Happy drunk, I’m Christmas
“Happy drunk, I’m Christmas” was the best comment I saw on Xmas day on Mellisssa Graves Facebook page and I think it had a resonance with many of my friends. Happy drunk seems to sum up a number of my friends, indeed some of my family so the ideal antidote to the usual Christmas excess was a stiff walk, preferably involving some steep hills.
Cipieres is a beautiful village in the hills above Gurdon and below Greoliere where despite no visible signs of snow from where we were it seems Greoliere Les Neiges, the small ski resort above the old village, have a couple of ski runs open. The walks are breathtaking, and by that apart from being very beautiful and dramatic I mean so steep they take your breath away so the final piece of the antidote to walk-induced thirst was to buy a beer in the sunshine at Les Ormeau, one of the restaurants in the village.
As you can see from today’s picture few of the locals were out and about, Boxing Day not being a holiday here. I tried to think of anywhere in Britain, given the sunny weather, where such a beautiful place with a sweet local restaurant or bar could be so deserted on Boxing Day but answer came their none.
Cipieres in the sunshine
There is now the prospect of something quite abnormal happening over the next few days, I am so jaded after the build up to and execution (is that the right word?) of Christmas, I am actually glad that there is no social occasion in my diary until Friday 30th (subject to the receipt of a schedule from Mr Clipboard below) when the home leg of the tennis chaps lunch will be held at Auberge St Donat. I say return leg because the away fixture was held last Friday at the somewhat more expensive and nowhere near as good La Source (as one of our fellow tennis chaps described as The Sauce, and I think he was referring to the amount of rose wine he is renowned for consuming. I cannot name names, but Master Mariner Mundell may be squirming a little as he reads this).
Anytime now, certainly before the end of the day as I alluded to above I shall be hearing from Mr Clipboard who will be flying in from the UK later in the week no doubt with the effect of destroying our current run of lovely weather. It is startling how often a nice run of weather suddenly comes to an end as soon as some Brits come to visit. I know the weather forecast is set fair well into the new year but this takes no account of the Brits being able to bring terrible weather with them.
This will not be his intention I admit, and a full schedule of events, tennis, golf, eating and drinking, will doubtless be emailed to me three times today (Mr Clipboard does like to do things in triplicate). This trait of his only became apparent when he moved back to the UK a year or so ago and it was stunning how quickly he lost that laid back attitude that is the hallmark of an ex pat living here in paradise. Thus I expect tennis to take place on Friday morning at exactly 10.45, lunch to follow precisely at 12.30 and for us all to have had haircuts and cleaned our tennis whites ready for inspection on Friday morning. Of course we will have to tell the Wingco that tennis starts at around 10.15 otherwise he, who takes the ex pat laid back style to new heights, even to the appearance of ganja induced relaxation, will be late and we will all be on a charge.
Today however, l shall be studying events in the media relating to currency movements so that I am able to re invigorate my activities for Currencies Direct in the new year.
Chris France
Fire breathing moths
Any suggestion that I had ever in the past described the Apple Ipad as a nonsense piece of brilliant marketing for a new fad that was absolutely useless, and was a triumph for hype over value (a concept that many suggest would amply demonstrate my self orchestrated promotion of my first book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur”) is entirely without foundation. The Ipad is of course the most wonderful invention ever known to man and Steve Jobs its creator should be ordained as a saint immediately at this very festive and religious time of year.
If I have inadvertently in the past ever conveyed any opinion to the contrary then this was clearly either a mistake or has been misinterpreted by my readership. Hence the very generous and completely unexpected gift of that self same item, that vital piece of technology from that nice lady decorator to me for Christmas was some kind of recognition that as a thrusting entrepreneur living in a difficult economic environment in a foreign country I must keep abreast of the latest technology which is so important to the development of my responsibilities for Currencies Direct and Medina Palms.
With two Ipads now in the family, and with that nice lady decorator now receiving and reading this column every day she can now be certain that there will never be a disparaging remark about her and my undying love for her as my life partner and best friend, plus her vivacious outgoing personality and her great figure and classic good looks will be trumpeted regularly and certainly until she becomes bored with reading this daily drivel. I give it a week.
The weather has remained stunning, allowing us to partake of champagne in the web before lunch, my son and I both resplendent in our Kenyan lounging trousers, gifts for Christmas which marks a radical and welcome change from the woolly pullovers of dubious design which have been visited upon as in years past. Cognac for me sums up the Christmas spirit, accompanied by some of Cuba’s finest, a Montechristo No 2 the king of cigars followed by a descent into sleepy contentment, although waking up to find the lounging trousers covered in brandy and ash holes was a little less welcome. My father used to blame ash holes in his shirt as damage caused by fire-breathing moths. I think I shall do the same.
In the run up to Christmas during a dinner at the Valbonnaise, the friendly family run great fun great value but still too brightly lit restaurant for people of a certain age, I took this picture of their festive lighting which shows that they have taken notice of my criticisms.
