“Mildred” in wig shock
The first inkling that I had ballsed up my diary came with Peter Lynn’s comment yesterday complaining that the social occasion in his diary, which involved him coming to my house yesterday morning for coffee, was not mentioned, indeed I was bemoaning the fact in yesterdays column that I had no social engagements for the day. That I had this particular meeting wrongly in my diary for Friday rather than Thursday was revealed at the last moment by his timely comment. He brought with him a curious and entirely ridiculous substance called decaffeinated coffee, assuming correctly that I would not give such an obviously useless concept space in my house. Decaffeinated coffee seems like an oxymoron to me. What is the point of coffee unless it is for a decent shot of caffeine? No sober man could ever like the taste of coffee without the proper amount of poison included. What does he put in it? unsweetened sugar? I only wish I had some Quiche to test him more fully as everybody knows real men don’t eat Quiche (unless it is served up by that nice lady decorator, in which case an obvious exception needs to be made). It follows that if he was a real man he would use Currencies Direct for his next foreign exchange transfer as he even has an account opened but has so far been marked down as failed as far as using it is concerned.
I receive a sweet note from what I had thought was a lady, who I suspected was one of the Wingco’s groupies and whom featured with a very alluring dark wig in yesterdays missive, but which turns out to be ” Mildred” (Misty) Milsted, tennis foe and brilliant ad lib rapper and singer. Sadly this talent, and indeed the need to wear a wig, only reveals itself when circumstances are right; firstly he must be full of strong drink and secondly his beautiful wife Ingeborg must be nowhere to be seen. Happily (presumably) from his point of view, but sadly from the point of view of most males present, certainly with regard to the latter, these two circumstantial forces combined last Sunday and led to a series of events which contributed towards yesterday’s picture. He was apparently asked by his wife where our house was, perhaps so she could have come over and joined in with the impromptu post rugby party, but claims he told her that he could not remember how to get there or how to get home or indeed how he got home. I have another rather sorry picture of the same event to feature today.
Either "Mildred" is gently rubbing the Wingco's forehead, or is covering his eyes to protect him from the spectacle that is occurring, or perhaps she or he is hand outstretched asking for another drink?
Today, the steering committee of the Valbonne Literary Association will meet again over lunch in the Auberge Provencal in Valbonne Square, scene of a certain sold out book launch on 7th November. This gathering will take place to test the acoustics of the upstairs dining area to assess whether or not a public address system will be required. Obviously, one cannot going trooping into a restaurant at lunchtime and not sit down to lunch as well, so that is my afternoon taken care of.
Then, gloriously, it is the weekend and I can take my metaphorical foot off the throttle of commerce and contemplate some relaxation. I have heard the word gardening mentioned, but I am in too good a mood to allow that word to impinge on my sense of well-being and inner contentment.
Chris France
Rock god omnipotent
Did I forget to mention that during the deluge on Tuesday and the emergency decamping of the meeting about the book launch to The Auberge Provencal that after lunch we were invited back to Roly and Leslie Bufton’s hilltop palace to avoid floating off into Valbonne? They were also in the restaurant celebrating a wedding anniversary, but they did not mention if it was theirs or not, however, the invitation to drink champagne and watch the rains was too much for that nice lady decorator to refuse, and I have to say she did not care whose anniversary it was in any event, if champagne is on offer then she will be there and it is my duty to follow.
I say decamped, and I hope I will not be misinterpreted here or should I be saying Mr interpreted?) but there was no sign of Mr Humphrey’s, so perhaps he will have decamped to Cafe Latin in time for church on Friday.
My picture today was taken at the impromptu bash at our house after the rugby last weekend. On the right the Wingco is in normal guitar posturing position, but who is that brunette beauty on his right? Obviously she is alluring and raised his temperature sufficiently for him to be seen cavorting on the floor in a most unseemly manner later in the afternoon. I had considered her very attractive myself at first, but my ardour waned somewhat after she took up with the Wingco in a most unladylike, one may even say groupie-like manner. He truly is a rock and roll giant and I salute him. His far more beautiful wife was, I think it is fair to say, slightly less amused, but as she has married a rock and roll god she must have seen this kind of thing before.
Tuck your shirt in boy
It is a rare day when there are no social engagements in the dairy and today is one. You may think that after the social maelstrom that was summer in the cote d’azur (sounds like a good title for a book?) that a couple of days rest and recouperation might be welcomed by that nice lady decorator as it is by me, but detected signs of restiveness in her early this morning and have now just been informed that she is going out to lunch. Obviously she just forgot to invite me. That is how I wish to interpret it, I have managed to put the girly shrieks of laughter on the phone this morning out of my mind as i am sure she has a very boring girly lunch to look forward to. She did not think that i may have like d to go to a girly lunch, how thoughtless. I have thus had to instigate a lunch for tomorrow, but guess what? who will insist she goes too?
Today I must journey into the village to pow wow with the omnipotent one, Lin from the English Book Centre, Currencies Direct customer, the titular head of the Valbonne Literary Society that I am trying to bring down to my intellectual level. We are close to confirming that the next stage of dumbing down process that I have instigated and Lin has surprisingly welcomed with open arms is likely to involve a very funny lecture on how not to succeed in the music business. Who better to present such a thing than John Otway, pop star, TV star, musician (after a fashion) and songwriter? The provisional date is 12th December, so watch this space. John will of course be a special guest at my book launch on 7th November at the Auberge Provencal, which is now completely sold out.
