Faked photograph shock?
I had not been to Cafe Latin for church, the worship of coffee and gossip on market day in Valbonne where customers new and old of Currencies Direct tend to gather for some weeks. I had been promised a coffee by my style guru Mr Humphreys (if he was free) in place of dinner at a top class restaurant at his expense that had been lavished on others to celebrate his birthday, but no matter, it is the thought that counts, and he had obviously thought my relative merit as his friend deserved a two euro cup of coffee rather dinner at up market eaterie La Jarriere at Biot to which others higher up the pecking order than me had been invited and had fine food and wine lavished upon them. Both myself and Cubby Wolf who was there were wearing purple cashmere sweaters in deference to the Mr Humphreys style.
Mention was made of certain naked events that had allegedly taken place late at night in a snowstorm in Limone earlier in the week and I was subject to some chortling and sleding as opposed to sledging. People who have seen photographs, one of which purports to have me as a subject have clearly been faked. Of course I was anxious to steer the conversation away from such events which may or may not have happened.
I don’t know how we got to on to the subject of Egypt but given one member (there we go again) of the sordid company I have kept over the past few days whilst skiing at Limone, and the constant sexual innuendo pervading every conversation, his expression “taking me up the Nile” made be feel a tad uncomfortable.
Mr Humphreys (who obviously has some time free) also confessed to the congregation that he was about to start a welding and metal work course. For a man who wears purple and mauve at least as well as any woman and has avoided obvious gainful employment for so long this seemed a rather extreme new career direction upon which to embark. Personally I am a little suspicious of the exact nature of the allure presented by attending such a class, no doubt wearing a nice fetching pastel coloured outfit, crammed full of a number of strong, hulking, well-built, perspiring, testosterone charged males, but then who am I to judge? When confronted about just that question he alluded to the film Flash Dance which I must admit has not been at the top of my “must see” list where one of the major figures was apparently a dancing welder. I invite you to draw your own conclusions.
Now to my picture today. It was taken earlier in the week at Arracador, the charming boutique hotel in Limone across the Italian border reachable only by skidoo or on skis in winter. The skidoo can take just three passengers so, as were six people in total in the party I volunteered to be one of the last to leave, a bit like the captain of a ship, although we were in Italy where the modern way seems to be that the captain tends to leave first, but I digress. Captain Clipbeard was first aboard in the advance party and kindly changed into this costume and hid in my bathroom to surprise me when I arrived. I think you will know how much this pleased me.
One can see from this how easy it is to fake photographs
Last night after collecting sprog 2 from the airport to complete the full set of family locusts ready to devour my food and drink in the coming week, we ventured directly to The Valbonnaise to attempt to blunt teenage appetites before allowing them near my larder or drinks fridge. It did not work and cost more money because we arrived too late, went to the Queens Legs for a swift pint of Guinness and bought take away pizzas and then they started on my drinks cabinet anyway.
Chris France
Retreat from the snow
A sublime morning yesterday of skiing under blue skies and in copious amounts of fresh snow was topped only by a splendid lunch on a sunny terrace of a restaurant in the ski resort of Limone, talking about life in general and Currencies Direct in particular, came to an end just as the cloud which will bring more snow today arrived, as my picture today shows.
Restaurant view from Limone
As is usual over a glass of wine at lunch the stories begin to unfold and yesterday was no exception. The intellectually inspiring steely eyed beautiful ice maiden who is Lisa Thornton Allan reminded me of a story she told against herself recently. It seems that she was recommended by a friend to read “Death In Venice” and struggling through it told the friend she found it very confusing, long winded and unconnected. It seems the book she was actually reading was “Death in Venice and other short stories”. It may be the blond hair that causes problems of this nature.
Mrs Clipear is also of the blond persuasion and she was discussing whether or not to attend the Premiere of “Otway The Movie” at The Odeon Leicester Square in October. She told the luncheon group that she may go but not to the first night. Perhaps she misunderstood the significance of the word “premiere”?
Then it happened, the public schoolboy obsession of the “dark side” of sexual relations reared its ugly head. Not content with a string of innuendo aimed at the two ladies sharing a double room at our hotel, a theme which has continued to both intrigue and amuse him over the past three days ever since he discovered this cozy relationship, together with an ongoing morbid fascination for all things lesbian or homosexual, Mr Clipbeard was at it again. It was an innocent expression that in any other context and if uttered by anyone else other than a public schoolboy would have had no significance but in the ears of Mr Clipbeard “Can I push your stall (stool) in?” was loaded with a double meaning of the most sordid kind. Whilst it is true that I did not receive the benefit of an education of quite the same stature as he, I do learn from him every day, and often wished I did not.
I allowed him to do this, push my stall in that is and then kept a very watchful eye. Previous experience over the past few days has left me fore warned as to the depths of depravity to which he can descend in an instant.
Anyway, yesterday afternoon we made a descent of a different kind, down the mountain from Limone back into the waiting arms of my beloved France, back to the lovely Valbonne for a rest. With Clipboard and Clipear on their way back to the UK last night on the same Easyjet plane that brought sprog 1 back to France from the UK for half term, the pressure to party will take a different form, one that I sincerely hope does not include any naked events such as have been the case in the Italian Alps.