Christmas lights at the Valbonnaise
Christmas at home in Valbonne with the family was the usual drinking and eating affair which I love. That nice lady decorator tucked into an eye-wateringly expensive Mersault which even I, a very fussy white wine drinker was allowed a sip, whilst a red, a magnum of Grand Cru St Estephe marked out my area of special responsibility. The sprogs were blissfully unaware of the quality of that nice lady decorators’ preferred tipple and I am sure they were both happy with a rather nasty chardonnay, with a bouquet reminiscent of cats piss and a taste of old cats fur, which pretty much sums up my feelings on most chardonnay generally.
The traditional walk on Boxing Day awaits, but the French mostly go back to work today, the 26th not being a designated bank holiday. Being English and cherry picking the traditions of both countries for my own personal benefit, I shall be at rest today, except for bringing this not to be missed column.
Merry Christmas!
Chris France
Christmas Eve in Valbonne
Who the hell was it that gave that french bloke a microphone? Once again we felt it necessary to enjoy the unseasonably warm sunshine and take lunch in Valbonne Square, which was lovely except for the French guy who had found a microphone from somewhere and proceeded to cast a cloud of noise and feedback over proceedings. This was no digital cloud, this was a noisy cloud or rather a noisy clot.
Lunch extended into the evening, as is not unusual amongst the ex pat community of the south of France. Unfortunately, the Wingco, whose time keeping, or rather lack of it, is renowned locally, managed to miss lunch and post lunch drinks completely. He telephoned to find out where everyone was at about 7pm just after we had left and as the Cafe Des Arcades was closing, he having been unaccountably been delayed for lunch I think by traffic, despite his current abode being some 30 meters from Valbonne Square where the gathering was had taken place and where no cars are allowed. I totally understand the reasons why he could be some five hours late for lunch given traffic conditions locally, but then I am notoriously easy going.
We had been enjoying a festive lunch with Melissa Graves, her husband Nigel, their Welsh gardener Iuean and some parents, but the parents of whom was not immediately clear. Over lunch Melissa told me that she always enjoyed this column, especially as she always used to get the blog just before tuning in to the Jeremy Kyle show on the BBC, but she found this column just as addictive. I was not certain how to take this comment as I hate the Jeremy Kyle show with a fierce loathing, but to be bracketed with a very successful programme by probably the best known broadcaster in the world was in some ways a double-edged sword.
There was a small problem when sale no 119 of my book was about to complete to the parents in question at lunch as a result of the brilliant sales pitch about my book and Currencies Direct I had made to the older Graves, but the penultimate step towards break even was impeded by the young Mellissa who absolutely forbade me from completing the sale for reasons I cannot reveal until after Christmas. All I can say is that it seems that Father Christmas may be bringing a very special present for some lucky visiting parents this morning. I took this picture of the lights over Valbonne Square as I dealt with my disappointment.
Valbonne Square at night
With Christmas Eve traditional in France a time for families and a family dinner, most places close down on Christmas Eve, so we adjourned to ours with our children who were similarly forced home and had to endure the company of their parents for the evening, so an uneasy peace descended and most of us were in bed by 10pm.
Tired out from recent celebrations, I went bed to dream but for some reason I dreamed of the lovely Maryse, wife of the Wingco, and what she told us recently about playing around with notorious Liverpudlian footballing icon Kevin Keegan at the height of his Reverend Jeff curly-perm like days. When I interjected to clear up any misunderstand about what “playing around” might mean, I was fixed with a manly stare by the Wingco which I thought I should perhaps read as a warning. It transpires that according to Maryse that she played a round of golf with the mega permed one, but as she claims never to have had a golf lesson, I have my suspicions.
Chris France
Hey Santa!
As I drove into Valbonne yesterday morning that old chestnut” I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day” was playing on Riviera Radio and I just knew it was going to be a good day. I was headed for the English Book Centre in Valbonne for another book signing session, the sun was out and the village was buzzing with the Christmas market as I have attempted to capture in today’s photograph. Another seven sales of the book takes me within two sales of the break even point, and if the thing makes a profit I will justifiably be able to change my title from author to successful author.
Christmas market in Valbonne
On the way across from the parking in Valbonne I passed Cafe Latin where I encountered a large gathering for “church”, the last chance to worship coffee on a Friday before Christmas. Amongst those in the congregation was my style guru Neil Humphreys who I discovered, when I asked, was free. He immediately honed in on my purple cashmere (effect) sweater which I had put on in a fit a colour blindness earlier. He was very impressed and drew attention to my comments in past columns about his rare ability to wear purple and not be considered camp, at least by a few people. I told him that I was in awe of this macho ability but he seemed unimpressed. He did however introduce me to a local builder whose name is, and I kid you not, Chris Chicken and his lovely wife Mrs Chicken. I asked after his brother, Kentucky Fried but I am afraid to say I received the sort of look that said I should be up before the beak. Being in the soup I took stock of the situation and with ruffled feathers decided that should be enough chicken jokes for today.
Christmas tennis lunch was taken at La Source near Le Rouret and as decent as it was there was still no real comparison with the traditional venue Auberge St Donat the spiritual home for post tennis lunch. Regular readers will know that I attended under protest. The Wingco and I made the decision that the real Xmas tennis lunch should take place at the traditional venue the following Friday where, contrary to La Source, there would be no choice of food, indeed I spotted Master Mariner Mundell who is a tennis player, after a fashion, seemed all at sea when actually having to choose what to eat, an irritation missing from lunch at the Auberge St Donat.
