The Dibley Poisoner lives?
For the first time for over two months, it was cool enough to need a sweater close to midnight at the soiree at Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs house on Saturday. As no one was prepared for temperatures dropping as low as 20 degrees, extreme measures were required to keep out the sudden chill. For me however, there is a difference between extreme measures and utter desperation and I invite you to consider which adjective best describes the action being taken to keep warm in my picture today below. I am not certain that I could ever be so cold as to don such an item of clothing unless I was marooned in the frozen wastelands of Northern England, where style is something you find in the corner of a field and you use to climb over a fence.
Anyone remember the film The Three Amigos?
Earlier, as pre-dinner drinks were being served, I just missed a hawk attack in the Coombs garden where the hawk downed a dove, which in turn was attacked by the family cat in the evening sunshine. It seems the cat and the hawk had a tussle, the dove flew away as did the hawk, and thus an opportunity for extra meat on the barbecue was missed. I suggested the cat itself might provide a tasty snack, but it was not required because Pat Coombs provided some stunning culinary creations of her own. That she did not have all the ingredients for some of the recipes she was following mattered not one jot, as she announced that she had improvised and for a horrible second I was reminded of interesting food matches made by Mrs Cropley in The Vicar of Dibley. Who can forget her ingenious marmite cake, or orange cake with Branston pickle icing?. Anyway, Pat’s startling creations, especially the chorizo prawns were a revelation and astonishingly tasty.
Anyway, back to the photo. Tony was mumbling something about looking a little like Clint Eastwood in his cape, but I am afraid I am more reminded of Benny Hill.
Yesterday, by way of penance for the rich and er.. exotic food and generous supply of wine the night before, that nice lady decorator announced that we needed a proper walk. My suggested stroll into Valbonne to buy a Sunday Times was dismissed, and we (the demonic dunce Banjo, the colossal cocker spaniel, and the benign and obedient – well he would be obedient if he were not all but stone deaf Max, the faithful English springer) were bundled into her car and driven over into the Var to the scene of the Malpasset dam disaster of 1959. Hundreds of people died and the wall of water washed all the way down to Frejus some six miles away wiping out a village on the way. It remains the site of the single worst French natural disaster of the last decade.
This huge dam collapsed 5 years after it was built and it was a fascinating place where pictures were taken. Oon the way back we stopped at Tanneron on the mimosa trail for a beer and to discuss the business and social schedule for the coming week. My work for Currencies Direct will of course be to the fore, and I have several important meetings scheduled, but I must make time for my new project, the wonderful Medina Palms development in Kenya on the famous Watamu Beach.
At least with the onset of cooler weather at last, it will mean less mosquitoes. I saw a sign in a shop over the weekend saying “Mosquito nets 10 euros”. I didn’t know they were allowed to play the lottery?
Chris France
BMW drivers naff?
So in the week that Steve Jobs finally resigned from his position in Apple, which has relied so much in recent years on the internet for its products success, it was perhaps apt that we were guests of Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs last night. It was also a touch ironic in that whilst there I could get no signal on my blackberry and thus no internet at his humble abode.
I was on a mission to see if I could drink as much as he did when he came to a party at ours with his lovely wife Pat earlier in the summer. Clever man that he is, he was wary of my intentions and had clearly come to terms with having to stock copious amounts of wine in expectation . He was so incoherent when at our place that he seemed to have reverted to Dos or binary, such was the lack of clarity in his speech.
Earlier in the day, we went up into the hills behind Pre du Lac for a walk with the dogs, and I witnessed a crime. We used to call it scrumping when we were kids, and I grew out of it aged 14 when the farmer from whose orchard we were liberating apples produced a 12 bore shotgun and suggested in his own country way that what we were doing was illegal and not conducive to health or a long life.
That nice lady decorator insisted that we stop beside a fig tree which bordered a small track but was clearly someone else’s property. She then proceeded to scrump a bag full of figs. I took this picture of the evidence and am expecting a knock at the door from the gendarmerie at any moment. I guess that technically, I am complicit in the receiving of stolen goods, but I am hoping that my giving up the perpetrator to those fine custodians of the law and supplying the evidence with which to convict her will be sufficient for me to be exonerated. If we are not discovered and are able to consume the evidence before our arrest, then there may be some hope. There should be enough to keep us going (in more ways than one) for a week at least.
The booty, the proceeds from that nice lady decorators haul today. I fig ure she may be in trouble
Cathie the Culture comments that in some recent survey, that Mercedes drivers (such as my good self) are 8 out of 10 on some nerd scale measuring 1 to 10. What she does not say is whether 1 is good or bad, so I guess that 8 out of 10 is not bad? What I have not revealed before today in this column is that a few years ago I always drove a Bentley, but was persuaded to part with it on by that nice lady decorator on the grounds that it may be a target for thieves, that and the fact that it was costing 1000 euros a month to maintain, so I was persuaded to swap it for my current hairdressers delight, the Merc. I am almost certain that the Bentley would have measured 10 on Cathie the Cultures scale of naffness. Being Australian, it is clear that her measure of culture is of the highest and most rigorous standard and should be respected by all. However, she goes on to say that BMW drivers appear to be the naffest of all, so in that context you may not be surprised to discover the Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs drives a BMW. I wonder how his particular BMW with a self-inflicted dent might score with Cathie the Culture?
