Dog warning on beach
Yesterday afternoon we went on a rabbit hunt. The Black Rabbit on the edge of Arundle, right on the banks of the Arun is this rather splendid riparian pub. For myself it was an entirely contemplative affair as I wanted to have a quiet philanthropic moment with my stamps considering all the good that has come about due to my involvement with Currencies Direct. I wanted to give thanks, and almost reverentially, something that I know regular reader of this column The Reverend Jeff will smile upon, thanks for a service that saves so much money for so many by so few. Winston Churchill eat your heart out.
Earlier, a thorough exploration of Arundle was undertaken. I took it upon myself to explore some of the pubs and restaurants whilst that nice lady decorator took it upon herself to view the entire unsold stock of housing in this pretty and historic village. I needed some sort of relief after daring to dip into the English beach experience for a very short time in late morning.
This was after leaving Chichester in the morning and deciding on making a most unfortunate detour to the coastal resorts of East and West Wittering. Juan Les Pins they are not and never will be. To paraphrase the editor of Private Eye, If these are desirable seaside resorts then I am a banana. Wittering is what I shall be doing about them from now on. How on earth can anyone expect me, with full knowledge that in a short hop frrom Valbonne I can park in Cannes or Juan Les Pins for free and stroll to a golden sandy and beautiful beach restaurant in the sunshine and eat a splendid lunch in comfortable surroundings surrounded by the great and the good, to pay £3.50 to park on a piece of crater strewn waste ground in a gale, lacerated by sand and spume, soaked by horizontal rain with the prospect of lunch in the shape of limp fish and chips in a crap pub without a view of the sea? Jesus, no wonder everyone with half a brain or the tiniest modicum of idea in England aspires to spend their summer seaside holidays anywhere but in England. The typical English beach experience yesterday was anathema. You may note from my picture taken from the wasteland has a sign warning that dogs are not allowed on the beach. This is a very sensible precaution for dog owners, they could catch their death of cold walking on the beach in these conditions. Come on Banjo, walkies!!
England by the sea. Sensible precautions suggested for dog owners
Arundle however has charm. The castle dominates, there are half a dozen pubs a dozen or so restaurants and a gentle relaxed style to the place so completely at odds with the Witterings. Our venue for yesterday and this evening is the Swan Hotel, a Fullers owned pub in desperate need of refurbishment which is going on as I write. I believe they finished drilling and hammering at 5pm, leaving enough time as it turned out for an uninterrupted siesta before dinner.
Then dinner, taken at La Campaglia. I am not normally at my happiest in Italian restaurants but it looked inviting so I err…surrendered to that nice lady decorators choice. Her salmon was very good and my home-made cannelloni was excellent but I let her choose the wine. I was distracted by a phone call and before I knew it she had opened the wine list and made her choice. A 2010 Bordelino? I think she thought it was a good choice because it was fresh. I struggled through it but have a headache and a sore throat this morning.
Chris France
Drought worsens
So we arrived at Chichester in Sussex to book into the Ship Hotel, with half a plan to meet some renegades from Valbonne, Norman and Suzie Philpot to share lunch and complain about English food. It was a good choice of hotel as a ship would have been quite useful in parts of the country today. Norman, a happy Currencies Direct customer is nothing if not innovative as my picture today shows. When it is raining the British know just how to deal with it, although it is a shame that this particular innovation was used at the expense of his dog Paddy who had apparently had some testicular anomaly corrected recently. I will however resist the temptation to make a joke about the dogs bollocks as it is beneath the quality output threshold I fail regularly to impose on this column.
Is this a man of the cloth? he seems to have a dog collar on?
When we arrived at The Ship we realised that it was a bit up market as actress Prunella Scales (Basils wife in the classic BBC TV series Fawlty Towers) was lunching there with fellow actor Timothy West. I had half a mind to join them and ask them if they knew the difference between a Bordeaux and a claret but when the offer was not forthcoming we decided to spread our metaphorical wings (or should that be set sail?) and seek less dramatic surroundings. It was however somewhat ironic to be staying in a country hotel and seeing Mrs Fawlty in residence.
Luckily this was very fortuitous as we took lunch at the Earl Of March pub near Chichester which is rightly renowned locally for its gastronomic heights but where they served the smallest belini’s known to man, no bigger as it turns out than a Victorian penny as my picture today would illustrate if that nice lady decorator had emailed it as promised and had I not later been presented with the photo opportunity from heaven that is featured today. Otherwise exemplary, we ate while we watched the wind drive the clouds and lashing rain across the sun parched terrain which was surprisingly green for a land gripped by drought.
It had been difficult to reach this far-flung outpost due to flooding which at least means those poor gardeners will not be missing their hose pipes for a few days during the hose pipe ban currently in place throughout much of England.
A siesta was vital but thereafter we explored Chichester and quickly came across a Fullers pub which served a very decent pint of London Pride and boasted a barman who seemed to know every restaurant in this tiny city and guided is to another Thai emporium where we once again found solace in food from the east.