With the sprogs inviting hordes of friends over last night an escape route was required so we tunnelled out and headed up to the Queens Legs for a pint, collecting another customer for Currencies Direct, (you see, always working) a quick look in La Fontaine du Vin, an annual visit to ensure its status in my eyes as an overpriced but sleeping opportunity of a wine bar that could be so much better than it is, before remembering that we were invited to the Wingo’s town house for a festive glass or two.
Within a short time, his guitar was out and we were regaled with improvised Christmas versions of old rock classics, the most memorable of which was “Hey Santa” with more than a passing nod to the Jimi Hendrix Experience “Hey Joe”, the Wingco’s version enshrining the immortal line “what you doing with that sack in your hand”. That lead to the tasteless and unfounded suggestion that Gary Glitter, is well-known for leaving children bedrooms with an empty sack. It was at this stage I decided I had heard enough and headed to bed.
Chris France
Church emerges from darkness
With the sun out and the Christmas market underway in the old village of Valbonne, the temptation to sit in the sunshine at lunchtime at the Cafe Des Arcades in the old square was hard to resist, so we decided not resist and instead commenced the Christmas festivities a few days early by taking lunch at the Cafe Des Arcades.
Last night we had seen a tantalizing glimpse of the light show that is enveloping the village, which I hope my picture today captures. It will continue every evening until Christmas Eve. the light show is part of the festive activities surrounding the Christmas market that continues daily until 5pm on Christmas Eve. There is also the prospect of the commune offering free vin chaud both tomorrow and on Saturday and as a Valbonne tax payer it will be my duty to drink back as much of my tax as possible.
Valbonne church in the limelight
Whilst we were enjoying the sunshine outside in Valbonne Square, still incredulous after seven years here that on a sunny day one can lunch outside even on the shortest day of the year, suddenly beside us was Currencies Direct customer Master Mariner Mundell with a women other than his godlike wife Zillah in tow. It transpires that the lady in question was his mother which turned out to be a source of amusement for me but not for him and material for this column.
The Master has a growing reputation as a potential naughty boy, always up for a long lunch and with a prodigious appetite for consuming copious amounts of rose wine and looking for adventure late in the evening, even leaving that other great bon viveur the Wingco in his wake on a recent night out in London according to the two accounts I have heard, one from the Wingco and one from the Master. Thus the presence of his mother allowed me gently to question him about recent activities which, given his body language of folded arms and his constant squirming gave me some indication that his mother was under the impression that butter would not melt in his mouth, and his discomfort as stories of his excesses unfolded in front of his matriarch was clear for all to see. Having fixed him with an icy stare as his true nature was unveiled she made an attempt to change the subject and made the mistake of asking about my occupation and when I told her I was an author (the term writer received some abuse yesterday in the comments section of this column) she asked what I had written, and when I told her about “Summer In the Cote d’Azur” she demanded a signed copy on the spot taking sales to 112. This did not amuse the Master who is notoriously tight, and not a fan of kind of literary genius that is evident in all my work.
The lovely thing about mothers is that universally they love to talk about their children. This one was no exception. Also universally, children the world over are often embarrassed by their parents, particularly when the parent reveals what they think are sweet stories about their offspring. So I now have some currency on the bribery bank, which will be withdrawn at some time in the future, if necessary.
So today will be your last opportunity to secure that signed copy of my book for Christmas, well this Christmas at least, so hopefully see loads of you who have not yet done the decent thing and purchased a copy later this morning at the English Book Centre in Valbonne.
Chris France
Walking in a winter wonderland
With not a drop touching my lips on Tuesday evening, I was up and out of bed at the crack of nine yesterday morning and up for a good walk up the San Peyre Church at Mandelieu in the wonderful winter weather where I took today’s picture. From the top you can see right across the Mediterranean to Cannes and Antibes and behind that snow on the mountains of the southern Alps, a very uplifting sight for a tired old writer.
A fab day in winter on the Cote d'Azur
The bad news is that there are a lot of shops in Mandelieu and I don’t think that nice lady decorator missed one of them. Amongst those I can recall visiting before I glazed over and lost the will to live was the Asian supermarket where we bought boned (soon to be crispy) duck, chow mein and terriaki chicken for our planned less than traditional Christmas lunch. Personally I find eating turkey as pleasant as eating a mixture of cardboard and plasterboard, utterly dry and uninteresting, so a departure from tradition in this instance is OK by me.
After that, lumberjack duties called as a large oak by the swimming pool needed my attention. Aided by sprog 1, he was less than amused as I broke into that fine old Monty Python song “I’s a lumberjack and I’m alright” . The line he most objected to was “put on women’s clothing and hang around in bars”. That is the problem with the youth of today, no sense of humour. Thereafter I paid some attention to my dwindling Currencies Direct duties before Christmas, tidying up the last details of Medina Palms (that wonderful investment opportunity on the Indian Ocean in Kenya), and a brief planning session for my book signing on Friday at The English Book Centre in Valbonne.
The big news was dinner last night up at Chateauneuf De Grasse with Wayne Brown and Lucy. She is gorgeous and a fantastic cook. He is a Tottenham Hotspur supporter, need I say more? Somerset Maughan once described the south of France as a “sunny place for shady people”, so it was rather ironic to discover that Wayne, the creator of on line magazine FR2Day, has rented a flat in Somerset, otherwise there could be no connection between Wayne, Somerset the writer and Somerset the county and I will fight anyone who suggests there may be.
