New roller spigot?
I don’t like Mondays. As I write I am sitting in the skip, as that nice lady decorators 4 x 4 is known in our family, which smells disgusting. The reason I am sitting here is I am waiting for her, a regular pastime for me. The reason it is smelly? Because the depraved dull dog Banjo is also in the car, also waiting for her. Perhaps it was unkind of me to have parked the car in full sunshine and turn the air conditioning off but I am honestly a bit chilly.
I can still feel the effects of the magnum of Accrington Stanley Asti Spumanti yesterday we consumed at Peachy’s residence yesterday, which is playing havoc with my alimentary canal, scouring every crevice of my colon on its way to…..well you know, I do not need to go into detail. Monday is traditionally a recovery day and I am a traditionalist.
Plans are afoot to take Bluebell the VW camper van out for some camping next weekend at Castelane. It seems we will be accompanied by John “have you got a cigar” O Sullivan and his buxom wife (sorry Lin) Jude, the less than secret Baileys drinker. I am expecting to be asked to take a couple of boxes to the campsite for her. These will of course contain emergency rations of Baileys in case her own car load runs out whilst we are there, after all we plan to be there for two nights. I shall also be expecting an assault on my traveling cigar humidor from the man who thinks it is taboo to enter a tabac.
I took this picture of women at work at the weekend whilst enjoying a mohito on Peachy’s terrace. It seems there was issue with the swimming pool mechanism, and as both Peachy and I have delegated all swimming pool duties to our respective wives, it was clearly their duty to ensure that the water was clean the pool functioning satisfactorily. It is so rewarding when one finds the art of delegation is so effective. And it must also be nice for the ladies to be able to please their men.
I think it needs a new roller spigot
A walk in the woods near Roquefort Les Pins was cut short when we saw a hunter out with a gun, and that nice lady decorator always believes I will do my utmost to get Banjo in their sights. This is as outrageous as it is true, but I had forgotten to bring the tennis ball for him to chase and as he speaks no English so did not understand my commands to run into the undergrowth. When admonished by his owner, that nice lady decorator, I claimed that I thought he would be safer in the undergrowth, but she remained unimpressed.
Today, as soon as the spelling errors in the short blurb about my book Summer In the Cote d’Azur are repaired, and incidentally for which I received a ferocious ticking off from Dawn Howard, my editor, I shall commence a marketing campaign based on no budget and pestilence. The pestilence will take the form of any and all of my friends and contacts being constantly harassed into buying it on Amazon.
Today I must commute into Cannes again for a meeting at the crack of 11am for my duties with Currencies Direct and Medina Palms, Remax-Cannes being in the unique position of being involved in both exciting areas. Thus no doubt exhausted from the daily commuting grind, I will return to do some lateral thinking in the hammock this afternoon.
Chris France
Accrington Stanley Asti Spumanti
So the invitation to lunch yesterday with Peachy Butterfield and the lovely Suzanne yesterday was the lovely occasion that we expected. Their new house on, some may say, the less salubrious northern side of Valbonne, where these simple folk from the north of England seem very content is very comfortable. Lunch took place on the terrace of their new residence situated between the correctional school and the council tip, which is clearly a move forward from their normal accommodation in the north of England. It was and is charming, and the food and drink supplied of the highest quality, if one is accustomed to northern hospitality. The Accrington Stanley Asti Spumanti was a triumph, certainly as far as the northern contingent were concerned, and I took this picture to record the success of the offering.
A northern tipple
Clearly this wine is of a quality to which I have yet to become accustomed, and to which I have no intention of becoming accustomed at any stage in the future. Cheeky is one adjective which may be properly applied to this viticultural offering, indeed it is an adjective which was constantly on my lips whenever Suzy was nearby. During a less than coherent rant after a couple of home-made mohitos, Peachy made mention of ” a milf unction” which apparently occurred during the sending of an email. It seems that the epithet “Milf” has some meaning that I do not feel is relevant to discuss, but may involve male lust directed towards young mothers.
I mentioned that the lawn could do with a cut but the reaction from Peachy was brutal. It seems that getting the lawn mower from the garage to the lawn is a very tricky enterprise and what he told me literally was that he does not like “humping the lawnmower”. Now as much as I like him, it is not often I agree with him but this seemed to me to be some sort of commentary about life, or rather some of the activities which pass for entertainment, in the north if England, but on this occasion, I found that I had a certain synergy with his expressed opinion. It seems that he humped the lawnmower down but she, (Suzanne, his long-suffering wife humped it up). The mind boggles, but I make no comment. I feel it my duty just to report facts faithfully. Interpretation of these are for others.
This week will start quietly, a walk on the Valmasque this morning will give way to serious hard work on both Currencies Direct and Medina Palms, and of course the promotion of the bidding literary sensation that is my book, “Summer In the Core d’Azur”, prequel to the rather predictable ‘Winter In The Cote d’Azur” which will follow into the literary world as night follows day.