Today we shall canoe down the road to Arundle renowned for it castle, charm, cricket pitch and wetlands. Seems to me that the expression wetlands could apply to the whole country. We are due to view a number of properties that the nice lady decorator considers possible abodes for us now that we have been banished to the old country. She will be considering the relative merits of the various houses, I shall be considering the merits or otherwise of the local pubs and restaurants as in my opinion (which of course bears minuscule weight in my household) this is a far more important consideration as to where to live.
Mere showers forecast today so a veritable feast of a day when umbrellas will not be require for more than 50% of the time, real treat. I hear that the temperatures are in the 20 ‘s back in Valbonne and long to be back there. but no such luck until next Monday.
Chris France
Tears on my pillow?
We arrived at Gatwick yesterday and it was dry. Yes dry, we were not immediately experiencing the tempests that had been promised by that lovely weather presenter on Sky TV who gleefully forecast 2 months rain in the text 72 hours. Cool but dry, it surely cannot last. No space to mention the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct as we were on the way to Lewes, our home for last night staying at the White Fart Hotel, at least that was what it looked like it was called after a bit of the H of Hart had fallen off (or perhaps removed for a bit of fun?) we reveled in our new found fortune, being dry in England! The next thing you know England will be suffering from a drought! Ha ha!.
Anyway we had held out until 11am drinking coffee until that nice lady decorator, who had remained completely teetotal from the day before, elected to break her personal drought with a pint of draft Guinness at the Irish bar in Terminal 1 at Nice airport and I confess that peer pressure here was difficult to resist and I may have joined her in this sad escapade.
It is I think, a fair description to say that after a few drinks I tend to pontificate. And like his papalness himself, I consider at such times, which are more regular than to justify pride, that whatever I say is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god. What I am saying is that in these circumstances I am always right. There is one exception to this of course, even the Pope has sometimes to bow to a higher authority and so it in a similar way do I.
Who am I to argue? liberated from old pal Lindsey Weskar
Regular readers of this column will have no doubt as to what form in my life that higher authority takes and may well have in their minds, as I do, a surreal image of an angelic nice lady decorator, omnipotent and all powerful, who in her own mind can do no wrong and is therefore always right. That she is married to Mr Right and considers herself Mrs Always Right in no way suggests that I feel any sense of injustice directed towards me. That is the line I wish my lawyers to take.
So before over imbibing at various hostelries in Lewes, some good, some execrable, but all a vital part of thorough research of any area before buying a house to live in we visited Rottingdean near Brighton which seemed to bear no resemblance whatsoever to the pretty photographs we had seen before hand. A reasonably attractive village high street was surrounded by unspeakable concrete carbuncle of gulag proportions, bereft of any sense of style. I have been unfortunate enough to encounter concrete on a massive scale before but seldom in Provence except at the concrete museum at Mouans Sartoux, you know, the horrid square green building nestling amongst the Provencal village gems that surround it. I could not wait to leave, and indeed I did not wait long.
Today, after a very good Thai meal and a night spent at the rather good Old Fart Hotel in Lewes and having viewed various small abodes masquerading as houses we have a luncheon appointment in Chichester in Sussex, a town that I have never before visited. I do hope St Francis is there to greet me.
Getting there may prove problematic as the heavens have opened this morning and according to local TV flooding is predicted in many places. That must be the reason for the hose pipe ban, one would not want to exacerbate the situation by adding more water to the problem. Very sensible.
Chris France
Artistic licence revoked?
Its all about me. The cover painting competition to feature on the jacket of my next book commenced yesterday at Marina Kuliks painting classes in Plascassier. A record turnout of artists greeted me and for some two hours all the attention was on me, as today picture taken outside afterwards illustrates.
There were some really good work developing and even better!, 7 more copies of my limited edition first book were sold, taking the total to 174 now and making me by definition an even more successful author. It was at this point that my ego suffered the almost inevitable blow that comes with over its regular over inflation and my new found celebrity status took a bit of a knock. As Marina was touring the room advising people on how to improve their work, I heard her tell one aspiring artist “very good caricature” only to hear a response “It was not supposed to be a caricature”.
Ego being inflated nicely
Today then I leave to return to the UK on the house hunt. It is rather ironic that the sale of my house in England, first put up for sale when we moved to France is directly responsible for me having to move back. I made the mistake of checking the weather for the next week and realised that putting the winter clothes away had been a big mistake, it seems rain or showers will be omnipresent each day for the next week. Welcome to my new life in England. There will however be sunshine in my heart as I continue to discover others I can help with their currency needs via the good offices of Currencies Direct. There is even a direct link to an application form click here application form link.
Straight after the art attack a select few adjourned for a calming glass of rose in the Square in Valbonne and ended up with a pizza and a pichet at the Cafe Des Arcades, thus quickly ending my determination to avoid a drink yesterday. The coming week will take a serious toll on health with English beer and the intake of large quantities of stodgy food, especially English breakfasts which will inevitably be required to keep out the cold and wet.
Still the feedback from “that” lunch on Saturday is trickling in. I had no idea until today that Jude O Sullivan, who has a renowned appetite for Bailey’s managed to excel herself by consuming the best part of a litre bottle of the sickly sludge all on her own, refusing to share the bottle with anyone once it got to her. Regular readers will remember when I caught her in a supermarket car park with a trolley containing 6 cases of Bailey’s and a bag of crisps. She had not realised she had picked up some crisps, they were a mistake so clearly the rumoured therapy is not working, a case to be tried at the Old Bailey perhaps?
