Avoid pencil thin facial growth
It was whilst walking along the Bajan coastline from Bathsheba to Tent Bay Fish Market yesterday morning, that I began to worry about the poor people. Obviously I have been hugely enriched by my involvement in the music industry and as an apologist for the services of Currencies Direct, but it hit me, as I walked along a sun kissed Caribbean beach, that some poor people might not be enjoying life in quite the same fashion as I. A social conscience is something well worth having, I just don’t know whether I could afford it.
Having returned from the fish market (nobody there and no fish in sight) and after a hearty breakfast at the stunning but Round House Hotel, we decided to utilise the hire car and go exploring. A word or two of praise here for the hotel. It is in a wonderful position, right on the coast, one can hear the procession of huge waves breaking as one dozes off, there are only shutters at the windows with no glass because it never gets cold enough to need them, palm trees are all around, the staff are fantastic, but some people may well not like it. The place has a faded glory. For someone who wanted a well appointed, air-conditioned modern palace, it would be anathema. It has a hardy, run down character, which could not be recreated. The place has lived life, built in 1823, and not refurbished since the early 60’s it retains a charm all if its own.
So we set off following the least accurate map it has ever been my misfortune to follow, but that is the West Indian way. Nothing works in quite he way you expect it to, but in the end no one is damaged, a good time is had and the job is done. Take the taps in the sink of our bathroom. Somebody oblvious has, well at least one of them, as they are of a different design, and both are labelled “cold”. The one the on left, the one that you cannot quite turn off entirely, is in fact for hot water, a fact that you can discover simply when you have run it for 5 minutes or so, and have washed and shaved in the cold water that it had previously produced. The Caribbean, you either love it or hate it. I love it.
The wild and windy north eastern coast of Barbados
Touring the island, which incidentally has no drink driving laws, is a most civilised and far-sighted policy decision, we took in some of the better known tourist haunts such as Mullins beach bar. Personally I do not believe anyone over 50 has ever had an accident when having over imbibed, which has been his fault. It is always those oiks from Essex, or yobbos under 25, who cannot hold their drink and think they are Michael Schumacher after a couple of shandies, who have been responsible for the government introducing the drink driving laws, and as a result destroying many of the great British pubs and that great British tradition of going to the pub and having a few pints then driving back home.
Last night we went to the other notable restaurant in Bathsheba, the Atlantic Beach, which, as its name cunningly suggests, is right in the same coast as the Round House. And do you know what? By sheer coincidence they are both on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean! What are the chances of that? We had booked earlier when walking past, and had made the reservation with a very pretty lady boy, whose nails were perfect, and his tiny pencil thin beard put me in mind of a similar pencil thin moustache once sported by The Reverend Jeff. The Reverend was not impressed at the time when I and others alluded to his resemblance, all those years ago, to an Italian ice cream salesman and referred to him as Luigi. But I digress, dinner was superb, wine and run punch was taken, and the drive home was completed as I had predicted, legally and without incident.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Cricket, “the game with the horse”
Champagne, smoked salmon and scrambled eggs at the Caviar House at Gatwick Airport was perfect way to start the Barbados trip. It is a long flight, close to 9 hours, but flying on BA means all the drinks are free, so we managed to drink back a good portion of the fair. I tried to watch 12 Years a Slave on the terrible entertainment system, but managed about 12 days of the story before giving up. Sobering up at Grantley Adams airport in Bridgetown, we went in search of Roosevelt, from Honeybee car hire.
Anyone who has ever been to the Caribbean will know that time keeping and order are not their strong points. Who was it, for instance, who decreed that all the UK flights and the flights from the US should arrive at almost the same moment. It is wonderful chaos however, but you have to learn to adopt a laid back mañana approach, as it all comes together in the end. Some of us are able to deal with it, others not so easily. That is all I am saying on pain of death.
Eventually, in the melee, we found Roosevelt, our car hire man and after an interminable amount of form filling, got into the little car and headed out across the island to Bathsheba, on the windy Eastern side of this lovely island. Our destination was The Round House, a bar, restaurant and hotel in this wild windswept eastern surfing paradise. I have to say it is one of the most breath-taking coastlines I have ever seen, in fact this is the first picture I took from the hotel.
Beach at Bathsheba
Sitting on the stunning terrace as night fell quickly, we ended up chatting to an American couple from Michigan, whose first visit it was to the island. It seems they have also had a monstrous winter with 4 feet of snow for months. Anyway, after I had explained the benefits to them of opening an account with Currencies Direct, thereby creating grounds to discuss claiming the expenses of the trip as a tax allowable deduction (there is absolutely no chance, but it is good sport to wind him up) we got on to the subject of why we were here, which, is sport (did you see what I did there?). As you will know if you have been paying attention for the past week, the main reason to be in Barbados is for a 50th birthday celebration of Steve “trouble up t’mill” Jackson, the splendid old northern git we met on the Golden Oldies cricket tour to Adelaide in 2012. A fellow cricket nut like myself, he decided that he wanted to celebrate this momentous milestone by watching England play cricket in the West Indies, and was kind enough to invite us to join him. I explained to the charming Americans that there were quite a number of Brits over to watch the cricket and that was when the female half of partnership uttered the immortal words “is that the game with the horse?” It took me a few seconds to realise that she had mistaken cricket for polo. Don’t you just love our stateside cousins?
