Hells Angle scary?
I have made a discovery; the sun can be seen as early as 8am, which as most sensible people know is a time a very late night out tends to end. This was my cross to bear yesterday morning. Instead of meandering back from a decent dinner and several decent bottles of wine in the early hours, I was actually getting up and dressing, ready for an impossibly early trip across to St Endreol in the Var. The reason? my work with Currencies Direct required my presence.
Later in the afternoon, I returned to the civilised Cote d’Azur for some tennis at the Vignale in the warm October sunshine. I do so think that it is the taking part that is so important, so you will be unsurprised to know that I cannot recall the result, but I suspect that Matt Frost, my opponent in singles (the entire tennis four other than myself having chickened out, and soon no doubt to discover white feathers in their tennis bags) is at this moment smarting and licking his wounds.
So after yesterdays exertions down in the Var, I think I deserve a day off tomorrow and so I have an outline plan to play tennis this morning and adjourn to lunch, possibly at Lou Fassum with some chums and, if she is well-behaved, that nice lady decorator. that she has been badly behaved recently is clear if one looks at some recent pictures that have adorned this column.
My picture today was taken last weekend and is of Pamplona Beach at St Tropez, amazingly empty despite a temperature of 25 degrees, amazing as during the summer you cannot move on the beach. Imagine a beach like this in the UK being deserted in 25 degrees? No, I can’t either.
Pamplona beach empty
Last night after that very pleasant game of tennis with an indeterminate result, I dropped in to the Queens Legs for a pint of Guinness to discuss tactics for the launch of my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur” on 7th November. Matt Frost from French Mortgage Express has agreed to be my Master of Ceremonies, and as such we needed to discuss logistics and organisational details for the big day, which has already sold out.
He was concerned about the possibility, nay, almost certainty of heckling, and the noise that the attendant throng might be making after a few complementary glasses of champagne. He was also concerned that we may have gate crashers, given that the event has sold out nearly a month before the launch and clearly ticket touts will be looking for opportunities. It was decided that a strong doorman would be needed, and who better than that nice lady decorator. This is because, many years ago, she was employed by me at the door for some of my gigs, many of which were during the punk boom in 1976. One gig in particular featured punk icons The Damned. The local chapter of Hells Angels who were pathologically opposed to all things punk arrived en force at the gig and were inside before I was aware of what was happening. When I went to remonstrate with her, as I had no security staff, she pointed out that they had all paid. I fleetingly considered suggesting to the biggest one, their leader, that he had spelled Angel incorrectly on his jacket, and that being a Hells Angle was not quite as fiercesome, but thought better of it. Matt Frost then suggested that having this kind of chapter at a book launch was not a good idea, and he has a point. As some of my better educated friends would most likely agree, some of my chapters are for more scary.
Chris France
The idle rich at play if I remember correctly
When one is at play amongst the idle rich of Valbonne, and of a certain age, one can ask forgiveness for less than 100% recall. That is my position and I am sticking to it. Thus the pictures that I discovered on my phone this morning may or may not have been taken by me. It is not that I deny taking them, it’s just that I cannot damn well remember.
That I recall retiring to the Wingco’s terrace on Monday, after lunch at the Auberge St Donat, to drink brandy and listen to him play accompanying guitar to some obscure Mississippi blues artist at considerable volume cannot be denied as I reported on it yesterday, but I cannot remember taking the pictures on my phone of him being joined by the naked politician. There are other photos that I cannot show here which fall into the same bracket.
The wingco and the naked politician get on down
I am all for the pursuit of knowledge, even knowledge of the weird and wonderful customs that are prevalent in the frozen wind-swept desolation that epitomises the north of England. Mr Peachy Butterfield is unfortunate enough to have to return periodically from his dream existence in the South of France to look after his investments in property nestling in the moribund tundra that exists north of Birmingham. His property empire, consisting as it does of several houses in various states of construction represents a considerable portfolio running to perhaps as much as several hundred pound in value. Food production up there must be very difficult (although from the size of the man mountain one would hardly believe it) and techniques to sustain food production have clearly required considerable development to survive the harsh weather that is the norm in this deeply uncivilised northern outpost. Thus expressions such as to “puddle your collies” have entered into the daily vocabulary of these hardy folk. It seems that this expression means to water ones cauliflowers, although it is often used colloquially as a euphemism for going to the loo. Sayings of this nature according to Peachy are widespread and apparently known as “allotment slang”.
This got me to thinking about what other expressions one could come up with in the same vein; what about “to tickle your tripe” or “strumpet your pigeons”? maybe “frolic you ferrets”? I would hesitate to use the expression whacking my whippets, but can we be sure this phrase does not exist?
By the time you are reading this, I shall have been on the road most of the night, heading for Mike Lorimer’s financial seminar in the deepest Var at the St Endreol Golf Club. To go to a golf club and not play is anathema to me, rubbing salt in the would that is work, but the happy smiles and tears of joy exuded by those happy clients who have been weaned away from the over charging banks to use instead the gentle and relaxing services of Currencies Direct are touching and rewarding and make it all worth while.
Well, it had to happen, the big literary launch has sold out. All tickets have been snapped up almost 4 weeks before the big event, I am sure that Mr John Otway who launches his movie website this week and Mr Stephen Frost will be forever in my debt for attracting so many people to an event for their benefit.
