This thing is smoking
What is a major reason for coming to Cuba? The flora and fauna maybe? The beaches? Or could it be for the country’s only real export and for which it is justly renowned throughout the world, the production of the best cigars on the planet. As customers of Currencies Direct will attest, when something important is involved, like getting the best exchange rates when moving buying or selling foreign exchange you go to the best. The single major reason for coming to Cuba is to experience the world of the cigar. What then is the point of walking out of a bar in Havana, the smoking capital of the world saying loudly that it is like being in the middle of a forest fire and holding your nose because of cigar smoke? Answer; no point at all. The English, don’t you just love them? Perhaps their tour guide had omitted to warn them that smoking cigars anywhere on the island is a right?
We think we have a free society where we live in France or the UK, but we are not free. The health and safety brigade has ensured that my freedom to enjoy a good cigar in a restaurant has been eroded and thus it is wonderful to come to somewhere so free and enjoy that freedom. Before all you sanctimonious non smokers start, look up the country with the longest life expectancy. Do not be surprised to find that is cigar heaven itself, Cuba.
In celebration of the national identity, yesterday we visited the Partagas Cigar factory in Havana. It was a fascinating tour giving an insight into exactly how labour intensive is the production process, the Cohiba brand being the best quality. What I did not know until I got here is that all Cuban cigars are made in the same factories. From the lowly panatellas to the Cohiba Esplandido all emanate from the same tobacco stock, through a careful selection process. I have a picture today of the batman at Bodeguita Del Medio explaining some of the finer points.
Note the cigars for sale and the line of mojitos being set up
No one believed me when I told them that a very discerning chap I met at The France Show at Earls court in January told me hen had bought 2 copies of my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur”, but his identity has been revealed as David Baumann commented on this column yesterday, even if it was to point out an error. However, as he also described my book as “the funniest book I have ever read” you will understand that I have the greatest respect for his words and in my eyes he can do no wrong.
I had no idea that the very pleasant brandy I was drinking as a nightcap at 3 am this morning was £15 a glass but I stopped drinking them after the third one. The reason was that the nice lady decorator discovered the price when she went to sign the tab. Imagine how much worse today’s hangover would have been had I not been sobered up by that look earlier this morning
Hemingways House will have to wait until this afternoon to secure my attendance and in any event I am a little suspicious as to how many houses he had in different corners of the world. I seem to remember something about a Hemingway house in Kenya. I think I have found the fatal flaw in the myth. In fact I could go so far as to say I know For Whom The Bell Tolls, but I won’t.
Chris France
Shifting sands
After the visit the night before last to the Cuban version of Strictly Come Dancing in the shape of the Cuban Ballet, which exuded less culture than a week old yoghurt, a less cerebral day was planned for yesterday, although it still involved eating and drinking; a day at the beach. Perhaps we have been spoilt by the beaches and beach restaurants of the south of France. Juan Les Pins and Cannes offer the most wonderful beach experiences so I know what I expected from what was billed as “the most swanky beach club experience in Havana”, the Mirimar Beach Club. Whilst the beach itself was very attractive a very ugly jetty stacked with building materials and old rusting containers on one side of the beach robbed it of much of its scenic beauty and a very ugly “Dive Centre” on the other side seemed to sum it up.
As a Currencies Direct customer myself I clearly enjoy a high level of discernment but my conclusion that this particular beach offering was somewhere between Centre Parks and Butlins was perhaps a bit harsh. One tip for eating in Cuba? Don’t order chicken. I fancied some creole flavouring and the only option was chicken. Some of our party have reason before on this lovely island to be disappointed by this choice, so from my perspective the chicken population can rest a little easier in their coops.
I am not certain whether or not it was the chicken or the realisation that at least one of our party came to the conclusion that he had booked his connecting flight back to Nice from London for the day before we arrive back from Cuba, but some people got a little irritated over lunch to the point at one stage of threatening to throw a bread roll, however good humour was restored when I pointed out that this was about to turn into our very own Cuban missile crisis.
With smart phones rendered ineffective out here as email cannot be received on them even when under the baleful influence of the hotel wifi, pictures have to be taken with either a camera, which I do not posses, or the iPad which I do, and this was taken outside the hotel yesterday and typifies the style of transport for many locals.
Emissions may be an issue....
The day before we were down near the harbour having a daiquiri. The stirrer looked like it was made of hickory and it occurred to me that this was a clear case of hickory daiquiri dock. I do like it when I make myself laugh.
Today we supposed to be getting up early to visit the Partagas Cigar Factory. I can see it from my hotel window but it seems their production takes places somewhere else and the tour starts at the ridiculously early hour of 9am. If the subject were anything else but cigars then I suspect my alarm clock may not go off. If that were to happen could it be described as “close, but no cigar”?
Driving about the city of Havana and talking to its people you get a very clear perspective of the place The buildings are magnificent examples or colonial architecture but many indeed the majority have seen no work on them in over 50 years, and whilst the health system is reputedly very good and life expectancy amongst the best in the word, probably down to a daily diet of cigars and rum, the isolation and subsequent lack of investment in the infrastructure of its buildings is a shame. For what reason are the Americans (some of whom do come here via a loophole as no visa is required if arriving from Mexico and there are daily flights to and from nearby Cancun) maintaining sanctions against this island? They cannot pose a threat now that their alignment with the cold war countries is effectively over, maybe it is the doubtful human rights situation?
