Naked politician in the driving seat
With the Monaco Grand Prix taking place today many yacht owners locally are heading for Monte Carlo, but there is limited space in the harbour necessitating some owners having to park outside in the Meditteranean. This has a down side. There is a danger that if one is parked too far outside the port there may be no TV reception thus it could be a waste of time as onr would completely miss the action. This will not stop them however, prompting Peachy Butterfield who will be a guest aboard the naked politicians D5 to say that outside the port will be like Tesco’s on a Saturday only in the sea. This gives me an excuse to use a picture of the naked politician and that nice lady decorator on a trip back from St Tropez last year.
The naked politician in the normal driving position aboard D5
Last year apparently he and Peachy “enjoyed the Grand Prix” from the naked politicians apartment in Monaco. By “enjoy” I mean they could hear it but not see it. I suspect that in quite a different way this year may be the same.
To a barbecue last night in Valbonne with John “did you bring any Cigars?” and Jude “they have run out of Baileys” O Sullivan. One of the guests was an expert in fragrances and worked in the perfume industry which of course is well represented in nearby Grasse. His wife was wearing a new perfume called “Come To Me” but Peachy Butterfield who is something of an expert on perfumes said “it doesn’t smell like come to me”.
The whole evening was a splendid affair outside for the most part although the odd spot of rain from a nearby storm forced me to take shelter lest my Montechristo No 2 got rained on. Being able to smoke outside in comfortable temperatures at night is one of the wonderful things about Summer In the Cote d’Azur. That sounds like a good idea for a book title, I wonder if anyone has ever thought of that?
With good company, wonderful food, exquisite barbecued lamb and a honey glazed chicken plus a great deal of a rather good St Emilion Grand Cru lurking nearby, I fear I peaked a little early. On a trip back from the toilet I was overcome by a bout of extreme tiredness and may have had a five-minute power sleep which may have been photographed and uploaded to Facebook.
A more sensible plan, given the arrival of house guests, The Savins, today for the rest of the week, would have been to tuck up in bed by 9am with a cup of cocoa, but the rare opportunity to smoke some of Johnny O Sullivans cigars and drink some of his wine was too much of a lure. This morning then to Nice airport, donning my crash helmet and goggles to collect the Savins and if there is not a glass of rose on the go by midday then I’m a Dutchman.
Golf will be played in this coming week and at some stage a ten euro note will be seen stuck to someone’s forehead. If I have lost, which admittedly is a very rare occurrence then this is a very childish method of celebrating victory and the inevitable wager. However when I win it seems the most gratifying of actions, thoroughly justified but only in a nice caring sort of a way.
Thus I may have little opportunity this week to collect up more customers for Currencies Direct which is why I had to distribute so many business cards last night.
Chris France
Peachy takes the blame
After catching up on some work for Currencies Direct I was on my way to the Auberge St Donat, with a slight hang-dog disposition having not found favour with the secretary of the Friday morning gathering for tennis. Second reserve is my normal position for the elite Friday tennis group and with at least 3 stalwarts bottling out, I had thought that my chances of getting a game were quite high, however the wholesale cancellation of the tennis may have been down to the fact that I was available.
If that was not enough to puncture the confidence of a poor council house boy floundering amongst his supposed superiors, my boys luncheon dates, arranged at short notice in the face of a girls lunch gradually disappeared on me, to the extent that I was forced to seek luncheon solace elsewhere. Three phone calls or texts received en route to the Auberge St Donat, all canceling is a tough one to take on the chin.
But was I down hearted? Well, yes, so I stole up to the Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne Square just to ensure that the girls lunch was progressing smoothly, but when I was espied by that nice lady decorator and she asked me brusquely “what are you doing here?” I knew it was a mistake.
Ridiculously and without any forethought or planning I decided attack was the best form of defence, I said “I am meeting Peachy for lunch, what are you doing here?”. That withering look I know so well was employed and so I had no choice but to call him and say “where are you?”
Well of course he was at home nursing a hangover diligently created the night before with the naked politician. What is more he had just stuffed into his mouth a huge carbohydrate laden baguette in a desperate attempt to make himself feel better. He had made a pact with himself that he was having a recovery day, but after no more than 5 seconds prevarication and mumbled excuses as to why he could not rescue a friend in need he crumbled and agreed to be picked up and brought out to the Cafe Des Arcades to be fawned over by the girlies at lunch. At least that was what I told him was going to happen.
Luckily he is from the north so with skin thick enough to repel bullets he thought he was welcome and so I projected the blame for invading a strictly female only gathering on him. You might think, had he any inkling of the situation that he might have sat quietly at the end of the table and dealt only in platitudes but that is not the man’s style and good on him. My original faux pas of turning up like Billy No Mates was forgotten and all blame was directed at him. It reminded me that I took this photo in Cap Trois Mille.
Peach up? or down
I think it started after the second pichet of rose when Peachy announced that his plastic surgeon friend coming to stay in the next week or so. That statement attracted some attention. Ladies of a certain age seem irresistibly drawn to a man who can, so to speak. However his next comment that his suggested penis reduction was a huge success, meaning he can wear shorts again was not received with quite the same enthusiasm.