Chris France
Tennis handicapping system dispute
In my mind, yesterdays tennis at the Vignale was a triumph. Whoever you ask who took part may well agree, although I concede that the reasons for proclaiming a triumph may vary considerably from one participant to another. The heat wave alert has finished but 28 degrees is hot enough for anyone in which to play tennis, so with a raging thirst we adjourned to the Auberge St Donat for a couple of refreshing ales and then lunch to discuss the result.
It seems that some of my opponents, in fact all my opponents do not share the view that there clearly should be some kind of handicapping system when there is such an age difference between the teams . Based on my calculations of that age difference handicap, myself and the venerable Mr Anthony Bay just bested the two young whippersnappers, John Mundell and Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals. It is quite a complicated handicap system, a bit like the Duckworth-Lewis system in limited overs a cricket, but the result is undeniable, we won and that’s an end to it.
I read with interest in the Connexion English-speaking newspaper that the French are about to impose cuts and austerity measures in the current economic climate. This got me to thinking about where they might cut. Perhaps reduce the amount the police are entitled to drink each day? Maybe reduce the amount of garlic served in meals in council canteens? They could save a fortune by cutting out meaningless and copious amounts of paperwork as I can testify after an hour long visit to the bank yesterday..
Recently I decided to test out the sat nav on my car, to see if there was a quicker way of getting from Valbonne to Nice airport, and was thrilled to see a back road marked that appeared to take about a mile off the trip. However, when I attempted to take that route, I was confronted with this, my picture today, below. Just a tad overgrown for the Merc don’t you think?
Road to Nice, not nice
Cathie the Culture, one of our token antipodean readers had a similar experience which she related recently in a comment on this page and it seems that sat nav and Provence are not happy bed fellows as I hear numerous horror stories about their failings.
Last night dinner with Melissa and Nigel Graves, without their almost omnipresent gardener Iuean, Melissa on this occasion eschewing the sellotape across her mouth usually in place to keep her from saying something stupid to me for inclusion in this column.
Tonight, we are invited to downtown Plascassier where Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs lives a frugal life having decided against acquiring the riches he deserves for his invention. He and his lovely wife Pat will probably have saved hard in order to treat us to a simple barbecue dinner, but for all their (well his) frugal tastes, I am certain we will be well fed as long as we eat before we go. Luckily, neither read this column regularly, so in the words of the immortal Basil Fawlty, I think I got away with it.
You may consider that as it is now the weekend, that I will be taking time off from the promotion of Currencies Direct, but nothing could be further from the truth. It may appear to an outside that I am doing nothing, but beneath this sleepy exterior is a maelstrom of planning and plotting, not just how best to educate people into using our wonderful currency exchange facilities, but how they could benefit from investing in Medina Palms on the silky white sands of Watamu Beach in Kenya. A good analogy is contained in the words of Neil Young “Rust never sleeps”
Chris France
The Stig spotted on boat in Cannes?
We are witnessing momentous world events at the moment in Libya, where Colonel Gadaffi is in the process of being deposed. I saw a guy on Sky News wearing one of Gadaffi’s ridiculous scramble egged covered army caps, and it struck me that this would have been the perfect apparel for me for Tuesdays boat trip to see the last firework display of the season at Cannes, this time staged by Italy. I think my natural leadership qualities would have been further enhanced by my wearing of said cap, perhaps embellished with the word “Captain”? Perhaps then I would have been able to put a stop to the antics of owner and real captain John Mundell who was determined to stage his own firework display afterwards.
Once the wingco had arrived, just as we were about to cast adrift, for reasons that escape me he decided to impersonate the Stig for a few minutes, as my picture today shows. There are other more embarrassing pictures in my possession, and unless I receive the usual fiver, then these could see the light of day.
The Stig or the wingco?
With work completed by around midday, I decided that Currencies Direct and Medina Palms would have to survive the afternoon without my constant attention, mainly because it’s too hot to work at the moment.
House guest Lucy Butterfield, one of my daughters friends, daughter of Peachy, which is the main reason I have got to know him claims to have been bonding with catastrophic canine, and unwelcome addition to our family, Banjo. For a second I had and held in my mind a different interpretation of the word bonding, more like binding, or being bound. She claimed that Banjo is slobery and smelly but she still likes him. There is no accounting for female taste, indeed, perhaps that is how she likes her men? If so then most of my sons friends could qualify. She (Lucy) has spent most of the summer staying with us, having spent a few days in the north of England where she was admitted into hospital for hypothermia, so we took pity on her and invited her back into civilisation for the summer.
Today, I have once again been called into the senior tennis four to raise the standard at 11.00 this morning, and it is part of the requirement that lunch is taken thereafter at Auberge St Donat for the customary tactical dissection of the earlier activity. I am certain that mention will be made of the epic boat trip to see the fireworks in Cannes earlier this week, and the pyrotechnics that were not limited to the display itself. If the wingco is playing or attending the lunch independently, he will be late. This is not a guess, it is a fact.