With that nice lady decorator in the later planning stages for her Miche Bag drinkathon for the girls (anyone interested, let me know?) on Friday lunchtime, the invitation to lunch with some of my tennis cohorts at the same time was an uplifting moment. However, there is mutiny in the ranks. A suggestion has been made that we go to La Source at Le Rouret rather than the Auberge St Donat, and it appears there are a few votes for this alternative venue. To me this is sacrilege and should not be contemplated. Traditionally all year, Friday has been Auberge Day, so to forsake it on the Friday before Xmas is totally unacceptable break with routine and I will not countenance it, unless of course there is a simple majority of those wishing to get to the Source, in which case I will go along with it, but only to emphasise the value of democracy.
Tonight we are going to venture into Valbonne as things are stirring. On the way through last night there was a huge light show lighting up the church and the mairie, and the 3 day Christmas Market has started which is a beautiful spectacle with red carpets throughout the old village centre and stalls lining most of the pretty cobbled streets. I feel a dinner coming on.
Granny racing?
The annual hunt for Christmas presents worthy of ones friends and family is a constant challenge but is now firmly underway. Inspiration can come from anywhere, and personally I find shops are not the most fertile of places for ideas. Sometimes, when least expecting it you just see something and you just know it is perfect. Just such an event took place on Monday evening whilst enjoying the Currencies Direct first annual Christmas dinner in the old town in Nice. Pictures allegedly exist of that evening but due to a day spent threatening, cajoling and bullying I am reasonably confident none will reach the public domain. My excuse for consuming what an ex girl friend used to call “an elegant sufficiency” was that my driver for the evening, the diminutive Christine Bryant, had earlier revealed that her night vision was really quite poor. When, you may ask did she revel this quite pertinent fact? Just as we reached 80 miles (120 kms) per hour in the middle lane of the A8, our local motorway on the way to Nice. Some justification then I would contend for attempting to block out the return journey.
We were all charged with bringing a gift to exchange at the end of the evening. If you have read yesterday’s column then you will know that as a result the new Managing Director of Currencies Direct is now the proud owner of a signed copy of my book. Not for him joining the inevitable queues that will form outside the English Book Centre in Valbonne this coming Friday where I shall once again be providing an opportunity to purchase a perfect and personalised gift. I myself was not quite so lucky. I received some oil in a spam tin, the use of which escapes me, but will probably come in handy for burnishing a saddle if I had one, but one lucky person secured an intriguing gift which I picture today.
Christmas party games, a new twist in place of twister?
Granny Racing looks like it could be great fun, but I wonder what it entails? Does one race against a granny or does one back ones own granny against someone else’s? I wish I had received that gift if only to find out what it was all about.
Yesterday I was suffering from a delayed Monday hangover. Because I was forced to go out to that dinner on Monday evening, the usual Sunday induced Monday hangover hung over until Tuesday, ie yesterday. Thus I decided with the festive season just about to envelope us all that I would have a quiet night in, well as quiet as is possible when in the company of that nice lady decorator with a party to organise. The Friday lunchtime exclusive Miche Bag presentation at our house has had its exclusivity watered down to the extent that anyone lacking the Y chromosome appears to have been invited. She has worked it out carefully. I will be sent out to get the champagne and pay for it, whilst she will receive any commission that may be earned from any sales. As that irritating Riviera Radio advert says at the moment “Its a good arrangement”, for her anyway, I have not yet managed to identify any benefits accruing to me.
Before a dinner engagement in Chateauneuf this evening, I have rashly agreed to go to Mandelieu this morning where I suspect I shall be subjected to the torment that is called Christmas shopping. I shall only be content if I can find my very own Granny Racing kit. I shall want to the fastest one, in fact an old Monty Python sketch featuring Hell’s Grannies comes to mind.
Chris France
Hokey Cokey season
I have been endeavouring to secure reviews for my book over the past few weeks with varying amounts of success but yesterday Matt Frost from French mortgage Xpress told me that he had lunched with one of my contemporaries (he would not reveal which) who has described my book thus; “as intellectually challenging as reading The Dandy with a hangover”.
Has anyone ever heard of this book, ” A Dandy With A Hangover”? or who wrote it? I am afraid I have not but if it is that intellectually challenging, then I must seek it out, even if it has as its subject a gay chap with a drink problem.
Today could have been described in those terms as well. A lovely day, fine and dandy but the inevitable Monday hangover spoiling the splendid if rather cold weather. The problem with a hangover is that one does not always enjoy the day as much as one would without it and one tends to begin to question ones very existence, a fact summed up beautifully by this picture that I nicked from old friend LindseyWesker’s Facebook page.
Well, is it?
Robert Degan, who is credited with writing the Hokey Pokey or the Hokey Cokey as it is known in England died about two years ago in USA. In the funeral parlour as the undertakers readied the coffin they tried to put the left leg in, and that’s when the trouble started.