Old friend Gregory Carlin asks for a signed copy, but fails to focus on the fact that an ebook is a little tricky to sign, however I will happily sign his Ipad should he wish to send it to me. In the comments section he reminds me that to him work was a four letter word, so he would get me to do his for him. Such are the advantages of being born into money, rather than to earn it.
Meetings on Tuesday in Cannes and Thursday in Sophia Antipolis presage a really busy week, so I will have to take it easy on the intervening days, to keep my strength up, especially with tennis in the diary for Wednesday evening, however that nice lady decorator as mumbling something about the cement mixer last night, and that is not usually a sign conducive to me well-being.
Chris France
Memory stick works!
An eerie quiet pervades the house after the departure of sprog senior for college in England. The only sound I can hear is that nice lady decorator whimpering somewhere, worried about sprogs out there in sprogland. Actually she may be whimpering because of the Memory Stick I gave here recently. She has not forgotten my beer or food once since the first beating.
A partial recovery day from the exhausting wheels of industry in Cannes yesterday was slightly derailed by an invitation to watch England’s first game against Argentina in the Rugby World Cup with Mr Thornton Allan and Mr Clipboard, once I had discovered that my guests, the high and mighty of Medina Palms were more interested in sunbathing than watching out boys evoke memories of The Falklands.
The airport runs over here can be hell. Twenty minutes of driving along quiet motorways in the fierce sun can be very debilitating, especially in the late afternoon, so as we said goodbye to our Medina Palms friends, it seemed right and proper to repair to one of the beach bars for an enlivening ale on the way back, as my picture today demonstrates.
A short stop on then way back from the airport
This was all that was really required yesterday to re calibrate ones equilibrium before the assault on the culinary senses that is lunch and drinkies with dear friends but committed northerners Peachy Butterfield and impossibly beautiful wife Suzanne at lunchtime today.
This is not the simple social occasion that you may think. These wonderfully warm human beings for all their rustic charm are not very sophisticated, and their lack of refined etiquette (indeed when I mentioned etiquette recently Peachy asked me if that meant he needed a large hammer, I think he may have confused this with croquet), whilst of no real menace is touchingly naive, indeed some may say alluring. Yesterday I speculated in this column about what we might be faced with on the food front, today I am going to be having a look at what viticultural atrocities we can decently expect. Accrington Stanley Asti Spumanti springs to mind as a possible reception offering, a less then crisp Cleethorpes Chardonnay? a Redcar rose? A Rhyl Rioja? a Preston Pinot? Or what about a Skelmersdale Sauvignon? The tastes buds are salivating at the prospect as any offering will no doubt be the freshest possible. I hear that the 2011 vintage in the north of England is, well, the same as it ever was, fresh. At least it will not have a culture, a bit like some Australians, with the obvious exception of Cathie The Culture, my Australian reader you may think?
I was expecting to be joined for lunch at the Butterfields by the Naked Politician whom I bumped into at the Blue Water party on Friday. On this occasion he was mercifully fully clothed, at least for the time I was there and I suggested that his obsession with getting naked may be a deep-rooted cry for help. He too is from up north so it may have something to do with being continually cold whilst living in the frozen and inhospitable northern wastelands as a child, and subconsciously, now that he lives in Monaco, it may be something to do with throwing off the yoke of the north (and by this I do not mean the throwing of eggs), physically encouraging the similar throwing off of clothing, having escaped from that cold dark damp hell. However I have not figured out where the politics piece fits into this yet.
I realised that I did not mention the online publication of my book “Summer In the Cote d’Azur” on Amazon yesterday, a terrible oversight, as is not mentioning Currencies Direct until the last sentence.
Chris France
A commuter speaks
Once again I found myself on the commuter train into Cannes. As a soon to be famous published (albeit by myself) author, I already feel aggrieved that I have to work, as it is clearly below me in my new status but when I consider the nature of the work, I am uplifted, as uplifted as anyone who is able to purchase a house on the Medina Palms development. The other uplifting influence is the good I can do as an ambassador for Currencies Direct, saving people money on their foreign exchange needs, even down to figures as low as £250.
Anyway, after the slog into work along the sea front at Le Cannet to the Remax-Cannes grand opening and the subsequent and it seems compulsory eating of the food provided and the drink supplied, leading to happy fulfilled customers, I returned exhausted in time to go to Peter and Julie Bennet’s Blue Water party. The planned visit to Cannes Boat will have to wait until today, after Englands inevitable victory in the World Cup Rugby against Argentina of course.
At the weekend, well Sunday to be precise, we are invited to the Butterfields, Peachy and Suzanne for road kill surprise, black pudding, tripe and pigeon sandwiches, at least that is what we think lunch will entail. Peachy is an enigma. As we all know, light travels faster than sound, which is why he appears bright until you hear him speak. I do hope his ferrets have not suffered during the cruel English summer, doubtless I shall find out on Sunday. One thing I have learned where Peachy is concerned is never argue with an idiot, he will drag you down to his level the beat you with experience.