My work will now take precedence today, the music clearances for an iconic 60’s artist, Otway the movie, and the theatre show in Valbonne on 14th and my duties with Currencies Direct will now fill my days up until the weekend. I realise that there is but one day to go before the weeks ending but as many of you will know if you work at the intensity I do, several days work can be telescoped into a busy morning.
Chris France
Mr Clipbeard undeterred by blizzard?
Another question; Why?
Tickets are selling quickly for the first South Of France English Theatre production of the West End success “Barefoot In The Park” which are available from their website. There is also the small question of the party afterwards which you can attend for another 10 euros. It will also represent another chance to secure a valuable signed first edition of my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur”.
So, assuming nothing goes wrong I will have a glorious full evening away from drinking and partying tonight but is back to the grindstone of life amongst the idle rich in Valbonne when I have lunch in Valbonne Square in my diary for Friday. It is with some new clients for Currencies Direct, anxious to save the money they have been needlessly paying their banks in charges and poor exchange rates so my clear philanthropic duty is to rescue them from this devilish scenario. Clearly then a business expense as has been the skiing trip with two clients. I do hope my accountant is taking note.
Let me finish today’s episode with a comment made by Mr Clipbeard in relation to the two french girls who were sharing a double room in the hotel where we are staying. Apparently there is an expression “plate-lickers”. This was a description that sent them, and to be fair me, to bed.
Chris France
Superbowl with a twist
Limone Piemont is a pretty village ski resort on the western edge of Italy just over 2 hours drive from Valbonne, and to where we were headed yesterday having taken a couple of days leave from my duties with Currencies Direct. The travel time passed in a trice as we were in the car with Mr Clipbeard and his lovely wife Mrs Clipear as she became known after threatening something similar if she was ever mentioned again in this column.
On the way I was asked if I was excited about the prospect of selling my house in the UK which has been on the market for seven years and further asked if it had been firmed up. I responded by saying that it was very exciting but I preferred to keep private how this excitement manifested itself in my personal being.
So we arrived at Limone just in time for the sunshine to disappear and be replaced by a ferocious snow storm, so there was little option but not to ski and to have lunch instead and see if it would clear. I think it was over the third cognac that the realisation became certainly that the snowstorm was developing into a sensational blizzard.
After a few more cognac’s the natural shyness of the public schoolboys with whom I was lunching began to recede. For some reason the discussions had turned to the relative merits of the poor (literally) comprehensive school and grammar school children. When I suggested that there may be some differentiation between these two intellectually diverse groups (the Reverend Jeff will immediately recognise his status in this context, having himself attended a comprehensive school as a result of failing his 11 plus) the public schoolboys guffawed and declared that as far as they were concerned all were oiks.
During lunch I was intrigued by the fireplace at the Ange Blanc at the base of the Limonetto ski slope, our venue for lunch, that was open on both sides. At one stage Mr Clipbeard suggested that I crawl through the fire so that he could take a photo. He had the clear intention of re-enacting a scene from Tom Browns school days when a “fag” was roasted over a fire for insubordination. As I was obviously cast to play the part of the fag I decided against an acting career.
I had a picture of this potential fire storm ready for today’s missive and it may yet rise to the top for publication. In days to come but it was superceded by today’s photo which I took of the TV in the bar.
I think they were saying 36-24-38
Let me explain; we were finishing lunch when my attention was drawn to the TV screen which was showing a programme which turned out to be the lingerie Superbowl in America. I jest not. A number of scantily clad ladies were playing American Football and I managed to take several pictures of the action of which this is the only one I can reproduce.
The problem with a very interesting central fireplace being open on both sides is that when one opens a window or a door a significant amount of smoke from the fire enters the room, but with ski goggles to hand the problem was solved.
After brief siesta it was time for dinner at Aracador where we are staying, a tiny hotel/restaurant with just 4 guest rooms and inaccessible except by snow mobile after the ski lifts have closed. I have a vague recollection of events that involved several men ending up naked on the brightly lit terrace in the 50 mile an hour blizzard at midnight. Any suggestion that one of these people was me is denied and suggestions to the contrary will result in proceedings issued by my lawyers Sue, Stoppit and Lye. Furthermore, should pictures emerge of this alleged event they will clearly have been fabricated.
Chris France
Lawnmower redundant
I turned down lunch. Just take a few moments to contemplate the significance of this statement. I am living on the beautiful south of France, on the edge of Provence amongst the hordes of idle rich ex-pats who live in Valbonne, am a renowned luncher and I had turned down lunch. I was not ill or hung over or suicidal, at least at first, but I was however subject to a three-line whip issued by chief whipper snapper herself that nice lady decorator.
Actually some of the public schoolboys who invited me to lunch are themselves no strangers to a three-line whip but in their little private sordid world it has a very different significance. Thus I did not go out for lunch and did not get drunk with Master bully Mariner Mundell, Peachy Butterfield, the Wingco or the Naked Politician, despite the fact that they had collectively decided that today was my official birthday and wished to celebrate it with me.