So the delights of Lewes in the rain, Arundle in the rain and Rottingdean in the rain await me. I suggested to that nice lady decorator that perhaps we should put Rainham or Waterford on our list as we were going to have to get used to getting wet in England but she is actively looking forward to spending more time in the rain. Me? I am planning a number of international trips, Adelaide in November for the Golden Oldies Cricket festival, perhaps with a stop off in Mumbai to catch England v India and take in Goa, a music centre, so a completely justifiable business expense (this just for my accountant who reads this column so that he can be forewarned about expenses I shall be submitting and he will be rejecting).
Chris France
Top marques for sprog 2
Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs was alarmed to discover when he awoke on Sunday morning after Saturdays epic lunch that he smelled nicely of herbs and had a bruised behind. As his recollection of events on Saturday evening will doubtless be hazy given the state he was in, I believe for one moment he may have feared that he had been the victim of a homosexual advance, but all was well when his lovely wife Pat reminded him that he twice fell into a thyme bush as he staggered towards his lift home, hence the, for him, unnaturally healthy aroma and inappropriate anal bruising. Had he needed medical treatment, might that have been known as a stitch in thyme?
As it is the weekend I shall not be mentioning my work for Currencies Direct and saving people from their vagaries of their banks when moving foreign exchange, instead I shall concentrate on social matters or more precisely the fall out from social events when one over consumes alcohol. Bribery is always an option and there are one or two at that lunch who should be considering offering me some brown paper bags stuffed with bank notes. Sadly Mr Coombs offering was received too late to avoid publication.
Whilst we are on the subject of bad behaviour, my picture today shows the point at which sprog 2 sealed her ejection from Monaco Top Marques car show at the weekend. It appears that the car in question into which she is pictured climbing was off limits to visitors, it having been bought earlier by one of the tennis stars appearing at the Monaco Open Tennis Championships. Had she just sat in it she may have avoided such an ignominious departure but spilling some champagne on the hitherto pristine red and black leather was a slop too far for the organisers. She returns to her studies in England after lunch on the beach in some disgrace although part of me remains proud of her.
Don't take your champagne in there....ooops too late
So lunch on the beach, the final pre exam wish for sprog 2 on the way to Nice airport was taken at Chez Panisse at Cap Trois Mille, where we took shelter from the wind which for once was not something for which I was held responsible. It is within spitting distance of Nice Airport and we sat and gazed at the blue sky, palm trees and white caps of the sea being whipped up by that fresh breeze. My risotto gambas was very good, but barely enough for a starter. Sprog 2’s chicken and gambas would have been better without the chicken, but help was at hand with desert, a chocolate fondue of red fruit of the highest calibre, rescuing an overpriced and otherwise underwhelming beach side gastronomic experience.
After lunch and a short siesta I returned from my pit to watch “No Going Out” one of the best written TV comedy series I have ever seen and then to prepare for the excitement that will no doubt greet my appearance at Marina Kuliks painting class at Plascassier this morning. But what to wear? I have been agonising over just this fact for all of five minutes. the sitting starts at 10am this morning. I shall need a range of props to help adorn my rather bland personal appearance (with the exception of a rather splendid Daliesque pointed moustache that I have been cultivating and which only just survived a luncheon “accident” on Saturday due to there being insufficient numbers of public schoolboys present). Golf clubs, tennis racket bottles of wine, cigars and copies of my first book “Summer In the Cote d’Azur” will all be available for the artists attending to feature. A full report tomorrow.
Chris France
Man lipstick not necessairily gay shock
It was a big lunch. After an exhausting week working on Currencies Direct I was ready for it. By the time the last lunchers were persuaded to depart at around 10 30.pm, some time after that nice lady decorator had “retired hurt” in cricket parlance I counted 30 empty bottles of wine. That this did not take into account in alcohol terms the pre lunch mohitos and the case of beers bears testament to the ability of Valbonne’s idle rich to enjoy a rather windy Saturday outing.
As one might expect, there was no shortage of interesting capers to record with my fully charged blackberry, a masterstroke of forward thinking for someone who increasingly needs written reminders of events in order to record them for your delectation and delight in this honest missive.
Sometimes, particularly if nothing happens this column can be a tad difficult to write but with a cast which included Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs, Irish nationalist John “800 years of repression” O Sullivan and his spectacularly well endowed (sorry Lin) wife,andBailey’s aficionado Jude, the Bufties plus Peachy Butterfield and gorgeous wife Suzanne it always had the potential to be a memorable occasion.
But where to start? perhaps with steely eyed and geographically challenged Lisa Thornton Allan sadly bereft of her husband Slash and Burn who was in Cornwall no doubt slashing and burning as only he can. Clearly missing her spouse she chose a unique, and in terms of this daily tome, a gratifying method of keeping his image alive in her memory. Quite why she kept photographs of him sleeping and naked “sounding like a wart hog stick on a barbed wire fence” (her graphic description of his snoring) is perhaps understandable. She is a young woman with a considerably older husband and doubtless retains the normal needs for a woman of her tender years, however why she found it necessary to share with all and sundry these explicit and one presumes hitherto private images, first to her “date” for the day, and subsequently to all the revelers present was something I had not expected and I believe it was not expected by the others who were thus subjected and in some cases traumatised by the contents.