My picture today is of the Valmasque woods on the Mougins side, where the crisp Provencal late summer light throws dappled images onto the terrain below (I am an author now, so am allowed these little literary flights of fancy, as it is expected of us writers).
The Valmasque forest in Mougins
It started with my son telling that nice lady decorator that he was going to use his push bike to get to a local venue for the skinny dipping tour, the night before last and the last night of revelry for him before he heads off to Guildford College until Xmas. She told him he wasn’t to take the bike as it was dark and therefore dangerous, but I, in the full knowledge that what I was doing, i.e. contradicting that nice lady decorator, was just as dangerous, if not more so, stood my ground, quaking. I don’t know what came over me but it seems I was emboldened by alcohol and a row ensued. I do not think I helped my corner by suggesting that if I agreed with her, we would both be wrong.
So today Cannes Yacht show beckons, maybe, after an early start to rid myself of sprog 2 until December. That nice lady decorator is considerably more wobbly about the sprogs departure than their alleged father, far from entering the celebratory mode that I entered as soon as sprog 1 left, she is actually going to miss them. I would only miss them if the sights were inaccurate.
Other then the rugby, and a couple of airport runs to despatch various guests and family members to the airport, I may stay in tomorrow evening and take it easy. Obviously I have no choice in the matter, as all decisions of this nature are taken by my social secretary who rules with an iron fist, so you will have to wait until tomorrow for more
Chris France
An author writes
Well its official, I am a published author. I know that my better read and educated peers will be astonished, but there you have it, real talent will out. Actually the truth is that this is a victory for dogged determination, a refusal to accept that no publisher in his right mind would consider unleashing my writing on the general public, and enormous and probably entirely misplaced self belief. You may now order my first book “Summer On The Cote D’Azur” on Amazon by clicking on the link. If you think this will be the last mention of it in this column, well, think again. At present, it is only available as an ebook, to be read on Kindle or Ipad or machines of that ilk, for old-fashioned folk like me,the paperback will be launched later in the year. For all those people who have talked of fighting back and putting the record straight and moaning about what I have said about them, I invite you to submit a review via Amazon, because I wont get a chance to edit it, omit it or answer back!
Nice airport is a lovely airport, but it is still an airport, so the trip back into Cannes in the warm sunshine with the top down on the Merc was a welcome respite from boy racers revving up their jumbos on the runway. Cannes is idyllic at this time of year, many of the tourists have gone, the beaches are less busy, the restaurants have time for you again, and the weather in September is sublime, in my opinion it is the best month of the year. The reason for the visit? preparation for the opening today of Remax-Cannes, the biggest estate agent brand in the world in the heart of one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in the world, attended by one of the future foremost authors in the world (O.K.that is a bit of an exaggeration, but I am excited!).
Preparation was tough. I think I spent at least 20 minutes in the office directing requirements, and I have to tell you that after such frenetic activity I was exhausted. My co-missionaries for Medina Palms who had flown in during the afternoon were similarly tired, but manfully, or should I say womanfully carried on with the preparations. Later in the afternoon, after the briefest of siestas by the pool they were up and beautifully groomed, insisting on buying myself and that nice lady decorator dinner at an establishment of our choice, which once she had considered all the possibilities by examining each menu in the square in detail turned out to be the Terra Rossa in the square at Valbonne.
Kids drinking my wine
A very nice dinner ensued at the expense of Medina Palms, but we returned to the house to where we were shocked to discover a plethora of teenagers in the midst of a travelling skinny dipping extravaganza. Luckily it seems that we were only venue number 3 out of 5 for the evening where those youngsters were determined to have swim and so after some bribery in the form of alcohol we were able to move them all to venue number 4, to the delight no doubt of the owners of said venue, who it was revealed were owner of the English Book Centre in Valbonne Lin Wolff and her film director and helicopter pilot Marc whom were also dining in Valbonne Square.
So it is an early start for me, and a long day in prospect in Cannes and probably a visit to the Cannes Yacht Show at some stage, if I have time away from my duties with Medina Palms and, I nearly forgot, Currencies Direct.
Chris France
Beaten with a frying pan?
It was after a late morning coffee at Cafe Latin that I caught Tim “up the” Swanee from Home Hunts down at the cash point machine again, shaking his head for reasons I cannot fathom. One of the richest estate agents in the cote d’Azur, perhaps he was just trying to throw off the effects of last nights hangover, or perhaps a wasp was bothering him? He has so far been unable to throw his lot in with Currencies Direct, being forced due to circumstances of some murky deal trapping him into using the services of some no doubt inferior rival. Perhaps the head shaking was an unconscious recognition of missed opportunities? I would like to think so.