The reason for the whip (or the hand brake as the Naked Politician describes it) was of course that I had a number of jobs to do including some vital paperwork for several new customers of Currencies Direct and she (that nice lady decorator) knew full well that if I was let loose with that lot not only would I have had a great time but I would have not only failed in my duties but the chances are I would be somewhat below top form for our trip today up to Limone for a spot of skiing. I have a picture of the type of thing I am hoping to confront tomorrow.
The scene at Greoliere Les Neiges last week
It was important before a soon to become annual trip to the Italian Alps to stay reasonably sober and this was achieved by drinking several bottles of Gigondas, several bottles of Rioja, a bottle of lemoncello and a bottle of Biscotti Baileys (Jude O Sullivan, eat your heart out) by way of preparation for the hard time that will surely confront us in the coming days. Because our guests did not arrive until around 10pm this seemed to me to be a god effort. Thus by the time we retired for the evening at about 2 30 am, this morning, early enough to be fully ready for the trip up to the Italian Alps this morning, we knew we would all be in top form for the big drive.
One of the discussions during the evening revolved around flatulence and Ashley, otherwise known as Mrs Clipbeard who revealed that on a recent visit to a 2 star Michelin chef’s establishment in Wimbledon someone with whom she is intimately acquainted had succumbed in a most gaseous fashion to a seafood dish which involved artichokes.
Vegetables do not usually loom very large in my life and now I know the reason why. They are a menace and I try to avoid them. Regular readers will know that on. The subject of vegetarians, I stand just a little to the right of Jeremy Clarkson who is a little to the right of Attila The Hun. I will claim however to be open-minded about this sordid and dangerous cult. Whatever they do in the privacy of their homes is fine by me.
Ok, that’s a bit of controversy to start the day off. I wonder of there will be any controversy whilst we are away? Perhaps our house and dog sitter will do me the great favour of losing that mangy mutt Banjo whose mot so little deposits are so instantly visible on my snow-covered lawn. At least I am not under pressure to mow it at present.
Chris France
Golf in the snow?
With a trip to Limone, a pretty ski resort village just across the Italian border for a few days due to start on Tuesday with all the attendant risks of eating and drinking that is likely to entail, and having had three very unrestrained days, plus a creeping insidious hangover, I decided to have a quiet day yesterday despite it being a Sunday, which as the Reverend Jeff knows is a special day normally reserved exclusively for fun and entertainment.
Early morning I was guilty of yet more of my impersonations of a lumberjack and paradoxically I felt better after filling the car up with wood, well enough briefly to contemplate a bloody mary, but that passed and I settled down in a sober mood to write this column for well over the 600th time.
Fellow trainee lumberjacks Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs, the Wingco and “Slash And Burn” Thornton Allan accompanied us but the Wingco was astounded when he was asked to become involved in our group activities. I could see him looking around helplessly for his batman, or perhaps a fag to take care of any hard work that may have been required before adopting a superior manner (a task that comes very naturally to him) and deciding on a non active observer role. I think I heard him mumble something about shrapnel moving about in cold weather.
Golf had been on the cards with the Landlubbers and although I had decided not to play I popped up to the golf course for a look where I took this picture. It seems fairly clear to me that they were not playing. How would you spot a white ball in this lot?.
Looking down the 17th hole at the Grande Bastide
I had expected more of a backlash from my public schoolboy friends to the allusion I made in this column yesterday. The fact that some items of clothing belonging to one being discovered in the bedroom of the other on Saturday night when both were staying with us (in separate bedrooms according to them) has raised suspicions. Perhaps they have not yet looked at yesterday’s episode of this incisive look into the daily lives of the idle rich in Valbonne? I am sure that when they do they may be slightly agitated, perhaps even uncomfortable? If I see them today it will be interesting to see which of then has trouble sitting down.
Talking of public schoolboys with knowledge of the kind of activities that can impede sitting comfortably, Mr Clipbeard together with his lovely spouse Ashley will be jetting in from the UK this evening, ready to join us on that trip to Limone. They will be our guests overnight before we set off tomorrow. We shall be joined for this annual jaunt (we did it last year for the first time do that makes it “annual”, right?) by “Slash and Burn” and his beautiful powerful Amazonian wife Lisa.
We shall be staying at Aracador, a chalet restaurant at Limone reached only on skis or by snow mobile when the ski lifts are not operating. It is a wonderful place and very popular but with just 4 guest rooms but what is impressive is that they were prepared to have us back after last year. Bad behaviour by, it has to be pointed out, the female contingent last year when the unattended bar was mysteriously liberated of several bottles of Sambooka late one night when dinner should really have finished long ago (a fact reflected by the chef/landlord dozing off in a chair whilst waiting for us all to go upstairs). The poor chap gave up at 1am and with no security on the bar, temptation proved too much for that one or more of the three girls at the scene of which one may have been that nice lady decorator.
The trip will not all be fun frivolity, theft and skiing, there is a serious scientific side to the trip as we are conducting a survey of where to get the best Bombardino (a local coffee accompanied by a local greenish liqueur and topped with lashings of whipped cream) on the slopes. I meanwhile will be on constant look out for potential customers for Currencies Direct.