The Bufties, the willowy and beautiful Lesley and husband Roly, were excited about a new Ipad app that allows them to track their new boat at any moment. That it was in the English Channel being driven by their newly appointed gay skipper was too much for Peachy Butterfield who wondered aloud if the boat was flying the Jolly Roger or even the Gay Gordon although I am not convinced that is a flag, I think it is a gay gin and tonic.
Mr Coombs, our resident inventor who claims to be working on “internet 2”, and as a result was clearly tired and emotional, fell over in the garden twice before being poured into his car by his long-suffering wife who very wisely had elected to drive.
Peachy Butterfield googled himself to see if he was gay. The application of lipstick seemingly soothes chapped lips. make up your own mind
Then another mention in dispatches for Peachy Butterfield who regaled us with stories about his favourite pole dancer, Ester. Quite why she is his friend on Facebook was never fully explained, nor was why he revealed that he had googled himself to see if he was gay. When discussing Mondays modeling session for the painting of the cover of my new book with Marina Kulik’s class, Peachy was interested to know when it might be published. When I said late Autumn, in time for Christmas, he rather rudely suggested Halloween as an apt publication date, but after a short period of reflection he decided on Bonfire Night.
Chris France
Ticked off?
Today’s column starts with a kind of biblical theme as it starts with church. Church to people who live in Valbonne means Cafe Latin on a Friday where I was going to say the great and the good but yesterday was dribs and drabs of the ex pat community gather on a market day. For me, continuing the biblical thread, it is an opportunity to convert a few stragglers who have yet to sign up for an account with Currencies Direct to save money on their foreign exchange needs. She knows who she is and I know where she lives.
So with the sun back in its rightful place and a glorious spring day forecast I suspect an impromptu lunch may occur and judging by the scale of the provisioning that took place yesterday I suspect it will be nearby. I publish the photographic evidence as my picture today and will doubtless have a report tomorrow..
I feel lunch coming on
After walking the dogs first thing yesterday that nice lady decorator made an unpleasant discovery. It appears that some ticks had been infested by Banjo, that nice lady decorators dribbling disobedient disaster dog. Don’t get me wrong I do not like ticks, they are nasty little parasites but even I feel sorry for them having a Banjo infestation. When I suggested as much to that nice lady decorator I was given a thorough ticking off. Anyway Banjo was removed from the tics and another reason for smug satisfaction was denied me.
Tuesday sees us back home in England searching for a new house. I see on the TV that there is already a hose pipe ban in many areas, a fact illustrated beautifully by a Sky News reporter standing in pouring rain bemoaning the lack of water. This could only happen in England. But I will not be downhearted there are some upsides to being an English resident again. Decent beer and good pubs, cricket in the form of Test matches with South Africa and the West Indies (unless rain stops play during the drought) and of course I shall look forward all the more to my restricted holiday visits to Valbonne. No, it is not all bad, just mostly bad. The suitcase is already all but full of coats, jumpers, woolly hats, ski jackets, long johns and other thermal underwear.
With sprog 1 returned to the UK to study (for which read drink and smoke and cost a fortune) and sprog 2 departing tomorrow I will be able to see how much of my hidden stash of wine and beer has remained undiscovered. Very little is my guess. I think the installation of cctv and electric fences may prove less costly in the long run. I shall miss them, but not by very much. I shall not miss the cat and mouse game where they try to catch me in the presence of that nice lady decorator with some sob story of why they need more money for clothes, cigarettes, deodorant (not the male sprog), toothpaste, food, rent, concert tickets, festival passes, medication, toiletries (again not the male sprog unless it is for condoms) which inevitably leads to WDS, wallet depletion syndrome. If there was a degree in WDS my two would be star pupils.
Bluebell the camper has been stirred from her winter slumber starting first time for the first time this year. I took her for a spin into Valbonne yesterday remembering at the last moment not to enter the large parking area where I once memorably removed the roof rack very quickly under the height barrier, an action that had me in the dog house for some considerable time.
Chris France
Cafe Latin in baptism shock
Lunch at Cafe Latin was enlivened by the Bufties (Lesley and Roly Bufton) revealing under pressure from a slight over consumption of the post prandial bottle of home-made Lemoncello that they had chosen a gay skipper for their new boat. This caused some amusement of a rather homophobic nature and a little too juvenile and tasteless to go into detail here, suffice to say there the subjects of rolling, corkscrewing and making camp rather than port could have been the subjects.
It was a very generous offer from the lovely Lesley that in order to satisfy my accountants requirements that I should spend more time in England than in France that I could stay on the boat when they tour Corsica in the summer. Sadly she did not seem to be aware that Corsica is indeed a part of France. Can she possibly be related to the similarly geographically challenged Lisa Thornton Allan?
Also at lunch was larger than life Rupert Scott on a brief visit to his house in Plascassier which was previously owned by Edith Piaf and in which she died. He told an interesting story about her death. Apparently because of her iconic status as a symbol of all things French, the French Government had her body taken to Paris in an ambulance and announced that she had died in the Capital.