I shall be back in time for tennis, although Greg Harris is once again in danger of receiving a white feather as he has concocted another excuse for not being available this week or next. Phuket he said, and whilst I can understand the occasional release of invective when missing tennis, this is simple not good enough. He may shortly be receiving a brown envelope from the secretary.
Chris France
Downhill from lunch
After a wind propelled walk around the Valmasque forest yesterday morning (courtesy of Croatian beans and Brussel Sprouts at Valbonne literary HQ on Sunday evening), I was looking forward to a quiet recovery day that is often the norm on a Monday. That this did not come to pass was the result of a fallible memory brought on by age and alcohol abuse. It seems that whilst out at St Tropez on D5, the wonderful boat owned by the naked politician (and available to charter for a mere €5000 a day) on Saturday, I had instigated a “gentleman’s lunch” at the Auberge St Donat for mid day yesterday.
It seemed such a good idea to introduce the naked politician and Peachy Butterfield to the wingco and fellow boating person John Mundell and (to keep feet firmly on the ground) Alistair the Air, my new BA long haul pilot friend, who became my friend as soon as he agreed to come to my book launch on Monday 7th November at the Auberge Provencal in Valbonne. It seems that this was all arranged by my unconscious mind working entirely independently of my conscious mind and revolved around a much-loved and cheap restaurant, the antithesis of Cinquante Cinq, the Auberge St Donat at Plascassier, which, it transpires, is a mutual favourite of both Peachy and the wingco.
A cursory look at my texts at 11.45 yesterday morning uncovered the unconscious minds hitherto hidden agenda and thus my planned work for Currencies Direct had suddenly be subject to an unspecified delay. An unscheduled lunch was suddenly on the agenda.
It is a long-held tradition in winter (and with the temperature dipping dangerously into the low 20’s yesterday, the arrival of winter was confirmed) to adjourn after lunch at this particular venue to the wingco’s house located conveniently nearby to sit on his terrace, drink brandy and listen to loud music. Being a traditionalist at heart, I felt it was my duty to respond positively to this post lunch invitation, which I had issued and there ends the case for the defence.
When we arrived (by this time without Alistair the Air who had, quite sensibly as it were, bailed out – can I say that about a BA pilot?) the gentleman’s lunch party encountered the opposite sex for the first time in the shape of that nice lady decorator and the lovely Maryse, or Mrs wingco as she has come to be known who were enjoying a quiet glass if wine on the terrace. Thus the naked politician once again came face to face (or is there a more apt and less savoury description?) with that nice lady decorator enabling me to grasp the feeblest of excuses and publish this picture, another taken on “that” boat trip on Saturday.
Oh dear Oh dear Oh dear
It seems that the “handbrake” as the naked politician refers to his stoic and beautiful wife Dawn had been applied fully after the trip, as she somehow got the impression that the nice lady decorator might in some way been offended by the now commonplace removal of his clothes, at the drop of a hat as it were. Of course, those that know her well, as indeed I do, will know that she will need a much larger reason to be offended than…..actually I don’t know where I am going with this.
So today will have to become recovery day by default. I shall need my rest because tomorrow I have to get up well before bedtime to travel over to the Var. St Endreol is the venue for one of Mike Lorimer’s very useful financial seminars and I shall be there to help and advise the congregation on the value of using Currencies Direct for all foreign exchange movements.
Chris France
Sheep rears its pretty head
So to dinner last night at close to literary HQ in old Valbonne. Viv Frost, together with Lin Wolff from the English Book Centre in Valbonne are the stalwarts and founding fathers (mothers?) of the literary events which will shortly become the sort of occasion that require attendance for the chattering classes in the village.
Viv’s husband, Matt Frost from French Mortgage Xpress is a larger than life figure who is often to be seen in the Queens Legs, the Vignale and La Kavanou was resplendent in a Welsh rugby shirt, which he was wearing in celebration of the recent win in the Rugby World cup for this small mining, as opposed to small-minded, nation. He claimed that as he was from Cornwall he was almost Welsh as Cornwall is nearer to Wales than the rest of England, and to prove it produced a lovely meal based on a leg of lamb.
Of course, according to folk law, the Welsh have a number of usages for this poor animal, of which cooking and eating it is only one. Having spent some time earlier today with Steve Weston from the Riviera Ex Pats Golf Society, who has form in the sheep area, I was reluctant to apply my mind to the wide range of uses and indeed “entertainment” that this pretty fluffy animal can allegedly provide. By that, before any of my readership gets the wrong idea, I was referring to sheep dog trials, where sheep enjoy being herded one way or another for the enjoyment of the Welsh community, because frankly if neither the Welsh nor the sheep enjoy it, what is the point?. Luckily for us, only eating it proved to be on the rather wind inducing agenda, or rather menu. I love beans of any type but that Nice Lady Decorator is a tad reluctant to serve them in our household so Croatian Bean Soup to start was the first sign that methane production was likely to increase in the short-term, but when another favourite of mine, Brussel Sprouts, appeared with the lamb, that Nice Lady Decorator began to fidget in her seat. Later it was I doing the fidgeting in my seat as the combined culinary offerings were quickly threatening the kind of methane carnage that she fears.
