Flight of fancy?
Lunch with some of the usual suspects, Master Bully Mariner Mundell, the Wingco and young Greg Harris the eclectic dancer from Cote d’Azur Villas at the Auberge St Donat followed a very pleasant game of tennis with the same personnel in the continuing warm winter sunshine. As the MOGS (the Moustachiod Old Gits as myself and the Wingco are often known) have been so dominant in recent months, it was decided to split up the weaker players, but as much as I tried to remove the gathering certainty as to who was the weakest player, I am afraid to say that young Greg ended up on the losing side.
The loser at lunch however was once again the Master who continued to defend his recent involvement in bullying. His claim was that as I had on a previous occasion managed to thwart the bully boys in late October by claiming that I wanted to keep my beard at least until the book launch, I had by default given an implied licence to allow it to be hacked off at a later stage.
This is clear nonsense, it is like a failed rapist claiming that as he had been fought off and not reported, the victim was implying she was game for a shag at a later stage. He should be ashamed of himself. He also had the audacity to suggest he saved me from injury by holding me a tight head lock whilst Mr Clipboard became Mr Clipbeard and performed the “annoying facial hair” surgery. He suggested that I should be grateful and seemed sincere. I have seldom witnessed a clearer case of self delusion, but as he is a Currencies Direct customer of course I forgive him.
Anthony Bay in full flight, as it were
Absent today was Anthony “dock Of The” Bay, pictured above joining in with the general abuse of my book. When I mentioned to the others that Anthony now has this splendid new epithet for this column, one of the public schoolboys dredged up an “amusing” take of the old Percy Sledge classic “Sitting on the dick of the boy”. Once a public schoolboy always a public schoolboy it seems. Old habits die hard (if you get my drift).
So today, by the time you read this, I shall already be winging my way northwards, away from the sunshine and into the arms of the deep English midwinter. The idea of course is to bring a little sunshine into the winter lives of my countrymen, this time by way of attending The France Show armed with copies of my book which I will gladly give to people along with my signature and dedication of their choice in return for the measly sum of £10. Three days of intense media pressure awaits me so I must be strong. My suitcase is full of books, and if that nice lady decorator gets her way, the suitcase will be empty and will require replenishment with clothes for our return on Sunday. It is probably the first time we have been in agreement about the hopes for the number of sales I hope to achieve. I am not sure whether to be pleased or not.
This evening I shall be in search of a pint of London Pride after picking up that poster for the book sale tomorrow, which I have not seen only on photographs. That nice lady decorator is determined that she will drink no beer, such is her determination to hone her figure into the usual fine shape after the usual Christmas excesses, but I have wagered £1 she will waver and expect to collect on the first round.
Chris France
The big picture arrives
Great news! after torturous negotiations with http://www.lulu.com, who printed my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur”, I have secured a special promotional discount for the few of you who have not already purchased a copy. Simply go on the website, order the book and insert LULUBOOKUK305 in the promotional code box and get a 25% discount, but only until 31st January, so hurry whilst stocks last. These will of course be depleted by several if all goes well at The France Show in Earls Court starting Friday where I shall be standing alongside this poster created for my by those chaps down at The Big Picture.
What a splendid poster
There is still a lot of abuse and hostility floating about concerning the recent demise of my splendid beard at that lunch at the end of last year at the Auberge St Donat overrun by public schoolboys . My Auzzie mate Bruce (yes that is his real name, I have not had a caricature him at all) suggests in the comments section that what the beard really needed was just need a bit of bikini wax, rather than the ritual destruction administered by the Master mariner and his coterie of knobs and it is a good point well made, and fundamentally ignored by the public school bullies who have still to be interviewed by the police for this common assault. Actually, I suppose they would argue that it could not possibly be a common assault as they all went to public school, which as mere mortals know is not common at all. Common is where common people live. I myself was born in London between Wandsworth Common and Clapham Common, but I don’t know where I am going with this.
Anyway, after a frenetic mornings work, inevitably concerning Currencies Direct, I had a meeting in the afternoon in Valbonne with Gerald Gomis who is now working with award-winning local estate agents Blue Square who have offices in the old village. He kindly offered to make me a cup of tea, which was somewhat of a departure for the French, and I jokingly asked him if knew how to make it. He assured me that he did and promptly added the teabag to the freshly brewed coffee he was making for himself.
It was a bold effort and to his credit, as soon as he had done it, he put his head in his hands and said “Oh no, this will be in the blog”. I assured him that I would not be this cruel, and promised not to mention it, so please ignore this last sentence, it was just your imagination. Currently he has got off lightly and as long as the confirmation of the full years sponsorship for Blue Square for the South Of France Theatre programme, then this can be an end of it.
A last-minute summons is received last evening to play tennis this morning, and frankly I do not really have the time, what with all the preparations to leave for the France show in London on Thursday morning, but with two affiliates and one target as a customer joining me on the court, it is my duty to be there. Normal rules apply, if I win then expect a fulsome report tomorrow. Should I lose, which as far as this column is concerned would be a first, expect no more mention of it. At the very least it will be a final opportunity to enjoy more of this fabulous run of weather that we have enjoyed for the last month, although there is a very real problem in the southern Alps ski resorts, in fact I heard today that Limone just across the Italian border, and an expected venue for some skiing myself next month was closed today.