Chris France
Bodeguita Del Medio
The world of ballet has pretty much passed me by. I am more used to the world of currency transfers with Currencies Direct. The concept of men in tights has always troubled me, so it was with alarm bordering on panic when Mrs Blond Slash and Burn suggested that a nice cultural diversion might be to go to the Cuban National Ballet. looking back I think it was my initial guffaw that sent me on the slippery slope. Those steely blue grey eyes fixed me with “that” look and I was informed that she had purchased 4 tickets (from our holiday kitty) and I was to present myself washed and scrubbed and in best bib and tucker at 7.30 sharp in the hotel ready for a visit to the ballet across the road, in what is admittedly one of the most wonderful building exteriors there has ever been, it is just that I did not want to see then interior and certainly not to see a load of “ballet balls”as Slash and Burn Thornton Allan later mumbled later.
I looked at Slash And Burn senior for some support but was stunned to see that he had already succumbed to the steely gaze and heaven knows what he had been promised in return but he agreed. We should see some culture whilst in Havana. I suggested that perhaps I would sit this one out, spend a quiet evening contemplating the meaning of life over a couple of beers, I tried pleading, whimpering, tears, I even had to try the last resort, the so called “war wound “defence where that limp caused by a piece of shrapnel was playing up, but nothing worked. I was going to the ballet and that was that, decision made. That nice lady decorator was no help, she actually wanted to go. Even the brainwave where I suggested that with her still dodgy ankle she could not wear heels so I would volunteer to stay behind with her failed.
And so it came to pass that I, council house boy from south London who has made a career out of rubbishing unworthy art, from Van Gogh to modern art and most of what lies between, was dragged kicking and screaming into a scenario unvisited in my worst nightmare, ballet in Spanish. I guess it could have been worse, opera in Italian maybe? actually as it transpired it was worse than even I could have imagined. Let me set the scene; some very average dancers directed by a chap with the surname Castro, (that might be a clue) weave a ridiculous web of nonsense which is loosely based on The Phantom Of The Opera but with vestiges of River Dance, taking in flamenco influences on the way, in Spanish. In other words, a silly mask, lots of silly dancing coupled with lots of stamping and hitting sticks on then ground, in short at utter farce of catastrophic proportions, well worth £30 of anyone’s money. The only I can say in it favour is that for me the second half was better then the first as I managed to shorten it somewhat, finally getting off to sleep in the second act.
But I did get my money’s worth. I had prepared a number of one liners ready to amuse myself by pointing out the true horror of what had been seen, but to see the rest of the party in total agreement, the knowledge that it had been accepted that I was right was very rewarding.
Bodeguita Del Medio, home of the Mojito
Earlier after a visit to the flea market to buy a very fine Cohiba humidor for something around £30 we had lunched again at Bodeguita Del Medio home of the mohito (yes I now know I have been spelling it incorrectly) in the atmospheric upstairs restaurant to the accompaniment of a fine Cuban salsa band, but today we are off to the Havana Beach Club to collect some rays.
Chris France
Taxi, Cuban style
The luscious Lisa Thornton Allan who is with us on this trip to Cuba, and is a Currencies Direct customer, thus giving some credence to my forthcoming claim to my accountants that my visit to Havana was work related, client care and all that, has the added advantage of being blond with all the advantages and occasionally disadvantages with which that particular colouring can be associated. From a male perspective I have always loved blondes (and brunettes and red heads and, well, all pretty women) but the insight that a blond can bring to a conversation is fascinating. She is a very well-educated woman but her claim that she thought our aeroplane operated by the very disappointing Virgin Atlantic had travelled at an average of 2000 miles per hour to get us to Havana revealed some discrepancies the completeness of that education. I pointed out that if that were the case, and Gatwick to Havana being a little under 5000 miles, by her calculations we should have made the trip in about 2 & 1/2 hours. Perhaps a blond was driving and got lost for 7 hours?
Anyway, we are here and Havana is like nothing I have never before experienced. In the past I have visited the Caribbean regularly, Barbados would have been my favourite, followed by St Lucia and Antigua, but Havana tops all of these by some distance whilst at the same time offering something very different. The ancient cars, the Cuban salsa you hear everywhere, the astonishing colonial architecture, widespread throughout the city but often in a dilapidated state exudes an essence that is uniquely Cuban but most of all the sense of history and the undercurrent of a population happy, but denied complete freedom, but thriving is a fascinating mix. The closest comparison architecturally would be Casablanca, but that is not a nice city and had a dangerous undercurrent that is simply absent in Cuba. One feels completely safe here day or night so it that respect it could not be different. Talking of fascinating mixes, the Cubans also invented the mojito.
We had been recommended to go to lunch at a fisherman’s cottage restaurant called Santy, but when we got there it was under reconstruction so we refused their kind offer to have lunch in a windowless room and our driver took us to the good but overpriced Vistamar which as its name suggests has a view of the sea. Discussing the revolution with our driver, as soon as any question about how the local populace feel about Fidel or Raul Castro, the guys running the country, one senses a shutters-down blank reaction. Suddenly his English is patchy and he does not understand the question, and you begin to realise that freedom of speech here, taken for granted where we live, is not the norm. He does drive the most wonderful car though, so what better way to go to the seaside than in this open-topped beauty.
