencies Direct, rather than sitting on a train and fretting about my off drive. Less than two weeks to go before I make my Cypriot debut on the cricket pitch. However, today is an inevitable diet day, with calories limited to just 600, so I shall be weak and feeble by tea time.
Chris France
Spilling wine can be dangerous
That’s it, all booked for Cyprus in a couple of weeks. With luck and an enlightened selection process, I shall be gracing the cricket pitch once again in early April. A little like some top footballers, one does not want too many spectators when one is easing oneself back into a game one has not played for some time, and so Cyprus seemed the perfect opportunity.
Yesterday, we were descended upon by the beautiful Debbie Barrett and her husband Simon “who ate all the pies”. They arrived mid afternoon, her driving, him having lunched well. Well, there was only one course open, to go next door to the pub. That was where I spilled the first of at least three glasses of wine. When the step mother of James “Desperate Dan the Landlord” appeared from the garden with a bucket of coal for the fire, Simon remarked “nice handbag”, luckily just out of earshot or there may have been spillage of a different nature. The same colour but something you like to spill even less than wine.
I am missing those beaches of Barbados already
When it comes to spillage of the wine type, I always find that red wine is much more satisfying. It makes such a better stain than white wine and it is a kind of visible badge of honour. White wine stains can be disguised very easily. The effects of a red wine stain are considerably harder to mask. As indeed are bruises which tend to appear on my body if the unlucky recipient of my wine largesse is That Nice Lady Decorator and her new white canvas boots. She does not understand the concept of “an accident”. Such events are deemed a mortal attack on her person. Managing to do it three times in an evening and still being alive to tell the tale tells a story into which I do not wish to explore in great detail. Suffice to say that these Facebook selfies, where women take a picture of themselves without make up, and chaps take photos of themselves with full and often diabolically overdone make up (all for charity) has come at a convenient moment. I have discovered that foundation is an excellent method to hide bruises.
Once this had been mopped and I had been bandaged, we decided to go to another pub for me to spill wine, the Kings Arms, where I felt it an imperative to order something different from the take away curry menu. I love the idea of being able to order a curry and eat in the pub. It had all been a very convivial social occasion, but for some unaccountable reason, full of beer, curry and wine (a little less of the latter due to my inability to stop spilling it) we went to the Red Lion in Arundel for some live music. I would have liked to write about what happened when we got there, but I have had a rather surprising bout of temporary amnesia. However, I do recall coming home and smoking a fine cigar in our inglenook, where I may or may not have spilled more wine.
I have found that after a few drinks I can get philosophical, but I was outdone by the Pie Man who wisely intoned that “We are all entwined on the cosmic fibres of life’s rich tapestry”. Yes, he has consumed a few drinks as well. I do recall talking to him about the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct but he may have been asleep at that point. Anyway, my recollection is that it was a very fine evening involving beer, wine and curry and in no way lessened by the pain I can still feel this morning.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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