The big painting event organised by Marina Kulik next Monday is building nicely, nearly at capacity such is the interest in painting me. The prize of the best of the paintings being featured on the cover of my next book has proven irresistible. I had thought that the nice lady decorator might have shown some interest as painting must clearly be one of the skills required by a decorator but so far she has resisted the temptation.
Last year I was invited to do some nude modeling for Marina’s group and although I am up for it, at present it has been kicked off-limits by that nice lady decorator. Clearly she wants no one else to gaze upon my naked figure, and who can blame her. I would like to think that it is because of the sheer masculine beauty of my male form, but have a sneaking suspicion that is not the reason for her prohibition. Perhaps she does not share my certainty of its perennial allure to women?
Church this morning again at Cafe Latin will be for first visit to the congregation for some weeks. I took a photograph yesterday of the water feature that adorns the terrace. I wonder if it used to baptise new members of the happy throng of ex pats who come weekly to celebrate the drinking of coffee, the consumption of croissants and the exchange of gossip? It is for the third part of this triumvirate that interests me most. I am particularly keen to hear more of Mr Humphreys (if he is free) recent trip to New York.
the font at Cafe Latin
So what does the weekend hold in store? I will have completed my tasks for Currencies Direct and now that I have the new online application form to open an account I feel I have given enough of myself for this worthy service for one week. There are so far unsubstantiated rumours of lunch on Saturday and there had been no mention of gravel or gardenening so hope I am off the work hook for the time being although it is true that similar hopes have been dashed in the past. For instance I have noticed an insidious growth a grass recently and suspect I may be called upon to deal with it.
Chris France
Old gits cruise to victory
Marina Kulik the painter has made a good point in the comments section of this column. She believes that I should practice posing for my modelling assignment next Monday at her studios in Plascassier. This will involve sitting around with a glass of wine and talking, so when I undertake this practice at any time between now and Monday I hope everyone with whom I am at the time will realise that it is actually a kind of work, exactly the same as I do each day for Currencies Direct, although there is less sitting around Actually, I have made strides today. I now have an application form website to open an account with Currencies Direct which I just tried and it did ot work. When it does you won’t have to wade through all the jargon because regular readers will be completely au fait with the benefits, so soon it will be easy to sign up!
My picture today was taken in Antibes last week. I do like brightly coloured clothing but this outfit was daring even by the standards of my style guru Mr Humphreys. I shall be finding out if he is free tomorrow at “church” in Cafe Latin in Valbonne, the regular market day gathering. If he has seen this picture by then I shall expect a bold and stylish riposte.
pink and leopard skin, set off beautifully against the red carpet and red wheels
As expected, tennis was a triumph for the mustachioed old gits which comprise my good self and the Wingco last evening. Having cruised to a 6-3 win in the first set against Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals and Blind Lemon Milsted the MOGS relaxed a little in the second set, obviously contemplating a nice post victory dinner at Carpachio in Chateauneuf de Grasse. That I managed to play at all is a testament to my strength and will power after spending the day shoveling gravel from a pile that must have been visible to the naked eye from outer space.
We had allowed our opponents to build a 5-1 lead before taking charge of the situation and repaired this to 6-6. Had there been a tie break as is the modern way forward in these situations, then our victory would surely have been confirmed earlier. That our victory was a tad controversial cannot be denied. It was a major topic of discussion over dinner. Nominally under some tennis scoring rules, two sets played and one set one by each team, the score being 6-3, 7-9 the result may have been considered a draw, but regular followers of this column will not be surprised to know that I consider a draw at tennis to be a waste of time so I like to employ a count back. It is a simple enough exercise, one counts the total games one has won compared with ones opponents and even the mathematically challenged amongst you (and here I make special mention of the delectable steely eyed blonde Lisa Thornton Allan) should be able to calculate that the Mogs ran out winners by 12 to 11. You see there is a reason why Mr Clipbeard has been known to refer to me as “the count back c**t.
During the game played in sunny but rather windy conditions at the Vignale (rumoured to have been sold recently – perhaps if that is the case some much-needed investment in the infrastructure will follow?). which played havoc with all parts of the game but for Greg especially as he was having trouble with his throw up. Personally I am more likely to have a problem with the throw up after dinner than during tennis but that is the way of the world.
Chris France
Mad as a hatter
If I say I was stoned yesterday I know what many of you will think. They will be wrong. I had left my Currencies Direct desk to answer the call, no that’s too weak, the command from that nice lady decorator to spread gravel over an area the size of Wiltshire. I tried groveling but she was determined that I should gravel rather than grovel. A large area of my garden now resembles the Gobi Desert and still it is not finished, I must once again venture forth to the quarry again on numerous occasions today for yet more granite gratification.
The big news, for me anyway, is that my modeling career is about to take off. The lovely Marina Kulik who is an accomplished artist and runs painting classes in that weird hut with the wooden plane outside near the riding stables in Plascassier has invited me to be their model next Monday. The best painting will feature on the cover of my second book which I plan to unleash on my waiting public later in the year, in time for Christmas present season, a ploy that worked very well last year.