The 1956 Chevy Bel Air convertible, our taxi to the beach
The Saratoga Hotel is fantastic, although their habit of turning off the internet at night is slightly irritating especially when one knows the world is waiting for the next episode in this daily tome, so apologies for its late appearance some days.
Last night then to a place close to La Floridita, where they invented the daiquiri, I could not pronounce its name but it was buzzing with a choice of three restaurants on and bars on 4 floors in the same building offering differing noise volumes and styles of music and food. We decided on the top floor rooftop barbecue and were serenaded by some brilliant young Cuban guitarist who managed to play Pink Floyd’s “wish you were here” on a flamenco guitar indeed in partly flamenco style giving it a unique Cuban feel to this rock gem. We are going back on Monday.
Chris France
Havana vintage car heaven
The opened topped 1950’s style car, as recommended by the exquisite Dawn Howard the Roquefort Informer was indeed the perfect way in which to become acquainted with Havana on the first full day of being in Cuba. I took a picture of our transport, a 1956 Chevy Bel Air but with then internet being unkind on occasions, I am uncertain whether I shall be able to publish it. The orientation was successful in that I now know where get a mohito, where to get a daiquiri, from where to buy cigars and where to eat, but let me start at the beginning.
It was as you will know a tough decision to eschew my work for Currencies Direct for a few days, indeed it is impossible for me to put it completely out of my mind so good is their service, even if you only have comparatively small amounts of foreign exchange to move around, but I have made a promise to myself not to mention this whilst in Cuba so I will not.
The night before last we had arrived in Havana discourtesy of a very dry and unimpressive Virgin Atlantic flight when they ran out wine a full seven hours still to go forcing us to purchase several bottles of champagne to keep body and soul together. I had to intercept Slash And Burn Thornton Allan, still a bit punchy from his altercation with a handful of security guards at Nice airport the day before, from risking arrest by “discussing” this shortfall with the cabin crew by diverting his anger into calling Sir Richard Branson (with whom he is slightly acquainted) to demonstrate with him. He was finally “headed off at the pass” as I think our American cousins call it by a combination of my reasoning and one look from his steely eyed goddess of a wife Lisa.
view from the pool of Hotel Saratoga, Havana
So yesterday, we boarded the ancient battered worn out but still charming (a bit like me?) open topped red Chevy, a government owned taxi with, as our driver told us with 2 million kilometres on the clock to explore the city, and what a city. The 50’s film set here is a living thing. The plethora of fascinating and in many cases utterly decrepit vehicles are everywhere, a symptom of the American embargo which has been in force for nearly 50 years. The whole place is so much better kept than many other 3rd world destinations I have visited, sand part from being famous for cigars, it is where both the mohito and the daiquiri were invented and Ernest Hemingway seems to have been involved in both. It seemed important to me to sample some of both at the seat of their invention so we started with monitor in Bodegito Del Medico after a visit to a flea Market left me feeling unaccountably thirsty. Our driver was very informative, even pointing out what he called a hotel with free food, drink and beds, and supplying a free if rather rough massage. He was referring to the police station.
After lunch at one of the charming restaurants in the city, in a fantastic vast old colonial building which once housed a printing press, the otel swimming pool called to me and weakly I succumbed to a couple of beers on the 8th floor of the splendid Hotel Saratoga, our home for the next few days.
Dinner was taken at La Floridita the home of the daiquiri where this particular invention was tested thoroughly and repeatedly by our party to the extent that “Slash and Burn” became “Crash and Burn” during the evening, retiring hurt well before midnight.
Astonishingly, we have been here less than 36 hours but have crammed in such a lot, including a brief visit to the Romeo And Juliet cigar factory, but just as rust never sleeps, nor shall we, so a full day awaits us.
Chris France
Glorious Gatwick
Mr Branston and his Virgin Atlantic was thus charged with transporting us from drizzly and grizzly Gatwick to the joys of Havana, at least I hope they will be joys, I am writing this from the departure lounge with a Bloody Mary before leaving, but by the time this is published I shall hope to have consumed an elegant sufficiency of Mohito’s and smoked a big cigar in Cuba.
Twice before we have been thwarted in our attempts to get to Castro’s communist
catastrophe, which will surely change forever when Obama lifts the American embargo on the island, which he has said he would before the end of his first term in office. So for the next 10 days I shall be reporting from the home of the cigar and will only be mentioning Currencies Direct about once a day.
Yesterday at lunch with Mr Clipbeard, a renowned carnivore, he revealed that he was worried that he was partially Bulemic. Partially because although he binge eats he forgets the being sick part. For some reason I am reminded of man mountain Peachy Butterfield. Last night then to Guildford to see sprog 2 to have my pockets raided and my credit card abused in the usual spectacular fashion, hence the sore head and hangover today.
This hangover was not improved by “Slash And Burn” Thornton Allan leaving his Iphone on charge on speaker phone. The hushed serenity of the airport executive lounge was shattered by the loud ring tone refrain “Excuse me sir, someone is trying to contact you telephonically, shall I tell him to f*ck off?” I cannot be sure what was funnier, his headlong dash to intercept the embarrassing, loud and abusive monologue or the raised eyebrow reaction of several blue rinses in the lounge.
As if to send us off to the sunshine with a reminder of the true horror of living in London, Gatwick produced a horrid morning which I think I have captured in this photo from the lounge.