Last night to Nice to a very nice Italian restaurant called La Favolae in the Cours Soleya in the old town to meet up with the Currencies Direct team and the new Managing Director for the first annual company Christmas dinner, preceded by a wallet raid by fellow Currencies Direct Regional Controller Christine Bryant who is also the French agent for Miche bags, a hand bag phenomenum that is consuming USA at the moment so now there is a gaggle of girls coming around on Friday to see a bigger selection of these items with changeable magnetic exteriors. Anyway, as a nod towards the fast looming festering season I dug out a sparkly black tie that I have not worn for over ten years to go with my black jeans and my black dominatrix shirt and thought that I was looking quite good until our Currencies Direct leader in France, Pippa Maile described my outfit as “Madonna meets men In Black”. I had not realised just how god I looked, I should have taken photographs for my style guru Mr Humphreys to see (if he was free).
Before arriving for dinner, each of the nine diners were asked to wrap up a present with a value of not more than 10 euros to exchange on the night, so what better than a copy of my book, autographed of course, which in on seasonal offer at exactly that price? The tell-tale shape was spotted by almost all delegates who were all understandably keen to get their hands on it, but in the end the lucky recipient was the new Managing Director of Currencies Direct whom I know was delighted.
Just five more shopping days until Christmas which means that if you are the average man you will spend four days thinking about what to buy and then a mad scramble to buy it all on Christmas Eve. I o not feel like the average man, no, I am somewhat below average, so all my shopping will be done in the afternoon of the 24th. The shopping list will include all those vital items to ensure Christmas goes well, cigars and good wine, nothing else matters.
Chris France
Bing Crosby, Sarkozy shock?
On Saturday night we made a last minute decision to drop in to the Queens Legs in Valbonne. That nice lady decorator suddenly developed a hankering for a pint of Guinness, so I was dragged along, mainly it must be said to pay, and also to pay respect to that nice lady decorator’s sudden craving of almost pregnancy scale proportions. Obviously when it comes to thoughts about pregnancy at my age then I……think I will finish this sentence there. Had I not, then sentence may have been the operative word.
Christmas is a weird time of year, when sights you would not normally see, or would immediately report to the police are common place. Where, for instance, and in what circumstances other than at Christmas time would one be happy to have ones young child bounce up and down on the knee of a weird old man with a long beard, a red shiny suit and a long beard? Especially if he was offering sweets for some indeterminate reason?
In that context, I invite you to examine the picture I took in the Queens Legs of a figure languishing behind the bar. I am told that it is supposed to be a representation of old dead crooner Bing Crosby in a Father Christmas outfit, and indeed when pressed it did sing a rather poor version of White Christmas, but one has to consider the appalling possibility which sprang into my mind. Could this really be the a caricature of the current President of France, the scourge of the British economy, our very own President Sarkozy? and why is he holding a ski pole? Perhaps it was one Guinness too far.
Is Bing Crosby's secret lovechild really the President of France?
Yesterday, the sprogs instigated a lunch for their friends and the parents of their friends at our expense and at our house. This effectively means that we were invited to a lunch at our house, at which we were expected to cook and to provide sustenance of both a solid and a liquid kind and to which what seemed like every teenager in Valbonne decided they had been invited. Amongst the token parents who were in evidence were Simon and Sarah Howes who brought as a gift a traditional poinsettia which was slightly bigger than our house and which probably required a crane to deliver to our home. I forgave them as they also brought 3 bottles of Chateau Gloria, two of which fell by the wayside during the afternoon. the other I have secreted for entirely selfish reasons and will be opened when I am not surrounded by teenage vultures that want to try it.
Also present were Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs now a happy Currencies Direct customer and his loving wife Pat. I asked him what he expected to invent over Christmas but he had not yet decided. He has however decided to take two weeks off over the festive period, something that he has never done before. Bearing in mind his claimed importance in administering the internet I asked what would happen to it over Christmas if he was not at his post ensuring that his invention was functioning correctly. He dropped a bombshell by revealing that the internet will close down on Christmas Eve and remain closed until 6th January for routine maintenance. I think you can tell by this slurred statement that the combined effects of Chateau Gloria, a Grand Cru St Emilion a Sautern and perhaps even a Bailey’s had begun to magnify his megalomania.
All’s well that ends well though, and it ended well before bedtime, but well after dark.
Chris France
Teenage mistral madness
Wind enveloped us last night, the mistral proving to be as destructive in its own way as the kind of wind generated after a curry, blowing over garden furniture, a bit off the roof of the pav and a couple of tiles off the roof. The good news is that when it is windy like that, the sky is usually the clearest blue and the light of that very special quality that you find in the South Of France and which doubtless attracted so many of the worlds greatest painters to the area over the centuries. I attempted to capture that sense of clarity with my photo today.
Blue sky in the Valmasque forest
Whereas the sky was clear almost everything else in my world on a Saturday was muddled due to the arrival home of both sprogs. Much as I enjoyed seeing them, the novelty wore off after about five minutes. Older parents will recognise the ominous signs of their return to the fold; unwashed dishes, the kitchen a disaster area, dirty washing piled up to the ceiling, no room on the sofa because of a steaming pile of late teenage indolence. As soon as they arrive home every friend from miles around turns up to drink my beers, turn my house into a pigsty, commandeer the Sky remote and generally do all manner of things to force myself and that nice lady decorator out of our house. Don’t you just love them?