With thunder clouds looming after a hot sunny morning and with the lovely Mrs Peach, Suzanne talking of making a chilli, we somehow found ourselves in the pav in the evening in a thunderstorm.
Chris France
Dog finds water in pool
The Wingco, having made such an embarrassing blunder, by spelling embarrassing incorrectly on an email to me, pointing out errors in grammar and syntax put forward his defence today, “a sticky keyboard”. I can just imagine what he would have said to me had I attempted to hide behind such a shoddy excuse. Regular readers will know that he is part of a coterie of public school types amongst my friends who revel in their imagined educational superiority. He has made it his job to criticise my grammar, syntax, writing style, spelling and content and on every possible occasion so with a song in my heart I shall be taking this up with him at lunch today. As he signed this particular email ‘the longest member’ I was also forced to ask if this had anything to do with the sticky keyboard. As yet I have not received an answer.
So last night then to Sophia Antipolis to see the South of France English Theatre Production of the thriller “Deathtrap” by Ira Levin at Espace Antioplis. Nice venue that it is, situated in Sophia Antipolis and with the production staged in the evening after dark means two things; few people like to drive around this incomprehensibly laid out silicone valley and anyway no one lives there, thus it is hard to attract an audience, however such is the rarity of quality theatre in the area a decent crowd turned out to see an excellent and well acted production. The second performance is tonight priced at a very reasonable 20 euro and there are still many tickets available plus the drinks are cheap!
The weather has returned to normal as my picture today reveals. Sunshine and warmth were in good supply and animals need water, we must have the largest animal water bowl in France. This picture is of Max the proper dog eschewing the nice fresh clean water put down for him to take in the chlorine laden, anti algae infested PH- controlled water from our swimming pool.
Water off a dogs back
As I write this I am uncertain as to whether tennis will occur at the Vignale this morning, but I am reasonably certain of one thing, lunch at the Auberge St Donat. I have not lunched out at all since returning from England stuffed full of Yorkshire pudding and fish and chips but have now had several days repairing the salad dodging tendencies that overcome one when in the UK so feel ready to be re-integrated back into local luncheon society.
I was going to try for a few more days of non lunching but it was when I was wavering in the face of an invitation to tennis and lunch I discovered that nice lady decorator had a lunch appointment of her own that I weakened.
Soon we will savaged once again by The Savins. House guests Peter and Janie Savin arrive in Sunday and will no doubt once again be attempting to write their names in bottles of rose. It is a bit of a question of mathematics; If you consider that the “S” in Savin takes 8 empty bottles to form, how many bottles would it take to spell their surname? This is all done in the 5 days they stay. I wonder if Janie will remember that my banana palm is a plastic fake and begin watering it again?
Reading this through (which I do contrary to some opinions) I have noticed that I have not yet mentioned the value one can obtain from opening an account with Currencies Direct when moving money abroad and have run out of space to do so. Maybe tomorrow.
Chris France
The kiln fields
Tennis in the sunshine, with temperatures of 24 degrees in the evening, the same as I am led to believe are the values in England currently, was a delightful workout for the MOGS, the Moustachiod Old Gits last night. Our opponents, on this occasion Blind Lemon Milsted and George Cavendish (his writing nom de plume), Monagasque banker and author with a grunt that would embarrass Monica Selech found themselves utterly outplayed by the very slightly older MOGS. This grunting is a modern fad and must be ruled out or at the very least penalised.
Because of the recent stormy weather the clay court which is our preferred surface was slightly damp and footprints could be seen after the few games. The Wingco being by far the heaviest of the quartet and being the proud owner of new extra grip tennis shoes was making the most mess, indeed there was an appearance of what looked like duck tracks where he had been well, I was going to say running but staggering is a better adjective as he admitted to lunching well and long with Master Mariner Mundell earlier. When I brought the damage he was doing to the court to his attention he said he thought the reason was that he had bought the duck track tennis shoes on the web.
Regular opponent, Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villas having not responded to the email was relegated to first reserve and warned by chairman (me) of the hastily convened committee that he must do better in the future if he is to retain his place in the gang of four. I cannot say for certain that his reluctance to respond to an invitation (read instruction) to play was due to fear of crushing defeat but it remains a possibility.
Earlier in the day during our customary march around the forests whilst I contemplated the benefits of Currencies Direct we came across this hitherto unknown (to us) old hand-made pit in the hills between Mougins and Mouans Sartoux. Apparently it was the remains of a huge ancient kiln, the use for which was not immediately clear. There was a faded and broken old sign that was hard to read but pointed towards chalk being used in the process, most mysterious, ideas anyone? I suggested that it could be used as dog cemetary as dirty dog Banjo left his unmistakable mark in it but the suggestion did not find favour. Apparenty it is not that type of kiln. (groan).
Not the killing fields
Tonight to the first of two nights of the English Theatre production of Deathtrap at Espace Antipolis in Sophia Antipolis where tickets are available. It features one well known TV actor David Easter, an old flame of one of my close friends whose name I cannot reveal but I am surprised that Lisa Thornton Allan will not be attending. I shall be there attempting to assuage huge local demand for my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur” very few copies of the first edition of which remain unsold.