Dinner is arranged for this evening, but where and with whom I have not yet found out. Clearly on a need to know basis, I am right down the pecking order, somewhere between Banjo and the statue of Buddah I would think, but I intend to save myself for the invitation to Tony I invented the internet” Coombs and long-suffering wife Pat. I shall be attempting to return the favour by drinking him out of house and home in a similar manner as he attempted (and very nearly succeeded) at my house earlier in the summer. Mumbled promises of an invitation to his place once his terrace had been finished were eventually nailed down, when a secret spy in his household, who may or may not know my son, supplied undeniable information concerning this terrace and its near completion, thus allowing me to trap him into the invitation. It will not be wasted, but I may well be
Chris France
A “wingco”, a measure of time
I hear that a couple of muslim chaps rammed their boat into the dam at Lac St Cassien near Frejus a few weeks ago, apparently it was the start of ram-a-dam.
The ending of Ramadan is of course a time of feasting after dark and although it has not ended yet, we decided it was OK for non muslims to feast, so last night we went to Port de la Rague near Mandelieu.
Having accepted an invitation to see the last firework festival of the summer in Cannes, this time staged by Italy, from the sea-side rather than from the town as we had last week from The Quays Irish pub on the port, this week was a significant move up market. We were invited aboard l’Exocet, a splendid sailing yacht with a name that belies it speed for the evening. The invitation said 7pm, but once aboard, I discovered that the wingco was also invited. This of course often throws the best laid plans into disarray as he is always late. I asked the owner John Mundell what time they expected him and John’s luscious wife Zilla said he was also told 7 sharp, but they knew he would be late, expected him at 7.30 and that 8 30 was the cut off time. So at 8 29 and about ready to cast off without him, we spotted him running down the quay carrying his guitar.
A little earlier, whilst waiting over a very convivial drink aboard l’Exocet, discussion turned to the widely known measure of time called a “wingco”. The wingco’s habitual lateness is renowned locally to the extent that he has a unit of time by which he is late named after him; a “wingco”. I had not fully appreciated that this measure of time varies depending upon which activity he is attending. For instance a “tennis wingco” is a no less annoying but far smaller seven minutes. A “dinner wingco” can stretch for up to an hour and last night a “yachting wingco” was established at a full hour and a half.
Of course he was forgiven when the guitar came out and a discreet veil should be drawn over the rest of the evening but suffice to say all the fireworks that were let off were magnificent, even those from the boat itself, and I shall remember for a long time the rendition by the entire party of “Jumping Jack Flash” at 2am, before we realised that the singing and ribaldry which had started after the fireworks had finished, and with us surrounded by yachts, had deservedly lost its entire audience and we were alone in the water. My picture today endeavours to catch some of the spectacle in the skies. I was torn between this picture and some other pictures of a spectacle aboard the boat, but they will have to wait for another day, if I have the balls.
Fireworks in Cannes, but were there fireworks on the boat?
There are a number of silly stories going around at the moment, the one I like the best tells the story of Mtembi Olongo, who is just 13 years old and has to walk 10 miles each day to find food and drink. Why should this be? Because the little bastard burned down all the shops in Tottenham where he lived and now he has to go shopping in Brent.
Today, more Currencies Direct work and more Medina Palms activity will keep me busy all morning, well, from 11am until nearly 12, when obviously it will be time for lunch, however I may have a rather quiet day today after the excessive celebrations last night.
Chris France
Mood lighting or lightning?
That nice lady decorator is already planning the finishing for the extension for which we have only just secured planning permission. She mentioned something about mood lighting but I am afraid I may have misinterpreted what she said. Apparently she never gets in a mood, so mood lighting as I had envisaged it would never be required. So that’s now crystal clear in my mind, and I shall always equate that particular misunderstanding and subsequent exchange with the setting off of fireworks.
Talking of fireworks, the first tenuous link today, tonight we will head down to Port de la Rague near Mandelieu to board the sailing yacht owned by John Mundell who has kindly invited us to see the firework display in Cannes this evening. I do hope we experience fireworks of a very different nature from those I experienced due to my mood comment earlier.
I am writing this as I sit by the swimming pool, trying to counter the effects of 33 degrees of heat. I am not a swimmer, but even I have had to venture in to cool down. However I will fight anyone who suggests that I am not working. Indeed I have already completed my first deal for Medina Palms, that wonderful beach development and investment opportunity on the white sands of one of the top 10 beaches in the world. It is not all play down here on the Cote d’Azur in summer.
My picture today is of an elephants ares. I have nothing per see against shisha pipes, or smoking in general, indeed and I rather partial to the occasional Monte Christo No 2 cigar, but I would never want to smoke anything if I considered it may have emanated from an elephants rear end. The pipe in question is owned my daughter, but I will be hesitant to mention large rear ends when in her presence as she is rather sensitive in this area.