Rugby party ends in shame
I had forgotten the excellent magnum of Wrexham Rioja which I had found quite by chance in Super U in Plasscassier. At least that is what the label said after I had spent three minutes with a computer and a printer before setting off for dinner with Peachy Butterfield on Friday night. So pleased was he that he wanted to get his own back show his appreciation by coming around yesterday lunchtime for a small tincture as he called it.
Earlier, after some work for Currencies Direct, I had been doing my best to impersonate a lumberjack in the Valmasque forest where any number of tree branches, mainly pine, have broken off under the weight of the unaccustomed snowfall recently. There is something primevally satisfying along the hunter gatherer theme about going out and collecting wood for the fire. I had to stop Mr Paul “slash and burn” Thornton Allan from embracing this concept rather too enthusiastically, he was all for taking his chain saw and cutting down an acre of two of protected national park, something that may have upset the authorities. My picture today illustrates some of the successful endeavours.
The proceeds from my lumberjacking duties
So I was ready for that drink when La Grande Peche and lovely but seriously hung over wife Suzanne eventually showed up so we popped into a bar in Valbonne to have a drink (or in her case a coffee) at La Fontaine Du Vin for an overpriced beer and underwhelming glass of wine followed by a pizza at Cafe Des Arcades. I don’t know why I thought it would stop there, what with an invitation to “Slash and Burn’s” house to watch the England versus Scotland Six Nations rugby match at 6pm, and as it turns out it did not, but I am getting ahead of myself.
The Revered Jeff made a comment about my piece yesterday about Peachy Butterfield becoming a curtain salesman and suggesting that this could lead to a number of curtain puns. This “rings” true I would rather draw a veil over this suggestion, a blind man can see it will be curtains for him if he continues to go off the rails, we are poles apart here.
Ok, that’s done. So we left the Cafe Des Arcades just in time to miss the first ten minutes of the rugby. By this time it is fair to say that we may have outstayed our welcome and whether we were any more welcome chez “slash and burn” is debatable as we had collected some human flotsam during the afternoon including The Wingco, Master bully Mariner Mundell and Nick “I am not 60 yet” Davies who as his name suggests is in aged denial. I sense the aroma of a bus pass here. A splendid evening followed with hordes of rugby fans spending loads of time in the kitchen avoiding the rugby, eating shepherds pie and consuming yet more wine.
Many people’s blushes were spared as the battery in my blackberry which doubles as my faithful reporters notebook upon which I like to make notes to remind me of embarrassing interludes or funny stories had died. Some recall of events was triggered this morning when I discovered the two gentlemen to whom I have alluded above asleep in my house. One was in the spare room, one on the sofa, at least that it was they wanted me to believe, but quite how that item of clothing owned by that gentlemen on the sofa arrived in the spare bedroom is not something I want to go into but I will say these former public schoolboys just cannot leave it alone.
Chris France
Ski or lunch?
There really is nothing better in winter in the sunshine other than to be in a pretty ski resort, do some un-taxing skiing and then have lunch in the sunshine. My explanation to Currencies Direct that I was heading up into the mountains to search for new customers was dismissed with the contempt it richly deserved.
It was not frenetic skiing by any means and with dinner last night scheduled at the big man’s house with Peachy Butterfield and his delectable wife Susie it was clearly imperative that we returned from Greoliere Les Neiges in time for a siesta in advance of last evenings hostilities, which were far more interesting than yesterdays hostilities.
Just as I was slipping into the bed sheets after a skiing and lunch having cheerily removed my smoking jacket and cravat that nice lady decorator said to me what I heard as “what I really need is a good screwing”. That was when the trouble started. It seemed that rather than referring to winter sports of the bedroom variety she was referring to her reading light, supplied by a screw-in bulb which had fused. At that moment I felt much the same, but whereas her problem was easily resolved by the insertion of a new one, my problem was solved by….I am not sure where I am going with this, suffice to say that one of my jobs today will be to go to the supermarket and stock up on screw-in light bulbs.
Greoliere under a metre of new snow
So to dinner last night with the voyeur of viognier, the crown prince of prosecco, the Chester big cheese of Chardonnay, Peachy himself, newly returned from Christmas in the UK and desperately in need to some south of France fun and frivolity.
The evening did not start well. I am at best ambivalent about cement mixers, but Peachy and that nice lady decorator were quickly engrossed in a discussion about the relative merits of petrol driven or electrical powered cement mixers. All I knew was that having spent a good part of my career and a chunk of this week at MIDEM involved in the organization of music mixing and re mixing, I felt that work time was over and preferred talking about wine or indeed sex, but more of that later (talk I mean).
Later on it emerged that Peachy, in search of a new career direction, particularly one that allows him to remain in the south of France somewhat more than now is the case has come up with a master plan. He is going to sell curtains. For a moment I considered using an old joke about a salesman traveling in ladies underwear which I have chosen to avoid but given the bright colors he always wears I did not have the heart to say to him that if he took it on he would be traveling in curtains.