Chris France
Wild Time?
Wild time? she asked, and for a fleeting moment I forgot by advancing years and said, certainly, where and when? It was something of a surprise as we were not alone and it was not the first Saturday in the month but what the heck I thought, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. No, “Wild Thyme” she said with that look that can pierce a hole in steel. I know she loves me and I love her but the look that nice lady decorator keeps in her armoury for special occasions, actually not just for special occasions but for any time I have muttered something which does not find favour is frightening to behold. So no more than four or five times a day then, on a good day. She was referring of course to the abundance of that herb on the hillside where we were taking in the view.
We were walking up a very steep track above Gurdon, exhausting but ultimately providing a sensational panorama from Nice across to St Tropez as I hope my picture today does justice. After a deserved beer, it was back home to change ready for the first social occasion for some days, the birthday of the godlike Zillah, wife of Master Bully Mariner Mundell at one of their many residences, this one in the heights of Opio or Plascassier.
Towards St Tropez from Gourdon
To be able to have lunch outside is a treat whatever time of year it is, but to be able to do it in January is a special bonus, and so it was that nearly 20 grateful ex pats sat outside and enjoyed an eclectic mix of roasted meats, lasagne, quiche, a bean stew and 2 cheeseboards. This was a triumph for variety over planning, which as I assume was undertaken by the Master Mariner himself, was errr…creative to say the least.
When one is asked to bring a dish to a party, the normal thing is to liaise with the host to ensure all food bases are covered and a balanced meal results. Clearly this element of the planning went somewhat awry, but a splendid afternoon and a lovely melee of food was enjoyed by all.
I was hampered somewhat as my blackberry, normally my faithful old note taker decided to run out of power just as lunch commenced. With my memory being what it is many people have escaped (unless memory returns or someone snitches) with faux pas that I would normally gleefully record ready for regurgitated the next morning in this column.
What I do remember is Blind (drunk) Lemon Milsted’s beautiful Scandinavian goddess of a wife Ingeborg fatally undermining his determination not to purchase a copy of my book by buying one and then coming to the table to ask me to sign it. I contend that it was entirely coincidental that I was seated next to him when it happened but I swear he does not believe me. Anyway, I can report that she is thrilled with her purchase and he has a newly grumpy countenance which does not suit him.
The wonderfully 1960’s icon Anthony “Dock Of The” Bay was one of the many attendees along with his beautiful (and very considerably younger) wife Amanda. I made the mistake of complimenting this compelling old smoothie on his wearing of a cravat but was told in no uncertain terms that it was not a cravat but a silk scarf. As a council house boy who may never understand the distinction, I shall be careful not to comment about one or the other in future.
No space to mention today all the reasons why it is important to use Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange needs, but the week is still young. Maybe tomorrow.
Chris France
Long tailed tit?
Before I set off to the golf course yesterday, to work, obviously, not just for recreation or exercise, in my constant search for potential clients for Currencies Direct, I enquired of that nice lady decorator as to what activity she had in mind for the day. She said she had quite a few jobs to do including identifying which birds were visiting the now sorely depleted and slightly less than luxuriant pomegranate tree which is now doubling as a bird sanctuary.
Now call me old-fashioned but I do not see how looking at birds could be construed as work. If that is the case then I have spent a great deal more of my life working than I had previously thought. When I arrived home she excitedly revealed that amongst the feathered visitors to her bird sanctuary was a long-tailed tit. It gets worse as she went on to give me the bird over my writing of this daily column. She suggested that with a slight tweak of the spelling of the name of her ornithologist discovery, one could easily describe the style of writing I employ in this daily column. So now I have been blessed with another epithet, apparently I am now a long taled tit.
I admit that whilst amusing me it did ruffle my feathers a little, Ok that’s enough bird jokes, I don’t wan to get into trouble or I may end up in front of the beak.I have a picture today of the pomegranate tree festooned with the various balls of bits of bird food languishing in between the old fruits but not a bird to be seen.
That nice decorators bird sanctuary, home to a long taled tit
Talking of old fruits, I see there was a comment yesterday from the Reverend Jeff implying that I may have been the perpetrator of the semi circular turd that would not flush which was causing his mother such angst prior to an expected visit by the vicar. I am afraid I had to poo-poo that suggestion. It is important toilet my readers know that is untrue.
Today, another day of splendid winter sunshine we are heading once again up to Gurdon, this time to do the really big walk up to the top of the plateau. Starting at 9 30am, just after dawn we expect it to take 2 hours. Guess what sort of picture you are going to get tomorrow.
Preparations are advancing for the trip to London later in the week to The France Show at Earls Court. My wonderful pull up poster designed by the redoubtable Paul Thornton Allan and The Big Picture will be ready on Thursday ready for the first day of the show on Friday. I have access to some free tickets should the very few of you who have not already purchased “Summer In The Cote D’Azur” wish to avail themselves of the opportunity to secure a signed copy. I shall be there for the full 3 days or until I have sold all 60 copies (as many as I can carry! – the bloody things are quite heavy, in fact I think from now on I will describe it as a heavyweight read) and am hoping that I do not have to bring too many back with me on Sunday evening.