When I was at school I was required to spend one period a week studying British Constitution with a teacher who was so right wing his views we’re just to the right of Attila the Hun. He contended that England should spend 50% of its gross domestic product to do three things; to build up Hadrian’s Wall so high it would keep the Celts out, dig out Offers Dyke to 200 metres in width in order to keep the Welsh with all their sheep loving foibles out, and thirdly to blow up the two bridges that connect Cornwall to the English mainland, and then have Cornwall towed into the Atlantic and torpedoed. Needless to say, as Matt is fiercely proud of his Cornish heritage, I did not mention it at dinner.
My picture today is of the entrance to the overpriced but still charming Cinquante Cinq in St Tropez taken on the visit on Saturday aboard D5.
Cinquante cinq in St Tropez. Is it called that because the minimum you can pay is 55 Euros?
Earlier in the day I had made a rare appearance in the Landlubbers golf grouping at the Grande Bastide. Our token Welshman Ieuan Dady insisted in steering the conversation afterwards towards rugby whenever the opportunity arose, but with almost the entire contingent made up of English and the odd South African, both losing nations in the Rugby World Cup yesterday, few were listening, no doubt a fact of life for him with which he is only too familiar.
Chris France
Carbon footprint or bumprint?
St Tropez in October is as good as in gets. The burn over to the best known flesh pot in the south of France was reasonably flat, something of a surprise after the wind of Saturday, and the suitable administration of “quells”, a sea sickness relief remedy ensured that the bacon sandwiches, handed out whilst those irritating French decided to upset the English Rugby World Cup aspirations, remained in ones stomach rather than decorating the superstructure of D5. A fabulous day out was the result and it is true, as was suggested, that I shall never have a bad word to say about the naked politician or his lovely wife Dawn whilst we receive the odd invitation to join them aboard. It is also fair to say that those invitations go a long way towards my ambivalent attitude to the regular removal of clothing that is his benchmark as today’s picture below illustrates.
Had to crop this significantly in order to remove the face of the naked politician. Also had to enlarge it somewhat for other reasons that I cannot into here.
I am certain that he just got a little too hot as we sped back from St Tropez burning 400 litres of fuel per hour and that was the only reason he felt it necessary to disrobe. To start with I was concerned about his carbon foot print, but after he sat on that nice lady decorators knee to wrestle the steering from her, that she and I became concerned at another kind of footprint (or bumprint?) and the effect it may have on her nice white leggings. A quick inspection after we returned to port laid this particular worry to rest, together with about 20 bottles of champagne and rose which were also laid to rest on the trip.
Today I must turn my attention to golf. The Landlubbers summer eclectic competition reaches it climax and although to win I will require 18 holes in one and some poor results from the leaders of the competition in order to finish in the top 3, you will know that I will be giving it my best shot, or shots. That I cannot win would be a given for most people but in a John Otway-esque display of pure hope, I shall be doing my best and hoping for a miracle. The golf will take place at the Grande Bastide in Plascassier after which we are invited to dinner at the literary launch HQ in Valbonne.
A miracle is what seems to be happening for the paperback launch of my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur” which takes place at the Auberge Provencal on 7th November. Currencies Direct have agreed to sponsor some wine and 80% of the tickets have already sold, and in no way can those sales be attributed to my special guests John Otway or Stephen Frost as both are comparatively unknown in Valbonne whereas I am of course equally unknown everywhere. The paperback is already sought after, a fact I can confirm as today when on our way back from St Tropez, Pete Bennett of Blue Water told me that he wanted to buy a batch of my books as Christmas presents for his clients. This seems to me to be a very good way of reducing his client base, but I admit to being flattered until he said that it was cheaper to buy my book than give away a decent bottle of wine, and also easier to handle.
That I must journey to the Var on Wednesday to be seen at the financial seminar being staged by local independent financial advisor, the hirsute Mike Lorimer at the St Endreol will be exercising my mind. That I shall have to be there in place by 9am will be exercising my body in equal measure.
Chris France
Nautisports not very naughty
On my way into Cannes yesterday, I spotted a shop that I had not seen before called Nautisports. I don’t know why but I dropped in to see what type of merchandise they might specialise in and was distressed to find lots of seaside toys rather than a very different sort of toy I had been secretly expecting. I wonder in the French have a Trades Description Act like we do in the UK? In which case I will protest.
Cannes yesterday was windy, and I don’t just mean my own prodigious output as a result of the rather good steak I had the night before in the Valbonnaise, now back in fashion as the evenings have begun to draw in. No, the wind was full on and does not bode well for my boat trip today. I even considered putting on long trousers and putting the top of the car up yesterday morning, but looking at the temperature gauge saying 23 degrees made me realise that I have gone a bit native and that summer still has a few weeks left in it
By 10 ish this morning, after we after we have no doubt dismissed the French challenge for the Rugby World Cup, we shall commence the trip to St Tropez. The rugby will be viewed accompanied by bacon sandwiches on board D5 London which will provide some perfect fuel for me to throw up on the way over to this renowned flesh pot if the mistral is still blowing, but I live in hope as the forecast is for light winds. How can they know what I am going to eat and what effect it will have?
Once there, we shall be eating again, this time at the trendy Cinquante Cinq which if things go badly could provide yet more fodder for the seagulls on the way back.