If you live down here you will have noticed a distinct lack of curtains in most houses. This is due in main to the local propensity for shutters, negating the need for this outdated English obsession. I pointed this out to Le Peach Enorme but he was not down hearted, far from it, in fact he asked me for the number of Mr Humphreys, firstly no doubt to see if he was free, secondly to ask his advice about colors in general and curtains in particular. Regular readers will know that Mr Humphreys is my style guru with a track record of wearing bright colors and garments that often look to me like curtains so to me the connection was obvious. Anyway, it seems that shortly we shall all be able to purchase top quality curtain material locally. I told him not to give up his day job if he ever got one.
Chris France
The road to nowhere?
After he retired, Sir Winston Churchill took a cruise aboard an Italian cruise liner. When questioned about his choice of carrier by some journalists he explained that he had made his choice based on great food, wonderful service and if there was an emergency on board there would be none of this women and children first malarky. Never a truer word spoken in jest, but I suppose he may not have used the word malarky. How prescient given events recently with the Costa Concordia running aground recently and with the captain one of the first to safety. It seems from one report I saw, that he had steered too close to the coast so he could wave to some relatives.
Talking of mighty vessels taking improbable courses, I hear today that one female amongst yesterdays brigade of happy souls in the “cognac and coffee followed by lunch party” in Valbonne Square seemed temporarily to have lost control over her coordination. It seems that on her way home, she popped into a friend’s house to collect children, even some of her own, and was in such a state that the friend had to button her coat for her before she stumbled into the evening. Regular readers will know that my cardinal rule is never to reveal the identity of the perpetrator of these kinds of embarrassing events, but I believe that Mr Paul Thornton Allan from The Big Picture shares my knowledge of the miscreant’s identity and perhaps it is not too illuminating to reveal that he has close, some may even say marital, links to and with the subject in question.
Today, as long as it dawns as forecast, to be bright and sunny we shall jump on the car and head up to the snow fields nearby. A quick aerial photograph may suggest that skiing could be on offer in Valbonne itself as my picture today depicts but we have a plan to battle up to Greoliere Les Neiges, about an hours drive away, for a mornings skiing, before a trip to Limone Piemont just over the Italian border next week.
No ski lifts in Valbonne?
Wisely I had earlier turned down the opportunity to play golf with the Landlubbers, an off shoot of the REGS golf society this weekend, even though it is my clear duty as Regional Controller for Currencies Direct to maintain contact with my customers, many of whom play in this grouping. I say wisely because I was being exhorted by Dave “gruff” Goddard to play on the basis that the weather forecast was good for the weekend. It seems 20 cms of snow sitting on the golf course may have justified my refusal and may not have figured in his planning.
Last night was predicted to be coldest night down here on the sunny Cote d’Azur with as low as minus 6 degrees celsius being talked about. Given that there is no real lagging on pipes in this area because it is not normally needed, we may have some work for the hordes of Polish plumbers who had overrun Britain a few years ago. I predict a nasty spate of burst pipes once this cold snap is over. I have heard a Zen teaching which suggest that experience is something you get just after you need it. With global warming perhaps now is the time for builders automatically to lag pipes.
I trust that everyone now has their theatre and after show party tickets for 14th February? These are still available on-line at the theatre website priced 20 euros for the show (discounts for bigger parties, pensioners and students) and 10 euros for the party afterwards at the Pre Des Arts in Valbonne. The play is being staged in the cinema with the party in the same building.
Chris France
Valbonne winter wonderland
Once every 30 years said the locals. Snow is a rarity so close to the coast but it seems that I left Cannes on Tuesday, where I had been hard at work securing new clients for Currencies Direct, just in time to be certain of getting home before the plethora of abandoned cars helped block the roads. The fact that two years ago I was marooned at Gatwick when Nice Airport was closed during the last local snow storm and took three days to secure another flight home seems merely to feed the frenzy over global warming. Somehow, more snow on the Mediterranean coast is more evidence of the myth of global warming. Strange how a wintery event can somehow be twisted the easily led brigade to support the unsupportable.
Lets be straight about this. At present the earth is going through a slight warming, due almost entirely to the activity of the sun which even this week has had the effect of producing the northern lights as far south as Yorkshire. I know that is much farther north than most civilized people wish to venture but that is a different discussion. A few percentage points less carbon created by man can in no way significantly affect the warming of earth as much as sun spots or other solar activity, and whilst it is a worthy cause, the amount of hot air produced by politicians in support of this unsustainable argument does little to help. Indeed the emissions of methane by animals over the world far exceeds the amount of carbon produced by man (with special emphasis on the hot air spouted by the believers) and excreted into the atmosphere.
Global warming in retreat?
I have a picture today of the effects of global warming in the Cote d’Azur. It was taken just before we set off on foot to Valbonne village in a party that included Pete Bennett from Blue Water and Paul Thornton Allan from The Big Picture and their respective wives, the cycling phenomenon Julie (just about to set off on a charity bike ride in Kenya) and the steely eyed Lisa. The plan was to walk into the village for a coffee at the Cafe Des Arcades.
I suppose I was to blame. Demob happy after several days hard slog at MIDEM, I called for a cognac to accompany my coffee. Not be outdone, and with the dawning realisation that with many roads shut, schools closed, buses not running, offices closed and the added bonus of sipping coffee in pleasant sunshine that little would be achieved on the work front, the chaps in the party joined me in imbibing large cognacs to keep out the cold. I use the plural advisedly because a communal taste for more than one coffee with cognac swept the male contingent and before I knew what was happening coffee turned into lunch. How the pre lunch bill could reach close to 90 euros is still a fact with which I am wrestling.