In conversation last night with the Wingco after tennis I mentioned the play and that I would be there, and that I had begun work on my second book which I was thinking of called “The Valbonne Monologues”. He snorted with derision and suggested that it would better called “The Valbonne Monoblogs” which actually has some merit. To put it mildly he is somewhat underwhelmed by my writing, the word he most uses is “ghastly”. It was ironic then that he sent me an email earlier today (despite claiming not to have my email address) “please send copies of any email for proof reading BEFORE publishing. This will avoid any embarrasing (sic) errors of syntax, grammar, punctuation, and indeed, content”. You will note as I did (and as I am sure will regular reader Peter Lynn) that it contains a spelling error. How gratifying.
Chris France
Champagne with an orange?
Tim Swannee (crazy name, crazy guy) from Home Hunts is running a holiday photo competition which is intended to win me a magnum of champagne. All that is required is that my dedicated readers vote for the photo I have submitted which I show again as my picture today taken in Cuba in March. I promise everyone who votes for the orange taxi in Havana will get a sop when I win. you can vote here.
The winning entry?
How many messages did I get today from people in England saying how hot it has been back in the old country? I have no idea why, regular readers will know that I never complain about the weather wherever I am, it is not really very relevant, I am just content being alive and busy helping my fellow man stave off the banks by using Currencies Direct to transfer monies to and from abroad and with enough wine in the rack to keep body and soul together.
Talking of soul, the Reverend Jeff who obviously has a much more important soul than us atheists as he is presumably, in his opinion, more likely to get into the VIP area after his demise was involved in a discussion in the comments section of this column a few days ago. I am not sure of its context or relevance to anything here today but I was intrigued to be made aware of a news story about a Reverend with a nine-inch penis. If you think my mentioning it here is just being done to give me an opportunity to make some cheap gags at his expense then you would be entirely wrong, but only because I couldn’t think of any.
So then to the theatre tomorrow night to see a production of Deathtrap in Sophia Antipolis. It is a treat to get a bit of proper English theatre down here, so to support the South Of France English Theatre, I am trying to get a big cast together for Thursday night.
I could do with a Deathtrap of my own for a certain unwelcome canine who lodges in my household against my express wishes. Whilst we were away enjoying the cool and damp delights of Yorkshire, the house and dogs were being looked after by the Lucifer child as her father Peachy Butterfield describes her. The last time she was in charge she lost her dinner, a half-frozen chicken, to the evil Banjo who stole it from the kitchen whilst her back was turned, this time it was some fine Belgian chocolates, the remains of which he rather thoughtfully and colourfully deposited on my lawn ready for my return. Correct, he had not been adept or intelligent enough to remove the coloured silver paper surrounding each sweet. Luckily Terrence the Tractor was able to “deal” with these yesterday. That should confuse anyone with a metal detector.
Today I shall continue work on my second book. I have been searching for a title which I know has to include the word Valbonne so that Lin Wolff at the English Book Centre can sell it to unsuspecting tourists wanting a book about the village so last night I came up with a provisional title “The Valbonne Monologues”. I think it could do for Valbonne what “The Vagina Monologues” did for women. This should give Pinman and the Reverend, my two most prolific commentators on this column, something to go on today.
Perhaps tennis tonight now that the worst of the storms have abated, probably because the Cannes Film Festival ia coming to a climax (can I say that in the context of my new book title?).
Chris France
Moth avoids flame
We left the sodden wastelands of Yorkshire in the north of England yesterday to fly to the sodden wastelands of the Cote d’Azur. What is happening to the weather? 15 degrees and raining is perfectly acceptable in Leeds at any time in the year but Nice, in May? It is not how I have seen the south of France illustrated in the brochures and frankly there is a Trades Descriptions Act issue here, except the French have never signed up to such a sensible law. Do the weather gods have no compassion? I have just put up with 4 days of wind and rain in the north of England, to be expected at this or any time of year, but in the south of France in May? No, not acceptable.
It may be a coincidence but it seems the weather has turned worse ever since the French voted in a quasi (crazy?) communist to oversee the end of the failed Euro experiment and to usher in the new French Franc. This will of course eventually become good news for currency exchange firms such as Currencies Direct for whom I perform small services in return for equally small commissions. Electing a socialist Frenchman called Hollande to be President of France is like electing an Englishman called France, madness.
Global warming is a short-term myth or at the very least not the sole responsibility of the human race as anyone with any knowledge of long-term weather patterns and sun spots will know. It is a fact that over 50 per cent of all methane emissions around the world are from the anuses of animals so all the global claptrap about reducing our carbon foot print by 1 or 2% is just bunkum given the other forces at large. I will rue the day when drought is declared in France. If it is anything like the drought in England then the whole country will be submerged in water. Look at the effect excess rain has had on the insect population in my picture today taken near Otley in Yorkshire.
Giant moth seen in Yorkshire
Nonetheless, despite storm and tempest as we landed at Nice airport I am now back in the cradle of gastronomic creation and despite the weather I feel an inner peace. When one knows that every meal in the foreseeable future will likely be a gastronomic delight and every glass of wine will be steeped in alcohol history, one finds a calmness settling around one like a warm blanket. However, as that warm blanket requires the art and industry of cooking, and with that nice lady decorator cooking her own goose by way of three bottles of Prosecco, albeit in the company of friends, gastronomic delight had to wait and so last night I partook of an Indian take away courtesy of the Indian restaurant on Valbonne.