Our engagement last night seems to have disappeared into the dust, thus I shall be up and ready this morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed and fully rested. That is the plan as I write this the night before, but you can never be sure what that nice lady decorator will do. At present she is lounging on the sofa in her jim jams, but the trill of the phone or a text from the ether could still mean that I shall be dragged out to eat and drink somewhere. Its just happened; she has awoken and suggested early doors at the Queens Legs for a pint of Guinness. My whole being is screaming “no”, but my voice just said “good idea” so I suppose it must be.
Yucca in flower
Another nature photograph for you today, one of our Yucca plants has suddenly decided that October is a good time to burst into spring like flower. Perhaps it is ambidextrous or dyslexic or something. I thought they were supposed to bloom in the spring? I guess it is just being difficult, a bit like Banjo, the cataclysmic cocker.
Take yesterday afternoon for instance, Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs and less than adoring wife Pat dropped around to pay for their tickets for that literary lunch, and Banjo proceeded to make himself unpleasant by attracting a rake of mosquitos and refusing to obey the simplest of commands. I know I said “sit” but he obviously imagined a silent “h” and did just what it says on the can, or rather what you do in the can if you are American.
So work for Currencies Direct will have to take a back seat this weekend, I have some serious last ditch summer sunshine activity to enjoy. Tune in tomorrow for the next exciting instalment.
Chris France
Pomegranates versus seagulls
I hear from long time follower of this column Mr Humphrey’s, who, as he called me is presumably free, who was excitedly talking about the options following the success of my book launch on November 7th. That he is anxious to attend and has secured already his reservation surprised me somewhat. The discussion was about the almost inevitable film of the book that may even beat Mr Otway to the Odeon Leicester Square in my dreams. I said that I wanted to have Brad Pitt play me, as long as he could get the “Sarf London” accent which creeps into my speech when I am either excited or drunk, which at the moment is most of the time. Mr Humphrey’s ventured the opinion that if there was a film about the book in which he features he was going to play himself. This would mark a sea change in the man who lives an exotic lifestyle with no visible means of financial support except for the many sales of the wonderful paintings of his beautiful TV presenter wife Helen Humphrey. I have often noted that work did not seem to be a concept that he grasped entirely, so it was a surprise when he volunteered his services, even if it was for entirely selfish motives. It became clear that his vision for the film was more “Sex In The City” in style whereas I pointed out to him that given our respective ages it was more likely to be more “Paunch in Provence”.
I thought it was that time of year when I should concentrate on the summer that is coming to an end and the autumnal influences that are gradually being felt. Today for instance, my picture is of the progress made by my pomegranates. I know this does not really compare with the picture earlier this week of the naked politician being pecked by a seagull, but it is worthy in its own right, if only to give some light and shade to the entertainment value offered in this column. Some days its poor, some days its poorer.
Pomegranates nearing perfection
Today, I must once again miss church at Cafe Latin as I have urgent business to attend to in Cannes in respect of Currencies Direct and Medina Palms. I don’t know if I have mentioned it before but I can save you up to 3% on your foreign exchange transfers if you are still using your bank, but I digress. I wanted to illustrate that I am gainfully employed, well employed anyway, the gainful bit is less certain, and that I was diligently going about my business in a sensible and time efficient fashion, Obviously lunch cancels out a good deal of the day and no one of any stature starts work until around 11.00 and with the nights drawing in I find that the intensity of my activities needs to increase still further, if that is possible.
The big day on the horizon is of course Saturday. from Antibes to St Tropez on the 78ft D5 London offers possible the best form of travel that can be had. Lunch will be taken at Cinquante Cinq, the favoured eaterie of the rich and famous, and the reason we are going there, being that we would all like to be either rich or famous, whereas the naked politician whose boat it is seems happy being rich and infamous. I like the fact that the restaurant apparently has its own jetty, which I though was slang for a jet ski until I recently became a sailor. Presumably there is a reason for the jetty, but other than for posing value, which I myself am more than happy to accommodate I can see no value.
Chris France
Launch lunch latest….
It was supposed to be a quiet day, but in the event, approval came swiftly for the launch lunch lurch and all hell let loose. With the confirmation of the special guests, John Otway and Stephen Frost for probably, at least from my point of view, the most important literary event that has ever emerged from Valbonne, it was my duty to ensure that as many of my friends (indeed, both of them) and fans of my daily scribblings (incidentally still considered “ghastly” by the wingco, as he repeated last evening at tennis) were given the opportunity to attend this glittering affair. Thus I was stuck on the computer all day ensuring that this wonderful news was sent to as many unlucky recipients as possible. The result is that we are nearly 50% capacity after one day and looking to sell out before the weekend.