Gatwick or Havana? it's a tough call
For the next ten days there will be a complete lack of political correctness in many senses. The bit I am looking forward to is the lack of a ban on smoking. It seems that one can smoke a fat cigar almost anywhere, even over dinner which is a very civilised way to live ones life.
Hemingway was very fond of Havana and spent much of his drinking life there. His most famous book was “The Old Man And the Sea” not “Man at C & A” as at least one of our party thought was the title. I read the book, all 99 pages on the plane and its about a man and a fish which does not end well. If this is great literature then surely soon I will be feted by one and all.
The flight was wonderful on one level, there were no children. Where it fell down spectacularly was three hours out, or put it another way, 6 hours to go and they had run out of red wine. Disappointed, I said I would accept white wine, but no, they had run out of all wine. so we were faced with the prospect of 6 hours without a drink, Mr Branston you have got this wrong. We were thus forced into buying a couple of bottles of champagne from the on board shop to keep us all from massive dehydration. I said there were no kids, and that is true, however, there seemed to be some kind of Saga gathering going on, such was the profusion of Zimmer frames and walking sticks. I also objected to the white bread sarnies that came around later, clearly the brown bread had been consumed by the Upper Classes….
Chris France
Skateboard attitude
Our trip to Cuba nearly got off to a bad start. “Slash and Burn” Thornton Allan was almost arrested at Nice Airport after security were called. The problem was the skateboard, not his you understand, at least that was what he claimed, although with his sense of style and clothing and grizzly bear hair he could perhaps be mistaken for one but there are not many chaps with bus passes adept at the “hospital flip” or “dark side” as I believe those with skateboards call those jumps.
His son, who always takes his skateboard aboard flights with Easyjet, indeed has done so at least a dozen times, was suddenly told it had to go in the hold at a cost of 30 Euros (that’s about £23 at today’s exchange rate, something watched closely by those wise birds who have already opened an account with Currencies Direct for their foreign exchange needs). To say that he was a little unhappy was as understated as saying the Wingco’s moustache is a little bristly.
By the time I was air side some twenty minutes later, I could still hear him having what he later called his “little chat” with 5 security guards. A little later on in the executive lounge and after he had paid the 30 Euros and we were trying to calm him down with a large cognac, we discussed other examples of heavy-handed airport security. I was only half listening as I was writing this because it was too good to miss, but I half heard the expression “crying his eyes out when cosmetics taken away” and I thought it was referring to Slash and Burn himself, an honest enough mistake considering his habit of carrying a rather gay looking man bag most of the time.
"Slash and Burn" in airport mode
Aboard the plane we discussed the various ploys we had heard about or engaged in to try to keep a seat clear the middle seat a set of three. With a flight often nearly full and with the configuration of most Easyjet flights being three seats on either side if the aisle. A great deal of ingenuity has been employed by many a resident of the Cote d’Azur to avoid anyone sitting in the middle seat. Obviously if there are two of you traveling it is imperative to take up the window and aisle seats leaving a seat in the middle for all ones books, coats and in the case of that nice lady decorator, Sudoku puzzles. I have heard it said that a bigger puzzle is why she puts up with me but I digress.
Regular readers will know of the success enjoyed by my friends the Philpot’s who carry Jehovah’s Witness literature which they place between them, but some ideas I had not previously considered were suggested. Coughing without a hand over ones mouth the second someone looks at the spare seat apparently works, but timing is everything. Spitting was also proffered as an idea but that does have unfortunate consequences, where does one spit for instance? A burqa accompanied by mumbling or rhythmic chanting whilst reading the Koran would work for me, but in those circumstances nowhere on the plane would work for me. Worst of all would be a snotty nosed kid full of e numbers, a bottle of coke and a big box of malteasers. That would probably be the ultimate deterrent.
So the joys of Gatwick followed by lunch (at my expense grrrr..) with Mr Clipbeard and lovely wife Ashley. I thought Burger King looked nice but we were dragged to The Onslow Arms, which seemed to me to apply to the character in “Keeping Up Appearances”. It was however very good. An ideal venue for one of Hyacinth Buckets’s candlelight dinners perhaps?
Chris France
Kill the banker?
With the skiing season seeming like it was going to come to a premature end but now looking like it might be extended with snow forecast over the southern Alps over the next few days, I wanted a wintery feel to today’s photograph. What could be more inhospitable than this picture I found on Facebook of a ski slope I know not where called Kill The Banker. Being in English it is probably in the USA or Canada but I think the theme is clear. It could have been written as a slogan for Currencies Direct as many people who are not already customers and have thus had reason to curse their banks over poor exchange rates when moving foreign currency might find some comfort in this statement. There are several themes running here, it’s a black run, which in skiing terms means the hardest and steepest slope to ski, which may be considered a reference to how hard it is to borrow from banks at the moment, or indeed it might be a self-fulfilling prophesy, being a slippery slope all the way down to the bottom, something that a number of bankers I know have been suffering in the past couple of years. I have not mentioned the expression a run on the banks as that would be too obvious a joke for this fine upstanding column.
A black ski slope rather aptly named....