Marina was very keen for me to bring a number of items with me to the session between 10 and 12 next Monday (a few spaces still available, visit the website) which she considered, from regular reading this daily collection of gossip and innuendo, summed up my persona. Large cigars, bottles of wine, tennis rackets, more wine, loud shirts, cravat, silk smoking jacket were all understandable, but a walking stick? A mirror? A dog collar? Just what sort of image do I project? One thing I shall not be wearing is the hat-like contraption that is my featured image for today. Spotted at the Antibes Yacht Show last week made apparently from a plant with a few adornments. I think the spiders are a nice touch. I mentioned earlier in connection with my gravelling that I was stoned, but I would suggest that its creator may have had more than his or her fair share of a mind expanding drugs, the basis of course for any modern art in my humble opinion.
New hat anyone?
The planned day off the booze (planned not my me so it should not be too hard for regular readers to guess the identity of the fun police) fell out of bed spectacularly as the steely eyed goddess who is Lisa Thornton Allan arrived clutching a bottle of Chablis and wanting to talk. She took up residence in the pav with that nice lady decorator just before sunset. I joined them for an hour during which time my waiter duties became rather onerous given the number of trips I had to undertake to fetch more wine, then when the testiculating (the practice of waving ones arms around and talking bollocks) commenced I retired to the comfort of the house and settled down to write my 763rd daily column. Such quality, or rather such quantity.
So the prospect of another back-breaking day lies ahead and if I have any energy left for this evening then it will be tennis with Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals, Blind Drunk Lemon Milsted and the Wingco. I fully expect that the moustachiod old gits, the partnership forged with the Wingco, another man sporting a moustache will once again be triumphant. If we are then expect a full report tomorrow. Should the unthinkable happen and there is any kind of reverse then I expect that I shall have too much vital information to impart to have room for a full run down.
Chris France
Spot the acne
Duck wraps for supper. I would have thought that with all those feathers they would not need wraps. I may duck down tomorrow to avoid just chastisement for a terrible joke, maybe someone will throw duck eggs at me, then the yoke would be on me. Can you tell that nothing much happened yesterday? Usually when I sit down to write this column I have any number of events, comments or gossip to report, but when you don’t really leave the house, don’t have a drink and don’t see anyone, writing is a lot harder.
The only thing we did today before heads down working on Currencies Direct was to go walking in the Valmasque with that infernal cocked up cocker spaniel belonging to that nice lady decorator, the monstrous mutt Banjo and the lovely obedient servant the English springer spaniel and mans best friend Max, always obedient when he could hear but now sadly a bit old and a bit deaf. We talked this morning about perhaps getting Max a bell to go on his collar so we can find him as he is not hearing our calls and that made me think that we should also make some sort of provision for that nice lady decorators disobedient disgrace of a hound, the smelliest and most wet mouthed (read gobby) dog there has ever been. I got into a bit of trouble when I suggested that perhaps as a special treat we could get him a wild boar costume to wear when we were out walking, particularly in the hunting season. She did seem to realise that it was a joke, as it was not, but it quickly became a joke when I saw the thunder clouds begin to form around her.
My picture today is another taken at the Antibes Yacht Show last week and is another piece of pretentious modern art. I am afraid that I cannot think of any reason why she (it is a she is it not?) has a load of snails in her hair, but I do know she could do with some Savlon for that spot on her forehead. You certainly can fool some of the people most the time.
Lady with carbuncle
More fall out yesterday from the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame’s failure on Saturday to invite or even inform the widows of two new inductees to their induction ceremony. The significant other halves of Ronnie Wood and Steve Marriott were conspicuous by their absence from the concert and presentation, due to the failure of the organisers to invite them (or me, their representative) a situation that was described as “disgusting” by one leading Small Faces fanzine and Reuters have asked me to comment. The daily’s cannot be far behind.
Having managed to avoid the gory gravel graveyard due to inclement weather and the final touches being made to the new drains I should have been elated, but it is like having a dentists appointment postponed, you are delighted on one hand but you know it is just a matter of time before the pain commences. In fact it is worse. I think I would rather get it over and done with, description that covers something far more fulfilling.
So today I fear I shall not be able to delay it any longer. All the usual excuses have been trotted out and dismissed and I can feel the backache starting before I have even lifted a shovel. Ten trailer loads I have estimated as the amount required to cover most of Provence and it all starts tomorrow. Anyone wanted to chip in, get stoned, or enjoy a good stoning with me are welcome.
Chris France
Rain masks the truth
I have seldom been happier to see rain. After a sunny start it looked as if my Sunday was going to be ruined by gardening duty. I had “dug” out my gardening attire, tweed suit, cravat, silk gloves, hunters plus the various garden implements, the uses for some of which I have never fully understood, and as one comment on this column yesterday alluded to; I could take my pick of garden tools with which to “enjoy” my stint in the garden.
The fact that Sunday should be a day of rest seems to have escaped the notice of that nice lady decorator. I knew I would not be mentioning the services of Currencies Direct for that reason, although their services are as valuable at the weekend as on a week day, but my silent prayers for rain were answered in spectacular, being a Sunday one might almost use the word biblical proportions as a thunderstorm erupted and finished any idea of gardening for the day.