Before that, lunch today with the godlike Zillah and Master Mariner Mundell to celebrate her birthday at their country retreat in the hills behind Plascassier. I have the feeling that there will be a number of bad influences in attendance and am thus looking forward to it. I am certain the Wingco for instance will be there.
As expected, there has been just too much to write about to include a full report of my singles match at the Grande Bastide yesterday. Suffice to say it was cut due to lack of space.
Chris France
Wrong shaped logs?
With Christmas over that spirit of goodwill to all men seems to have ended rather abruptly, at least as far as that nice lady decorator is concerned. I should have known as soon as the first nag of the day woke me from my slumber. I think I had failed to iron my dressing gown or shut a drawer or something else equally piddling. Just as I was sensing that this would not be an easy day, the clincher arrived. It was the nag about the wrong shape of log.
During the winter and with a huge supply of wood from the trees we cut and the logs we collect daily on walks around the Valmasque we tend to keep a fire going most of the time using what we call a “night watchman”, a big log at night to try to keep it in overnight. It is the agreed duty of whomsoever it falls to make that all important first cup of tea first thing in the morning to attempt to get the fire up and burning. To this end it is my duty to ensure there are logs in the log basket, but until yesterday, when it fell to that nice lady decorator to prepare the first tea of the day and thus attend to the fire I was unaware that logs had to be a particular shape.
The wrong shape of log, apparently
It transpires that the log she had selected from the basket was the wrong shape (too long I think she said, a phrase I hear far too often). Obviously I had fallen down in my duty and needed a good telling off as the room had filled with smoke and it was all my fault. It came to my lips and I almost blurted out that there are some 500 logs outside, perhaps she could choose one where the tree had produced or rather I had prepared a log that did not displease her. I took this picture of the fire last night. I think these are the right shape but cannot be certain. I googled “correct shaped logs” but nothing definitive came up so I will no doubt be getting more examples of her anger until I can ascertain what shape of log pleases her.
For some unaccountable reason the reference to logs reminds me of a time in my teenage years when I once lived at the house of the Reverend Jeff’s family. His mother was a staunch Baptist and often had the vicar around for tea. The Reverend Jeff had rather unkindly deposited a log of a quite different kind, a sort of semi circular deposit, in the toilet just before the vicars visit, much to the chagrin of his mother who spent some time flushing the loo and beating the offending item with a stick to try to flush it away before the weight of imagined church disapproval descended upon her.
Thanks to all of you who came up with ideas to help the English Theatre Company, who will shortly start rehearsals for their first performance in Valbonne on 14th February. I shall be there and apart from a splendid play, you will be able to buy a copy of my book, now at 129 sales and showing a very clear profit.
Golf today takes an unusual form in that I am playing match play in a singles competition under the auspices of the REGS at Grands Bastide. My opponent is Simon O Neill who is a very good golfer, better than I, but unlike some of my bigger bloused girly male friends, I shall not be relying on the handicap system to gain an advantage. No, but I will be using gamesmanship (not be confused the sportsmanship) to pull off an unlikely win, in which case it will be trumpeted widely in this column. Should my tactics fail then I suspect the pressure of content will preclude any mention tomorrow. Perhaps I should covert him to the wonders of saving money on foreign exchange with Currencies Direct?
Chris France
Book planely disliked
There was unprecedented wind last night, a great deal of it probably caused by over indulgence in the Christmas diet, at least that was what the nice lady decorator claimed. The mistral blowing outside was as strong as anything I have seen in the seven years I have lived in France. I suspect I may have to rescue some of the garden furniture from the swimming pool this morning.
Of course wind is an important element in flight and I had some sympathy for some Brits who were due to take off to return to England last evening. I say some, because I have absolutely no sympathy for those people flying back who were responsible for tearing pages out of my book and making paper planes from them during the festive season. In fact I have a picture today of the Wingco in just that despicable act of sacrilege, and although he has remained here in the Cote d’Azur, others are on their way back to the UK in fierce winds. I do hope their flight was comfortable.
The Wingco adjusting pages of my book to suit his purpose
I have decided not to mention Mr Clipboard, Blind (drunk) Lemon Milsted, Master Mariner Mundell, even the smooth Mr Anthony Bay, all of whom may be disturbed to know that I have in my possession damning evidence of their involvement in literary aviation hooliganism at the Auberge St Donat just before the new year. Even the rather less than smooth Paul Thornton “mad professor” Allan now has form in this area.
The South of France English Theatre (SET) has a new sponsorship manager in the form of my good self which is a wonderful piece of luck for them, however they have had some very bad luck as their rehearsal studio in Antibes burned to the ground last week in a fire. This means they are currently scurrying around looking for some where locally to rehearse and to build their set, so if anyone has any ideas, let me know asap! Ideally they need about 100 square metres and they can pay a small rent.