Bev the biker with cat just behind her. I contend that I was never intending to do any pussy jokes. this is far beneath me
Much help was secured today from one Bev, friend of Viv Frost pictured today, a retired FIFA event manager, used to staging shows for royalty and top international government officials. Clearly this event of such a stature that a woman of her experience was required to iron out the minor technicalities. Her intensive and prolonged browbeating of the poor chap in charge of the Auberge Provencal in Valbonne Square reduced him to a quivering jelly by the time she had finished with him, and she was the single most important factor in confirming all the details today. Her coup de grace was suggesting that the Mayor should be invited. Suddenly doors that were closed swung open. She is a very interesting lady, and at first I was intrigued why she would want to meet me (flattering enough in itself) but why she was wearing a cycle helmet and sports attire. It transpires that she is in training for a cycle around Cuba shortly to raise funds for Murray’s Muscles. You will have to click on this link to find out more! . I remember when I was young that there were several of my contemporaries of the female persuasion who were likened to bikes and for a few seconds the memories of those good old days came flooding back, but I was jolted back to reality as she ran over my foot with her racer. I did manage to get this picture though before she rode off into the mid day sun.
I think it is fitting that my first “gig” will be sold out with people probably queuing around the block in case of a cancellation and indeed I am looking forward to seeing the ticket touts. I shall be most impressed if they are selling them for any more than 70% of their sale price. If any of you want to come, best to bite the bullet and make an old man happy as soon as possible. By that I mean confirm a reservation. The wingco of course will be utterly unhappy that this column has inspired such passion, but whilst I am happy for passionate love but will settle for passionate hatred, It is passionate ambivalence that would upset me.
Tennis was yet another triumph for the MOGS (mustachioed old gits) last night but dinner afterwards was eschewed for a couple of drinks at the Auberge St Donat. I think the losing side have had a bellyful of my clear and concise descriptions of the MOGS winning streak, and did not welcome the suggestion earlier that we should split up the two weaker players.
All that remains today is for me not to mention Currencies Direct and my job is done.
Chris France
Cinquante Cinq for lunch?
Normal everyday tasks were taking longer than usual today due to the hangover in both senses of the word from the flying visit of Mr John Otway combined with the delights of D5 London and lunch at the Petite Plage in Juan Les Pins. The invite to the forthcoming and eagerly awaited Literary Lunch took the most time to create, but it is awaiting approval at a meeting of great literary minds in the Cafe Des Arcades this morning before I can unleash it on you all over the coming days. Matt Frost, from French Mortgage Xpress who is sponsoring the event by supplying the champagne for the reception went back on his solemn word that the next meeting would be at La Kavanou or The Queens Legs to enable a drink to be taken to aid discussions and the decision-making process, but right now I am delighted that only coffee will be on the agenda.
That is of course the refreshments agenda, there are any number of issues to settle on the practical agenda, such as the menu, the wine (and the whining?) and how the whole event will work and what the output from my very special guests will be, or more especially how will they upstage me, with no stage presence or experience of public speaking to fall back on. We have seating for around 80 and I know of at least 90 people I think will want to attend, so first come first served system has to apply. You know the old adage, the early bird gets the worm, and this case the worm is me. I just hope I buy my own ticket in time.
I took the picture today about two weeks ago of this lovely sailing yacht just off Port De La Rague during the Bistro Rally. As a non sailor myself, I am not able to understand why on what I presume was a good sailing day, no sails are deployed. Perhaps the crew had stopped for lunch.
Maybe the sails were out for mending or something.
Tennis is potentially scheduled for this evening assuming there are no back sliders as was the case last week. If it happens again then there may be some white feathers appearing about the place, or certainly in one particular tennis bag, which may or may not be the property of a certain villa management boss.
Thereafter there is a huge empty space in my diary for two whole days before a big day out on Saturday. A yacht trip in D5 from Antibes to St Tropez for lunch seems to me to be the perfect way to spend a Saturday. Particularly as the plan is to then to have lunch in Cinquante Cinq the well-known restaurant for the rich and famous with a patchy reputation for its food. Happily, as I am almost certainly destined to be at least a little famous after the launch of the paperback version of Summer In the Cote d’Azur, my biggest problem will in fact be keeping the lunch down if there is any sort of wind, other than of the sort I seem able to generate in huge quantities and at will. I can almost hear Peter Lynn typing the remark about hot air and my writing as I write this.
So for two full days I shall do my best to be an exemplary Regional Controller of Currencies Direct and may even venture out to see some of my regular affiliates. Cannes will be lively this week as MIPCOM is coming to an end, so perhaps lunch on the beach in Cannes on Friday should be inserted into the empty diary? I shall consult that nice lady decorator and seek guidance.
Chris France
Seagull in blow job shocker
Drinks started at just after 12 in Antibes aboard the very nice boat owned by the naked politician and his lovely wife Dawn (does that make her Dawn naked or Dawn politician?) with a few others including John Otway, down in the Cote d’Azur for a couple of days rest and recuperation. From there we adjourned for lunch to the very lovely Petite Plage, one of my favourite luncheon haunts in Juan Les Pins.
Juan Les Pins as a venue was chosen by Mr Otway because he regularly destroys an old song by Peter Sarsted called “Where Do You Go To My Lovely” in his “musical” set which mentions the town. You will see that I have placed the word musical in inverted commas. This is because people who have witnessed Mr Otways performances in the past will know what I mean but if you have not yet experienced that treat, a simple youtube search will reveal the true scale of the horror that will befall anyone expecting either good musicianship or a decent singing voice in his wonderfully funny performances.
That fact that I have been a fan for over forty years is illustrated up by the number of times I have been persuaded to invest in his dodgy self promoting schemes, but the full story will have to wait for my autobiography, which will see daylight when I can find somebody to write it for me.