Talking of banks, my last meeting before setting of this morning for London and then Wednesday to Havana in Cuba for 10 days intensive work was yesterday at Cafe Latin in Valbonne. It involved Cornish Tsunami (search it in the search icon of this blog if you want the full story) mortgage broker Matt Frost from French Mortgage Xpress and old friend Rob Schols of ABM Ambro who have established a base in the village and naturally have asked me to open some doors for them. You will note that there is not yet a hyper link to their site as we have still to conclude negotiations for my fee or commission in the event of doing business together, but they cannot hold out for long as doors may slam in their face should they not realise the importance of gaining my tacit approval of their activities.
Earlier, I had been in Cannes for a meeting with Remax Cannes to ensure they prioritise Medina Palms but the Croisette was barely passable due to the number catering lorries busily supplying the beach restaurants due to the influx of black run bankers to MIPIM, the international property festival held each March in the town. Business was done, a Cannes Film Festival reception in May was organised and work concluded for the day, I headed for home in time for lunch.
Wayne Brown has given me early notice of a Red Radish rugby ragout. They are offering food and fun in convivial surroundings for the climax of the 6 nations rugby on 17th March, St Patrick’s Day promising loads of surprises, full details on the Red Radish website. I would go if I was back from Cuba in time, sounds like fun.
It seems that I have been trapped by that nice lady decorator into buying lunch tomorrow in Guildford for Mr and Mrs Clipbeard (formerly known as My Clipboard due to his sudden anal fascination with schedules and time keeping) in return for a lift from the airport. He received this epithet after he planned, instigated, orchestrated and subsequently gloated about the forced removal of my luxurious beard (Annoying Facial Hair he called it) by a coterie of public schoolboys in a restaurant “accident” or jolly jape as they no doubt considered it at the end of last year. Surely a taxi from Gatwick to Guildford would be cheaper?
Chris France
Dog in a manger?
After the pigeon follow through from Saturday’s lunch had flown the nest so to speak it was rather inevitably designated a quiet day today with hardly a thought given to that most important of my activities, the promotion of the foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct. Half a plan to stroll down to the Valbonne antiques market which takes place throughout the village on the first Sunday of each month, have a beer and stroll back was abandoned in a haze of headache suffering.
Feeling wretched for most of it, I finally succumbed to a bloody mary in the early evening sunshine with gratifying results, headache gone and enthusiastic planning for your Man In Havana, leaving for London tomorrow and flying to Cuba on Wednesday.
One of the extra benefits of being away for a couple of weeks is that I shall have to spend no time at all with the heinous hound, the apple of that nice lady decorator’s eye, Banjo, the smelly mutt. His motto should be “I will lick my balls then later cleanse my tongue by licking you”, an expression that I have “researched” from one of my friends Facebook pages. Recently in Valbonne village I took a picture of some dogs who must clearly be as badly behaved as Banjo to merit such treatment which I show today.
Dogging in Valbonne?
I don’t know why my comments about the cocked up cocker spaniel’s licking habits reminded me but I have been sent some pictures of the Cuban virgins who reputedly roll cigars on their inner thighs and all I can say is I understand why they are virgins.
Talking of cigars, I managed to leave my traveling cigar humidor behind after lunch on Saturday along with my phone which I am certain contained some exciting and revealing photographs, however these seem to have been deleted. I make no accusations as to who was to blame but what the miscreant in question forgot is that I had emailed most of the best of them to myself already, but they will remain unpublished assuming receipt of the usual brown paper bag with accompanying bank notes.
So last day of work in France today, meetings in both halves of the day as I mentioned earlier, one in Cannes,currently awash with loads of suits in town for MIPIM with the Icelandic goddess Gudrun from Remax Cannes and one in the afternoon in Valbonne with the Cornish Tsunami himself Matt Frost from French Mortgage Xpress, not very conducive to lunch then, but do not think of this trip to the Caribbean will be just fun. No, I shall be actively seeking clients for Currencies Direct on a daily basis with my faithful nice decorating assistant, otherwise how shall I claim the expenses of the trip against tax? I know my accountant often reads this daily missive so it will come as no shock when the receipts are submitted shortly after this working trip is completed.
Representations have been made by several people working in cohort to ease my daily burden of writing this column whilst I am on holiday working, by undertaking to take over its creation, but such have been the slanted biased abusive nature of the submissions that I have been forced to abandon consideration of this generous but dangerous offer. Dangerous because too many people have found unjustified reasons to want to “get their own back” for material that has appeared here from time to time for reasons I cannot fathom, such is the honesty and integrity for which I would hate this column to be renowned.
Chris France
A Euro for your thoughts?
The turnout at Cafe Latin in Valbonne for church and the worship of coffee and gossip on market day was disappointing in terms of numbers but high on quality especially if one is given to writing a daily column such as this. Regular readers will know that I am always on the look out for interesting controversial, stupid or embarrassing facts or pictures which I can the twist for my own devices which normally means the promotion of the foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct. Yesterday presented just such an opportunity.
My style guru Mr Humphries was free and was sporting a very daring, perhaps slightly retro, even 60’s hippy great-coat style with military overtones as my picture today attempts to capture. What may not been immediately evident is that the stylist himself has used his new metal working skills (he has just started his welding course of which more at a later date) to add buttons to this military uniform. Not liking the buttons on the coat when he first bought it he searched for buttons he liked but they were going to cost 4 euros each, more than the coat cost him. Outraged by the price, he felt certain that he could find something for a Euro a piece and that was when the brain wave hit him. Why not actually use one Euro pieces and drill holes in them and use them for buttons! It is the kind of forward thinking, thinking outside the box that I have come to expect from Currencies Direct customers.