If you know me in any official capacity then expect the sponsorship email today. I have compiled a long list of people and organisations that can benefit from being a sponsor so you have been warned. There is no escape.. The first production launches on Valentines Day, 14th February at the Pres Des Arts in Valbonne after which there will be a musical event. The production will have a second night in Valbonne before moving on to Cannes, Menton, Nice, Fayence and Monaco and I have high hopes that the first sponsor will be Currencies Direct.
I am also in the early stages of preparing for The France Show at Earls Court at the end of next week where I have been asked to sign copies if my book. One hopes that they mean I should sell them first but I have realised that this was not implicit in the invitation. There is the added problem of weight, but with the new diet…I mean of course with the books. 60 books weighs about as much as my luggage allowance, so limited clothing can accompany that nice lady decorator to London, as have she will have to shoulder most of the burden. I need to look my best for my public.
She does not quite see it this way though, and there is the clear danger that she will decide she needs a shopping spree in London. Such are the downsides when one is scaling the heights of successful authorship.
Chris France
Vegetarians not welcome
The best line from the Christmas period came from the BBC’s Mrs Browns Boys claiming that one of Santa’s reindeer was called Richard the brown nose reindeer. It seems he is stationed directly behind Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer but he has trouble stopping.
This seems a suitably apt way to wave goodbye to the Christmas season and with half an eye on regular reader the Reverend Jeff, thank Christ for that. It is all very jolly and great fun for the first few days, the first week even, but the last few days become a marathon and, given the carnage (brought in by eating too much meat?) wrecked on my slender figure, I will need to run several marathons to regain my normal sylph like shape.
We all know that all the fad diets, the gym, and all the other getting back in to shape routines have at their root the three principles of eating less, drinking less alcohol and exercising more, so I have decided to try to embrace these principles for the next ten days. At least I had until a chance conversation yesterday with the Head of Currencies Direct France, the lovely Pippa Maile, who told me that giving up alcohol completely for a period of time was dangerous for the liver. It seems that this fine organ adapts to ones lifestyle and sudden changes to ones routine in regard to ones intake can have an adverse effect, thus I have had to reconsider one part of this worthy triumvirate, and reconsider the planned period of temperance. But as the song says “Two out of three ain’t bad”.
Part of this get thin routine will involve eating loads of vegetables and avoiding red meat and I am concerned that people may mistake me for that weirdest sect, the nearest to the totally weird anorexics, vegetarians. All right-thinking people know that vegetarianism is fundamentally wrong. Has any one ever seen a vegetarian that looks well? I well remember a concert promoter in Aylesbury in my youth who was of this ilk but tried to impose a similarly misguided dietary approach on his pet dog, a Jack Russell, but unknown to our famous impresario, on visits to the house after the pubs had shut and normally with a take away chinese containing spare ribs the little mutt got a quick break from his all vegetable diet…well the poor dog had to have some relief.
The French have little truck with vegetarians, indeed many restaurants locally do not even cater for them, but which diet is recognized as the best in the world, and with the lowest obesity rate in the modern world? France of course, and the Mediterranean diet especially. I was reminded of the French way of dealing with vegetarians when I saw this sign at the end of last year.
Not sure of the middle it, but at the bottom the message is clear for vegetarians
So with both sprogs departing today and getting a very hearty send off from me, I shall be refocusing on work. However before that I shall be going to the airport this morning just to make sure they go. My fridge and larder would be hard pushed to stand another week of teenage onslaught. I am joking of course, it has been great seeing them (albeit briefly and usually when they had run out of money or were raiding my fridge for beers) but all good things must come to an end and its time for them to go back, and I have to make absolutely sure there is no backsliding.
Chris France
Golf in deepest winter
Let’s be straight about it, I won the golf. The public schoolboys who were my companions played their own little game the highlight of which was that they did not seem to be required to putt, such were the long putts they were giving each other. The best comment of the day emanated from the Wingco who, upon seeing one of my magnificent drives caress some leaves on its way to the centre of the fairway, responded to my comment about the tree shivering in anticipation by suggesting that it was more likely shivering at the memory of its lost brothers and sisters that had been pulped to provide pages for my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur”.
It was however an idyllic afternoon in the sunshine and I took this picture from the golf club terrace before we teed off.
St Donat Golf Course, the view from the terrace
Later on we were invited to early evening drinks with Mr Clipboard. Amongst the guests were Mr Humphreys, my style guru, who was free, and whose first reaction was to praise me for my daring choice of attire. Hitherto, he felt he was alone amongst his peers who could carry off the wearing of a petrol blue cashmere (effect) sweater, but it seems in his opinion, which is for me omnipotent when it comes to fashion trends) that I pulled it off (not the sweater).
I did discover a very interesting fact from the lovely Sylvie, wife of the brooding and magnificent Hans the Dutchman. Mr Humphreys has a race horse named after him. How flattering? I am not certain I would view this as quite the honour that Mr Humphreys thought it was. No, it is not jealousy, it’s more the opening up of an endless range of jokes at one’s expense from people like me.I admit that Mr Humphrey’s is an easy target for humour in many respects I mean would you rather be named Ferrari or Shergar? Maserati or Mr Ed? It seems that Mr Humphreys (the horse) is a flat racer which by implication means he is not good over the jumps, do you see where we could go with this?