It was another warm and sunny day with swimwear to the fore, but some beach attire obviously has different effects on the bird population than others as my picture below shows.
The naked politician, thankfully not naked at this moment
Exactly what this sea-gull had in mind is open to debate but I think if one were to describe a bird in this position without recourse to the photo, one might have been forgiven for thinking that the naked politician might be the lucky recipient of a blow job, but somehow I think on this particular occasion perhaps it is as well that the bird did not go through with it. The exact nature of the seagulls interest is open to debate, but I do hope its bill was not too much of a shock.
So a long and entertaining day came to an end after dark, with Mr Otway thankfully departing in the direction of Menton for a brief respite from his gigging schedule and the commencement of the shooting of the film which is unsurprisingly about himself.
I shall be doing very little of substance today as I allow the toxic cocktail of alcoholic excess collected gleefully over the past five days gradually to depart my god like body (Bacchus or Buddha suggests Peter Lynn in a rather cruel comment recently), except perhaps to follow up a few potentially happy customers for Currencies Direct and organise some vital sales aids for Medina Palms.
Later this week I will commence the full promotional campaign for the launch of the paperback version of my book on November 7th, although by the level of interest it will be a sell out shortly. I would like to think that this is due to the quality of my writing and the entertaining content but I suspect that the special guests John Otway and Stephen Frost may prove more of an attraction. Blackadder fans will remember Stephen as the jovial firing squad leader in one of the best episodes of the final series.
In case you have forgotten, please make a date in your diary for lunch on 7th November at the Auberge Provencal in Valbonne Square, and make your reservation shortly if you have not already done so. This can be done by emailing me chrs.france@gmail.com. You also get lunch and will be subject to intense pressure from me to buy one or more copies of that soon to be hailed as a masterpiece “Summer In The Core D’Azur”.
Chris France
Otway in brandy drinking shocker
The worst possible scenario concerning lost resident of Valbonne resident Derek Barrowcliff seems likely to come to fruition with the discovery of a body in the Valmasque yesterday.
There are likely to be some other casualties today as a result of dinner in Valbonne Square last night. John Otway was in town with his glass designer partner Karen Lawrence and proceeded to regale anyone who was there with his plans for his movie, for which he has already booked the Odeon Leicester Square for the premiere next October, for his 60th birthday.
I say premiere but technically it will be a private showing for cast, producers and crew because it is ruinously expensive to book and much cheaper for a cast and crew screening, but don’t despair as anyone who wants to buy a ticket will automatically become a co-producer on the project and get a credit at the end of the film. John expects to have around 1700 co-producers. My picture today is of Mr Otway and his lovely glass blower.
Mr Otway blows in the ear of his glass blower
Earlier in the day we had flown back from England where the weather has been delightful, warm and sunny and not a cloud in the sky. How long can it last? What fearful price will have to be paid by the poor residents of that normally dank and drizzly place? Or have they already paid for it with an appalling summer?
After dinner it seemed a good idea to retire to the pav and drink all my brandy. Of course is was a very poor idea on every level and I have asked that nice lady decorator that if I ever get a stupid idea like that at any time in the future to disavow me of it immediately. I have vague memories of Mr Otway being persuaded to play a five-stringed guitar badly. It was not played badly because it only had five strings it was played badly as John is by his own admission not a very good musician. I do remember him telling the story of meeting Linda McCartney at the Capital Radio awards in 1978, who had recognised him from his recent tumultuous and physically painful appearance on the Old Grey Whistle Test. Whilst in deep conversation with Linda he resented and tried to ignore a Liverpudlian trying to break into the conversation. Only later was he told it was Paul McCartney, for whom he had signed an autograph. Paul McCartney had recognised Otway, Otway had not recognised Paul McCartney.
Today more carnage is in prospect with Mr Otway today with lunch arranged on the beach in Juan Les Pins where we expect to be joined by the naked politician and Peachy Butterfield with their beautiful married minders. It is far to say that my work for Currencies Direct will not be quite to the fore today although I do hope I can persuade one of my party to do the decent thing and sign up for an account.
So back, nose to the grindstone tomorrow then, as I also have tasks to perform in respect of the magnificent Medina Palms development on Watamu Beach in Kenya and it is royalty time for several of my music business clients which requires my attention. By that I mean I will need to collect my meager 20% commission.
I have remembered that the nice lady decorator has had cards printed, no doubt at my expense, saying just that “The Nice Lady Decorator” which seems rather ironic as she has not worked at all in the summer. I have been too lenient for too long. It is time for strong concerted male direction, organisation and delegation. I wonder if she will let me?
Chris France
Whodunnit? no idea
Lunch with a Larry Smith in London was always going to be a big ask before going out in the evening for the 20th wedding anniversary “celebrations” to see Agatha Christies “The Mousetrap” in London’s theatre land. Perhaps if I had remained awake for the full period of the play I may have found out whodunnit, so now that nice lady decorator has an excuse to put me through this whole saga (very operative word) again, although perhaps not before our 30th wedding anniversary if I get my way.