Lunch was taken as predicted at Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne Square with old music biz associate Brian Scholfield and his lovely wife Helen, whose address in England is Crazies Hill. I make no further comment except to say my pizza with honey and fig was wonderful.
Last night, in recognition of the fact that at college, he will be unable anymore to eat and drink me out of house and home, when he leaves for Guildford at the weekend, we took my son and his lovely girlfriend to La Menthe Deuce in Mougins, a fantastic looking place as my picture today endeavours to capture but with less than ringing endorsements for its Moroccan food from several accounts. It was however his choice, so I had no choice, but contrary to these accounts it was excellent.
Le Menthe Deuce at Mougins
Today, after fawning at the feet of my book editor Dawn Howard at Cafe Latin, I must go to the airport to collect some leading lights in Medina Palms, who have sought my expertise to ensure the quick sale of the last few houses on this magnificent development in Kenya on the famous Watamu Beach.
They are here for the launch of Remax-Cannes, to which you are all invited just behind the Palais Stephanie in Cannes at 9 Rond Point Duboys Angers anytime between 10am and 8pm.
Before that, tennis at The Vignale later this afternoon. Not usually considered a contact sport, it may become so if Mr Clipboard is on the winning side, unless due to the vagaries of splitting up the stronger players, I find he will be my partner, in which case he will be feeling my racket (if I may say such a thing) if we lose, which of course would not be admitted in this column.
Recently I came home from lunch to find that nice lady decorator working in the bathroom and singing “its a heartache, nothing but a heartache” and I thought to myself, that’s a Bonnie Tiler (thanks Pete!).
The Reverend Jeff finally makes contact after failing in his promise to make contact when on holiday from the UK near St Tropez. He had previously told me that he could “beat me with a frying pan”. To me, this is not an opinion that a person of his religious bent and piety should be making on any subject, but it turns out he was referring to a proposed tennis match between us. I had interpreted his failure to make contact as a sign of weakness, an admission of my inevitable superiority over him in all sports, and indeed, I firmly believe that his being rushed to hospital for some unspeakable ailment, so unpleasant that I cannot go into details here (suffice to say it was a close call whether Dynarod should have stepped into the breach as it were), was an excuse. Anyway it appears, if one believes this twaddle, that he was so ill that he was in slight danger of meeting with his god a little before his properly appointed time. Regular readers will know that my sense of compassion and fair play are sufficiently underdeveloped to the point where I am certain this is either an elaborate hoax or it is a psychosomatic kind of self harming, just to avoid the inevitable defeat at my hands. I don’t do sympathy.
Chris France
Pomegranate grenades
Pomegranates are known in France as Grenadines, which according to my son is close to the word grenade, and that is his excuse for some of his friends at their party last Friday picking some unripe pomegranates and throwing them around. This seems quite reasonable to me, however that nice lady decorator was seething, and as we know, she is not one to bottle up anger. She is known in some circles as Auntie Fizzy. This seems to kill two birds with one stone; It reflects her love of anything dry and sparkling (like me?), but also, we all know what happens when you shake up a champagne bottle. It only takes mild pressure for the whole thing to blow up spectacularly. As a result, I do not expect to see any of my sons friends around here any time soon. I cannot see what the problem is, there are still plenty left as my picture today shows, however this is not an opinion I will endeavour to share. Perhaps she will be more reasonable after her return from London last night.
The grenades that did not get let off....
Today, after 2 very hard days work and hardly a drop to drink, I shall be rewarding myself with lunch. An old music biz pal is in town and wants to see Valbonne, so I have volunteered to be his guide. I suspect that I may be lunching in Valbonne Square, almost certainly at the Cafe des Arcades and the only codicil I have is that I need to be finished at 6 because I have a meeting with my editor, the redoubtable Dawn Howard, who was as astonished as I that my book may actually be available to buy on-line today, the perfect present for someone who has a kindle or an Ipad, or similar device. If you think I shall not be promoting the hell out of this in the coming weeks, you are being impossibly naive, it will be just one more outlet for my creative juices which are currently under-employed writing this column, working on Medina Palms and Currencies Direct in addition to my usual duties as Managing Director of Steve Marriott Licensing Ltd and Music Of Life Ltd.
Mr Clipboard arrives on Thursday, so after collecting some friends from the airport at lunchtime, and after a trip to Cannes to prepare the ground for the Remax-Cannes opening on Friday I shall leave them to relax by the pool whilst myself and fellow mog (mustachioed old git) the wingco take on and thrash whatever ringer Mr Clipboard has found to partner him at the Vignale Tennis Club near Plascassier. Doubtless afterwards there will be some kind of gathering to celebrate our victory, but as yet my instructions from Mr Clipboard have not arrived.