Chris France
Ark building time again
Who was it, over the weekend who was complaining about the lack of rain because his lawn was still requiring watering? I do not recall who was the guilty party but I hold them entirely responsible for the deluge that has descended on us in the last 24 hours. I took the picture below of my lawn yesterday morning, receiving some rain as requested by my guest at the weekend. Maybe now is the time to turn off the automatic watering system?
On a day such as yesterday, there is very little one can do except office work, planning, and I think our Americans friends call it brainstorming? So the opportunity to brainstorm and plan over lunch at Auberge Provencal in Valbonne which was offered by Valbonne’s very own mortgage broker, Matt Frost from French Mortgage Xpress was timely and welcomed by both myself and that nice lady decorator as time out from her decorating duties. But with the Auberge Provencal shut for reasons unknown, lunch was transferred to the ever reliable Auberge St Donat. The planning aspect of the meeting over lunch was the most difficult to agree. Basically we have too many people coming to the book launch and not enough room for anything else, so lunch is situ at the venue was designed to enable us to consider what was to be done. But no matter, a few glasses of wine and we could imagine anything.
God overdoing the rain bit
So dear readers, I do not want you running away with the notion that I was squandering time on lunch, oh no, decisions of enormous import were at least considered. The conclusions? They are secret. So secret that I cannot remember them or more likely I have deliberately forgotten them due to an invitation to extend lunch at the Buftons (of which more tomorrow), but I am sure any actions required were successfully delegated too whoever will be in charge.
What I do remember was a discussion between Roly Bufton (who was celebrating his wedding anniversary with the lovely Leslie) who joined us as we sat down and Matt Frost about Napoleon. You might think that this would be a perfectly acceptable discussion, deep in France about one of their most historically important leaders? Well, what seemed to be exercising their minds more than his march across the Alps (or was that Hannibal?) was the Radio 4 programme about a supposed on-going conversation between Marengo and Copenhagen. In case you did not read the classics, and here I must declare an interest. You may not know (as indeed I did not) that Marengo was the name of Napoleons horse and Copenhagen was the name of Wellington’s horse. It seems that Radio 4 are broadcasting or about to broadcast a programme that suggests that the two horses were in contact and that they exchanged views prior to the battle of The Somme or whatever it was they were fighting over. This seems to me to be an entirely acceptable use of the tax payers millions, people can die of starvation in Africa, but the BBC can still spend money on a latter-day version of a re-enactment of a variation on Mr Ed, the talking horse. Splendid!
My dear friend Christine Bryant who is also a Regional Controller for Currencies Direct has become the southern French representative for Micha handbags. I asked her if they do a golf bag but it seems not at the moment and my suggestion that they do a tennis bag or a bag to put ones football boots in was met with similar disdain. It is clear that as a man I would not be expected to understand this craze which is sweeping America, but I am sure that my fashion and style guru Mr Humphrey’s (if he is free) will be considering attending the local launch which is at Hotel Mercure on 15th November.
Chris France
Declension? stay behind afterwards
Due to popular demand I have decided to show the picture of the snowman to which I alluded yesterday. It is strange really, after I suggested that the snowman may have been endowed with a slightly out of proportion phallus, all the requests were from women.
In case you did not catch yesterdays exciting episode, Master Mariner Mundell “liberated” a pile of ice from The Source after the rugby on Sunday, then for some reason brought it to my house and decided to make a snowman. I pointed out that we have a freezer full of ice, but undeterred he proceeded to mould Mr Snowman into a shape more suited to a porno film as my picture today depicts..
Snowman with phallus, by popular demand. Rather alarmingly, the programme I use to add a picture into the column says "Insert into post"
Now I did not go to public school or university, so I am at a loss when activities of a schoolboy nature take over. Perhaps they were not allowed toys as children?
So miserable weather has at last arrived in the south of France. So miserable that I had to delve deep into the wardrobe for some long trousers and a sweater. As I have not seen my style guru Mr Humphreys recently (thus I am not sure if he was free) I was not certain of this autumns etiquette and thus not sure if my new purple cashmere jumper was an acceptable fashion item. Peachy Butterfield apparently believes that etiquette is a type of hammer used in polo, but I know that is wrong, that is called a mallard. Obviously etiquette is when you buy passage for a bus or train.
I need to write a speech for the book launch and it was coming along well until that nice lady decorator enquired as to what I was doing and naively I told her. So now I have a co-speech writer, at least for the time being until she gets bored. The first thing she did was to edit out a joke she did not understand, and was only reluctantly given permission to add it back once I had explained it to her. Oddly though, this gives me hope. Apart from myself, Otway and most of my friends locally, there may be some high brow types at the Auberge Provencal in Valbonne Square on 7th for the book launch, so some jokes, that are perhaps a little cleverer than many people would credit me with understanding, may give me a little more high brow than actually I am.