Smoke from an elephants arse, and they say there is no smoke without fire
An elephants arse is also a colloquial golf expression and is used when you have hit a shot you could describe as “high and smelly”. Talking of golf, I have begun planning for the Taylor Made sponsored REGS tournament and mentioned to my daughter that I was hoping to get a new driver out of it. She asked me if I had an existing driver to which I replied in the affirmative, so she said ” Can he drive me into Cannes?”.
The heat wave continues to play havoc with my best laid plans to continue the promotion of Currencies Direct and I am concerned that the current heat is allowing people to slip through my hands and remain in the hands of their banks when it comes to forex movements, and I know you will all my understand my frustration with events such as these.
Because of the heat, that nice lady decorator has decided to clip the dogs. Max, the wonderfully mannered family pet, revered by all is very sensible and sits in the shade all day apart from several visits to the pool, whereas the monstrous mutt Banjo can be found lazing in the sun, and I am disturbed to be able to report that he has mild sunburn on his white patches. Had the sunburn been more pronounced I would have been a little less disturbed. This also caused me to be in trouble as I was accused of hiding the sun burn cream, but I was only putting out of the sun in a secret hiding place so that I could lay me hands on it whenever needed. Imagine my distress when I was accused of hiding it from Banjo, can you imagine that I would do such a thing?
Chris France
Toyah impersonation shock
I am getting old. No, it’s no use denying it, the evidence is overwhelming; It is illustrated by memory loss, falling asleep at tables, dribbling uncontrollably (although these two are not always at the same time), but probably the most telling effect is that when watching a porn film you think “My, that bed looks comfy”, or, you notice things like a nice bedside lamp.
I receive an email containing my picture today which was accompanying an allegation that the nice lady decorator is impersonating Toyah on stage in Henley, which as you can see is an easy mistake to make. I sent it on to her, but not before leaving the house to avoid what I consider may be a tempestuous response.
That nice lady decorator's alter ego
Later in the week, we have been invited to Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs house to witness the much vaunted, and until I see it, mythical terrace that he claims to have been building. Once again I thanked for inventing the internet, which has proven so useful in my day-to-day life. He is so selfless, he has never made any money from his invention, preferring, as he likes to claim, to work on newer technologies, however I am almost certain that if he has a real job, it may well be selling burgers in Macdonalds. Luckily, he seldom reads this column, so will remain blissfully unaware of my comments.
Last night, that nice lady decorator expressed once again her desire to see shooting stars. Once again I had to fight down the comment that rose in my throat about how I could give her a practical demonstration of what they looked like, although in truth I am far too much of a coward to hit a woman, especially a woman who once knocked out one of my teeth in my younger days when I was chatting up a pretty girl (she called it leering and in her opinion the girl in question was a complete slapper) in a pub.
It seems that somewhere in the hills above Valbonne there is a place where people go in the evenings where there is very little light pollution and there is a short season when shooting stars are common, I suppose this is like the so-called Northern Lights, the system used up north of England in those places where electricity has not yet been invented. I shall research this tomorrow as it may mean a trip into the hills for Bluebell the camper, and will help escape the heat wave which is still continuing here.
The 32 degree heat is at least ensuring the swimming pool is getting close to a temperature where even I may dip into. Below 28 degrees the water is far to cold to consider entering. It does not stop the rest of the family and that lovely old retainer, Max the springer spaniel from enjoying it as well, a fact that I welcome, but when that smelly beast Banjo, the horrid hound much beloved by that nice lady decorator jumps in, I can feel my lip curling.
The summer excesses have so depleted the coffers that I fear I may have to seek some more gainful activity, (I don’t like to use the word “work”) to restock, despite the outrageous success of my work with Currencies Direct. I am thus hereby declaring my availability for any writing jobs any of you may have. You will realise that due to the strength of the prose regularly exhibited in this column that I will at least be mercifully cheap.
Chris France
Buddah in beer shock
It’s too hot. Today we have a level 2 heat wave alert which I know must be a difficult concept to grasp if your living in the UK, particularly if you live up north. I met a guy from Northumberland yesterday who said that each year where he lives they have ten months of winter and two months of bad weather. It is nice to see a realistic view of the weather up north.
So with a heat wave upon us, it would be unwise for me to work too hard, thus I shall, for the good of my heath, stay inside and watch the England cricket team grind India into the dust.
My picture today is dedicated to the worship of beer, 1664 in particular, as someone left a beer unopened in front of my Buddha, clearly an act of worship, and probably the reason why he is a bit porky.
the worshipping of a beer belly
Two weeks from now, my darling children will begin to fly the nest. They are both returning to England to various colleges, and I cannot wait, as the strain on my beer and wine supplies is close to breaking point, however, that nice lady decorator is beginning to realise that she might miss them, she hasn’t shouted at either of them now for a full 24 hours and I am getting concerned. Is there really a mellow and loving side to her that has hitherto never been discovered? Watch this space, because if she happens to read this then I am certain that mellow and loving are two adjectives which I shall be spared.