So Mr John Otway will be joining us on the flight back to civilisation today. We have a great deal to discuss, deal being the operative word, I wonder what kind of naff deal I will be offered for having the honour of helping him to make the film of his life? His first action upon his deciding on the making of his film (about him) was to book The Odeon Leicester Square for the premier on October 7th 2012. I would venture to suggest that most people embarked on such a folly would be more likely to finalise the filming before booking the premier. When I tackled him about this he asked me if I had seen the balcony outside the cinema, and had I considered what a great photo opportunity would be presented by his posing on this balcony? I admitted that I had not, so later in the day yesterday I sauntered past. It was fair point which I have now taken on board.
This evening there is a fair chance you will find us in Valbonne Square, where I want to show Otway the venue, The Auberge Provencal, for my soon to be triumphant book launch on 7th November. At present you can get an advance peek at the content if you have a Kindle as it is available as an ebook. As regular readers will know Otway has been press-ganged into trying to give me launch lunch some credibility. He has, after all, published two books himself, in which incidentally I am seriously libelled, so the presence of a published author may help.
My picture today was taken in sunny England a few days ago. Yes, it is a strange concept and apparently it was the hottest October day in England since records began yesterday. This caused the wearing of bikinis and see through blouses, but I am the first to admit they do not suit me.
England experiences summer in autumn
Tomorrow in all likelihood we will take the train to Juan Les Pins for lunch. Mr Otway is keen to go there because in his s et he regularly massacres Peter Sarstead’s song “Where Do You Go To My Lovely” which has the memorable line about going to Juan Le Pins and he fancies a short clip in his film of him visiting. That lunch on the beach will follow is a bit like predicting night will follow day. I think Le Petite Plage is the most likely venue.
Then from Tuesday on, I must settle back into work with Currencies Direct and Medina Palms whilst trying to regain control of my body which has been fiercely attacked by English beer and fatty English food and needs some tender loving care. Boot camp has been mentioned in some quarters, but I have never been a fan of boots or indeed the camp, so I feel it is not for me. I shall as usual exercise great restraint when it comes to consuming alcohol in those coming days, coupled with a strenuous series of walks in the lovely autumnal Valmasque Forest, which in my opinion, will be sufficient for me to regain my god like figure for whenever the call comes for my nude modelling assignment with Marina Kulik’s painting class.
Chris France
Mousetrapped
To the Groucho Club then in Soho’s Dean St yesterday for lunch courtesy of Al Yiddley, the northern Jewish lawyer from Allwoodley near Leeds aka Nigel Davies from Davenport Lyons for a publishers lunch. Clearly as I am now a publisher of books (my own), I was given the impression (or rather I assumed) it was felt necessary for the assembled multitude of the great and good in the legal and publishing world to hear from me about my literary experiences. At least that was what I had thought, but instead the speaker was some unknown (to me) barrister called Ron Thwaite.
He alluded to some cases in which he had been involved in respect of the likes of Rio Ferdinand which apparently ended badly for Rio earlier in the week, John Terry and sundry other unknowns, but for all that he was very entertaining, as was the whole lunch and the Groucho experience especially as it was at the expense of my lawyers, although I am certain the cost will appear as a disbursement and be duly recharged to the client (me) at some stage.
Al Yiddley the northern alter ego of my legal advisor made only a fleeting appearance, reserving his true malevolence for MIDEM in Cannes next January, the customary meeting place for us international music biz types. I shall commence work on that sitcom next week.
As usual, after a couple of days in the city I begin hankering after the quiet life, so I always store some recovery photos in my phone. This particular photo was taken on the valley at St Guillaume Les Desert during the summer camper trip around France and Spain when things were a little calmer.
The gorge at St Guillaume Les Deserts
A little calmer could be a good description of that nice lady decorator, but only when she is asleep. Today is a big day. I will be confirmed as a mouse of the highest order when I take that nice lady decorator out to see The Mousetrap this evening to celebrate 20 years of wedding bliss (it says here). This was her choice of celebration, the choice arrived at after a perfectly democratic process in which I had a vote but she, as chairwoman had the casting vote. The process was straight out of the Gaddafi school of democracy and I am told that I am looking forward to it.
Last night, reunited as a family in its most expensive form, we were the hosts for drinks and dinner for our charming children, both at colleges in the UK, and both in need of a good feed. I think they have both benefited from their first month on fixed budgets and was delighted to see them both looking a lot thinner. They got their own back by eating vast amounts of food and drinking to massive excess, but barely keeping abreast of that nice lady decorator.
Lunch today should be interesting, ahead the of the trap closing on this particular mouse. Old friend Larry Smith, a charming chap despite his lack of culture, he is after all Australian and I have at least one Australian female reader who is a similarly culturally challenged, is in town for the weekend so it is my duty to entertain him for lunch, but hopefully at his expense.
We have both been invited to the John Otway show at the St Albans Beer Festival, but I for one cannot trust myself to return to the west end in time to be Mousetrapped. Finally, I hope you note that there was no mention of Currencies Direct today
Talking of Mr Otway, he is joining us on the flight back to Nice and we shall no doubt be adjourning to Valbonne Square on Sunday evening to take in the typical south of France experience.
Chris France
Frost and Otway to attend launch!
TV stars are now flocking to be involved with the paperback launch of my book “Summer in the Cote D’Azur” (available now on Kindle), but instead of the quite apt original date, Halloween, the release of this literary masterpiece has been delayed until Monday November 7th to accommodate even more people.