I can almost hear the Wingo guffawing at the whole idea. He is universally dismissive, probably with good reason, of my involvement in anything that implies that I may have had a good education. In his eyes I am the most fearful oik in anything remotely connected to anything he and his peers learned in public school. On Sunday for instance some of these public schoolboys were discussion Latin, and I though they were talking about whether they should let in Banjo (I may have been too obscure here – let-in? no forget it). I stupidly ventured an opinion on amamus being the plural of amo and received a withering look whereupon they reverted to talking about declensions. At this stage I was clearly out of my depth as a declension for me at school was where I had to stay behind afterwards.
But let’s look forward, not back. I have some exciting prospects in line as future customers of Currencies Direct; saving money for people on their foreign exchange transfers is rewarding enough, but sometimes they are kind enough to send me money as well!
Chris France
Snowman mystery
Le Bar de la Source is typical French restaurant and bar up the hill from the Opio Carrefour complex past the Mas de Geraniums, which is a lovely place by the way, but ruined by their insistence on plastic outdoor seating. The Source however, although looking somewhat less prepossessing from the outside has a certain country charm inside even although it doubles as the local PMU and tobacconist . It is in a strange position, three miles or so from Valbonne on a road with little development nearby and too far to walk from the centre of the villages of Le Rouret or Opio. It was here that we witnessed some what may be described as memorable scenes when what we had expected was to see the Rugby World Cup.
By memorable I mean that some will remember exactly what happened whilst others will be so jaded by subsequent events on the day that they have very little recollection of events or how they unfolded, and that in its own way is memorable. I remember clearly for instance going to bed at 8pm and I currently recall awaking at 1 40 am to write this graphic prose because that is the time of composing, although I smell like I am decomposing which is a decent description. I blame the brandy.
Often, a quick look at the photos I have captured on the day give some clues as to what occurred and today is a case in point, I have a large number of shots of two grown men, who are old enough to know better, wrestling on my living room floor of which more later, men playing guitar, men wearing wigs and over 20 pictures of snowmen.
It seems that after the charming management of The Source decided it had seen enough of the antics of the some members of nation who had been defeated in quarter finals by the French, and proceeded to shut, not unreasonably, some two hours after the end of the Rugby World Cup Final, I issued an invitation to a handful of my fellow countrymen, some Currencies Direct clients, all buoyed up by the celebrations of England’s demise in the competition some weeks ago. The invitation was to continue the revelry back at our home.
It is the snowman pictures that get me. Master Mariner Mundell for some reason of a higher order than I will ever understand decided in his infinite wisdom to collect a large lump of snow-like ice that he discovered outside The Source and bring it back to the web (as our outside bar is known – easy to get stuck in, very difficult to escape). He then proceeded to mould it into a miniature snowman and amused himself by dressing his new creation in various guises by the inventive use of natural items available in the close vicinity. Quite why some photos show Mr Snowman with an unfeasible large erection is something that I do not recall but at least I know it was a he. That I have chosen to use a non aroused picture of him rather than one in his full glory as it were is mainly down to the fact that the more erect photo is of poor quality, but if there is sufficient clamour then I may give in a feature it tomorrow
- Nice snowman
Now to the wrestling, at least I think it was wrestling, perish the thought that this picture in my possession depicts anything other than playful err…play and no connection must be made with earlier erectile references to Mr Snowman. I cannot explain why the miscreants had taken to what I hope is playful public schoolboy jolly japes. Perhaps it was the excitement of the Manchester United versus Manchester City football match on the TV? The picture may appear later in the week after I have taken legal advice.
Chris France
More hits than Michael Jackson
40,000 hits. That’s what we are talking here. Since its inception a mere two years ago, there have been 40,000 hits on this site. This is a graphic illustration of how literary standards have dropped over the last two years. As the Wingco said to me the other day, when you were actively making records, if there had been that many hits on my label I could hardly have been happier.
Talking of the Wingco, over lunch last week at the Auberge St Donat I mischievously congratulated him on seeing the light and attending by book launch lunch, bearing in mind he considers this column “ghastly” and thus the book that it has spawned would be viewed in a similar manner. That moustache of his bristled with indignation “I am going to lunch, nothing to do with any book”, he exclaimed and then he went to say, rather forcibly I thought, something along the lines of hell freezing over before he bought such an item. It was at this moment that I suggested that perhaps it would make an interesting gift for someone he did not like, and from the look of his expression, I have a sneaking suspicion of what I may find in my Christmas stocking.
So the dreaded gardening could not be avoided, the bad back excuse having been flushed out early. It was very unfair that nice lady decorator to put that one euro piece on the floor and then as I stooped to pick it up triumphantly say “there is nothing wrong with your back”. My back does genuinely ache now, after spending a good part of the day slashing and machetteing my way through the undergrowth but I drew the line when she said there was room for more on the trailer. Was I wrong? you can be the judge from the picture below.
This is days of hard labour, outrageous on a Saturday, a day near to a day of rest.