If the rain ever stops then I have plans. Walking, tennis and cycling are activities that are high on my agenda in the coming days as I seem to have collected a little more than I would like around my waistband due to an over exuberant indulgence in English food over the past four days. What is it with English restaurants? Do they not understand the concept of the vegetable? The French understand it perfectly, even to the extent of electing one to run the country. Salad seems to be a word that in English restaurants is followed by the word “garnish”, which we all know is an excuse to make a nod towards healthy eating whilst supporting the salad dodging fraternity. The word garnish should have a literal meaning suggesting “not likely”.
Chris France
Fired up for cooking
So the ongoing birthday of that nice lady decorator, a continuing and moving feast in more ways than one moved towards its inevitable conclusion. Perhaps aptly for a Sunday the final feast, the last supper, which took the form of lunch at The Duke Of Wellington at East Keswick was the focus point for a gathering of many of the good people of Yorkshire. That they are for the most part uneducated and rusticly charming people is undeniable and any kind of sophistication eludes them. Salt of the earth that they are, and denied electricity for the most part one cannot expect much in terms of being worldly wise but at the same time one cannot help but warm to their warm home spun charm. Many of them have not ventured more than 10 miles from their place of birth throughout their entire lives, and most are proud of this fact. “If it doesn’t come from Yorkshire its not worth bothering with”.
Take fellow diner and Yorkshireman Dave Wurr for example. Few women would and although I understand no more than one in three of his guttural utterances he is one of my favourite people from whom I like to remove money on the golf course. He is as old as Methusalah and not as good looking but what sets him apart from many of these country souls is that he has traveled abroad, albeit only to Spain. Clearly it must have been a long time ago because he revealed that once he took a twin tub washing machine to Majorca as hand luggage. I can just not imagine the reaction at the Easyjet check in were he to attempt such a thing today.
Our hosts, John and Rachael “square the circle” Surtees have done their best to keep a steady stream of alcohol and food coming at us the whole weekend and even organising a tennis match for me to win convincingly yesterday morning. John has now retired from working on The Chuckle Brothers latest output ans is now organising his team for the Golden Oldies Cricket Festival in Adelaide in November. Having been selected to play I have had no choice but to accept, particularly as this will mean at least three weeks away from the dreadful dark and wet experience that will be my lot in England later this year. Winter is not my favourite time. When I asked how many others had been selected, answer came there none. Yes, no others except the self appointed team captain have achieved the three hurdles required to be eligible; being over 40, have time for a three week holiday and being stupid enough to want to play cricket at an advanced age.
So today we leave the chilly winds and rain that epitomises Yorkshire, and from where I took today’s picture in a pub over the weekend to return to the warm embrace of France. One good thing is that our return will I hope finally mark the end if the birthday commiserations (they are no longer celebrations after a certain number) and I shall be able to get back to working on finding those many lost souls out there who are still using their banks to move money abroad instead of opening an account with Currencies Direct.
Fire being readied for cooking
I am hearing disturbing reports that thunderstorms have been in evidence in Valbonne but that must clearly be an ugly rumour being spread by some jealous Yorkshire locals so I fully expect to be basking in the sunshine on a beach in the Cote d’Azur this afternoon.
Chris France
Pigs ear or Trotters?
So we left the sleepy hamlet of Harrogate behind and headed for the village of Leeds in a vain search for some sunshine. Before we left we had one last look around and once again I was struck by the awe and majesty of “Trotters” bar which I show as my picture today. It is clearly a high-class establishment with an up market clientele that I know would just work in Valbonne. Sadly our busy schedule, my attire and ridiculous moustache precluded us from entering the establishment due to one simple reason, fear. I am sure that the regulars adorned with tattoos and many resembling tramps and ruffians are all wonderful friendly and accommodating people, but they just didn’t look like it so the busy schedule excuse was employed.
Peckham comes to Harrogate
Threading our way through the floods which mark the wettest drought I have ever encountered, we eventually arrived in Leeds, another little known outpost in the north of England and then to an even smaller settlement with the touching and quaint name of Scarcroft where we will be imprisoned for the next two nights. I have in the past mentioned the charming and evocative names for northern towns but Scarcroft does not do it justice. Perhaps it would have been a better name for the Jewish area of Allwoodley, through which we went on our way to Leeds and where my lawyer, sometimes known as Al Yiddley, was born. Would it be too much of a banana skin to mention that few foreskins will be found in this area near Scarcroft? Probably so I will end this here. I will be circumspect from now on.
Later over dinner at the New Inn, which was formerly called the Bracken Fox before the management changed the name in order to elevate the establishment into a higher strata, which in turn allows the management to be able to increase the prices no doubt, a few jokes were unleashed. For some days now whilst I have been languishing in the north of England I have been unable to watch TV and have thus been out of touch with what is happening in the real world so I was naturally shocked by the news that Vidal Sassoon, hairdresser to the stars had passed away. When I asked for details I was told I needed to watch the high lights.