Also enjoying the finely marshalled drinks and nibbles was Master Mariner Mundell who again took exception to the implication that he may have been involved in bullying. When we were unable to agree about whether this implication would stick he threatened more violence. So, no implication of bullying there then. He did however make manful efforts to sell a second copy of my book without the hoped for success that I had exhibited earlier when the first sale of the evening was sealed, but I suppose that he was not helped by Mr Clipboard finally condemning his copy to a funeral pyre on his living room fire and then taking photographs much to the glee of the other public schoolboys present, who will surely regret their actions, particularly when recent events are referred to in my second book.
So here it is, the final day of festivities for me. A last supper tonight with the sprogs who have extracted vast sums from my wallet and destroyed months of carefully laid in stocks of booze over Christmas before they return to the UK on Thursday. I shall be living a hermit like existence for the next ten days concentrating on my work for Currencies Direct, the promotion of the wonderful Medina Palms and a new venture as sponsorship manager for the South Of France English Theatre whose first production “Barefoot
In The Park” starring the redoubtable Jennifer Wilson takes place in Valbonnes Pre Des Arts on 14th and 15th February. If you care to sponsor this or future events click here.
Chris France
An apology? no, a statement of regret
Master Mariner Mundell telephones to attempt to apologise for the assault on my beard and book which took place at The Auberge St Donat the day before the end of last year and was extensively covered in this column. Seemingly he was distressed by the word my use of the word bullying but how else can you describe being held down by four chaps and having your beard forcibly cut off? I say apologise but later in the evening when I suggested in front of witnesses that he had apologised he back tracked and called it a “statement of regret”. I had to drag the “apology” out of him, in fact I was not certain at first why he had called. Anyway, I told him I accepted his apology and to think no more of it, but of course that is totally disingenuous, I shall be constantly on the look out for an opportunity exact revenge of the most destructive kind.
For only the second time in a month, poor weather returned today and had the effect of postponing the golf until today. Mr Clipboard has organised it and we are to report to St Donat Golf Course for lunch at no later then 12.30, the tee time is 1.58 we shall have completed 9 holes by approximately 3.56 and may have a beer, leaving some 24 minutes for a beer before returning in time to join him for drinks at precisely 5pm. The Wingco, the worst time keeper in history will of course take no apparent notice of the schedule and will no doubt be arriving late comme d’habitude.
He was for instance an hour late for group walk on New Years Day but luckily we had all factored this in when planning when to arrive. The walk was a great success and I managed to take this picture of the old village of Gourdon looking down towards the sea at Cannes. Eat your heart out Mr De Mille.
A view from the hills behind Gourdon down to the sea at Cannes
Today marks the first occasion we will venture out on to the golf course during the festive season. St Donat is the best value golf facility in the area, and has the added advantage of having a fine restaurant on a sunny terrace overlooking a lake with a huge fountain, which reminds me that last night on a short restorative early evening visit to The Queens Legs pub in Valbonne I was faced with another huge fountain, this time of verbal dross emanating from the mouths of Mr Clipboard, the Wingco and Paul Thornton Allan, my opponents today.
The subject was the golf handicap system which I consider is abused by these cowboys whilst I adhere religiously to the spirit of the rules. Again I had to put up with a constantly recurring theme from these three public schoolboys trying to claim the moral high ground whilst actually in the mire. I suggested that I always win against these less talented golfers and they took exception based on the handicap system which is a fad designed to allow them to “compete” with me.
As the argument became more heated, I suggested that today we should abandon the handicap system and play man against man. Of course to no ones surprise this was rejected out of hand which leaves me once again with the spectre of winning but listening to a lot of upper class bleating about how I had lost. Anyway, at least one of them has a large currency transaction to under take (under the auspices of Currencies Direct of course) so in the interests of business I shall probably let them win (in their own minds).
Chris France
Snow found in Gourdon
Despite twice getting lost or “misplacing the route” as that nice lady decorator chose to put it, a large group of hung-over New Years Eve revelers tried to do the right thing and work off some of the excessive consumption from the night before, or even from the preceding week, or indeed in some cases the previous year by having a good walk up the beautiful area in the hills behind Gourdon, between the almost snowless (with the notable exception of my picture today) southern alps and the warm and sunny hinterland of the Cote d’Azur in the hinterland of Cannes.
There was still a great deal of discussion during the walk and especially at a post walk beer stop back in Gourdon about the events that had been visited upon us or rather me on New Years Eve. Regular readers will already be aware and many no doubt upset that my book had been very severely treated by many of my friends in the run up to Christmas, and things did not improve yesterday. Mr Clipboard, who had brought with him the copy of my book which he had bought the day before when it had been mightily abused verbally before been burned, having paper planes made from some of the pages and providing some low quality humour for the large contingent of under achieving public schoolboys present. One does not want to go into details but the insertion of a finger through the cover of my book at a strategic point of my anatomy to imitate a rather large penis captured in yesterdays photo in this column gives you an idea of the level of sophistication of the “humour” involved. Public schoolboys, don’t you just love them?