By the time you are reading this, I shall probably be ensconced in front of the TV watching the Rugby World Cup Final, possibly at The Source Restaurant in Le Rouret, but at home if I don’t get up in time. It seems that quite a crowd will be gathering, Tim Bucktwo, the Wingco, Master Mariner Mundell, the Mona Lisa, that nice lady decorator, the Graves gardener and even the Cornish Tsunami himself Matt Frost from Valbonne’s very own French Mortgage Xpress. If you want to know why he is referred to as the Cornish Tsunami you will have to search an earlier episode of this column, there is a search option somewhere near the bottom, however if it is anywhere near a meal time I don’t advise it. Clearly the All Blacks deserve to win but the French have a habit of spoiling a party, much as they did at mine in the summer when the police were called, but that is another story.
There are now two trips to the UK lined up in the next two weeks, pesky children require parents to attend parents evenings, but of course a week apart thus necessitating two trips back to the cold and the wet at significant expense. At least there is the prospect of some decent real ale.
Last night the another failure on the abstinence front. I was nursing the bad back in the hammock when that nice lady decorator suggested a sun downer, and I only agreed because I thought I might get some relief. However, all she had in mind was a drink in the late afternoon sunshine, and like a man with no willpower I agreed, although the suggestion that she brought me a cold beer to the hammock did not find favour.
Chris France
Temperance temporary
So the first hurdle to a few days of abstinence, indeed attempted temperance leading up to the rugby on Sunday was mounted and successfully negotiated, no lunch out for either of us yesterday, instead a meagre and rather worryingly healthy salad, but with the return of the prodigal daughter or more likely profligate daughter for half term yesterday evening, from possibly the most expensive education ever known to man, that nice lady decorator agreed to take her to the Queens Legs to meet up with friends she has not seen for months. This I could see the jaws of temptation in the form of an open ditch protecting the hurdle (is this taking the hurdle analogy a jump too far?) open up in front of me.
You know what happened, we went to the Queens Legs for a pint as well. Just the two though and then back to, I think the word is “enjoy” that nice lady decorators cooking. I received a cryptic comment from Peter Lynn today wondering if the nice lady decorator had any comment to make about yesterdays photo, but she did not because she did not see it. The same will be true today, she will not read today’s episode, so once again I am safe until when possibly she sees it in the inevitable second book, whereupon I am more likely to be in trouble.
So we will shortly have the paperback version of my book, “Summer In The Cote d’Azur” to compliment the Kindle version already available, so any guesses at the title of the second book? Does “Winter In the Cote d’Azur surprise you? There will be a number of literary minds out there that, if they get a whiff of my intention to (self) publish a second volume, will have their heads in their hands. But I have worse news still; the seasons of spring and autumn may suffer the same treatment given time.
With the onset of chillier weather, I have had to revert to long trousers twice in the last few days, I have searched the picture banks for something harping back to summer. Today’s photo was taken a couple of weeks ago on the beach at St Tropez.
A beach arcade just outside Cinquante Cinq in St Tropez
Today will also feature a similar attempt to avoid string drink in preparation for the Rugby World Cup final. The plan was to slope up to The Source Restaurant on the way up to Le Rouret from Opio and watch it there, followed by lunch, but it seems that the game may commence at 8 30 rather than the 10.00 we had been lead to believe so that will leave a large gap between the game and lunch, so I expect things could change. Also I am not certain I would enjoy the French commentary which will undoubtedly detract from the game itself.
Today is set to be a gardening day. Maintenance of the outside areas as summer departs is vital and I have in mind rigorous testing of the hammock and garden equipment such as the sun loungers to ensure that the have survived the summer in good condition. I could kill two birds with one stone; checking the condition of the garden facilities whilst thinking how best to get the message over about Currencies Direct to those myriad of local ex pats who are still using their banks to move foreign currency and paying a handsome premium into the bargain, however I suspect that nice lady decorator has something rather less pleasing in mind, like real gardening which apparently involves cutting and lopping, clearing a sweeping, all rather irksome activities if you ask me. I can feel the usual defence of a bad back looming.
Chris France
Mona Lisa spotted in Valbonne?
So tennis commenced again yesterday morning at the Vignale Tennis Club. It is not often one can claim to have won a set 6 – 0 but on this occasion I can. It may well be that the excitement of such a victory in one set may have affected later play, but I would prefer not to dwell on that, the pertinent fact is the 6-0 thrashing administered to our opponents the Wingco and Mr Clipboard in the second set by myself and master mariner John Mundell.
That I have now finished with drink and socialising for a few days is in my mind a certainty. A very long lunch after tennis with our party being the last to leave by a very long chalk, was the perfect way to set up a period of abstinence, which is the state you will find me in for the foreseeable future. Obviously the notion of “foreseeable” is something that the more myopic amongst of a fleeting concept that many amongst us cannot see clearly, but let me be clear here, I will respect the wishes of that nice lady decorator, even if she should decide to break the self-imposed vigil of abstinence.
Talking of that nice lady decorator, today’s picture was taken last weekend whilst she was at play with the Mona Lisa, aka Melissa Graves, sadly on this occasion bereft as her Welsh gardener Ieuan, however no sign, as far as I can see of her husband Nigel either.
The Mona Lisa smiling enigmaticly whilst that nice lady decorator cackles incessantly
Today then, nose against the proverbial grindstone. What a stupid expression. If you put your nose against the grindstone you would very quickly have no nose, and if that sentiment were expressed about a dog then the Revered Jeff would have the riposte here in a jiffy “A dog with no nose?, how does it smell?…..terrible”. Shall we instead say that a little more attention to work is required for a day at least after the vicissitudes of life when Mr Clipboard is in town.