Steve Frost, well-known comedian who has appeared in The Young Ones, Blackadder, Mr Bean and in countless other TV programmes such as “Never Mind The Buzzcocks”, the man famous in those adverts for saying “I bet he drinks Carling Black Label” and brother of Matt Frost, from French Mortgage Xpress based in Valbonne, has agreed to introduce me at the launch, and as if that was not enough, Mr John Otway has bowed to the intensive pressure under which he was being placed and has agreed to be another guest of honour on the big day. As a result, the venue for the lunch will have to change to accommodate a few more people, and so it will now take place at the Auberge Provencal in their restaurant, rather fittingly overlooking Valbonne Square.
Tickets for this event will be limited to about 80 in number and will be priced at 25 Euros a head to include lunch. They can be reserved by calling Lin at the English Book Centre in Valbonne, or respond to me leaving a comment at the bottom of this page.
Clearly, demand for these tickets was going to be high in any event due to the extraordinary furore I have managed to build up in my own mind over the launch of my literary career, or paunch launch as it has rather unkindly been described, but even I will have to concede that the attendance of a notable TV personality and a man who has two hit singles to his name in a 30 year career littered with failure may slightly increase demand for tickets. Please don’t think this will fame change me at all, I shall remain the irritating self-important, self obsessed, ageing and slightly overweight figure many of you know so well, but I do hope you can keep an orderly queue for signed copies of the book on the day.
The worship of beer, with no holding back
My picture today was taken at lunchtime yesterday at The Mill in Elstead, Surrey and admirably reflects the amount of time since my last pint of proper English beer. London Pride is of course the best beer known to man, and I considered it churlish not to celebrate, even pay homage to this fine Fullers ale. Clearly this could not properly be achieved, not the correct respect paid with the consumption of just one pint, and I think we exhibited sufficient reverence in the end.
The surprise since arriving yesterday has been the south of France weather herein England and the fact that I did not have to change out of my shorts upon landing. The countryside looked splendid with the leaves just beginning to turn red and gold, but you know it cannot last. Three days and a thunderstorm is the old adage and I am here in the UK for the next three days.
If you think that the new-found fame and fuss which certainly exists in my mind would deflect me from my duties with Currencies Direct, you would be wrong, at least until the royalties start flooding in, indeed I have already identified at least one new potential client whilst I have been here, and I know my son will use the service as soon as he has any money.
Last night to Guildford to ensure that English pubs remain at their usual high standard and today takes us to London to visit female sprog.
Chris France
Jehovah to the rescue
By the time you are reading this, I will have had to get up twenty minutes before I went to bed in order to catch a ridiculously early flight to the UK, or rather a slightly late flight from the night before. That I shall be grumpy is a given, but the chance of some fine weather and the prospect of a pint of London Pride takes away the complete drudgery of it all.
Yesterday, immense progress was made for the so-called “paunch launch”, the literary luncheon where I shall be speaking and signing copies of my first book,“Summer In the Cote d’Azur” rather appropriately some may think, on Halloween. I have ordered the neon bowler hat flashing the word “author” and a directors chair bearing the same description to ensure that nobody is unaware of my correct title. As to the details? soon, very soon. Suffice to say that TV stars will be there and a larger venue may be required.
Ten days or so ago, after the Bistro Rally, I took this photo from the Port De La Rague near Mandelieu where we had just woken up in Bluebell the camper, after a very heavy day and night, to the most wonderful Cote d’Azur light and took this picture looking over towards Mandelieu and Cannes. It seems clear to me that as soon as I have succeeded as an author, which is almost imminent, then photography could be the next creative bastion to fall victim to my talents. I might even buy a camera.
Port de la Rague taken by a rogue
So London today, well Gatwick, and then a trip to Guildford to fill up my son with food, drink and almost inevitably cigarettes for another month. In fact lunch is due to be taken in Elstead in Surrey, home of a venerable old aunt who has on occasions deigned to read this column, but only when it has been photocopied and placed in the smallest room in the house. Before that I shall be collecting together all my Jehovah’s witness literature to place on the seat alongside me on the Easyjet executive jet to ensure that I have an empty place alongside on the arduous trip back to the homeland. Arduous is strange word. One would think that its genus would be in adore, more implying love, unless you find love hard work, but I can make no comment here. This for some unaccountable reason reminds me that in have a significant wedding anniversary coming up this weekend. I looked up what might be a traditional gift for such a mammoth event and it seems that china is the accepted traditional gift to mark a twenty year sentence. That nice lady decorator likes tea, so a nice cup of china tea should see the job done.
Thereafter back into London for either a publishers lunch at the Groucho or to meet up with an old Australian mate in London for a few days. The latter is more likely as I am convinced that although my time as an unknown author is limited, these publishers will want to know me soon, that and my lawyer Nigel Davies (otherwise known as Al Yiddly, the northern Jewish lawyer) at Davenport Lyons is uncertain he can secure tickets. His future engagement in a serious legal battle I am about to unleash may be in jeopardy (along with his swingeing fees) if he gets this wrong. Then on Friday night another sprog will need feeding up and watering for the next month. Don’t they know their dear old dad is broke? at least until the inevitable book royalties and film fees begin to roll in. I feel that at that stage Currencies Direct services will be much in demand.
Chris France
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