Lunch was taken, wine was drunk and several of our impromptu luncheon posse returned with us at the behest of that nice lady decorator to take an afternoon cap (as opposed to a night-cap) in the pav.
Subsequent events are a little hazy but I do remember having a conversation with my accountant about the late filing of my UK tax return and I am certain that I issued detailed instructions as to how to deal with a number issues raised. It’s just that at this moment I cannot exactly recall the nature of those instructions.
Today I shall be dealing with outstanding paperwork (indeed any paperwork with which I am involved is always dealt with in an outstanding manner) when I hope to be able to retrace my steps and unravel the instructions handed down to my accountant yesterday. Success may mitigate my tax liability so what more incentive could a man need?
Chris France
The snow must go on
It got worse. By the time I left Valbonne for the last day of MIDEM in Cannes, ready to collect up that last few remaining converts to the services of Currencies Direct, the rain had turned to wet snow and the puddles on the lawn were beginning to ice over. This is the Cote d’Azur for Christ’s sake, this is not what I signed up for, this was not in the brochure. If there was a god and he did not have a call centre in India (or probably Jerusalem come to think of it) I would have made a complaint in the strongest possible terms. Imagine, if that was the case, what would the number be? 0845 godisgood, or for complaints 0845 godiswrong? But I digress.
It is not that I dislike snow, I like it when it is in its correct place and indeed will be seeking in out later in the week and next week with a jaunt up to Limone, just across the Italian border for a bit of skiing. What I am complaining about is that I am not dressed for and don’t expect this kind of thing in the jewel of the French Riviera. My velvet smoking jacket, silk cravat and black and white spats are not suited to this kind of weather (nor is the music biz for that matter). I want my money back.
Still, I am a trooper, hardly ever complaining so I was looking forward to my beach luncheon with typical bulldog spirit, half thinking that the restaurant might be deserted, but then I thought, these are music business professionals who are made of sterner material. They may be languishing in Cannes but were not going to let a bit of wind (supplied by yours truly), rain and snow deny them the opportunity to raid the expense accounts so I expected Geoland to be buzzing, that and steaming or at least that is what I imagined it would look like, clouds of water vapour rising from the assembled music industry entrepreneurs, the movers and shakers of the digital content world but natural events overtook me.
The first sign of trouble was the picture I received showing snow settling in Valbonne. In the next breath I heard a delegate complaining that all buses had been cancelled due to snow being expected, and that the trains were next. It was a very quick decision, but the options were to go to lunch on the beach and then get marooned in Cannes along with loads of drunk MIDEM delegates, drowning their sorrows, complaining that they were unable to get home, or take an early train back home and have lunch locally in the snow. This was a picture from my garden yesterday afternoon.
There's no business like snow business
Whereas I love lunch on the beach any time of year, the Auberge Provencal in Valbonne Square is an idyllic place to have lunch when a winter wonderland surrounds you. Boy did it surround us as my picture today depicts. Having just managed to get home through the snow and breathed a sigh of relief, what better plan could there be but to head out again to the Auberge Provencal for lunch? Well, I had a number of different opinions, most of which involved hunkering down in the snowstorm and not venturing outside, however in the spirit of democracy, and with that nice lady decorator having the casting vote (dare I say the only vote?) I went with the democracy, at least as she saw it.
So MIDEM is finished for another year. Business has been done, lunch has been taken, deals done in the bar will evaporate in the coming weeks as the hubris of the South of France wears off. I know you will understand that I now need a brief rest before throwing myself back into the fray. April should see me back and ready to go. Now you know that was a joke, but seldom a waking minute goes by without my having an original thought or an idea. This is work to me, thus it is my contention that I am always working.
With the snow continuing to pile up in the evening it is difficult to predict what is before me today. If there is no sudden thaw then a walk into Valbonne followed by lunch seems the only option open. I do hope there is no thaw.
Chris France
Bean power
So MIDEM , the annual international junket for music business professionals amongst whose ranks I count myself, is comparatively poorly attended this year, a combination of the changes happening in our industry and the recessionary times that are with us or looming, but the idea of using just one entrance and thereby manufacturing a queue for delegates desperate to find out more about the benefits of using Currencies Direct for their foreign exchange needs has all the hallmarks of “made in France”. President Sarkozy has publicly admonished the UK recently for its lack of a manufacturing base, but to descend into creating queues does not seem to be manufacturing in its truest sense. I took this picture of French manufacturing today.
The French way of manufacturing, manufacture a queue.
MIDEM gives us music biz types the annual opportunity to slap each other on the back and praise each others activities and achievements, however, there those amongst us for whom the festival does not go well, and for which no praise is due. Normally the festival runs from Sunday to Thursday, so flights from the UK are usually booked from Saturday to Thursday, and at least one delegate has booked accordingly, even although this year MIDEM runs from Saturday to Tuesday inclusive. This means he missed the first day and will be stuck in Cannes for two days after it has finished.