Today being Sunday, and thus no necessity to mention the wonderful services of Currencies Direct from which one can benefit if one ever has the need to send or receive money from abroad, I shall be having a day of rest, well a morning, before a birthday lunch. It will take place at somewhere called East Keswick and in order to work up an appetite some tennis has been arranged, indoors obviously.
It seems to have been the longest birthday celebration in history. That nice lady decorator kicked off proceedings with a joint birthday bash last Wednesday but her actual anniversary is today. I cannot reveal her age but she will never again be 37 again, at least not until next year. It is astonishing that each year the gap between our ages increases, how can that be? It is a mystery.
Today is the last full day up north, we fly back to summer in Valbonne tomorrow arriving at lunch time and I have a sneaking suspicion that I will be hijacked on the way back from Nice Airport to enjoy a late lunch on the beach. Later in the week it is the two theatre performances of Deathtrap by the South Of France English Theatre at Espace Antipolis on Wednesday and Thursday. I shall attend the Thursday performance where once again I shall be endeavoring to satisfy the almost non-existent demand for my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur”.
Chris France
Cars seen up north!
As I near the midway point of my enforced banishment to the frozen wastelands of northern Britain I have noticed some changes. I have not been this far north for a long time but this northern English enclave of Harrogate. on the outer edges of civilisation is showing signs of progress. They even have cars up here now, and although few and far between I managed to take a snap of one yesterday in Harrogate.
Up to date transport Harrogate style
So why is this hamlet called Harrogate? We have had Watergate, Fergygate and any number of other “gates” relating to scandals of different sorts, what happened here? Has Prince Harry visited recently? It was something I began to contemplate over a rather good lunch at The Fleece at Addingham as I watched the rain lash the old mill cottages shivering beside the River Wharfe. The locals seemed pleased, at least it wasn’t snow. The fires were it, piles of fresh peat lay moistly awaiting heir turn to smoulder sulkily in the grates and all was well in their own little world.
Last night after drinks at the Harrogate Brasserie we crossed the road to eat at The Elephant Thai restaurant, sited just above “Trotters Bar And Fun Pub” the picture of which will have to wait until tomorrow. It is based on the classic TV programme “Only Fools And Horses” and anyone suggesting that I in any way remind people of the wide boy character Boycie in that series will be hearing from my lawyers Messrs Grin, Snapit and Sueham. Furthermore anyone who suggests that nice lady decorator bears any resemblance to his on-screen wife Marlene should be in fear of their lives.
Although lacking in ambiance the food at the Elephant upstairs was good and the learning curve steep. We had been joined for dinner by a school friend of that nice lady decorator who comes from even further north, from Newcastle in fact. Sat on the opposite side of the table from these two I spent much of the evening as if I was watching tennis, head turning first one side then the other as they recounted childhood memories and although I understood little of what was discussed due to my difficulty coming to terms with the local dialect I learned a couple of new words. Take the word “Parkin”: clearly It cannot be anything related to the parking of cars because that will not be a problem this far into the wilderness for some decades. Could it be something to do with that great Yorkshireman Michael Parkinson? It turns out that it is a kind of local fruit cake so maybe I was right. I also learned that a spog is an item of confectionery.
I spent some trying to explain to her the concept of foreign exchange and how ably Currencies Direct would be able to help her out should she ever decide to live abroad but I confess that my advice fell on stony ground as it seems for her a trip down as far as Harrogate was reaching the outer limits of the unknown. Many people from Newcastle and other villages up north seldom venture more than a few miles from where they were born through their whole lives thus the concept that foreign lands exist must be difficult one to grasp.
So today we will venture to another small northern village Called Leeds where I shall spend the next two nights dreaming of a return to Valbonne and sunshine on Monday. In the meantime I intend to blot out the horror of the landscape and the atrocious weather by the over consumption of Timothy Taylors Landlord, the second best beer in the world.
Chris France
1992 – latest
She made me. That nice lady decorator said you look washed out and it will do you good and so I dutifully sat at Nice airport yesterday morning with a pint of Murphy’s stout, whilst taking in the last rays of sunshine we will see until Monday. I have seen the weather forecast for Harrogate and Leeds for the weekend and by their standards it is probably quite balmy with a maximum of 10 degrees on Sunday, sufficient one may think to soften the tundra and unleash the midges but far below the mid 20’s expected in the Cote d’Azur.
Stories are still filtering in from the joint birthday party on Wednesday night. The lovely Leslie Bufton, having imbibed freely of the local rose, apparently invited all attendees for a trip on their boat when it arrives in Antibes in a couple of weeks time before having to be “helped” to her taxi by several burly chaps. It seems her feet did not touch the ground, but rather than this being a symptom of enjoying being manhandled to her transport it was actually because she was almost incapable of walking. Husband Roly is currently sailing the boat (that’s too strong a word, I mean driving it) down the coast of Portugal having already crossed the Bay Of Biscay heading for Gibraltar then Barcelona before getting to Antibes in a couplee of weeks time.
It is Cannes Film Festival weekend so the usual influx of publicity seeking celebrities will be in town to publicise their various films. It is normally something of a spectacle but I hear that Sacha Baron Cohen excelled himself by dressing up as a Saddam Hussein lookalike and riding a camel up and down The Croisette, stopping only to buy himself and his mount an expresso at one of the cafes dotted along the front and popping into the Ralph Lauren shop to buy his camel a rather fetching and quite expensive orange scarf, perhaps it was a camel hair creation? and maybe even once belonging to a relative of his transport? In any event it is a fashion statement that I hope is not lost of my style guru Mr Humphreys if he is free.