But it does not stop there, oh no, once he had embraced the concept he sought out Euro coins from all over the eurozone which he has sewn on in order of perceived value starting with Germany at the top and Greece and Portugal at the lowest point. It was not immediately clear in which position he had placed a French or an Italian coin, but as he later went on to say he was looking for coins to go on three-quarters of the way down the back around the anus area and he did not mention where he had put the Irish coin I am afraid I jumped to unworthy conclusions.
Style guru on the cheap
This fixation with men in uniforms was exacerbated by the late arrival of Peachy Butterfield in his usual uniform of garish shorts and bright shirt, carrying his curtain sample book, anxious to meet soft furnishing expert and artist Helen Humphrey, aka Mrs style guru.
Amongst the meetings I had yesterday at church I was fortunate to meet a chap from the frozen tundra that is omnipresent north of Watford, a chap called Paul Howard from something called Devere Group, a company involved in financial services. He told me before our meeting that he would be wearing pink but if he was, it was a bit closer to the skin than I wanted to venture. He spoke a lot about qrops and although it sounded serious the health system is very good in France and I am certain with the right treatment, part of which he has already commenced by his moving from the brutal climate of Darlington that was his home to the soft caress of Nice, he will make as full a recovery as can be expected for someone more used to the deprivations of County Durham. As desolate and majestic as it undoubtedly is, for me electricity should be a right rather than an occasional treat.
The countdown to Cuba continues and to hasten that departure what better way to spend Saturday lunchtime sitting in the sunshine chez Peachy Butterfield and the statuesque Suzanne (probably) to enjoy the hitherto unsampled (by me) northern delights of the like of pigeon pie, road kill ragout and tripe tiramasu. As a confirmed adventurous eater. I can’t wait.
Chris France
A different school of thought?
France’s School Of English, now there is a concept to make the Wingco weep. Knowing a lot of public schoolboy types as I do, and not having received the privileged education that they have and furthermore having to put up with a great deal of abuse for the writing in this column, designed in the first part to illuminate my readers about how to save money on their foreign exchange transfers by opening an account with Currencies Direct, (with a minimum of just £250!), I was understandably delighted to see that my particular style of writing appears to have been recognised. I was also unaware until I was able to take this photo that I appear to have attracted some high-powered sponsors in the shape of Starbucks and Colonel Saunders himself whose Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets will now never again receive a cruel word in this daily look at life in the Cote d’Azur.
Literary perfection recognised?
Back in France today after surprisingly good weather in London over the past two days, a day of sun and a day of cloud, patchy by Valbonne standards but momentous for the old country, I shall this morning be at Cafe Latin for some meetings and no doubt to sign some copies of my book for my ever-increasing legions of fans. Whilst in London I tried on some salmon red trousers but without my style guru Mr Humphreys to hand (obviously not free to guide me through the vagaries of haute couture in London), I found my determination not to languish in denim and chino wilt as I looked in the mirror. That and they were truly horrible.
I also have some business in curtains. As I may have mentioned some time ago, man mountain Peachy Butterfield is now representing a curtain manufacturer and I have agreed to allow him to debut in Cafe Latin by taking over the pulpit to preach about the benefits of curtains, an alien concept down here of course as we all have shutters. However, I don’t like to see a grown man whimper so I have agreed to introduce him to Mr Humphries if he is free.
My piece about the South Of France English Theatre Company’s production in Cannes yesterday contained the tiniest of errors, it takes place of course tonight in Cannes at Espace Miramar, and there are seemingly loads of tickets left so get down there and support this bold bid to bring the theatre to the Cote d’Azur.
Lunch yesterday at Capriccio’s in Covent Garden, at the expense of Medina Palms was curtailed somewhat by an irksome meeting scheduled for the middle of lunch, 2pm. This is unacceptable and will not be tolerated again. As another acknowledged writer about the South Of France, Peter Mayle, knows, the most important thing in Provence is the word “lunch”. Yes, you are right there is no connection whatever, complaining about an interrupted lunch at an Italian restaurant in London has no relevance to France, except of course my surname. Where as I going with this?.
Havana is in my sights. Next Wednesday I shall be taking the long haul to Havana in Cuba, home to the cigars I love so much. It seems there are few restrictions on smoking on the island and I intend to enjoy the local produce in abundance whilst I am there. However I have some devastating news. I am uncertain of the quality or even the availability of the internet for the near two weeks I shall be absent so it is not impossible that this column may not appear in my absence as regularly as it has in the past, but do not be down cast, I shall be writing it anyway and if unable to post it will all be available here when I get back.
Chris France
Ahoy Captain Pugwash
One of the many chaps I play golf with at the REGS, the Riviera Ex Pat Golf Society are involved in the world of yachting and some are Yacht captains, indeed a number are clients of Currencies Direct and thus sophisticated chaps. One lives very close to me and I took this picture outside his house. I cannot name names here but in a completely unrelated subject Jez Dean, (who lives near me) has led me to believe that he is the captain of a very large private yacht. I shall be discussing this picture with him when I next see him.
So this is what a 50 metre yacht looks like?