Under this intolerable pressure we sought refuge in The Queens Legs and that is the case for the defence.
Even there, solace was temporary because having drunk all the beers in my fridges they suddenly woke up to the fact that it was Happy Hour at The Queens until 8pm, and the great unwashed hordes descended upon the place forcing us in the opposite direction.
Today, being a Sunday, lunch is being prepared. I know this to be the case because that nice lady decorator has been wrestling with an eleven kilo leg of pork for a couple of days (now there is an interesting concept) and I am quietly confident that even the starving student hordes and a few of their parents will not be able to finish that at a single session. I have found a couple of magnums of a grand cru St Estephe so will seek solace in red wine induced sense obliteration this afternoon.
The last week before Christmas is upon us and I feel it only fair that I gradually wind down from the hectic work schedule that I have been engaged in throughout the year. However before that deceleration I still have some duties to carry out, and dinner in Nice with the new Managing Director of Currencies Direct on Monday is one such engagement. Clearly he will want my insight into where I think currencies are going and he will no doubt be interested to hear that 18 months ago I predicted the end of the euro as it was then, and the return of the drachma, the escudo (the old Portuguese currency) and the lira and perhaps the Irish punt. I have not changed my mind, and the peseta may also be a candidate for rebirth.
There are I think 6 of us attending and we have all been asked to wrap up a present with a value not in excess of 10 euros to exchange on the night. I think there was a message in that request, because what item do I now have on sale at the seasonal reduced price of exactly 10 Euros? Why my book of course, so someone is going to get a real surprise treat when they open that, especially as it is signed by the author.
Chris France
Postman’s problem at Christmas
So to the English Book Centre to do some signing of copies of my book, “Summer In The Cote d’Azur” in time for Christmas. One potential customer was initially scared off after having a look at the content which after some consideration she described as follows; “sounds like a lot of bitching to me”, a comment which I thought was slightly harsh but fair, but to my delight she then returned and bought one for her “miserable” husband whom she thought “deserved it”. I have been encouraging reviews of the book on-line, and this is at least a review of a kind. Another review of a more ethereal kind manifested itself in the form of a power cut during proceedings which I am sure the Reverend Jeff would interpret as divine intervention.
After the maelstrom of the signing ceremony, I dropped in for coffee with Matt Frost at French Mortgage Xpress to discuss the momentous news that we have secured dates in March at the Pre Des Arts in Valbonne for a comedy improvisation show, which we hope may feature Eddie Izzard. Now we have the dates we need to secure some performers! With the news this week that quality English theatre is coming to the area, Valbonne is indeed becoming the arts centre of the Cote d’Azur.
My favourite cross word clue relates to the forthcoming festive period; postman’s problem at Christmas? How many letters? Answer; bloody millions. Given that backdrop it is perhaps not hard to sympathise with the postmen when they are on their rounds at this time of year. So with that in mind, I would not like to criticise our own postman for abandoning his motorbike in the middle of the road into Valbonne, which is the subject of my photo today.
Nice parking
Friday tends to have a traditional ring about it, that ring being the roundabout at Plascassier where the Auberge St Donat is situated. At first, I thought the excitement of the book signing, the excitement of the forthcoming theatrical performances and the excitement surrounding my appointment as marketing and promotion manager for The South Of France English Theatre, and the excitement of the comedy and improvisation dates in Valbonne would collectively conspire to send me directly to my office from the signing to plan my ever burgeoning workload which also includes my services for Currencies Direct but I was wrong. The combined persuasive powers of the Wingco, Peter “Misty” Milsted and 60’s play boy Anthony Bay was sufficient to lure me to lunch with them at our traditional Friday venue, and I am glad, because to the entertainment provided for me in the shape of the immense chagrin of the Wingco (he describes this column as “ghastly”, which by simple extension applies to the book) I sold two more copies of the book in the restaurant which I was asked to autograph at the very table where we were having lunch. Oh for the delicious irony of having a customer asking the Wingco to sign the section featuring him as happened at the launch last month. Happy days.
The weekend? half a plan to pop into Cannes today for the Christmas market, perhaps sampling a vin chaude or a glass of champagne if they have the champagne bar that was there a couple of years ago, but as yet, no engagement for this evening, as far as I am aware. This is a little worrying. I am not accustomed to a Saturday night without a social engagement, particularly as now with sales of over 110 books to my credit I am clearly a successful author.
Chris France
Hugh Grant spotted in London pub
Your next to last chance to get a signed copy of my book before Christmas for your loved one is upon you. Today between 11 and 12 I shall be signing copies at the English Book Centre in Valbonne. There is always the chance that I shall bump into someone who has not already done the right thing, but do you really want to experience the Chris France hard sell on the streets of Valbonne? Wailing, moaning, whimpering, tears, gnashing of teeth, I will try anything to make a sale. Better to turn up today and take the medicine and buy a copy. There really is no shame in it. Well there is in the book obviously but that is a different matter.
Last Night to drinks at Bastide St Matthieu, the fabulous boutique hotel near Grasse owned by the beautiful exotic and dusky Soraya and the rather white and dare I say it, less attractive fellow author and host Bill Colegrave. I joined a discussion about a new book detailing the life of Dickens.