But let me cast my mind back to lunch at the Auberge St Donat, post tennis. Mr Clipboard left at 3 20 precisely to make his next appointment but that unfortunately was not the trigger that it should have been for myself, master mariner Mundell and the wingco to leave, oh no. That would have been too simple. Instead we remained, discussing matters of great import no doubt until sometime after 4, by which time most of the doors and windows were shut and no more wine was forthcoming. At this stage even the Wingco got the hint and we left.
By this time, talk had turned to the fanciful notion of a chaps only skiing holiday in early December to Val d’Isere. I say fanciful because with the Wingco a committed non skier, and that nice lady decorator no doubt a committed non believer in such a concept, the idea would never get off the ground (is this the correct expression?) except in the master mariners household where, it seems, his word is law as long as his wife does not get wind of it. Thus I expect to hear no more of thid tantalising prospect, at least until the next time it is after 4pm in the Auberge St Donat, the place where dreams can live, albeit fleetingly.
So, in order to justify my existence, I must press on with some music clearance tasks and I need some new customers to open accounts with Currencies Direct. It’s safe, saves you money and makes me happy, what else can matter?
Chris France
Crimewatch star on golf course
I have received several calls and a number of emails claiming that they have seen the person claiming to be Mr Clipboard (whose rather gruesome picture I featured yesterday) on Crimewatch, the popular UK TV programme designed to expose crooks.
When I confronted him yesterday at the golf course about his alleged appearance on the UK’s most notorious crime show, the golf itself having been abandoned due to the unscheduled appearance of a thunderstorm, he admitted that he had previously been featured on this prime time show in a starring role some tears ago. It seems that he was the estate agent for whom Suzie Lamplugh worked before being murdered, and was asked to take part in a reconstruction of her last hours for TV. I had thought that his mug shot may have featured in the Rogues Gallery.
Due to the success in selling out my book launch at the Auberge St Donat on 7th November, I have been appointed acting promotion manager for The English Book Centre Literary Events. When I revealed this snippet of news to Mr Clipboard he was aghast, claiming that it was like making King Herod president of Save The Children.
This is of course a scandalous charge but if Literary Events are normally high brow events, then I do get his point. I would not be comfortable organising such gatherings, indeed the launch of my book, whilst clearly a stirring event in the publishing world could not be described as high brow, more populist, more Eastenders than Euclid.
If I really am to be given free reign on the organisation of future events then I would book John Otway, self-proclaimed “rock and rolls greatest failure” to lecture us in how not to achieve success in ones chosen profession, so watch this space….
Once again yesterday in the restaurant before golf and the bar afterwards at the rather wet St Donat Golf Course, I had to battle to protect my honour in the shape of my “Annoying Facial Hair” (AFH) pictured in all its glory today.
so called Annoying Facial Hair, I think its nice
There must have been at least six occasions when scissor welding maniacs in the shape of Mr Clipboard and Mr Thornton Allan attempted forcibly to trim my rather splendid beard. That I managed to keep it looking in decent condition, with just a very slight trim of the split ends was mostly down to my judicious confiscation of the golf courses scissors from the miscreants. Such is the opprobrium generated by the AFH that I was told that if I collapsed on golf course, first they would remove the beard, secondly they would call emergency services, after calling services, they would as they so tastefully put it “shag me up the arse”, steal all my money and golf balls and look innocent when ambulance arrived. Public schoolboys, don’t you just love them?
Today, Mr Clipboard departs for the UK, and not before time for my liver, but before he does we have one last tennis stand off later this morning at The Vignale followed by lunch. Before that I shall be diligently reminding my affiliates of the value of recommending the services of Currencies Direct to their customers.
Then, glory be, a few days with nothing in the diary, in fact the next social event for which have received my orders in triplicate seems to be the watching of the French rugby team being carved into tiny pieces by the All Blacks on Sunday morning at The Source restaurant on the way up the hill to Le Rouret, followed by lunch at this establishment. In order for this to be the next time we go out and drink alcohol assumes a giant leap of faith in that nice lady decorators determination to avoid it. I am not confident.
Chris France
Annoying facial hair shock
As we sat enjoying a sun downer in the pav after a long lunch, when discussing how many copies to order for the print run of the first edition I said to that nice lady decorator “I don’t suppose you are going to pay me for your copy of the book?”. “No, I don’t want one at all, fu*k off” she said. This seems to represent an under stated market reaction to the quality if my writing, but a reaction that I must apparently expect to become accustomed to. Despite almost inevitable fame on my doorstep she still calls this column “writing silly stories for my friends”.
Lunch at the Auberge St Donat after tennis at the Vignale was the usual lively affair. Tennis earlier in the day had been usual triumph despite a new pairing. After the first set when myself and Mr Mundell, my new partner for the day had cut the opposition in the jointly rotund shape of the Wingco and Mr Clipboard to shreds, winning by several clear points on a tie break, there may have been a slightly anti climactic second set, the result of which I cannot recall.