Three days of rest now, in fact the next social occasion will be on Wednesday 24th when we are invited on to a sailing yacht to see the fireworks in Cannes from the sea. This fills me with some trepidation as I am not a swimmer, and get seasick watching sailing on the TV. I am assured that quells or some form of medicine will be available to me to keep sea sickness at bay, but I well remember coming back from St Tropez a couple of years ago with the promise that two special rubber bands on my wrist would preclude s ea sickness. well, suffice to say that 90 seconds out of St Tropez harbour, I had deposited a rather nice lunch into the sea, ensuring that we were followed all the way back to Cannes by a phalanx of seagulls, anxious to taste my regurgitated lunch for themselves. I am told it will be dead calm. It’s the dead bit that worries me, but that nice lady decorator is determined to go, so I will have no choice. Seemingly it is the turn of Italy to provide the pyrotechnics this week, the last show of the summer, so perhaps we shall see pasta shaped explosions as part of the show? or maybe a smoky image of Mr Berlusconi, perhaps depicting that he will burn in hell when he is gone?
Talking of St Tropez, that is where the Reverend Jeff is staying. He has promised to call me about his golf challenge. I do hope he has not got cold feet. Reverend, I know you read this every day, I am waiting for your call.
With no social occasion until the middle of the week, I will have to find other ways of alerting people to the benefits of using Currencies direct for their forex transfers, so I suppose I may need to use the old-fashioned communication techniques such as the phone in order to get my message across?
Chris France
Scotch guard effective?
A light lunch she said. That nice lady decorator did a great job of creating a light lunch for eight people, so how was it that there are twelve empty bottles of rose, not to mention about 20 bottles of beer, were today clogging up my recycling bin? I suspect that Wet Suit Nigel and Gudrun the Icelandic goddess are to blame, and when I sober up, blame will be the operative word, and one that I will be attaching to the miscreants that caused such an outrage.
A comment on this column from Australian “Cathie the Culture” as I think I shall call her now after her comments on culture in Australia an oxymoron in itself, suggests that Wet Suit Nigel could benefit from having his cloths treated with Scotch Guard. This is an interesting concept and I welcome anything that will keep the Scotch away. Whilst on this theme, perhaps there is some treatment that will keep other nasty irritants at bay, like mosquitos or flies, or even the Welsh? You know I don’t mean it really….
I was asleep by 10.30, which I thought was a good effort after a lunch which started at 1 30. However, that nice lady decorator, who never knows when to stop, considered that a 10 30 bail out was only for wimps, and frankly, I have no problem at all being described as a wimp, or, as I overheard later when on the edge of sleep ” a fuc*ing light weight”.
Just one more barbecue to go before I can consider a rest. We are invited this evening to friends we met last summer, who have rented a house for two weeks that we rented for two years before buying, so it will be interesting to see how much it has changed, and whether the stable box that the nice lady decorator built for the owner still leaks because the owner moved the goalposts after construction had commenced. Actually that is not a very good analogy, I cannot see goal posts fitting into a stable, but no matter. rather alarmingly, my children were invited as well, and they normally avoid like the plague any party to which myself and that nice lady decorator have been invited .
Before i go for my nude modelling assignment, I think I will need a manicure. A pedicure is a waste of time in the opinion of that nice lady decorator who, as previously reported, consider my feet to be similar to those owned by cartoon character Shrek, however, as I have been advised that bulges and wrinkles are considered more of a challenge for the artists, I think my bunions will make an interesting study.
My picture today is taken from behind the pav, which was mercifully spared the carnage of yesterday, clearly the 3 steps up to it were too much of a challenge when its hot and one is full of wine. This meant that the web took most of the strain.
Three steps to heaven, the pav avoids the onslaught
However, business was done, the wheels of commerce were nicely oiled, my trip to Kenya in November is now purely business, an interesting commission deal was negotiated, the England cricket team are thrashing India so all is well in my little world.
My friend Peter Lynn sends me this thought; if you wake up at night and reach for the liquid Viagra, but take a swig of tippex instead, do you wake up with a big correction?
So back to work tomorrow, clearing music rights for a forthcoming film about a sixties icon, and exploring new areas for Currencies Direct and pushing forward with plans to publish my first book.
Chris France
Too hot for tennis?
My opponents were claiming victory. But how can one win one set and then be tieing another set at tennis and go on to claim victory over lunch? There is only one person who, had the score line been reversed, who could have made a case for this to be considered a victory. That person is of course myself. Suffice to say that no case has been made so the result was inconclusive and in my little world I remain undefeated. In fact we had just started to grind our opponents down when they claimed it was too hot and insisted on retiring for lunch at Auberge St Donat.
Myself and Anthony Bay, a doubles partnership made in heaven, were about to impose ourselves on the match before our cowardly counterparts decided that lunch beckoned. After several micro seconds of argument, we saw sense and agreed to a luncheon adjournment. After all it was 32 degrees and relentlessly sunny (this last part for my enormous UK readership).
So lunch became a somewhat ribald affair. Despite being amongst the first to be seated at around 12.15, we were that last to leave at something close to 4pm. You know when you have out stayed your welcome, when the staff are busily engaged in a late lunch when you are ready to pay the bill. The evening version of this scenario is where the staff don their pajamas and start yawning.