It seems that the book being discussed, a newly released and deeply researched book delved deeply into his life and the influences that conspired to allow Dickens to create some of his work. A comment was made that he was effectively a diarist of his time, observing life and characters with whom he had come into contact and using this experience to weave stories for the benefit of his readers. I ventured the opinion that this was much like myself and this column and someone who shall remain nameless agreed rather too quickly in public with this observation without for one second taking on board the full horror of what they had said, and the literary ammunition they had unwittingly supplied me. So now it is official, my writing has been mentioned in the same sentence to and has been compared with Dickens, but for some reason when I asked what Dickens surname was, I received some sharp glances and formed the opinion that I may have said something stupid. Later in the evening when I was regaling that nice lady decorator with my new-found literary fame as a diarist, she expressed the opinion that my output as a writer could perhaps be better described as the outpourings of a diarrhoeaist. This is a bit of a pain in the bum for me.
Sprog 1 has arrived back from Guildford and immediately I have seen a significant depletion in alcohol stocks in my various fridges. How is it that children today have an innate ability to carry out open wallet surgery? Where do they learn it? Why were my parents always too poor for me to perfect the technique? Another way of putting it is to use an expression I heard yesterday, “bung removal”. A bung is something that is put into a hole to stop leakage, so removal of it tends to be fairly catastrophic, and likely to worsen with Christmas is still over a week away.
Sprog 2 has not even arrived home yet, she is due in this evening, but she also has a very thirsty way about her, indeed it was in a pub in London last night that she happened across Hugh Grant and sent me the picture above of herself and several of her friends helping Mr Grant reconnect with the younger generation.
Hugh Grant outside a Kensington pub with Charlie France on his left
Another sponsor is on board for the theatre production starting in Valbonne on Valentines day next February, in addition to that of Currencies Direct. Peter Bennett of Bluewater Yachting was talked in to it late in the evening. I shall ensure he does not forget.
Chris France
More on an orange theme
It is not often when one gets a bit of information that is so juicy one cannot wait to write about it. Many of my regular readers will know that my local style guru is a certain Mr Humphreys, a Justice of the Peace, a magistrate who can bang his gavel with the best of them and whom, like his namesake in the popular TV series “Are You Being Served”, is usually free.
I was at a Christmas lunch at La Pomme Rouge in Valbonne yesterday, courtesy of Lin Wolff of the English Book Centre when fellow guest, Matt Frost (on this occasion allowed out without his minder, Viv, who is in the UK) from French Mortgage Xpress revealed that he had witnessed my sartorial hero, Neil (Mr) Humphries, languishing in a “washeteria” in Pre Du Lac, near Chateauneuf, being served as it were. It seems that once recognised, Mr Humphreys panicked and demanded that his presence at a do-it-yourself washing emporium would not be revealed to me, his most devoted disciple. I cannot understand why he would be so determined to deny me knowledge of his need of washing facilities outside the home. Perhaps he thinks I may reveal this fact to the more than several hundred followers of this column? Nothing could be further from the truth, I would never, on principle, report a fact that might in some way belittle one of my hero’s, so I want to assure him that his guilty secret is safe with me, I would never knowingly disclose such a clearly sensitive fact. I would also give no credence to other claims that were made at the same time involving his use curlers, or indeed exactly how they were being used.
Lunch was a convivial occasion with Prosecco and a very decent Malbec to wash down my duck aux agrumes, which is orange apparently and gave me the most tenuous of links to the picture I took at a restaurant in Watamu in Kenya last week. Well, it also has a bit of orange in it.
Cat lovers, look away now
Luncheon conversation ebbed and flowed, and I learned a thing or two by listening to my superiors. Nancy Wilson, the only Irish person I have ever met who claims she cannot drink, taught me that sharks sting, at least I have witnesses who can testify as to what she said. I don’t quite know what she was driving at but I suspect she had muddled up sharks with jellyfish, a mistake I could perhaps have forgiven her had she has partaken more fully of the prosecco. Actually, now that I come to think about it she is probably technically correct. If one was bitten by a shark it may well sting somewhat.
One other theme that was explored was the possibility of a muslim bathing costume, which I realise is a difficult concept to grasp (not that I would ever want to grasp a muslim women, I am far to much of a coward for that) and what it might be called. A burquini seemed to hit the nail on the head.
After lunch it was imperative that I track down Cubby Wolf from Riviera Realty and extract payment for sale number 106 of my book, wherafter I was dragged kicking and screaming into the offices of French Mortgage Xpress in Valbonne, my newest Currencies Direct affiliate for a coffee and a cognac, masquerading as Glenfiddich.
Later the airport beckoned as the storms in the UK were insufficient to delay the return of that nice lady decorator, which I am told is a godsend and indeed it is, cooking has never been my strong suit.
Don’t forget I shall be at the English book Centre in Valbonne on Friday, market day, between 11 and 12 signing copies of my book.
Chris France
Carrot faced smurfs?