What I do recall is that I once again had to fight to retain my goatee, the Annoying Facial Hair or AFH by which it has become known, and which I am cultivating for my book launch on 7th November. I am told that the reason I am tending and protecting this luxuriant growth is a vain attempt to appear more interesting than I actually am but as I pointed out last night and again at lunch, if one is prepared to enter into the world of vanity publishing with the gusto so clearly evident, then the growth of a lowly beard is as nothing in comparison.
My picture today shows the ugly side of jealousy in the shape of Mr Clipboard armed with some garden clippers clearly intent on removing an amount of my AFH which probably equals or exceeds the entire amount still growing on his head.
A picture worthy of Crimewatch?
Take yesterday for example. We are full for the launch lunch 7th of November at the Auberge Provencal, but yesterday a film director and his wife asked if they could attend, so what self-respecting (this is a considerable understatement) writer, or should I say author, can resist the tantalizing possibility of having his work turned into a film? After all, I have first hand experience of someone close to me turning their life story into a film (otwaythemovie.com).
So after struggling to stay awake and watch some old episodes of Foyles War on the TV, I retired to bed to consider the wonderful possibilities of a cinematic future.
Lunch today will be taken on the delightful terrace of the golf course at St Donat, between Mouans Sartoux and the perfume capital of Grasse, after which we shall play 9 holes of golf, assuming the possibility of thunderstorms has abated by then. That the golf after a nice lunch is unlikely to be of a high standard is a given, but at least we will have some time in which to formulate a wager of some kind.
Before that then I must concertina a full days endeavour on behalf of Humble Pie or more specifically for the groups drummer Jerry Shirley and the late Steve Marriott, the singer and guitarist in this legendary group who were huge in the 1970’s especially in USA, the estate of whom I still represent, and Currencies Direct. Jerry Shirley also has a book released this week in USA called “Best Seat In The House”. Us authors must stick together.
Chris France
The art of delegation
The art of delegation is alive and well. I had always considered myself the master of this particular dark art, but I am as nothing compared with Mr Clipboard. He rang yesterday from his chauffeur driven car from the airport to ensure that I had collected 3 others together for tennis (I hadn’t) that I had booked the tennis court (I hadn’t) and that I had booked lunch at The Auberge St Donat for lunch (I hadn’t), and to ensure that squid was not on the menu. He had apparently told the chef when he was last down in September that he would be arriving for lunch at precisely 12.45 on 18th October and that on no account was squid to be on the menu. I think I have delegated at least one task, the booking of the restaurant to the wingco, who enjoys a particularly cosy relationship with the Auberge.
My picture today shows the very first attempt by the French to build the Channel Tunnel. The earliest prototypes threw up a number of problems. as you can see this is more of a bridge than a tunnel and it also starts at St Tropez in the Mediterranean, so the designer seems somewhat geographically challenged. I am also less than convinced about the quality of materials being used in this particular construction, but all’s well that ends well.
I like the idea of the small plastic table
Last night then, to the Thornton Allan’s for dinner with Mr Clipboard and his stunningly attractive wife Ashley. With the impending publication of my book, the launch lunch for which is now incidentally sold out, and thus confirmation of my status as an author, I have decided that I need to pay some attention to my public image as Johnny Rotten may once have said..
Thus to that end I have decided to grow a goatee beard which, even though I say it myself, is already luxuriant and admired by almost nobody except rather surprisingly by that nice lady decorator. Mr Clipboard describes it as “very annoying facial hair” and has spent a fair degree of time recently plotting with Mr Thornton Allan and indeed last night with the stunningly attractive Mrs Thornton Allan plus slightly less stunningly attractive local estate agent Cubby Wolff to try to remove it, without my permission. This has involved a number of very dangerous maneuvers, mostly involving scissors, to attempt to set back its growth by several weeks. Now I am all for a little judicious pruning when required and it may be argued that it needs a little tidying up, but what they have in mind, and last night were trying to carry out, was more akin to scalping or, to be more precise, chinning.
Thus the evening was a little less relaxing than I had hoped but I (and the goatee) escaped just about intact, but there is a real danger that someone will get to it before the big launch lunch on 7th November. Three weeks is a long time to be vigilant and will be quite wearing as I shall have to be on my guard at all times. As I now beginning to realise, impending fame, at least in my own mind, can have its drawbacks or should I say scalpbacks?
Clearly, with just barely 15 minutes of composed time available to me before tennis at 11.00 (no sane person leaves his bed before 10am, then there is breakfast to negotiate) I will have to work fast to put in the usual full office day promoting the services of Currencies Direct, but will continue that quest through tennis, lunch and whatever else will befall me thereafter today.
Chris France
Fish and strip?
Who was it locally who recently described the Yoga courses in Valbonne run by the lovely Faye as “fanny stretching” with Davina? Someone who also correctly describes himself as not the sharpest knife in the drawer…answers on a postcard to “Peachy Butterfield” competition…..