A number of interesting characters were in attendance. John Mundell, one of our tennis foe redeemed himself by inviting myself and that nice lady decorator on board his sailing yacht next week to see the fireworks in Cannes, he claims not to have started the engine on his boat since 2007 and claims that 3 knots is fast enough for anyone. That, according to my calculations, we need to leave the harbour 24 hours before the fireworks to ensure we are in a position to view them.
Anyway, a convivial lunch was enhanced by the arrival of the wingco, who was not wearing pink, like some of the other luncheon attendees. Anthony Bay was resplendent with his “woofter bag”, his own description of the satchel type container in which his wife insists he keep all his personal possessions, because he is want to leave things behind.
I returned home to find my bar packed, as my picture today shows. Once again a plethora of teenagers were busily engaged in emptying my fridge of rose and beer. My dear children were being helped enormously by that nice lady decorator, who has spectacular form in this area. How happy am I going to be to see them both (the kids) off to various colleges next month.
Teenagers and hangers-on destroy my drinks store
Lunch today will be at ours with Wet Suit Nigel and his lovely wife Lesley, together with Icelandic goddess Gudrun, head honcho at Remax-Cannes, but this is strictly business as I see some empathy between the international estate agent activities of Remax and a chap who still has a few properties available on his magnificent Medina Palms development on the famous Turtle Beach in Kenya. If you thought I might stoop so low as to try to engineer a small commission on any deal done, then you would be right. It would then follow, would it not, that the enormous expense of visiting the development in November would become an entirely justifiable business expense?
Furthermore, I am certain that Currencies Direct can be of further benefit to them? You see, it’s not all just fun, tennis, golf, drinking and eating when you live in the Cote d’Azur, there is a lot of work to do and I am proud to say that my work ethic is still very strong and shows no signs of weakening.
Chris France
Hairdresser living on the hedge
That nice lady decorator has a problem with hairdressers. So far, according to her, I have not had a good haircut since 1976, when I could almost tread on my hair. There is a similarity nowadays, the only difference being that in the 1970’s the hair was still attached to my head and growing towards the floor rather than falling out onto it. It is our misfortune then, to have as a next door neighbour a retired hairdresser, who likes to uphold the old traditions of a nice short back and sides and furthermore likes to apply the same principle to his hedges. He is always beautifully groomed, as is his garden, but a more boring fellow and a more boring garden would be hard to find.
He has just had his large laurel hedge which surrounds his property trimmed for the third time in three months and for some reason this irritates that nice lady decorator, who spends much of her day grumbling and cursing him for what is, after all, his notaire-given right to do what he wants with his property.
He now wants us to pay 120 euros for trimming a hedge that we can hardly see, but apparently we jointly own, but I have told him I like it free and natural and I would like it left as it was. This is too much for Mr Hairdresser who has had the hedge attended to, I trust without any contribution required of me.
My picture today may prove the perfect antidote to anyone interested in cutting a hedge and making it bland, why not insert a sheep into it, bottom first? This might prove attractive to my old sheep fancy friend Steve Weston, especially if he ever felt like living on the hedge.
Sheep looking like it had been pulled through a hedge backwards
I chose Chateau Begude carefully as the venue for golf with wet suit Nigel yesterday. His impetuous nature, his deep-seated love of danger, of pushing the boundaries to the limit and beyond, which has seen him climbing Kilimanjaro, cycling from London to Paris in five days on a mountain bike and building Medina Palms, a spectacular 48 house development on Kenya’s Turtle Beach with little experience of what that may entail, set him out as a man who dislikes convention. So a golf course like Chateau Begude, where almost every shot requires thought and precision, and where a big hitter will almost always get into trouble, was an ideal venue at which to relieve him of ten euros in the customary golf wager. And so it came to pass. I am not saying that he is inaccurate, but we visited parts of the golf course yesterday that I had not previously known existed, indeed I suspect had never seen a human face before.
Today, I have been invited to play doubles tennis with the venerable older folk of Valbonne. That wonderful reformed hippy, Anthony Bay, has kindly asked me to fill in tomorrow, and as he is one of my targets to be a customer of Currencies Direct, I have accepted, despite the current extra hot weather. This I suspect will be followed (as danger follows wet suit Nigel) by lunch at the Auberge St Donat, where I have not been since Wednesday, so I am already beginning to miss it.
A working lunch on Saturday will then be followed by nothing. An attempt will be made a have a few quiet days as that nice lady decorator has professed to being somewhat jaded and needs a period of time to recharge that batteries. I give in 24 hours.
Chris France
Wasp dies in pate outrage
Wet suit Nigel destroyed my pate. Wasps are rare in Valbonne, but we had a persistent pest (apart from that nice lady decorator) around us lunch in the web and Nigel was the one that managed to kill it. However, to flatten a very nice piece of pate was quite a large price to pay to rid ourselves of an irritating insect. The fact that he ruined his shirt and destroyed a tea towel in the pursuit of irritating insect annihilation mattered not a jot to him, winning was everything.
Earlier, I had no doubt irked him as I had triumphed at golf, although the wet suited one could probably agree that he played so badly that it was he who lost rather than I who had won. However, regular readers will know of my proposed epitaph; “magnanimous in victory, sulky in defeat” , and that I would have been at my magnanimous best.