Business is like air or sex. It does not matter that much until you aren’t getting any. Thus there were a number of delegates fighting for air today, and it had everything to do with the bean salad I had for lunch at Vegaluna on Cannes beach. It is also said that no one is listening until you fart and it seemed to me that wherever I went in the afternoon everybody with whom I came into co tact were all ears. On one level I have a communist streak, everything should be shared out equally and I did my best to spread the equality emitting from my anus around the Palais Des Festivals in Cannes yesterday afternoon. On the other hand I agree with those that think ones personal noxious odours should be kept to them selves, so, a dilemma.
Anyway, the last day of MIDEM is today and I have been invited to lunch on the beach at a restaurant called Goeland where if offered I will avoid anything that contains any kind of bean. The last time I was there, I was seated close a lady who was, well how can I describe her, she was no stranger to a kebab. Her ability to eat what looked like her own bodyweight in fois gras has left an indelible mark on my memory, one that I hope to be able to lay to rest today. Mrs Creosote lives.
Having then spent almost a lifetime working, well, all day for the last two days and with all the preparation I feel I will deserve some rest and recouperation from tomorrow onwards and shall be on the look out for some way of expressing that, and with a large dump of fresh snow up on the nearby mountains, a quick day trip to Greoliere Les Neiges is a possibility, after the incoming Brits depart MIDEM and take this filthy weather with them.
In terms of what, where and in which form this recreation will take place will depend of course on the decisions of that nice lady decorator. Whilst MIDEM has been in full effect I have been master of my own destiny, choosing what I do but with festival drawing to a close things will change. One day you are the dog, the best day you are the tree.
Chris France
Mushy peas don’t hit the spot
I saw sleet in Cannes yesterday afternoon. After a benign winter so far, the arrival in town of loads of Brits desperate for lunch on the beach to do some business was enough to turn the weather very sour indeed. To say I was not at my best today following dinner out with Al Yiddley in Cannes the night before would be like saying Bin Laden had been a bit naughty. I had forgotten that Al, when informed that La Chunga the bar across from the Martinez in Cannes was a known haunt for ladies of the night, had insisting on going there after a fine dinner and three bottles of a very good but vastly overpriced St Emilion Grand Cru, and once again it seemed to be my round. He was desperate to go and dance with the pretty vacant eyed beauties and was a bit indignant when none of them wanted to know. Apparently a fiver and a fish and chips and mushy pea dinner was not quite sufficient for any of then to contemplate incentive for doing the business he had in mind… I have heard it said that good judgment is the result of a bad experience, but the bad experience is usually down to poor judgment.
I took this picture yesterday of the forlorn beach viewed from the Riviera entrance of the Palais Des Festivals in Cannes. The MIDEM festival, now in its 46th year, and I have attended 6or 32 years in succession, is gradually dying as the industry lurches towards global deals rather than territory by territory licensing deals which in the past has provided a wonderful opportunity for expenses led excess in the good times.
Even Cannes looks miserable in the rain
I contemplated this sad state of affairs over a sumptuous lunch in a beach restaurant without a hint of irony, merely the hint of rain drumming on the hastily erected plastic roof coverings. It was a necessary course of action to shake off the lethargy that engulfed me during the morning and it worked, I improved from totally ghastly to merely a bit grizzly after lunch, but even I could not finish the beer I had ordered to test the “hair of the dog” theory.
Today, more of the same, educating the music business and music publishers in particular that they can save 3% or more of foreign currency receipts if they simply use Currencies Direct as the conduit, and then lunch on the beach today at Vegaluna, one of the more stylish beach eateries with yet another lawyer, female this time who, if nothing else, will almost certainly be prettier than Al Yiddley.
One of the upsides of rain in Cannes is that it will fall as much needed snow in the southern Alps and that may give us a chance to zip up to the mountains later in the week for a spot of skiing. Friday looks the best bet. Talking of mountains and skiing leads me to thinking about man mountain Peachy Butterfield who is back from the UK, no doubt loaded up with more Skelmersdale Chardonnay who last year retired from skiing when he realised that what he liked was the lunch and the mountain air. The bit he did not like was the skiing. Me, I like skiing up until lunchtime and then it loses its allure. Also, it does not do to arrive too early on the slopes as it is often icy, and then it is not a good idea to ski too late as it can become heavy. What I think I am saying is that apart from one run from the top of the mountain in perfect snow in the sunshine with a break for a coffee and cognac on the way down, I am with Peachy.
Chris France
MIDEM strikes
MIDEM is upon me, so it was important that I had a quiet day leading up to last night as my lawyer, Al Yiddley, was buying me dinner (no doubt at I my ultimate expense) to celebrate his appointment as my litigation lawyer in a High Court action to be launched very shortly. Thus the call from Currencies Direct Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs at 11 30 am to see if it was convenient to pop around for a cup of tea on the way back from Cap 3000, the local shopping centre was, whilst a welcome diversion from self-imposed temperance, was a dangerous impediment to me keeping a clear head for the evenings festivities, and then subsequently the fullest possible enjoyment of my lawyer taking me out to dinner.