After the very pleasant walk which had a very good turnout of around a dozen people, many of whom had been present at ours for the new year celebrations, we dropped into a small Auberge at Gourdon for that beer. Amongst our party was the Wingco, still smarting from the revelation (which I felt it my duty to repeat yesterday in the full realisation that said revelation would not find favour) that his wife was an avid reader of this column.
He made this clear by the support he offered Mr Clipboard who continued his abuse of his copy of my book, already bereft of more pages which like the many paragliders above Gourdon had taken to the wind in the form of paper planes again, although the people in flight above this spectacular hilltop village with its views right down to the sea who had taken to the air had made that decision themselves. The pages of my book were not afforded such choice. Anyway, whilst the public schoolboys amused themselves at my expense by using some of the remaining pages as serviettes to mop up spilled beer, I took in the wonderful surroundings, and once the Wingco and his fags had tired of their juvenile humour, I managed to take this picture of a fat man and his friend which I mentioned earlier. I am not prepared to answer questions as to which is which, or who is who.
Wingco finds a new friend
Like an oasis after ten days in the desert I can see redemption a few days away as I intend to have ten days of rest and recouperation from drinking and partying starting on 4th January, after the final social gathering of the festive period and before travelling to London to headline The France Show to sign copies of my book at the exhibition courtesy of Currencies Direct on 14th,15th and 16th January at Earls Court.
Chris France
Book penetration
It was an entirely democratic decision. The most we can seat indoors for a dinner party is 14 if we raid some outside garden furniture, so that’s seven couples. One might think in the modern world that the more chivalrous amongst us, still clinging to age-old conventions of fairness might expect that the nice lady decorator would choose four couples and I would choose three to invite for New Years Eve. What I had not bargained for was her invoking a little known local rule that says the division of choice takes place only after she has invited all seven couples.
Thus amongst the revelers last night not invited by me to welcome in the new year were several people who had abused both myself and my book on the day before. By way of illustration I give you today’s picture once again of Mr Clipboard and my literary output being subjected to rather contemptuous public school boy antics. At least he had the good heart to return the 10 Euros he had stolen from me (he had purchased a copy of “Summer In The Cote D’Azur” from me at the tennis boys lunch at the Auberge St Donat and then the money had disappeared from my wallet after he had destroyed it), but given that the missing euros came in the shape of some seventy coins in a mean plastic bag says something about the spirit of this gesture.
Now, what is happening here?
Chateau Gloria, Grand Cru St Emilion, champagne, Baileys, all were spilled on my floor before the old year had finished and at about 2.40 am this morning after “Won’t Get Fooled Again” by The Who was replaced on the Ipod by The Bee Gees “Staying Alive” I was overcome by a bout of extreme tiredness and headed to bed, however before that I distinctly recall the lovely Maryse who bears the burden of being married to the Wingco, telling all and sundry that she was a regular reader of this column and found it highly amusing. The Wingco himself of course found this revelation unamusing, which given his constant description of this column as “Ghastly” and his stated principled refusal to read it at all was not surprising.
We had fireworks as well, some of the funniest and pathetic examples I have ever witnessed and probably more entertaining as a result. These were thrown into fine contrast as the night sky over Valbonne was alight with a myriad of fireworks being let off all over the village, but not even the rockets we had made it much more than 20 feet into the air, and many went off in the bottles, prompting one party go-er to say it reminded him of how deliveries arrived at a sperm bank. The inspiration for this display had clearly not come from the magnificent London firework display which we had on the TV at 1pm, midnight back in the UK.
So today, a communal walk in the hills behind Gurdon is planned, but already the 11am start time has been delayed and it could be delayed until tomorrow as far as I am concerned. A bloody Mary or two may have to pass my lips before I fund any enthusiasm for such a pastime despite the continuing glorious weather.
A passing mention however must go to a hastily convened game of tennis, indeed a return match yesterday afternoon in which the superiority of the MOGS was once again underlined by a whitewash of the opposition who were at one stage looking at a 6-0 drubbing before a late rally (so to speak). One of our opponents, a banker with the nom du plume George Cavendish is also an author so we decided to swap books, which as I explained later to the disgruntled Wingo meant yet another sale for my heartily abused literary offering, although I did have to explain the principle of barter to him, and I am not certain he grasped it.
I hope you note no mention of Currencies Direct today.
Happy new year!
Chris France
A literary travesty
The tennis lunch at Auberge St Donat yesterday reached an undreamed scale of atrocity. Having won the tennis as predicted against Mr Clipboard on the basis that at one set each when lunch beckoned, the MOGS had secured victory under the Chris France scoring system by dint of winning the first set by a larger margin than losing the second set, the scores being 6-4, 6-7, confirmed also by a simple count back (12-11 in case there are any public schoolboys reading this who still find arithmetic a dark art), I managed to sell a copy of my book to Mr Clipboard.
However, delight at the sale that turned honest endeavour as a writer into success turned to horror when he decided to set fire to his purchase as we enjoyed cognac and grappa after lunch. I knew it was a hot literary offering, but quite how hot I had not appreciated until the flames licked into the content as my picture below captures.