I had been so gentle with him, after his revelations about his documented fondness for sheep but Steve Weston, a prime mover in the Regs, the Riviera Ex Pats Golf Society with his publication of a picture of me yesterday in my Kenyan made-to-measure lime green golfing outfit together with a disparaging, some may say jealously motivated comment, must now accept that the (kid?) gloves are off. It is amongst my most popular stories from the summer before last when Steve talked frankly about his love of sheep in front of an increasingly incredulous golfing gathering. I am sure today he is a little sheepish, particularly as long-suffering wife Nancy made a point of telling me at the weekend that she wanted a sheepskin coat for Christmas. Perhaps Steve should suggest he buy her a mink coat instead? That would at least rescue at least one lamb from the slaughter.
Yesterday to the sparsely attended Currencies Direct Christmas Market in a faceless building in the centre of Sophia Antipolis, the silicon valley of France. By that I do not mean that it is the implant capital of France, a subject obliquely covered in yesterdays picture, merely that it is the home to a number of high-tech companies and although it must be a nice spacious and light place to work, it is so confusingly laid out that many of the potential customers are probably still driving around looking for the market, or still trying to find a way out, a bit like Steve Weston. I managed to sell the princely sum of two books and swapped another for some bamboo socks, yes, socks made from bamboo fibres, supposedly very comfortable and as a natural fibre promised to be allergy free. Yes, I have been reduced to bartering to increase sales.
There was a curious range of Christmas goods on sale at this inaugural and I took this picture of well, what? There is a certain marked similarity to smurfs, but I have no idea why they should have carrots as faces.
Which one is papa smurf?
Yesterday I received a call from venerable Valbonne estate agent “Cubby” Wolf from Riviera Realty asking what he had to do to get a mention in this column. I suggested that as a Currencies Direct affiliate for some 2 years standing, him sending me a client might be a good starting point, but after he claimed to have no clients at present, I decided that him purchasing a copy of my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur” would suffice. He agreed rather too readily ( I am not accustomed to soft sales) and then tried to avoid the moment of truth (payment) by saying he would probably see me some time over Christmas, but made the mistake of telling me he will be in his office in Valbonne this afternoon, so I will deliver it personally. It will be the 106th sale.
I will be in Valbonne for lunch courtesy of the English Book Centre chief librarian Lin Wolff who has generously invited me to their Xmas lunch at the newly opened La Pomme Rouge Deli in Valbonne, together with Matt Frost from French Mortgage Express who will as usual be accompanied by his carer, the even longer-suffering Viv Frost, the lady responsible for suggesting that this column could be adapted into a book. I will visit her in prison should the literary police ever take her.
The relative peace of the last few days will then be shattered when I collect that nice lady decorator and sprog 1 from the airport in the evening, I have hidden my beers but I know he will track them down with that dogged determination so lacking from his studies.
Chris France
New use for oranges
I am accusing in the comments section of being a dipsomaniac, but this is untrue, I have no interest whatsoever in checking car oil levels. To be honest I have little interest in anything today, it having been a particularly wearing girls lunch that I inadvertently gate crashed yesterday and which was still going strong at 10pm last night. I do have an excuse for gate crashing, quite a good one really, the lunch was taking place at my home and I knew nothing about it ubtil I returned, otherwise I would have stayed and had a couple of drinks at the golf club rather than returning home and where I suspect I would have had some more meaningful although perhaps less interesting conversations. I may also have managed to retain most of my clothing, but that is another story, suffice to say that my wearing of lime green seems to do something to the ladies bereft of their menfolk.
Not that it wasn’t fun. It just wasn’t very highbrow as was amply illustrated by the 18 bottles of wine and Bailey’s I had to recycle yesterday. Well, at the peak there were 9 of them although a hardcore of 6 were mainly to blame. Anyway, the working week has commenced and that nice lady decorator has gone to the UK with a huge hangover ready for another nightmare, Christmas shopping. Talking of shopping, I shall expect to see a number of you today at the Christmas fair in Sophia Antipolis, details of which can be found here. It will be one of the last 3 opportunities before Xmas to purchase those much desired signed copies of my book, the sales of which are now comfortably into 3 figures. Such was the rush on Sunday after the golf that I had to return to the car for more stock as I had naively thought that 5 copies would be enough to assuage the pent-up demand amongst REGS golfers.
As usual after events such as these, I awake to find a number of photographs on my phone for which I can find no rational explanation. What is happening here for instance? and what are two of my Christmas oranges doing in Lisa Thorntan-Allans cleavage? and why is the amply endowed (sorry Lin) Mellissa Graves involved? I think we should be told but I suspect it will forever remain a mystery.
Christmas oranges will never be the same again
I have received news of an English Theatre Group starting to bring English theatre productions to Valbonne, It seems the first production will be on Valentines night the details of which you can see here. The first play is Neil Simon play “Barefoot in the Park” which will also involve a launch party. I know I want to go to the launch party at the very least. Also I am hoping to announce a very exciting entertainment which I hope to stage in March. More news as soon as I have it.
If you really can’t make it to Sophia today then I forgive you as long as you visit the English Book Centre in Valbonne on Friday where I shall once again be donating an hour of my time to my fans and will be signing copies of my book between 11 and 12. It is also not impossible that I shall pop in to La Pomme Rouge Deli later on for an early evening aperitif and some tapas in order to spend some of the profits.
Today is also the date for the Riviera Business Club event at Brittains restaurant in Valbonne, but as this is now sold out, come to the Currencies Direct sponsored Christmas Fair instead.
Chris France
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