My polite enquiry to Mr Coombs; “Will you have something a little stronger” issued one minute after midday was, I now realise, a statement exhibiting a particularly poor piece of situation management. Initially I thought one bottle of fizz would prove sufficient for him and his wife, the lovely fiery redhead Pat for them to feel that they fully celebrated my birthday. Even the second bottle between four of us seemed to be a scenario that I could drag back from the brink, but when I was forced by that nice lady decorator to open the third bottle, and with the Rioja flowing as well, I began to realise I had a problem.
His gift of some Cohiba Cuban cigars clouded my judgement and I stupidly allowed them to undermine my proposed evening activity by allowing myself the indulgence of entertaining them. However, as is something akin to normal, it was internet’s great one that entertained me.
It started with me asking if he was working on anything worthwhile. Internet 2 was his answer, although he was not big on detail, in fact he refused to supply any more details about what Internet 2 could bestow upon us than the internet we all know and love.
The fun started when we began to discuss the swimming pool he had promised his lovely wife he would install in the garden of their house near Grasse. So far, over a period of thirteen years there seems that any numbers of “reasons” invented by our intrepid inventor which have conspired to allow him to renege on this promise. Can you imagine having a house on the Cote d’Azur with a large garden and sweeping views across tha valley and up to the hills, having a large terraced space ideally suited to the installation of a swimming pool, making a promise to your wife and young children that you would build one, and then finding every excuse under the sun not to give the go ahead for its construction.
The sort of pool that Tony should build?
This seemed like a rich seam of intrigue to mine. The art in these situations is like opening oysters. These tricky little blighters are best opened by sliding a knife into the heart of their being and then forcing them wide open with a series of twisting motions. Let me tell you that in situations such as these I am an artist. So a great deal of fun was had at the expense of our inventor but I have promised not to mention it again, much in the same vein as his promise to have a swimming pool.
And so to Cannes for dinner. Because of the earlier impromtu luncheon I was perhaps not at my best for dinner, or at least if I was then I do not recall the full details. I do recall that we had a drink at The Carlton bar which cost me a little under fifty euros, and then went for at nearby Pastis, a restaurant just behind the Dior shop on the Croisette for a ruinously expensive dinner, so expensive that I felt compelled to pay half the bill, which in itself was more than one would normally want to pay for dinner anywhere. My lawyers alter ego, Al Yiddley was in awesome form and very amusing but I am ashamed to say I recall little of the content except for one phrase “Mushy peadophile” which he used in a context I do not exactly recall and have been racking my brains to imagine any context at all in which it could be used without risking arrest. It will no doubt feature in The Sayings Of Al Yiddley website I intend to launch.
Chris France
All Yiddley in town
MIDEM, the 42nd annual music business gathering starts in Cannes this evening with the NRG awards, a French TV equivalent of the Brits, except it is terminally boring. I was unlucky enough to be able to secure tickets a few years ago and promptly took the opportunity to leave half way through. MIDEM is much more interesting for us old music business veterans because it gives us chaps of a certain the age the chance to get together in a nice environment to reminisce and to remember how important we once were until the infernal digital world came along and downloads destroyed the business as many of us old codgers remembered it. However, it is still a rich hunting ground for new customers for Currencies Direct. I hesitate to think of how much money is being paid or retained by the banks from royalty payments throughout the world in the form of poor foreign exchange rates and also fees for the transfers, something that Currencies Direct does not impose.
I shall be entertained to dinner this evening by the alter ego of my lawyer whose name in costume is Al Yiddley, the Jewish lawyer from Yorkshire. When in London he is a partner in Davenport Lyons, one of the leading London litigation lawyers who will be extracting monies from me in the coming year in a High Court action but when in Cannes and fuelled by the alcoholic delights of the Cote d’Azur comes over all Jewish and Yorkshire. We will start as is the tradition at The Carlton for a glass of champagne or two and head to the old town of Cannes, into le Suquet for dinner, a full report tomorrow probably.
He will no doubt be staying in a suite at The Carlton or The Martinez probably with its own jacuzzi and I imagine that the supply of bath mats will be included in the price, which was not the case when I was staying at a hotel in Earls Court recently where I took this picture. I think it sums up the client lawyer relationship where the client pays the lawyer all his money and leads the life of a comparative pauper as a result, whilst the lawyer lives in the lap of luxury, feeding on the customer, literally. The word parasite comes to mind.
Obviously not included in the price of the room. What does this say about the quality of the hotel?
I say I will be entertained to dinner, but what I probably mean is that I will be entertained at dinner. Nominally, he will pay the bill but these things have a nasty habit of turning up in disguise as “a disbursement” on my bill, effectively recharging me for the dinner which one can be forgiven for thinking is a nice gesture for a client.
Today is a significant birthday for the renowned writer of this column (at my age they are all significant – it means I made it through another year) and it was very thoughtful of sprog 2 to ring the house at 1am this morning to sing Happy Birthday to me accompanied by a number her friends, oblivious of the fact that from England she could have called an hour earlier when I was still awake.
Today has also dawned cloudy and wet, something of a surprise considering the two months of sunny weather we have enjoyed. I blame all the Brits flying in for MIDEM for bringing the dodgy weather with them, but at least if it is wet for a few days we may get some snow and then some skiing in next week.
Chris France
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