As many who have been pilloried in this column can testify, my blackberry is always at the ready to record moments of stupidity or to remind me of something that has amused me during the course of the day or more often the evening. However, this often means that I have a lot of what turn out the next morning to be incomprehensible notes which I then have to attempt to decipher when writing this daily treat. Today is no exception, unless you have any other ideas, the note that says “fish and strip” can only relate to someone with an idea of combining a fish and chip restaurant with a strip club, however I know not who, or I am not prepared to say. I also have a note saying “slots of fun in Cleethorpes” which I think referred to the name of a penny arcade, but it may have been a brothel in the frozen north. The relevance? No idea.
I wonder who will be able to see through the cunning disguise worn by today’s mystery guest, which has clearly obscured his or her identity…
Guess who? That spoon is a great disguise
Bloody mary’s were the order of the day yesterday morning after a greasy fry up to celebrate New Zealand rugby victory, and then an afternoon nap in the sunshine to dream of new customers for the services of Currencies Direct and sundry other activities that will take up my time in the coming week.
Otway The Movie will be taking precedence this week as I fight the BBC and sundry other programme rights holders for the rights to use vital TV clips that will be needed for our failed rock and roll hero’s hopes of making a decent movie before the premiere on October 7th 2012 at the Leicester Square Odeon. This cast and crew only screening will be for the biggest number of co producers of a film in history. 1700 tickets are now for sale, and each one entitles the buyer to be listed on the credits as a co-producer. It seems likely that the film will have credits lasting longer than the action. Mr John Otway himself will be in Valbonne on 7th November for the launch of the paperback version of my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur”, and will no doubt take the opportunity to promote his film at the same time. Thereafter I suggest he gets on with making his film.
Tuesday is of course Mr Clipboard day, tennis followed by lunch at the Auberge St Donat so today will be a traditional recovery day before the next onslaught, unless we get an invitation to socialise this evening. It is well known that the nice lady decorator will attend the opening of an envelope so I live in hope that no invitation is received, as my opinion on whether we should attend or not appears to be irrelevant.
My reward for a hellishly busy early part of the week (work, Mr Clipboard, golf, tennis) may be the final camping experience of the year. Agay, on the coast between Theoule Sur Mer and St Raphael is a pretty spot with a campsite right on the beach, so if the weather holds we will provision Bluebell the VW camper and set off for the sea side for a day or two.
Chris France
Accuracy of column questioned
On Friday night before the Wales versus France rugby match, the plan to stay in and prepare for the early start for the game yesterday morning was thrown into disarray by that nice lady decorator who demanded a pint of Guinness early doors.
This began the dismantling of the evenings plans as also in the Queens Legs were old friends and former local residents Paul and Jill Harris on a flying visit back to civilisation from the dank and dreary Midlands. Paul is an insolvency lawyer specialising in fraud, at least that is what he told me. Now call me old-fashioned but a lawyer an expert in fraud? What chance do we have? What next? a policeman expert in theft?, a doctor expert in death?
Also enjoying a pint during happy hour were John and Jude “where is my Baileys” O’Sullivan, all on their way to the Valbonnaise, so it was inevitable that we were destined to join them all. Over dinner, discussion turned to the contents of this column and the enormously symbolic book launch (mine) which will take place on November 7th at the Auberge Provencal in Valbonne Square. When I said that the event was just about sold out, I was told that it was I who had sold out and I agreed, once I had sold my soul to Currencies Direct, I was on a slippery slope. Of course I jest, nothing but good can come from opening an account with this fine foreign exchange specialist.
The accuracy of some of my reporting in this column on the lives of the idle rich in Valbonne was called into question. As regular readers will know, accuracy is not the watchword for this column. It will almost always be replaced by opinion, my opinion, and that opinion will always be influenced by what I consider to be a good story. This was described by Mr O Sullivan as an unfair use of poetic licence but the general feeling amongst the assembled diners was that my licence should have been revoked long before now.
Jude O Sullivan was once again devastated to find that there was no Baileys available at the Valbonnaise and made a comment that she thought I had missed about normally carrying a six-pack of Baileys in her handbag for just this kind of emergency. This is news to me, a six-pack of Baileys? however, if such a convenient packaging breakthrough item does exist it would be a racing certainty that Jude would know about it.
My picture today was taken from D5 looking back at the sunset over the hills looking back towards Mandelieu on the way back to Antibes. I know, it is very artistic, but now that I am involved in artistry of a different sort as an author, you will have to expect more of this arty-farty nonsense in this daily missive. Was it W C Fields who said all art was rubbish?
Sea, I told you.
So as we were both feeling rather shabby yesterday morning, we decided to forego the pleasure of seeing France overcome Wales at The Source and instead stayed in to lick our metaphorical and wine induced wounds, and prepare for another night of revelry at a dinner party last night. I should not reveal the name of our hosts, but seasoned readers will know who it was that was photographed with her mouth sellotaped up to ensure she did not say anything stupid. If you need further hints, then Ieuan their Welsh gardener was also in attendance. A full report on the atrocities will have to wait until Monday, when I have hopefully regained an upright position.
Chris France
Cat alarm?