The Cannes Yacht Show has started but I think it will be Saturday before I get there, as with the launch at the party being staged by Pete Bennett from Blue Water Yachting on Friday night and the Remax launch on Friday, where I shall be for much of the day. Then there is talk of camping next weekend, which for some reason reminds me that I have not seen Mr Humphreys for a while, I wonder if he is still free? Bluebell the camper, resplendent with her new subtle white wall tyres, will I hope be transporting us to Castelaine up in the hills on the Route de Napoleon to take in the views and I expect also to take in (intake?) the produce of the local vineyards. Apparently Confucius did not say “ladies who go camping must not look for evil intent.”
Chris France
One sprog gone, one to go
Some comments about the mating tortoise picture I featured recently indicate that some people thought the lady tortoise was looking slightly disinterested, but they did not seem to know that she was on top. I agree that both look slightly unimpressed and it would seem one could get more expression from a blow up doll, which brings me to a point Peter Lynn made recently; If you buy a muslim inflatable does it blow itself up?
The airport run was successfully completed to ensure one of the sprogs is on her way to London. One down and one to go, the other little blighter leaves on Saturday, praise the lord. Now I may get to drink some of the beers that I keep buying. Sprog 1 was accompanied by that nice lady decorator who can never resist a bit of retail therapy, and I for one am delighted that she had some company otherwise I may have been forced to suffer shopping in the west end.
Out for a stiff walk in the Valmasque forest to throw off recent excesses, I cam across a clearing with some crocus like plants that have sprung up over the past few days. It seem that it might be saffron? In which case I shall designate a job to that nice lady decorator upon her return of collecting some to put in her cooking. The lord knows it needs something.
Could be saffron? if not then pretty flowers....
I read with amusement in the Sunday Times about Jeremy Clarkson, the co-presenter of the BBC’s most successful programme export giving his voice over for a sat nav system. Can you imagine some of the commands?; “do a hand brake turn now”, “are you mad? you have gone the wrong way”, “I said left you retard”. What would be even more amusing would be if there was a Mexican version, after the Mexican ambassador complained about his description that all Mexicans are lazy and fat.
I am getting closer to the on-line publication of my book “Summer in the Cote D’Azur”. It has been sub-edited by the beautiful Dawn Howard after the original proof reading volunteer, the significantly less beautiful Peter Lynn, unremarkably became bored by the whole process and couldn’t finish it. I know how he feels, I have now had to read it 4 times!, but if I hadn’t read it already then I would be, like most of my daily readers I am sure, gagging to get a copy. If you buy it in enough quantities then I promise to give up plugging Currencies Direct every day. all I need now is to buy a Kindle or an Ipad.
But even literary success will not stop my work with Medina Palms because that is a labour of love, much like my work with John Otway, and I think it will be good for me to try to keep my feet on the ground in the midst of the media madness I feel sure is about to engulf me. This will be further enhanced when I am able to get paperback versions, because that will trigger the promised book launch courtesy of the Valbonne Book Centre, run by the voluptuous (she will just love this description) Lin Wolff. Lin you promised, so there is no backing out now.
Talking of John Otway, for about a year I have been searching for a local venue to put him on with is big band which astonishingly has been together for 15 years, and so last night I went over to the pub at St Phillipe in Sophia Antipolis, in the new development beside the Provencal Golf Course to see if it might be big enough, but alas no. Any suggestions welcomed.
Chris France
Clint Eastwood with a paunch?
I need to report on the kids party on Friday night. Our darling children (that nice lady decorators term, not mine) are both due to fly the nest and go to colleges in the UK shortly (praise the lord) and so it was decided, but not by me, that they should be allowed a leaving party. That the venue should be my home was the first shock, but that we were paying for it, although not such a shock was just as unwelcome. We had thus provided some 500 euros worth of drink and food (in that order) for the locusts (by that I mean my children’s friends) to consume. We ourselves had escaped to neighbours the Thornton -Allan’s to avoid witnessing the worst excesses, returning home at 12 30 to make our presence felt. It is truly cathartic, and it has to be said, enormously rewarding, to enjoy the effect that parents arriving back at the height of a teenage party can have. I thought it would best to draw myself up to my full height, adopt a challenging broody distasteful expression and walk slowly amongst the gathered party throng, just to ensure they all knew the parents were back and looking out for misdemeanours. The fact that all the guests were consistently charming, thoughtful and engaging was of no matter, I was a returning vengeful parent and was determined to enjoy every minute of my Clint Eastwood style presence. Unfortunately where Clint is good with a poncho, I am only good with a paunch so the effect may have been slightly different. I too was chewing on a cigar and trying to look menacing, but suspect in retrospect (which means when I woke up sober yesterday morning) I may have looked slightly cross-eyed and trepidatious. I am not even sure I can use that word, but what else would one be when in a state of trepidation?
So with at least a dozen of the little blighters hanging around this morning eating me out of house and home, I set that nice lady decorator on them and in a very short time mops buckets and scourers were being fully employed and rubbish collection teams were organised and several hours later the place began to look more normal and less like down town Tripoli.