The Nazi's were famous for burning literature, but as you can see the practice is alive and festering in the public schoolboy fraternity
Much amusement was afforded the attendees to the much superior tennis lunch home leg, as opposed to the very boring away fixture last Friday at La Source at Le Rouret, by the ritual burning of a volume of my work, but the real pain I felt later when I discovered that I had been robbed of the 10 Euros (already in two pieces a result of previous tortuous negotiations) which was stolen from my wallet in broad daylight. I say now that I know who is the culprit and would have suggested that I turned out the light and invited the thief to return the money, but with public schoolboys and their pre disposition towards buggery, I decided I would prefer to take the financial loss rather than risking the loss of considerably more dignity should any of then want to revisit their childhood habits.
From this you will have come to accept that at lunch I was surrounded by a number of public school types who had all managed to avoid working for much of their adult lives in complete contrast to yours truly who even today was working, thinking about how best to promote Currencies Direct. Indeed today as I metamorphosed from ordinary author, like a caterpillar into a butterfly and became a successful author as my book turned into a profitable enterprise as a result of four more sales, jealousy of the most green-eyed kind reared its ugly head in a variety of forms. Not only was one of my books summarily burnt as evidenced by my picture today, but also my luxuriant goatee beard, a deeply hated sign of virility much maligned by the largely balding contingent of public schoolboys who surrounded me, was reduced to a mere shadow of its former self by an unwarranted physical assault on my person. I will now forever be aware of the deep hurt suffered by Tom Brown in his school days as I was roasted on the fire of jealousy which has built up ever since I, a mere council house boy, had his book published.
The more literary accomplished (but only in their own minds) coterie of public schoolboys simply could not bear to witness a poorly educated upstart eclipse them in the literary stakes so they had to revert to public schoolboy bullying of the most unpleasant kind to assuage their own lamentable lack of literary achievement. I suppose it could have been worse as one of them in an alcoholic haze made the statement that “the rich boys will lay waste to your bottoms”. Old habits die hard (so to speak).
Chris France
Fed up with Christmas?
As predicted, as soon as some Brits jet in to the Cote d Azur and the beautiful weather we have been experiencing for almost a month suffered a slight hiccup. Yes, there were some clouds in the sky yesterday, even a little rain, a very unwelcome departure from the sunshine festival we have been experiencing. Mr Clipboard and has family have arrived, however it seems that after a blip yesterday, normal sunny conditions will return in time for tennis this morning when the MOGS (Moustachiod Old Gits) in the shape of myself and the Wingco will once again stamp their authority on the tennis court, before adjourning for lunch at Auberge St Donat in Plascassier.
We are nearing the end of the first phase of hostilities festivities with Christmas behind us and on the madness surrounding New Years Eve to come and I was sent this picture recently by a regular reader of this column which seems to sum up Christmas by this time in the proceedings. He insisted I did not reveal its source and used it only after 29th of December when the festively festooned miscreant had left to return to the UK as he was less than keen to be identified, so I promised Peter Lynn that I would not mention where this came from or whose step-son was the culprit. Nothing I have written here should be misconstrued as a potential clue to unmask the subject of this photo, My New Years Resolution concerning inappropriate use of information has not yet come into force.
One up to Santa!
Just as I had sat down to enjoy a quiet night in, the phone rang and Mr Clipboard and lovely wife Ashley were at the other end claiming that their boiler had broken down, they were cold and wondered if they might pop in for a glass of wine and a warm. I am nothing if not warm-hearted, and overcome by the festive season and the need to extend goodwill to all men, even Mr Clipboard, I welcomed them in to feed and water them. Later, as news of my largesse extended, some other poor unfortunates arrived hotfoot from windy and wet Britain. The Thornton Allans had been spending Christmas in Cornwall (why?) and were in need of some decent wine. Thus my whole quiet evening was thrown into disarray, and not for the first time. Given the short notice I made the mistake of not hiding several bottles of a grand cru St Emilion that I had put aside for New Years Eve, and the eagle-eyed Mr Clipboard spotted them during an inspection of the kitchen facilities and set about them with the thirst of a man who has been in the desert for too long. By desert of course I mean the UK where he resides, happily he assures me through gritted teeth.
The tennis lunch return leg will take place today, which is another reason why I wanted a quiet night in last night, as lunch today is likely to be lively at the very least. Having just looked out of the window I see bright sunshine, but it also windy, a touch of the mistral if I am not mistaken. This of course will make tennis, which always takes place outside down here, a tad interesting, especially for a renowned lobber like me. Judging the wind strength for all my high shots will put me at a disadvantage, but I am still convinced that the MOGS (the moustachiod Old Gits) will stride victorious from the Vignale clay at precisely 12.45 (according to Mr Clipboard). eight for lunch at the Auberge St Donat in the Christmas season, it could get bloody.
Chris France
Jacobs Creek?
At least I realised before I made the call to Apple to complain about my new Ipad camera not working. Every photo I tried to take was black, but luckily, before making that call I realised that the rather nice black cover was still on the ipad and covering the camera lens. It is a mistake which anyone with my limited affinity with technology will sympathise.