In truth I was suffering somewhat after over doing the lentil curry chez Slash and Burn Thornton Allan on Saturday evening. I think I now have added insight as to why he is thus called, particular the “burn” bit if this is the kind of food he gets at home. Don’t get me wrong I love a good hot curry but the problem symptoms often materialise the next morning with rather unedifying results. The best way forward is to drink lots of water as is being demonstrated by a young Thornton Allan in today’s picture.
With the rain keeping us in all day, that nice lady decorator became stir crazy and by evening demanded to be taken for beers thus we set off for early doors at The Queens Legs in Valbonne for some Guinness. I suppose I should be pleased with the breakdown in the weather for another reason, my impending return to England for much of the year from what is effectively now a holiday here in Valbonne. Feverish examination of estate agents websites in places like Lewes, Rottingdean and Arundel is occurring daily bringing home to me that it is really happening, I am going to be rained on a great deal in the coming year.
The coming week is also something that I am not contemplating with a great deal of pleasure. One of my least favourite words has been mentioned, gravel. Readers who have been following this true account of the lives of the idle rich in Valbonne may recall that in the early days of this column, before ahem, becoming a successful author, I spent some time moving some two thirds of the entire French production of gravel to cover various areas of the drive and garden that the nice lady decorator had decreed should be covered in it. I aged several years during this process which took err…several years. It seems however that her granite chip imagination has been fired again as a result of recent drainage works trashing part of the garden and that harbinger of doom, the tape measure, has been brought into play (work for me) with the inevitable consequences. I will be sent to the quarry to collect gravel. I think the Reverend Jeff may have some parable to quote here about some falling on stony ground. I think the only thing that can save me is a continuation of this indifferent weather and a forlorn hope that she will change her mind about what she believes is required and that somehow this will absolve me of any responsibility for hard labour. As I think the awful Supertramp once intoned “you’re nothing but a dreamer”.
Chris France
Garden design trumpeted
She was trying to save money which is of course what I offer with the opening of an account with Currencies Direct, but whereas that is to the benefit of customers at the expense of their banks, what she was trying to do was benefit herself, probably to buy another packet of cigarettes at the expense of SNCF.
Sprog 2 had “mislaid” one of her phones either at the Blue Water Yachting crew lounge at the Antibes Yacht Show where they were serving free drinks or the Hop Pole, the Irish pub in Antibes where they were serving drinks you had to pay for. My bet is that if the lost phone is to be found it will be at the Yacht show, ie the venue where the free drinks were being dispensed rather than the pay bar. I suspect that as she takes after her mother she would have spent considerably longer at the free bar. She was being sent back to Antibes yesterday in disgrace to see if she could find the phone and I had given her the train fare only to watch her walk past the ticket machine and onto the platform for a smoke. Thus no attempt to buy a ticket. Her excuse, that the machine does not take mere money was a difficult one with which to argue, and I had a flash back to my younger and equally impecunious days and had some sympathy. She will talk her way out of it if she is caught, she always does.
One of the exhibits in the lounge was some kind of plant being twisted into weird and wonderful shapes and tormented by some trumpets as my picture today depicts. I know how they feel about trumpets, not my favourite instrument, but what it all means I will leave to a higher authority. Regular readers will know my feelings about modern art fooling most of the people most of the time.
Last night we were invited to partake of a curry courtesy of Lisa Thornton Allan, a vegetarian by inclination except for her love of carpacchio of beef. However, a curry implies cooking so I was resigned to a being presented with a lentil curry correctly as it turned out. One of the guests was the as entertaining as he is unreliable (OK, that’s a bit harsh, he just “forgot” to reply to some emails I sent him) print guru Simon Asserati. Crazy name, crazy guy and occasional user of crazy words. He was endowed with form in this area from birth. Tthe simple addition of an “m” at the start of his surname may have given him a supercharged start to his life but its absence has clearly left its mark. Last night he mangled the English language again, this time with the never before heard (by me) word “revolise”. What does this mean? As the subject of the conversation in which this exciting new word was used was Cuba, perhaps it was a combination of revolution and revitalise?
The sabbath then, a day of rest? At least it has dawned without rain, a welcome release from a wet week. I wonder what joyous gardening jobs await me? I have a quite different “plot” in mind, stroll down to Valbonne Square, sit in the sunshine with an expresso and The Sunday Times and watch the world go by until midday, then a sharpener followed by a leisurely lunch somewhere. However, as I finish this column I can hear that nice lady decorator crashing around in the garage “digging” out a garden fork and a spade, but what really worries me is the pick axe that has been dusted off and is lying there malevolently with the sole intention of ruining my Sunday.
Chris France
Cooked food in sushi restaurant shock
Friday 13th, viewed as a very lucky day in France, especially if one has had the foresight to open an account with Currencies Direct, turned out to be very unlucky for the thousands of creatures who I found stealing my grass seed yesterday. Earlier in the week after the completion of our long-awaited connection to mains drainage, I had carefully prepared and raked at no small personal cost I might add, I still have the blister, an area at the bottom of the garden and re populated it with grass seed. Yesterday I discovered this grand larceny, theft on a huge scale, organised crime at its most efficient, although technically I knew where it had all gone it was still theft and I am sure the Reverend Jeff will have a Commandment that covers that.