I had steeled myself in case I was to witness any inappropriate teenage “love scenarios” but in fact over the past 24 hours the nearest I have come to witnessing anything remotely erotic was when I was disturbed from my siesta yesterday afternoon by the sound of tortoises mating, and so with sleep destroyed, I wandered down to take this picture.
Tortoises engage in some leap-frog type exercise, there has to be a joke there somewhere
My regular readers will now be braced for some tortoise jokes, with allusions as to their relationship just being a shell of what it was, life in the fast lane, being cold-blooded etc, but I have decided to rise above that temptation and instead consider the best way of presenting my missionary message about the value of opening an account with Currencies Direct.
The walk did not work, the fried egg sandwich did not work, so it was time for the last resort, a bloody mary with the enduring hope the kids had not managed to find the vodka and water it down, as had happened last winter. So after the application of that most wonderful of restorative, the evening took on a rosier hue, and yes I did men rose.
I am delighted to report that nothing of import occurred last night, save for a test for one of those Rioja’s we bought in the summer. The results were inconclusive so I feel a re-test coming on.
Chris France
Cannot stomach Monarch
It was at dinner in the old square in the very French town of Mouans Sartoux that Peachy Butterfield revealed the problem he had with a gin and tonic recently. Being based in the UK during another typically poor English summer, he made a snap decision to go to Majorca for a few days sunshine last month. The only flights available were with Monarch Airlines, the budget specialists that make the seating offered by Easyjet and Ryanair look spacious. Peachy is a big chap and having ordered his gin and tonic he discovered that he could not get his table down over his admittedly gargantuan stomach. I asked if he had thought of taking a mouthful of gin then sloshing some tonic in to mix it orally but this had not occurred to him.
The dinner in Mouans Sartoux at Le Coin Natural was extremely good, my scallops tandoori being especially good and with the discovery of a 14% rich and round local wine called rather fittingly Mistral (it disappeared like the wind, but the wind reappeared this morning in a less than pleasant way), a good time was had as can perhaps best be illustrated by my picture today of Peachy being a bit of a bread head.
Peachy Butterfield; basket case?
Yesterday was a day for preparation and trepidation. Preparation for the party we had promised to allow our children to have as a farewell before they both go to the UK for various colleges in the coming week, and trepidation about the possible consequences. We have put notes through all our neighbours letter boxes to warn them of the event, but with the noise that nice lady decorator and Peachy were making at 1.30 in the morning the night before last, the neighbours could have been forgiven for thinking we had out the wrong date on the warning.
So a selection of the cheapest wine boxes and rays of canned beer were duly transported from supermarket, tents were erected, ice was secured and then it was time to don crash helmet and goggles until 2am this morning when it was supposed to end.
As it is the weekend, I shall be taking a few days off from my labours on behalf of Currencies Direct as I think it only fair that my readers have a few days away hearing about how they can save money on their foreign exchange transfers, however I will continue to consider the best way of getting the message about Medina Palms across.
The delicious prospect of a whole weekend without a social engagement lies before me, and with the threat of thunderstorms today and more so tomorrow, perhaps at last the summer social maelstrom is coming to an end. That nice lady decorator will be taking daughter Charlie to settle her in to her London college on Monday, and will doubtless consume several pints of London Pride whilst she is there, and will no doubt call me at the time just to rub it in, but with the weather forecast indicating wind and rain back in the UK, I am glad I am staying put here.
Wayne Brown from FR2day sent out an urgent message to his friends on Facebook yesterday, asking all his UK friends if they had any very light and thin jumpers they could spare because it was starting to get chilly on the boat after around 9pm. I know what he means, but the roof of the Merc will stay down for a couple more weeks at least. I guess then I will have to start looking for some long trousers which I last used here in late April, and are still in my suitcase for when I was in England in high summer.
Chris France
Kebab or sex?
That nice lady decorator said to me last night that I only want to have sex is when I am drunk, but that’s not true, sometimes I want a kebab.
Yesterday into Cannes to meet with Icelandic Gudrun, from Remax Cannes who is having an opening event for her new shop/office next Friday 9th September, and guess what? You are all invited! Anytime between 10am and 8pm she (and I) will be welcoming anyone who would like to drop by with coffee, nibbles or a glass of wine. The premises are just behind The Marriott Hotel on the Croisette in Cannes. Of course if you do visit you may be subject to what the Americans call an “elevated pitch” about the benefits of Currencies Direct or indeed the joys of owning a property at Medina Palms in Kenya. An elevated pitch is not, as I originally thought, a tent on a piece of high ground, but a concentrated sales effort crammed into a short space of time. I think the concept grew out of a horrid American idea of trying to sell something to someone else in a lift, (an elevator pitch?) because for a short time you will have their attention because they cannot get away.