So then to the flight to Yorkshire with Jet2 in Geoff Boycott class. We could not afford Michael Parkinson class which would allegedly entitled us to free tripe and chips as our in-flight meal. It was, err.. interesting. I don’t like to complain because they allowed dogs on the flight, although this was limited to Yorkshire terriers and whippets, so thank god there is no way the rib eating kitchen destroying mutt Banjo would be allowed aboard, and we duly arrived at Leeds Bradford airport in the rain.
Up to date information for the modern traveller
With the Olde Swan under some sort of health warning (there was some sort of health convention in town) we instead booked into the charming Harrogate Brasserie where I took this picture of the up to date library in our room and where we met up for dinner with very old friends John and Rachel Surtees. At one stage before I trapped her, that nice lady decorator lived with John for a number of years and then married the gorgeous Rachael. Since that time I have fretted that something is out of kilter here. John obviously has “knowledge” of that nice lady decorator but Rachael and I have never shared that same intimacy despite my suggesting that such a liaison would square the circle so to speak. You may be surprised, as I am, that she does not seem concerned about this lop-sided situation and has constantly and fervently rejected such an idea however when last night she asked if she could try my pork, for one moment….
Chris France
Fat people harder to kidnap?
So despite almost no warning at all a very decent contingent of revelers arrived in the early evening to take advantage of the early evening sunshine, and then a feast of ribs and meatballs to celebrate the median between the birthdays of Peachy Butterfield, freshly arrived from Liverpool, where he must have looked at the very least a bit of a dick in his green Vilbrequin shorts and short-sleeved shirt whilst shivering on the tarmac of Liverpool airport, and that nice lady decorator.
As is usual when there is a gathering around food and wine in the south of France stories unfold and as so often it falls to me faithfully to record these events for the edification and delight of my good self readership.
The first story emerged before the party on the way back from the airport. I was cursing the fact that I had to divert for the third visit of the day to the supermarket to ensure we were sufficiently well stocked with food and wine to be able to survive a sustained attack on mine and my guests sobriety. My task? To fetch toilet rolls. Peachy, pictured today wearing one of his birthday presents was thus reminded of a story about a plastic surgeon friend of his who was sent to the supermarket by his wife. When he returned home she was stunned to find him in possession of around 50 bread rolls. When questioned he said he had purchased 50 because he thought 100 was too many whatever was the purpose. He had misinterpreted the shopping list which had listed loo rolls.
He has a point, picture taken by Slash and Burn Thornton Allan of the Big Picture
Who was it last night who claimed to be wearing bottom flossers, seemingly a kind of female underwear requiring very little material? Were they male or female? Once I have consulted my lawyers I will let you know if I can name names.
As I write it is just after 7am and as predicted I have a horrendous hangover, the last stragglers leaving around 1am. The garden is a mess, the web is a bigger mess but the pav is humongous mess but the biggest mess was the kitchen. The evil hound that blights my house (and especially now the kitchen) Banjo had thoughtfully managed to get past two doors and then redecorated the kitchen with rib bones and the general post party detritus which was waiting in a plastic bag ready for the garbage run this morning. I would love to kick his arse. Whose idea was it to have a party the night before we leave for misery? As soon as I have finished this there is some very serious clearing up to undertake before confronting something even more unpleasant but, I suppose, also self-imposed, a trip up north. I do hope Jet2 live up to their name and there is not some ancient turbo prop propping up Nice airport later this morning.
Any airline flying to Leeds is probably required to serve mushy peas as part of any in flight meal and I have to tell you frankly that if that is the case this morning then vomit will be unavoidable.
Amongst those celebrating was Peter Bennett from Blue Water Yachting who kindly brought round the outstanding payment for some pieces I had written (yes I am a paid writer nowadays) for his brochure for the Antibes Yacht Show and revered Currencies Direct client and friend Slash and Burn Thornton Allan who took today’s picture and for whom this was something of a last supper as he too, along with that steely eyed goddess of a wife Lisa, who is far too young for him, has to spend more time in England with his money children who are now schooled back in the UK.
Chris France
Look at the sisal that!
Before awaking at the crack of dawn and performing my tasks for Currencies Direct, we set out for our normal speed walk around the Valmasque yesterday morning when I happened to say to that nice lady decorator that she was going down hill rather quickly. It was when she turned to look at me as only she can I realised the enormity of the misunderstanding with which I could have been confronted. Of course I meant that she was walking fast downhill with no intent of a double meaning, however it is clear for a time at least she did not believe me.
Perhaps it is the proximity of yet another birthday, her 37th I am told that is making her touchy. Having had a night off on Monday evening and with a fast developing crescendo of two birthdays colliding in the same week, a very last-minute mid way between birthday party appears to be happening tonight at very short notice and what is more it is seemingly taking place at my house. Peachy Butterfield’s birthday which was last Saturday fell whilst he was shivering and sheltering from a northern gale in the distant far north of England, in Chester where the sun has just appeared above the horizon for the year. He understandably did not want to celebrate it in such inhospitable surroundings and as he is flying back today, tonight was deemed a suitable time for such a prestigious event, especially as we will depart to the bleak north of England on Thursday for that nice lady decorators birthday for a long weekend for much the same punishment that Peachy has been enduring. This will the ensure of course exactly what you want when facing a flight, a massive hangover.