I have history when it comes to new fangled technology. My run in with the ipod reminded me of long ago when I took delivery of my first fax machine at my office in the west end of London in the early 1990’s. The delivery driver had to dash in and dash out being on a double yellow line before I had a chance to ask him how it worked. Cursing, I reached for the instructions, the first of which was to remove all packing tape. I ripped out all this white tape that was in the machine, plugged it in and didn’t work. I rang the supplier angrily who calmed me down and then asked me exactly what I had done and when I told him I had followed the instructions and removed the tape he said “there was no tape to remove, it was ready to plug in and use”. Then I could hear him holding the phone up to his amused factory audience and saying “so you ripped out all the control leads and now it won’t work?” I can still hear the huge guffaw that rang out around the factory.
I was also guilty of saying to my ex partner when he installed email into our office at around the same time “what a complete waste of time, I will never use it”.
Anyway, with further embarrassment narrowly avoided, and with the sun still shining brightly, that nice lady decorator suggested a walk along the coastal path at Antibes for where I took this picture of the short piece of the path that was open, much of it having been damaged in the storms in the autumn. As you can see there is a great deal of firewood on the shore line and indeed a number of people were busily collecting it in wheelbarrows and trailers. I suggested to that nice lady decorator that perhaps we should join them, but quickly formed an alternative opinion when I caught her eye.
Driftwood on the beach near Antibes
Later at home in Valbonne in the evening and with no social engagements for once (hurrah!) we were treated to the spectacle of the lovely Stacy Soloman, in intelligence terms several sandwiches short of a full picnic appearing on Celebrity Mastermind. The delicious prospect of the bubbly and vivacious Stacy, winner of various TV talent shows and “I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here” where she has constantly exhibited an endearing stupidity that seems to have struck a chord with the great British unwashed. She got off to a great start answering questions about The Inbetweeners TV series and film. I doubted that she would take the works of Keats as a subject and her chosen area of expertise suited her well. I am a big fan of the series and watched the film on Christmas day with my kids. Only people who have seen the programme can know who excruciating my teenagers found the experience.
Stacy’s classic answer came in the first question of the general knowledge section; “name the area of northern France famous for its sparkling wine” intoned John Humphries the presenter. After a little prompting the answer came; “Jacobs Creek?” A comic highlight of the Christmas season.
Chris France
Full, but not in a nice way
Even better than “Happy drunk, I’m Christmas, I saw this on Adam Batterbee’s Facebook yesterday which seems to sum up Christmas excess rather well; “The last time I was this full I was partaking in some very niche pornography.” This reflects exactly how I have been feeling since Christmas day and it has not stopped.
Full is a very good description of how I felt after we arrived home from the Buftons following a very unexpected but very welcome last-minute lunch. The more attentive readers of this column may recall that yesterday there was nothing in the communal diary for the day, but a phone call at around 1pm, just as we were contemplated opening something festive proved too much to resist. Roly and Lesley Bufton had decided to curry the Christmas left overs and needed some people to help them out with the eating of said remains. We are nothing if not hungry and thirsty helpful so felt it our duty to help some friends in need. So after a smidge of champagne, a rather nice St Emilion Grand Cru, Pouilly Fouisse and several other offerings upon which I was eventually rather too “tired” to focus on, we arrived home to the Mary Celeste.
Where were the insatiable hordes of children and their manic hordes of friends who had plagued us for over a week? Had they finally emptied all the fridges of everything edible and drinkable (not necessarily in that order)?. It turns out that it was the turn of some other poor parents who were to be subjected to their careful constructed collective attentions and whoever they were they had all my sympathy. That and my thanks. My thanks because for at least one night over the festive period it was not my responsibility for the feeding of the 5000.
Its Christmas and, after al, we do have the myth of Jesus Christ to thank for allowing us an excuse for excess. You may think that avid and regular reader and contributor to the comments section the Revered Jeff may have some objection to a biblical reference in this column compiled by an atheist of the first order, but he must surely be pleased for me to refer to this obviously believable event in favourable terms. I have been to Glastonbury and I know how little food is required to survive for days on end, as long as there are copious amounts of drugs available for sustenance. Perhaps that is why the story of such a big biblical crowd were so easily satisfied? Maybe Jesus’s minders were handing out the ganja?
Talking of mind bending properties, I wonder what the artist or creator of this piece of artwork below was consuming? It is a mural (or muriel as one of my oldest friends always describes them) which has been etched onto the walls of popular pizzeria the Valbonnaise in Valbonne. I have yet to work out its full meaning but the positioning of the meat cleaver is a worry. Also what is the significance of the words “French house” in English in such a parochial though charming place, one of the few places in Valbonne where little or no English is spoken?
So, whats happening here then?
Once again today there is nothing in the diary although tennis was discussed with the Wingco yesterday, so perhaps I will spend the day with the new love of my life, the Ipad, my Christmas present from that nice lady decorator or Iwife. I don’t know what made me think of it and it is not something that could apply to me but when a marriage comes to an end, could that be construed as the limit of her shelf wife?
Chris France
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