He has challenged me again today, so this time I intend to take money off him, as I was rather gentle with him today because of his ability to secure tickets to Lords for Test Matches, and his invitation to stay at his stunning property Alhambra in Kenya in November. He is developing a beautiful beach front domain called Medina Palms where he will clearly need the services of Currencies Direct and regular readers will know that I leave no stones unturned when it comes to seeking new customers, wherever they are in the world. I know, it is selfless of me, but that’s just me, generous until the end.
I don’t know if you have heard that expression about have all your ducks in a row, but my picture today, taken at the last REGS golf event, perfectly illustrates this phrase.
Regs golfer ensures all his ducks are in a line
My distaste for the 30 kilo cocker spaniel, Banjo, so beloved by that nice lady decorator, and in my household against my express command, has been well documented in the past. To be anywhere near him will ensure that a disgusting aroma follows you around all day, and if you are ever stupid enough to pet him, then he will dribble copiously on your person, or more likely your cream trousers, to the extent that people come up to you and sympathise about your “little problem”. I cannot recall the number of times when he has done this to me so now I avoid all contact when ever possible. He has excelled himself this week, gobbing on three guests in as many days. People are so polite “Oh don’t worry, it will wash out” is a standing refrain in our house, but the problem is, it doesn’t and I don’t have the heart to tell people this, it just seems they never come around again.
So golf again today will be followed by lunch as guests of wet suit Nigel at the house where he is staying on Mougins. I do hope he has some different trousers for today after the careful ministrations of Banjo yesterday. As a child I had a jar of something called green slime, and what emanated from his mouth reminds me of that. We have decided to play Opio Valbonne aka Chateau Begude again, partly because we could not get on at St Donat until lunchtime, which apart from being too hot, would interfere with the far more important ritual of lunch in the south of France.
Just another ten days to go and the holiday season will start to wind down, we will be able to start enjoying the place again.
Chris France
Nice Pouch
My old friend Moya Janko has come up trumps again. She suggests in a comment about yesterday’s piece relating to dachshunds that there may be some double entendre possibilities for the expression “it is a nice pouch”. It may be a spelling error but I suspect she may have meant to say “nice pooch”. She also goes on to say that I may have missed some opportunities for the kind of innuendo and smut so beloved of the readers of this column, in that I missed the opportunity to make the most of phrases like “sausage dogs” and “weiners”. This may indeed be true, but she gives me no credit for the fact that I may have considered the possibilities of going down this root (there you go!) and decided to avoid it in the interests of good taste. Having now considered the possibilities, I have to admit she is right, I did miss an opportunity.
My picture today was taken from The Quays Irish pub in Cannes the night before last at the Russian fireworks display, and shows the moon trying to outshine Mr Abramovitch’s money, which reputedly paid for the admittedly wonderful display.
The Russian firework display in Cannes
Yesterday was busy, with me providing a taxi service for friends Wet Suit Nigel, his lovely wife Lesley and Louise Chapman, F1 TV personality, all determined to brave the square in Valbonne during the circus at the height of the tourist influx. This involved going into Valbonne Square for early evening drinks. Wet Suit Nigel gained his name from an exploit on a cricket tour to Jersey about 20 years ago, when, depressed by the weather having interfered to cause the abandonment of the match in which we were playing, decided to register his protest by donning his windsurfing rubber suit, then putting on his pads, gloves, jock strap and cricket box over the top (good expression) and taking a running dive into one of the biggest puddles on the Jersey Island Cricket Club ground.
Earlier I had been persuaded by the wingco to take lunch at the Auberge St Donat in the hope of meeting up with writer and former tennis foe, Damp David, as he has become known for reasons I simply cannot go into here. That he is American and attended the same university as David Cameron and that little upstart who is Chancellor of the Exchequer at the moment in the UK (whose name I cannot recall) and was in the infamous Bullingdon Club at the same time must remain our little secret, so private must Damp David’s background remain. Anyway, he proved himself to be wingco-esque in terms of lateness and arrived some two hours late for lunch.
There was an inevitable drift back to mine, before I had to chuck them all out to meet the troops in Valbonne Square. Once they had been safely deposited back in the astral heights of the Parc de Mougins, behind the 24 hour security, I was able to return to the pav for a nightcap and to contemplate the days events. So after about two minutes I headed for bed.
I have just read this back and have realised that so far I have not mentioned the wonderful services of Currencies Direct. This can simply not be allowed, so please consider them mentioned from now on.
Today, nine holes of golf is scheduled to take place at Chateau Begude. We cannot go there for lunch as that nice lady decorator is still embarrassed by our antics when we had lunch there last week, so at least there is a fair chance we will remember this time to pick up our golf clubs before leaving.
Chris France
Crash helmets for dogs
Crash helmets for dogs? It’s not something that I have come across before but my dear new friend Tracy, still a friend despite my honest assessment of her homeland, the north of England, as a tundra strewn backward wasteland, decided to bring her little dog over to visit yesterday. The dog in question is tiny, a dachshund or shitehound as I like to call it, and does not have enough meat on her even to fill a decent sandwich. She (the dog) often travels on their motorbike owned and ridden by her partner,the impossibly good-looking Pascale the pilot, whom I had earlier allowed to defeat me on the tie break on the tennis court at the Vignale in Plascassier. You may consider that I should expect to lose to a man sixteen years my junior, who had been coached by his tennis coach father, but I had a match point which he won with a fluke. Angry?, me? of course.