During the summer, I featured a well-trained battery operated mower which automatically came out every day, cut the grass and then returned to its hutch to recharge itself. I liked it because I fondly dreamed of how Banjo the grisly canine would get on with it. I imagined him cowered in some corner howling and waiting for it to shave some fur from him, that at least might make him smell a little less. This little fellow, (the mower not the dog) owned by the Boltd Christmas family (I know, crazy name, crazy people) in Biot, has been stolen. It seems to me that the thieves may have a bit of Irish in them. It wont work without its charger, it needs wires set in the grass to stop it mowing flowerbeds or committing watery suicide in swimming pools and it is a rather boring shade of green. So if anyone sees something that looks like vacuum cleaner out on its own, let me know. Maybe it just left home?
Yesterday we had some rain. It was not forecast, and it is the first since July. I did not move to the south of France to be rained on in summer, so I want my money back. I know it only lasted for 40 minutes, but it seemed like an English winter for nearly an hour before the sun returned. I know it is sunny again today, but there is a point of principle here.
I am supposed to be being dragged kicking and screaming this morning to some obscure rugby match being televised at The Source Restaurant which is not in Roquefort as I had been lead to believe but Le Rouret. The French and the Welsh are due to commence battle in the also ran World Rugby Cup. Why I have to be there instead of being allowed to languish in my comfortable and pungent pit, I have no idea. Oh yes I have, it’s because that nice lady decorator thinks it will be a decent chance to get an early drink. My suggestion that she drive herself and leave me to sleep was met with that usual no-nonsense expression, and once all the bedding had been put in the wash leaving me naked on the bed, I thought perhaps she had a point. At least she had made a point.
My picture today was taken in Valbonne earlier in the week. The car should not have been parked there, but I think leaving a guard cat on its roof is an interesting thief deterrent, I wonder if that would count as an alarm for car insurance premium purposes?
Cat on a hot tin roof?
At a dinner party this evening, one Ieuan the Welshman, the Graves families gardener, may be in attendance. Now on the one hand if the French give the Welsh the walloping the English would like to, then I will delighted to see him, but if by some miracle they overcome the French then I may myself be overcome by sickness or something and cry off. The very idea that Wales could appear in the Rugby World Cup Final is as preposterous as it will be sickening. On the other hand, the wonderful French side, of whom I was admittedly slightly dismissive until last week when England handed them the game on a plate, deserve wholeheartedly to get the chance to get ripped to shreds by the Kiwis, who will no doubt dismiss Australia’s challenge tomorrow.
Monday sees the return to the Riviera of Currencies Direct customer Mr Clipboard and I have already received my red marked schedule of activities for Tuesday, his first full day back in charge of everything. I shall report for tennis at 10.15 and then arrive promptly at the Auberge St Donat for lunch, and will of course has had a haircut as ordered before he arrives.
Chris France
Tennis and a naked politician
Tennis is a game that requires a certain commitment. Some of us have become utterly committed (or we should be) and the more committed one is, the more likely one is to overcome an opponent, even if he is nearly a decade younger.
So I greeted the invitation to play tennis with the naked politician at the very salubrious Sophia Antipolis Country Club yesterday with an air of a man with a greater commitment to the cause than his opponent. That my opponent did not have that the same despite his considerably more tender years sent out a message to all us oldies, but exactly what that message is, is not clear to this country bumpkin, I just know there is a message.
Life has its winners and losers. Some of us are winners, some not so fortunate. From this information the more perceptive regular readers of this column may be able to guess the result, I myself am, as you know by now, far to modest to reveal the winner or the exact size of the thrashing administered, but if you see the naked politician in the next few days, you may see some grazes on his knees which were sustained during one of the two games he won.
My picture today is, well, a picture that requires little explanation. You may think by publishing it, there may be some link to the naked politician, but I could not possibly comment.
Guess who?
To celebrate or in some cased to commiserate over the result, lunch was taken at the fabulous Lou Fassum, a Michelin star restaurant about 100 metres from the very different but equally good it its own way Auberge St Donat. We we’re joined by Peachy Butterfield, his lovely wife Suzanne and that nice lady decorator whose enthusiasm for lunching at Lou Fassum is matched only by her antipathy for lunching at the Auberge St Donat.
I have often gently wound him up about that part of Peachy’s life spent in the north of England and his fondness of whippets, ferrets, tripe and pigeons in this tundra strewn northern wasteland. So it was a shock to discover that he had, on occasion, ventured down to grimy civilisation in London to find out how the other, more fortunate half of the English live. I was even more surprised that he had eaten at one of Gordon Ramsay’s restuarant somewhere near the Thames, but not at all surprised at his admission that he had eaten pigeon breast at this worthy establishment.
Furthermore, he revealed that it was his dream one day to open a restaurant (probably so this man mountain of an eating machine could sample its delights), but with the codicil that the vegetarian option would read “fu*k off”.
After a sumptuous lunch it was back to the pav to make serious inroads into my store of Rioja and that nice lady decorators Chablis wine lake. I know that my more sympathetic readers in the UK reading this whilst huddled close to their radiators (or peat fires further north) will have been thrilled for us that we were able to sit out until after dark in shorts and short sleeved shirts on another spectacular autumn day.
Today I must steady the ship however as there is a minor World Cup Rugby match on tomorrow morning and I have been warned by that nice lady decorator that I shall be attending some cafe in Roquefort Les Pins to view this spectacle except to satisfy the whim of some Welsh person, who is or will soon be a new customer of Currencies Direct.
Chris France
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