A few rather rude comments were received yesterday about the attire of Peachy Butterfield in yesterdays column picture. He prides himself on (in his opinion) being able to wear bright colours even to the extent of flirting with his gay side. In fact he revealed that he once asked one of his friends, a gay chicken farmer from the frozen north of England whom he referred to as Oven Ready Eddie (must be ready frozen) if the pink shirt he was wearing might make him look a little gay and was told with utter certainty that no gay guy would be seen dead in anything Peachy was wearing.
And so to London (after a delay at Nice airport due to Air Traffic Contempt) to sample some London Pride sprog 2 parents evening. I am so glad to see the money spent on education is producing results. It is the quality of these results that is the problem. And here is the conundrum, that nice lady decorators fearsome examination of sprog 2’s activities and any criticism of any backsliding is fatally undermined by said sprogs knowledge of too much detail of her mothers schooling. Her fathers achievements are a shining beacon of industriousness, her mothers less so. That is all I am saying.
Afterwards we went to a restaurant in the Kensington area with flaming torches outside. These are there not just for show but for a reason and that reason is they can charge you more for what they serve. Actually the meal was quite good but I object to paying £9 for a glass of reasonable Bordeaux, everything else being over priced and underwhelming. Over dinner we were discussion the South Of France English Theatre night out in Valbonne recently when they successfully staged “Barefoot In The Park” and which they are doing again in Cannes this evening at the Espace Miramar with tickets available on the door. That nice lady decorator was talking about the after show party which was hosted by a very good soul singer in the style of Barry White and was trying to remember his name. She referred to that “Dog Eat Dog guy who was singing” I had gently to point out to her that his name was in fact “Fat Cat”.
Some shopping this morning followed by a brief pit stop at Carluccios in Covent Garden to meet my old pal Nigel Rowley, head honcho at Medina Palms, the fantastic and now nearly sold out development in Kenya, then a meeting at 2pm in Liverpool street. Who has meetings during the lunching our hour, how uncivilised, I shall be happy to get back to France this evening, Air Traffic Contempt allowing.
Friday is of course church at Cafe Latin and this week I will certainly be there as it will be my last chance to alleviate demand for my book for some weeks as we leave for London on Tuesday and Havana in Cuba on Wednesday. Cigar city, here I come!
Chris France
Lady in red?
There has been an astonishing oversight, not the kind I have been banging on about every day for nearly two years, ie the benefits of being a Currencies Direct customer, although that is a serious oversight as well, no, something equally as serious; some of my pals and serious party fodder had never been to The Valbonnaise.
As locals living in and around the village of Valbonne this is an appalling oversight (much as not being a customer of Currencies Direct) which I sought to repair as soon as it was revealed at lunch on Sunday. Last night then, after a brief visit to the Queens Legs for a sharpener, to raise dutch courage for what was to come (so to speak) the virgins amongst us got their first taste of being a fully grown up Valbonnaise. Amongst those Valbonnaise virgins were Peachy and the amazing amazon Suzanne Butterfield and the craggy tennis playing playboy Nick “Mr Derek” Davies, so-called because of his Basil Brush laugh. As I write they are no longer virgins, and much as it can be when losing ones actual virginity the expectation exceeds the actual event. Also much like sex, the Valbonnaise is an experience to which one must take time to adjust and eventually savour. Sometimes it works brilliantly, other times not as Mr Derek will testify.
It is a small bustling family run restaurant in an Italian style without much Italian style. It has a lively but slightly too bright interior, bizarrely decorated in hand painted murals (or murials as at least one of my friends who cannot be named but is often described in fruity terms in this column), serves great pizza cooked on the wood in an authentic pizza oven, other food of patchy quality, although their entrecote steak is sometimes extremely good, sometimes a little indifferent, cheap wine and offers a great informal and often amusing service. The amusement is often as a result of the husband and wife team who run it disagreeing in quite violent and often high decibel terms. In short it is an experience which can be enjoyed without feeling one is dining at a quality establishment, and with red win priced at eight euros a carafe, what more could a discerning Brit need? so a party of 10 or so hungry virgins and several gigolos (by that I meant well-practiced) in the Valbonne experience descended upon this Italian eaterie having taken some anesthetising in the form of Guinness or cider in the Queens Legs last night.
When at Limone recently we were asked to fill in a survey about the hotel in which we were staying and were presented with a small red handbag for our troubles. Because of the alarming colour I had decided to present it to Peachy Butterfield who wears colours that would make my style guru Mr Humphries cringe (if he was free). I took it to the Valbonnaise last night and by coincidence it matched what he was wearing and his iphone perfectly as my picture shows.
Peachy looking a bit red in the face
Peachy was in top form, holding court about his visit last year to Chateau Petrus and telling all that as he stood between the vines of the finest vineyard in the world and the neighbouring vines some 6 feet away he could not understand why the crushed fruit as he called it on his left could fetch £25,000 per case whilst the vines on his right could fetch just £250 per case.
So up in the big bird in the sky today headed for the delights of Gatwick and Parents evening at Ashbourne College in Kensington, with the reward that only a pint of London Pride, the finest beer known to man can bestow to follow.