So to break ourselves in gently we elected last night to partake of a couple of beers whilst watching the sun go down in the pav from where I took this picture. The Yucca is about to flower, that or we have a red hot poker tree.
Red hot poker?
Once the sun had gone I opened a bottle of my favourite red wine, a little known Rousillion called Pierre Plats made in Terrats, a little village in the foothills of the Pyrenees. I only opened it after that nice lady decorator had tucked onto a Chablis, thus leaving the far more important wine alone, and ensuring that I enjoyed most of the contents. Suddenly the allure of the Chablis abated and much to my chagrin she turned her attention to the red. I do hate it when good wine is wasted.
This morning I had planned a quick walk, a dash to the supermarket, half an hours frantic work on my music business interests and then a swing in the hammock for a couple of hours in preparation for tonight. It was as I was contemplating the last part that I remembered that in a fit of pique that nice lady decorator had ordered a kind of “hambush”, having one of the trees to which the hammock was attached chopped down on some pretext that it impeded the laying in of our new mains drainage. Personally, given the choice which of course I was not, I would have rather retained the sceptic tank despite it being condemned than lose the hammock, but as they say swings and roundabouts without the swings. Fortunately we still have our share of faeces lurking in the garden, but this time above ground mostly due to the nice lady drain designers horrid hound Banjo.
So tomorrow I shall have packed my winter clothes and will be winging my way to Leeds/Bradford airport in Yorkshire courtesy of Jet2, so named I believe because they only have two jets.
Chris France
The dog has no nose
So the writing of the second book has begun. I have all the pages numbered so that’s a good start. The cover is underway courtesy of Marina Kulik’s painting classes and should be ready for my choice by the end of June so there is just the small matter of a bit of content.
Mondays are not often very productive due to the ravages of the ex pat lifestyle but today was an exception. Several new clients were secured for Currencies Direct and with no social occasion booked for today and with no spontaneous outbreak of revelry on offer, a bit of a departure, I have had time to do some real work on my music interests, write a little and to remember some of the hitherto unreported events of the last week or so.
Dinner with the Wingco for instance went unreported as did his impromptu appearance at the wine bar in Valbonne, an appearance with his guitar which is rumoured to be repeated tonight, and if it is then I will be there. The Wingo was distressed to hear that I have begun work on my second book, indeed wanted it recorded that he maintains his opinion of this column as “ghastly”, despite claiming never to read it. This is a bit if a dichotomy. How can he contend that it is ghastly if he does not read it? Come clean Wingco, admit it, you are a secret reader and love it really. I shall email him the text this morning, but will probably receive an email back saying he cannot respond because he does not have my email address, a ploy he has used in the past.
Golf last Saturday with the Landlubbers turned up a couple of new (to me) or forgotten golfing expressions. A “Yasser Arafat” otherwise known as ugly and in the sand brightened my day and I was reminded of the Abdul Hamza, hooked and out of sight. The gathering also threw up a couple of golfers who had not had a chance to buy my book. Actually that is not quite true, they had managed in the past to avoid the chance of buying it. That all changed for this lucky pair who I know left the golf course clutching signed copies, knowing they had been trapped into making what I consider to be a wise purchase and they may consider Christmas presents for people they don’t like. These sales take the total to 180 making me even more successful as an author, in fact I may now start referring to myself as a novelist, a novel idea some may think. Anyway, I took this picture from the Grande Bastide Golf Course, the venue for the golf.
Looking up at Opio
The lurking horror of a hastily organised trip to England in the rain later this week is exacerbated by the fact that it is not just England, it is up north, to Harrogate and Leeds respectively. The land of tundra and tempest has but one saving grace, Timothy Taylor Landlord bitter. This beer is the only good thing to come out of Yorkshire except the M1. That it is the second best beer in the world, second only to Fullers London Pride is not a fact that is acknowledged by that nice lady decorator who is of the opinion that the Taylors offering is superior, but as she once lived amongst the savages the roam north of Coventry, her mind has clearly been tainted. I shall be on the look out for the archetypal northerner, a high forehead, eyes too close together, extra digits on hands or feet or both are the tell tale signs.
Being away for a couple of days means casting around to find a minder for the house who must have a strong stomach and non sense of smell as part of the duties involve tending to Banjo, the smelliest dog in France. Surprisingly we have reengaged someone known as “The Lucifer Child” who has performed this task in the past and has agreed to return. Perhaps she has no nose? There is an old joke here but even I cannot bear to print it
Chris France
Every picture tells a story
The Sunday Times yesterday carried a piece about a dog which seemed to be racist. It seems that said dog was completely content and relaxed around children and old people but barked at black people and the discussion was about how to modify its behavior.