Ants had fastidiously collected almost every seed from a 30 metre square area and piled them into 4 nests, one of which I photographed as evidence either for a police prosecution if any of the perpetrators survived and can be brought to justice, or in my defence of any charges of mass annihilation (genantocide?) that may be pressed by animal rights groups in the future, or maybe even one day for this column if I am really short of a photo.
This “ant”agonistic behavior had to be stamped on before it got out of hand, but stamping on my newly raked area was going to make a real mess so I had to resort to chemical warfare in the shape of Nippon Ant Killer Powder. Now I have had to replace the seed at some cost. Who will pay? I am now officially anti ant. I bet their leader was called Adam or Atom.
After a miserable day yesterday we decided to celebrate sprog 1’s birthday a little late because he was actually 19 in March. It was his choice as to where to go so we headed out to Le Rouret to Le Saj an eastern restaurant specialising in Thai, Japanese, Chinese and Vietnamese food to indulge said sprog and sprog 2’s craving for sushi. Personally I like my food cooked so have never gone with the modern fad but reports were positive. The Beef Penang (cooked) and Thai Green Curry (hot and cooked) were both very good. I think sprog 1 was happy with his choice of venue and food judging by this picture, although the banana split he is tucking into looked distinctly cooked.
Is that something cooked in there?
Talking of cooking (or in the case of sushi, not cooking) I was sent out during the week by that nice lady decorator to the English Book Centre in Valbonne to see if I could get a Dinosaur Cook Book. The shop assistant looked at me blankly and after a few seconds said “Do you mean the Dinah Shore cookbook?” which I admit was a bit of a relief, I wondered what she was up to.
And talking of rock dinosaurs, tonight I should have been in Cleveland Ohio. One of my clients, Steve Marriott although passing away in 1991 is being inducted into the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame for his contribution to The Small Faces. The Faces are also being inducted at the same ceremony and Rod Stewart was going to sing a couple of Steve’s Small Faces songs but he has pulled out with a sore throat, but sadly the organisers never bothered to inform the estate representative (me) and I only found out yesterday in a chance conversation with Jerry Shirley, drummer in Humble Pie, another band Steve Marriott fronted when it was too late to travel. I shall have to wait until the HBO programme in May to see what happens. It will be interesting to see who collects Steve’s gong given the interesting Marriott family politics.
Chris France
Yacht show catastrophy
I had just sat down in the sunshine in Antibes for a late lunch after tidying up some vital business for Currencies Direct. I had seen grilled sardines on the menu and had decided on the Chateau Minuty rose, when suddenly I was forcibly dragged from the restaurant so that we could meet some chaps at the Antibes Yacht Show. When I remonstrated, I was placated by the fact that there was a decent restaurant inside the show. This is where it all started to go horribly wrong.
I was dragged to something loosely resembling a restaurant where my choice was clear, a club sandwich or a chicken curry sandwich. I jest not. It seemed to have escaped the notice of the restaurateurs and indeed that nice lady decorator that we were in the exceptionally well-heeled yachting heart of the what is arguably the most renowned culinary region in the world where good food is consumed daily in a specially ring fenced period of two or sometimes three hours when the shops shut and commerce in general grinds to a halt. Lunch is an institution in France in general and Provence in particular and I worship that.
But it got worse, after a wait of some 15 minutes I was told that they had no more chicken curry sandwiches. Clearly the staff were sufficiently mathematically challenged that it took a quarter of an hour from the point of submitting this already disappointing order for them to work that out. So even more deflated and with the smell and taste of freshly grilled sardines still in my nostrils but tantalisingly out of reach, I made my second choice from a frankly severely underwhelming selection, a club sandwich. Still the misery does not end, the club sandwich was off, and so, for my special lunch at the Antibes Yacht Show, the shop window for the sale of yachts of up to £150 million in deepest Provence, the food capital of the world, I had to endure a Croque Monsieur and chips as my picture today captures in all its full horror..
What presentation, what content, a masterpiece, not
My yacht broker, as opposed to yachtbreaker, which is a much more likely description for him given the reputation the naked politician has built for himself over the past two years that I have known him, was there at the show. We had decided, given the forecasts storms from today onwards that yesterday was a better option to make our annual visit.
The naked politician was enjoying his new role as a yacht broker number 9 (sounds like a cue for a song) for Blue Water Yachting, which he admitted was the first job that he has had in over 20 years but it was evidently he was still not grown up enough to be allowed to wear long trousers.
There is a local group of some repute called The Yachtbreakers whom I saw at a function some time last year, I wonder if they are related?
With parking at a premium, we had taken the train from Mouans Sartoux to the centre of Antibes for this gastronomic catastrophe. The Yacht show was buzzing. Mainly it may be argued because of the impending deluge and severe weather warning which will apparently engulf the next three days of this event. Most locals had decided that a visit today was in their best interests.
Whilst at the show we encountered the steely eyed beauty that is Lisa Thornton Allan. I don’t know quite how it entered the conversation, or who told us she hates whistling or that hearing whistling makes her violent, but armed with that knowledge perhaps I should have refrained from whistling the tune to The Beauty And The Beast.
Chris France
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