So we left Remax just as the sun passed the yard arm. It was impossible for that nice lady decorator (who had at the last minute accompanied me to Cannes) to pass a pub serving Guinness without stopping to sample the wares, so I was forced to stop at the very salubrious Railway Tavern opposite the railway station in Cannes to allow her to satisfy her thirst. It would of course have been rude of me to allow her to drink alone, so I was forced to order a pint.. After all, I could not risk the damage to my reputation that could have ensued if I were to be sipping a tonic water or an orange juice whilst that nice lady decorator downed a pint of Guinness. Her excuse is that she had felt a bit dizzy (this was before the Guinness) and that she felt she perhaps had an iron deficiency. I had previously suggested that as a man’s “love juice” is full of iron, that I would selflessly administer her an infusion of the missing element, but that laser beam look that I know so well reappeared and I decided to change the subject rapidly.
Before we left Cannes, I was able to take this picture on the walk from the station to the Remax office. As you can see there are a number of obstacles of a different kind that can impede one on one’s way betwixt station and office, but I cannot recall quite these diversions when commuting from Euston to Tottenham Court Rd to my old office in London’s Soho in the 1990’s.
The journey from major terminus to office can be so irksome don't you think?
Last night, as if we needed another boozy social occasion, we were invited by Peachy Butterfield and gorgeous wife Suzie to dine with them as a thank you for providing an escape route for their daughter Lucy from the atrocious UK summer weather. Looking whiter than a sheet, in fact slightly blue from two months away from the south of France sunshine, I suspect it will take them a few days to turn white before being able to resume normal tanning levels expected in this part of the world. A full report of events will have to wait for tomorrow for reasons of space and clarity.
Chris France
Panto season? Oh yes it is
Where does she get the stamina? After that nice lady decorator rolled home some time after 2 30am yesterday morning from a girls drink up the night before, and this after a series of late night end of summer shenanigans, she was up again before 9 yesterday morning going for a stiff walk, and then when Clive Panto (that cannot be his real name? oh yes it is) and his lovely wife came in at 11 30am, the rose was open and she was off again, but on this occasion I came too, if you understand me correctly.
Clive Panto is a scream. It is his real name and he would be great at pantomime but probably only as an ugly sister. Much as I love him, he can be very funny and enormously irritating. Today he was just funny. With a belly now the size of Devon, and hair which is restricted to two tufts, one behind each ear, he has general air of a clown and with a clowns face that makes you laugh (interpret that which ever way you like) he is amusing company. His claim to fame is that as an actor he was the one who said “you can’t stand it with a bandit” in the iconic 1980’s commercial for Bandit chocolate bars. If you are old enough to remember that then you have my condolences. Anyway, he is holidaying here, loves France and wants to move here, but so far I have managed to put him off.
So bad signs early on. Rose being consumed before mid day is always a bad sign, but the Pantos left (oh yes they did) before it all got out of hand, and so by the time we came to go out last night, we were fully recovered and ready to go.
Given our frenetic life style you may think that featuring a picture of a dam burst today might have a deeper significance, a sort of underlying message, and you are probably right, but I cannot work out what that message is. The picture was taken last weekend when we went over to the Var to find the site of the Malpasset dam which collapsed with horrendous loss of life in 1959, five years after it was built. This picture shows the size of one chunk of the original wall that collapsed and was washed some 400 metres from the dam itself. That little dot on the top is that nice lady decorator. It is not often I get to call her a little dot, indeed I have a number of far more ill-fitting epithets for her, but I still value living so in case she ever reads this I will keep those to myself.
The end of Malpasset dam and the end of Ramadan, how poetic? but what's Banjo the horrid hound doing in this shot?
So scrubbed and dressed we went to the Auberge de Provence in Plascassier, a charming off the beaten track restaurant in old Plascassier because that nice lady decorator expressed the opinion that she had been square bashing enough recently. We were accompanied by two people who were adamant that they did not want to be identified in this column and discussion ranged across various subjects. One of them is involved in development or, as I like to call it, missionary work in Africa, mostly in Burkino Fasso, whereas I am involved in missionary work a great deal nearer to home, where I am converting people with foreign exchange needs to use the services of Currencies Direct. Both activities are equally laudable in my book. I venture to suggest that he makes more money than I from his efforts, but such are the rewards for public service. I have made my bed and I must lie on it. Good night.
Chris France
Not the way to serve fruit
I see The Stranglers are playing at the Palais in Cannes on 9th September, and I would have loved to have gone, however I have an invited to a big party the same night. Also, trying to book tickets can be a bit tricky. There was an Elvis Tribute show being staged there recently and I tried to get tickets but they kept saying press 1 for the money, press 2 for the show….. When I was a gig promoter in my younger days I once booked The Stranglers to play a show for me in 1976 at The Swan Hotel in Leighton Buzzard, but we had to cancel it because XTC, who played the week before, attracted so many people the ballroom floor was condemned by the authorities and the place shut down.