Anyway back to the dachshund. It is a German breed, as many will know and displays a number of traits displayed by his fellow countrymen, you know the sort of thing, eating sausages, a guttural bark, obeying the law, that sort of thing, so her demand for a crash helmet should not have been a surprise, and I have been promised a picture of her wearing it, once she has taken delivery.
In the meantime, I managed to snap her indulging in that most irritating of German habits, getting her towel on the beach lounger before anyone else.
As usual, the Germans always get their towels on the loungers early
As it was a bank holiday here in France, the start of the traditional two-week shut down of almost everything in France, I was forced to abandon my quest in pursuit of new customers for Currencies Direct, mainly because our visitors yesterday are already clients.
Last night we took the train to see the fireworks in Cannes to avoid the general madness in Valbonne due to the circus being in town and the Festival of St Roch. Cannes has a series of fantastic firework displays each week during the summer, with some kind of competition between nations to see who is the best. Last night it was the turn of Russia, but how you compare one display with another over a six-week period escapes me. Previous experience has allowed is to know where best to be situated, and our favoured position is on the street outside the bar of the Irish pub The Quays on the port of Cannes. It would be rude not to sample some of their wares, so Guinness was required to be drunk.
The train is the obvious way to get into Cannes as the town gets completely gridlocked as tens of thousands of people descend for the spectacle. All went well until about 2000 people were waiting for the last train up the hill to Mouans Sartoux and Grasse. A four carriage unit pulled in on time and it was quickly obvious that not everyone to get on, but within ten minutes, a double sized train replaced the smaller unit and everyone got on. can you imagine that flexibility on the English railways? no, neither can I.
Today I will be forced to venture in to Valbonne, as old friends Nigel and Leslie Rowley who are staying in the area have expressed the wish to have a look around, and it is my duty to be chauffeur, a small price to pay for the Lords tickets (no Reverend Jeff, this is not what you think) and an offer of free accommodation in Kenya in late November, both of which emanated from these guys. Me, a mercenary tart? No question.
Chris France
Ducks off
So to the Riviera Ex Pats golf Society (REGS) gathering at the Grande Bastide. Regular player and Yorkshireman Mick Pedley was unusually not wearing his German Shooting Trousers, a kind of leaderhousen, those leather shorts so beloved by Austrians and the gay community, which led me to believe that it must be the off-season for the shooting of Germans. This was rather lucky for Dirk, our token German (he may be Austrian, but I doubt Mr Pedley would stop to check), whom I managed to snap using some German golfing and hunting techniques on an unsuspecting duck which dared to try to share the tee with him, and which is my picture today.
Germans Fawlty? Ducks off, ring any bells?
Also in attendance was former Miss England Pauline Bull, who revealed that she was at Opio Valbonne during “that lunch” last week where eleven bottles of rose were consumed by four people, but had not had the courage to come over and say hello because in her words “you were all as drunk as skunks”. Harsh but probably fair.
It has been a long time since some time REGS golf organiser, Steve Weston has featured in this column, and was determined to say nothing incriminating on this occasion, to the point of being utterly boring. Readers from last year will recall his “outing” his favourite sheep, and indeed sending me a picture of him or her, but he is a good man with a fine career behind him in the European Union, extracting as much as possible from the European Gravy Train and I promised him I would not bring it up again. Those who are intrigued by this information, that I have promised not to bring up, could, if they were that way inclined, use the search option at the bottom of this page to discover his what has been written about him in the past if they wanted to sate their curiosity, but Steve would not like that so please don’t do it.
Gruff northerner Dave “Tripe” Goddard was resplendent in blue (albeit with rather disappointing brown shoes, which he claimed matched) which the shoes apart apparently reflected the colour he went when back in his native Yorkshire for part of the summer. Irishman Brendan “the housewife’s favourite” Woods, sharing a surname with Tiger for reasons I cannot go into here was his usual incomprehensible self, telling joke after joke, which may well have been funny if anyone had understood his accent. So, all in all round a good day was had by all. The golf was a very small part of the convivial day, which is code for I did not win anything. I did however win one or perhaps two new customers for Currencies Direct.
Just as the siesta was beginning to work, I was woken up by that nice lady decorator to go across the road to our neighbours the Thornton Allans for, well drinks. They are newly back from Italy with some prosecco for which they wanted a second opinion.
Today is a bank holiday, but that nice lady decorator has arranged, no, that is too strong a word, she has announced by diktak that I shall be playing tennis tomorrow morning with Pascale the pilot who is as fit as they come and twenty years my junior. As you can imagine, after my heroics on the golf course yesterday, and the after effects of that roasting that occurs when one plays Grande Bastide in the summer this arrangement was not met with my complete satisfaction, but negativity is not an option, and the instructions will stand.
Chris France
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