Chris France
The wonders of wifi
Did you know that the lifeboat in Antibes, manned by volunteers could not even attend some emergency call outs last year due to lack of funds? Given my combined status of being a confirmed non-swimmer and a happy sailor (when invitations from my pals with boats, the Naked Politician with D5 complete with big engines and patio doors and the Master Mariner Mundell with his splendid sailing boat L’Exocet) this is an outrage so I have joined a group called The Social Knights who are trying to raise funds for deserving local charities including the lifeboat details are here. The name Social Knights seems to have some resonance with my lifestyle so I felt I should do my bit although there was nothing social about last night, the first teetotal night for around a week.
On Valentines day recently That nice lady decorator sent me out to get something sexy for her. For some reason she was not impressed when I came home drunk. All right that did not really happen but its a good joke, but it is not a joke that I have discovered that the Ipad can pickup the internet in the web, out outside bar area so this is my current work space where I have been beavering away spreading the word about Currencies Direct and how much better they are for foreign exchange than the banks.
A bit lacking on filing cabinets etc, but I guess it can work...
I had occasion this morning to visit our local doctor Dr Patrick Ireland at his office (it is not grand enough to be called surgery)on the Forum roundabout in Valbonne. He took my blood pressure and seemed quite pleased. I suggested that it was good because of my lifestyle, what with all the tennis, walking, logging and fasting. He gave me one of those sideways glances, fixed me firmly with one of his best doctorial looks and said “I have on occasions been unlucky enough to read your blog, keep taking those blood pressure tablets I have prescribed, you need them”
Talking of high blood pressure, several people have contacted me complaining about my comments yesterday about that nice lady decorator’s dog Banjo. One even wanted to administer doggy justice to me and at one stage duelling swords were mentioned. A case of a duelling Banjo over a defecating Banjo? He did it again today barking at the man who is digging some drains for us, to the extent that the operator was afraid to leave his cab. Perhaps he has some unexplained deep-seated need to be unpleasant wherever excretions are involved. Banjo I mean not the digger driver.
So, packing for the most expensive parents evening in history will be undertaken today ready for the trip to the UK and Kensington in particular where sprog 2 is taking A levels a year later than intended by having a gap year between GCSE’s and A Levels. I know that is not normal and indeed I did not find out it until she had been at an expensive private school in Mougins for two terms.From that you should be able to deduce that she had a year backsliding and what I suspect will be revealed when we get to the new school tomorrow is a similar story. What is a relief is that the weather forecast is for UK quite decent, no rain expected although no sun either.
Before that a plan has developed to go to the Valbonnaise this evening after a swift diversion into the Queens Legs for a sharpener. as yet I cannot be certain of who will be in attendance but am sure that the nice lady decorator will be issuing instructions in due course.
Chris France
Parental control?
Yesterday I suggested that Sunday should be a day of rest, even from my crusade to help people avoid paying their banks excessive fees for foreign exchange by introducing the. To the delights of Currencies Direct but I do not feel rested more restless. Sunday lunch was the usual riotous affair with discussion turning, perhaps inevitably, to the alter ego’s we are supposed to be constructing for our trip to Cuba starting in ten days time.
Slash and Burn Thornton Allan (referring to his manic desperation to clear swathes of the Valmasque forest with a chain saw, not as was suggested yesterday in the comments section by our resident god botherer The Reverend Jeff “a dose of clap”) was keen to revisit his wish to be known as a designer gynecologist and coined the phrase “designer vagina”. I appear to have the choice between being known as Boysie after the character in “Only Fools And Horses” or a lazy lay about atheist whose family have not worked for generations due to being publishers of the Gideon Bible (catch phrase “Thanks The Lord”). It is a shame when one has to report on the physical manifestations of over indulging in alcohol.
Talking of alcohol, Peachy Butterfield took a particular shine to my five litre bottle of table wine I bought in Italy as a joke to point up his requirement for quantity not quality when it comes to drinking red wine, declaring good and then proceeding to demolish two-thirds of it himself over the course of the afternoon. This took a great deal of pressure off the stocks of the 2004 St Estephe Grand Cru.
Earlier during my normal morning constitutional around the Valmasque (where I saw sights that would make Slash and Burn salivate given the number of trees and branches felled the recent snow) on the edge of the forest I spotted a house with a satellite dish protected by an umbrella as my picture shows.
No, I cannot explain it either
Now what is the owner thinking? I assume satellite dishes are designed to live outside? Is this some kind of parental guidance as to what is actually received? Maybe he has a fixation about the Weather Channel? It is a mystery I doubt I shall ever solve.
As usual when I walk I am accompanied by two dogs (although not by that nice lady decorator because of her ankle) one called Max, the lovely old but now profoundly deaf springer spaniel and the other called Banjo who I wish was profoundly dead. Banjo is a 36 kilo cocker spaniel, a mutant by any measure and with a character and aroma for which the word mutant does not do full justice. Unsuspecting people pat and stroke him until they realise that they need to wash their hands in order to avoid funny looks and people giving them space due to the stench. He is of course not my dog but is owned and fawned over by that nice lady decorator but with her injured ankle it falls to me to be responsible for him and his actions falls when out walking. I must have done something very evil in a previous life to have this foisted upon me.
He was on top form yesterday, trying to bite a tiny little dog a twentieth of his size, defecating in the middle of the path (although reserving a particular noxious example to deposit it on my lawn later) , barking at plastic bags and generally being a nuisance. His new foul habit is to eject a glob of doggy saliva into the laps of anyone stupid enough to let him near. His one redeeming feature is at least to provides some column inches for this daily tome.
Chris France
Chris France's Blog 