This got me to thinking about how to improve the attitude and behaviour of my least favorite dog in the world, owned by that nice lady decorator who lives with us against my better judgement (the dog that is, not the decorator). I am not saying that Banjo is racist but he is nonetheless in need of behaviour modification. Take motor cyclists, as he does. He hates them and enjoys illustrating his enmity by barking at and biting them as they splutter along the lane outside our house. The pizza man on the motor bike will no longer deliver because he has lost several chunks from his leg after the last take away. I will no longer order the bite size pizza from him as I am so embarrassed.
But how to administer behavioural correction? My first reaction was that a baseball bat might help and that’s when the trouble started. It is a mystery that I will never solve as to why that nice lady decorator is so very protective of the glutinousl gobby doggy.
Yesterday being Sunday, and thus a day of rest so no mention of the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct, we had strolled into Valbonne for the vide grenier (empty your attic) sale which is the same as a car boot sale in England except you look around the market in warm sunshine and shorts rather than a sheepskin coat an umbrella and galoshes. After an exhausting tour of the biggest pile of rubbish I have ever encountered we had developed enough of a thirst to pop over to the Cafe Des Arcades for a refreshing ale and to read the papers.
A short time later we espied John O Sullivan with the same agenda, and on the basis that a pleasure shared is a pleasure doubled we invited him to join us for an ale and then a couple of pitchers of red wine until we were joined by his other half, the redoubtable Jude O Sullivan, the girl who single-handedly keeps the Baileys factory at full production. She was pleased beyond measure as on the Saturday she had received from the supermarket a voucher entitling her to a discount on her next order of Baileys. I have long been a fan of her cleavage (sorry Lin) so I took this picture of her embonpoint on the pretext of photographing her Baileys voucher. As John O Sullivan says; it is easier to get forgiveness than permission. I expect to get neither.
Baileys voucher delight
Last night then to dinner with Cornish Tsunami Matt Frost from French Mortgage Express and delightful wife Viv, the lady that first suggested that this column could be turned into a book, and is subsequently to blame for the second tome which I am editing as we speak. Matt was talking about his recent visit to the salt mines of Krakov in Poland which sounded both macabre and fascinating in equal measure but I was able to trump him on both levels as we are set to visit Harrogate and Leeds next weekend, macabre and fascinating on a much higher scale.
Thus I must now cram my working week into three short days so with luck I should be finished by lunchtime. If one works at the intensity that I do, one would never need to work full time. It us a fact that when revealed has never increased my popularity, something that has always mystified me.
Chris France
Golf and bandit country
Dinner was a splendid affair taken in bandit country in the valley just to the south of Bar Sur Loup, at the house owned by the only estate agent in Valbonne who insists on playing tennis in his Gucci loafers, Cubby Wolf from Riviera Realty.
When one ventures more than a handful of miles north of Valbonne one must not expect to find the kind of sophistication exhibited by, say, a Currencies Direct customer. One takes a social risk, a bit like going north of Birmingham in England. On the edge of civilisation one can never be certain about whether electricity will be readily available and so it came to pass. After nervously standing outside the electric gates to Cubby’s fortified domain which refused to work, keeping an eye out for hungry wildlife, the bush telegraph (OK my mobile phone) alerted Cubby to the plight of his guests marooned outside as the sun was setting and the unseen but clearly sensed local animal and bandit population was stirring. Eventually the gates were opened and sanctuary reached. That our host should be called Cubby Wolf is somehow apt for a man living in such majestic wilderness. Bear Grylls eat your heart out.
That an estate agent can afford to own Gucci loafers is an affront to anyone selling a house and paying the exorbitant french estate agents fees, (6% in case there are any English estate agents reading). Personally if I were ever to employ an estate agent in France I would want him to be driving a dented and ancient diesel golf with worn tyres, look down-trodden and not to own either Gucci loafers or a classic Jaguar, or for the matter to own a very pretty house with majestic views swooping over the Loup valley. What’s wrong with a dingy apartment? Actually, come to think of it he does look a bit down trodden but only in a warm and cuddly kind of way.
In something of a departure, that nice lady decorator scrubbed up nicely and chose a stunning and unique black and white striped outfit together with similarly distressing shoes. Unique that is until Helen, another guest at dinner arrived wearing an almost identical outfit. A sharp intake of collective breath was followed by a short silence. There was an air of tension and some circling which I thought could be heading for a metaphorical shoot out before the champagne, not before time, had its usual calming effect and potential enmity dissolved into friendship, with the codicil that the next time they meet they will discuss outfits before the event.
As the evening drew towards an end, the largish sailing contingent which comprised most of the dinner party who had been feasting, rather aptly, on swordfish, sitting outside on a clear night on a wonderful terrace looking towards the mountain came over all sailorish, licking their fingers and holding them up to the wind and saying things like “we are for a bit of a blow” and “splice the main brace” seemingly oblivious to the reason they were swaying so much was due to the consumption of too much wine.
Grande Bastide golf course, scene of a robbery yesterday
Earlier in the day I had ventured out to play golf with the Landlubbers at the Grande Bastide pictured above where I was lightly roasted not only by the hot sun but by the handicap system which reduced mine from 14 to 11. The 10 euros I had won from the impossibly named Welshman Iuean Dady (or something similar) was snatched away by this reduction before I could stick it on my forehead. A robbery by any measure and another example of bandit country.
Chris France
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