Days are always desultory after a skinful of rose, and yesterday was no different. A working siesta is in these circumstances a must, and the hammock provided an ideal venue to consider all the momentous decisions I have made recently, and the progress I have made with my work with Currencies Direct. One of those decisions was to forbid that nice lady decorator to go out last night to a girls drinks night on the grounds that she had consumed enough for several nights the evening before. That she totally ignored my command and arrived at her intended destination a little early was not a surprise. One word from me and she does what she likes.
So the opportunity to spend an evening alone watching porn catching up on world affairs presented itself and was grasped with both hands in a manner of speaking, but in the end I found the kids had recorded some episodes of the excellent Inbetweeners so I watched that instead.
The early morning walk up The Brague River from outside Valbonne up nearly to Biot, wonderful as it was, as my pictures pays scant homage to today, did not have the desired effect of throwing off the damage caused by last night revelry, and thus a day of suffering was ensured.
The noise from this waterfall was deafening, at least for me with a serious headache
My old friend Peter Lynn comments that a bus station is where a bus stops, a train station is where a train stops, and on my desk I have a work station, and that pretty much sums up how I felt yesterday. But today is different. Barely a drop passed my lips last night and I am on tip-top form today whilst that nice lady decorator is suffering. You know how irritating it can be when you have a hangover and the people around you don’t and they are happy and bouncing? well that nice lady decorator does now.
For instance, that happy sound of a bustling kitchen in the morning, sun shining, excited chatter, the clatter of crockery being arranged for breakfast, the singing of the kettle, these are all sounds that I was able to enjoy this morning, but for some strange reason that nice lady decorator did not share my enthusiasm. I did well to catch the piece of fruit she threw at me, and rather charitably formed and expressed the opinion that I did want a fig after all, but throwing them at me was not the recommended way of serving it, at least not in any cook book I have ever read (OK, that bit was untrue, I have never read one).
So, to the week ahead? I have to go to Cannes tomorrow on important Medina Palms business, where I shall be meeting Icelandic goddess Gudrun from Remax-Cannes, then battening down the hatches for my kids going to college party on Friday when I have rather stupidly offered to be barman. My thought was that if I was a very slow barman for the evening, I might somehow be able to slow down the rate off teenage drinking, but given the numbers expected, I suspect this is a forlorn hope.
Chris France
No D in Culture
In a comment yesterday, Cathie the Culture believes that I am committing a crime against her nation (Australia) by failing to put n d on the end of Culture when referring to her. Of course she should be completely in touch with criminality, which as it is at the root of the Australian psyche as the nation itself is founded on the bedrock of convicted criminals who were sent there from England in earlier times.
What she fails to record as a crime and is much more alarming is the wearing of silly hats, another example of which I feature today, ostensibly to keep out the cold. In my opinion the pictures used yesterday and today represent evidence of a crime against humanity. Today’s sartorial criminal is one Iain Kershaw, consort to renowned local journalist Karen Hockney, both of whom were guests at the same dinner party with Tony “I invented the Internet” Coombs and his lovely wife at the weekend. He is another who mentioned Clint Eastwood in his defence, but he is fooling no one except himself.
Definitely one of the Three Amigos
Initial determination to have a night off evaporated as soon as the spontaneous early evening invitation to drink some rose and people-watch at the Mundells village house in Valbonne was received. His lovely wife Zillah described her husband as someone who was “work averse”, and “the master of work evasion” which seems to me to be a perfectly sensible state of mind unless you are lucky enough like me to have Currencies Direct and Medina Palms amongst ones working portfolio, in which case it hardly seems like work. I can only surmise that he must have done some work at some time as he seems to own a good chunk of Valbonne, has a yacht and property in UK, but how he can afford all these things from the sale of sweeping machines is a mystery to me.
Discussion turned to fellow tennis compatriot the wingco, who is always going on about my not having attended a proper school, but the information I received last night is that he was not a not a boarder and is very sensitive about that fact. I can hardly wait until I next see him in order to probe into this sensitive area, if you will pardon the expression.
Anyway, early evening drinks turned into slightly later evening drinks, by which time it was agreed that the time was ripe for a bit of square bashing (v. to abuse food and drink in Valbonne Square) thus completely defeating our intention to have a night off the juice and go to bed early. Indeed when I awoke this morning I noticed that the large mirror was opposite the end of my bed (not above it as I had once memorably suggested, a suggestion rejected some vehemence I seem to recall) was at a crazy angle. I took this up with that nice lady decorator who said that it was her fault (a very rare occasion for her to admit guilt) as she had bumped into it last night after several vats of rose, but worse, she thought she had put it straight before retiring.
Valbonne Square has become almost pleasant again now that a good chunk of the infernal tourists have departed back to the UK for the continual autumnal weather they have been experiencing all summer, and once again we were the last to leave in the early hours.
Today will certainly be a day of rest and recouperation, at least if I get my way, but if a late invitation appears out of nowhere. Then I suspect things might change.
Chris France
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