You will have realised that your daily “must read” missive is a little later than usual today, and that theme could continue due to the time difference, unless I can get my act together and write it the night before.
This morning, we shall be exploring the sensational beaches along the Eastern coast, starting with a long walk along the beach, and do you know, we may even pop into one of the rum shacks in Bathsheba to sample some more of the local rum punch, to which we had paid our respects the night before.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Blog power; evidence mounts
The power of the blog was once again illustrated in the clearest possible manner. Coming out of the Co Op yesterday morning, I happened upon Nearly Hairless Nick. He told me that as a result of the criticism levelled at the menu choices in this column at The George at Burpham, there was a 90 minute meeting this week between the management and the chef as to how to react to this dissection of their offerings. I am cautiously optimistic but shall await developments. I have published some guidance in earlier columns and, if this is taken on board, the George could become a jewel in the crown of the local restaurant scene.
By the time you are reading this, I shall be either at Gatwick in the Caviar House partaking of their excellent scrambled eggs and smoked salmon breakfast, or, if you are a late riser, a gin and tonic aboard the BA flight to Barbados. Either is a perfectly acceptable scenario, but I don’t want you to think this is all pleasure. Oh no, I shall be diligently seeking out possible new clients who would benefit from having an account with Currencies Direct, and there is no better way that mixing with people who are going abroad.
Three wise men in Aylesbury
But back to yesterday. A luncheon appointment with Mr Clipboard and his beautiful wife Ashley (he is batting far above his average there) was taken at the Stag On the Lake in Eashing. There had to be some light relief before the humbling experience of visiting one of my remaining two aunts in hospital. I was not there just for lunch you understand, it was to collect some fine cigars direct from Cuba, courtesy of the anully challenged organised one, just in time to pack then into my new travelling humidor ready to take back to the Caribbean. Obviously I had already laid out my collection of silk cravats, velvet smoking jacket and spats, collected together the various accoutrements a chap requires in order to maintain his moustache (or facial furniture as I recently heard it described) as you can see from my photograph today – taken at the recent Friars exhibition in Aylesbury – and the plethora of drugs required to keep an elderly author alive and kicking, well, kicking anyway.
Returning home, it was time for that most stressful of activities, namely packing. Yet again That Nice Lady Decorator and I discussed, at the usual high volume, at least from her, if ironing clothes before packing them was wise. I am of the opinion that it is a waste of valuable time because inevitably, one has to iron them again when you get to your destination. Obviously I am wrong and they need to be ironed twice, probably in case we suffer a customs inspection, in which case we will no doubt horribly embarrassed by having poorly ironed clothing, which given her insistence, must be something akin to a hanging offence in some countries. With the suitcases eventually zipped up, it was time to let the (working, obviously) holiday commence.
With no prospect of any proper English beer in the next 11 days, I was all for a farewell tasting. I shall of course miss The White Hart, but I am sure it will be there when I get back. By that time I am certain that the talented cooks at JAK there will have come to terms with their teething problems, their delightful fusion creations that were in evidence on their opening night will come to the fore and all will be rosy in my little world.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Barbados beckons
The diet day reprieve came just after the meagre 5:2 diet breakfast. Old chum Barry “Teddy Bear Times” King accepted the invitation to go to lunch, which had been issued by That Nice Lady Decorator when her attention was elsewhere, (probably that Sunday lunch about which she was still chuntering yesterday). She had not realised when suggesting lunch that Monday had been previously designated (by her) to be a diet day. I protested just enough to give me a small chance of not looking too smug (failed), and after a morning finalising the details of our impending trip to Barbados tomorrow, which precluded my attendance at the Sussex Seniors cricket practice, and the various acts of delegation required to ensure my music business empire can function smoothly whilst I am away, we set off to lunch at the George and Dragon at Houghton.
It is amongst my favourite pubs in the area, and a splendid lunch ensued. Scallops wrapped in bacon with black pudding on a bed of leaves was so superior to the offering the day before at JAK at the White Hart, that I wondered why we had not made more use of this wonderful old English pub, with a great log fire and a wonderful view out over the South Downs. Some in the female contingent of my family, do not take to the swirly carpets, but one must look through the occasional fashion lapse and concentrate on the food and wine. I know I did. I must also pay tribute to the starter, prawns in satay sauce, which were magnificent, and these two dishes should serve as some pointers to the chef at The George at Burpham in terms of imagination.
Talking of imagination, I do fondly imagine that one day, That Nice Lady Decorator’s dog, Banjo, will be as well-behaved as this one whom I photographed in a pub recently.
A new dimension to the command of “sit”
Shorts and short sleeves shirts have been extracted from deep storage, and are filling up the suitcase, which lays with its gaping mouth open, hungry to hurry us on our way south for some sunshine. OK, that is a bit over the top, but when one has been rained on at some stage almost everyday since Christmas, one can be forgiven for looking forward to a bit of warm sunshine, which I hope is what awaits us in Barbados.
We will be there for 11 days, I, mostly searching for new customers for the wonderful services of Currencies Direct, i.e. working, and in my few brief moments of leisure, watching the three 20:20 international cricket matches between England and the West Indies, and during those rare moments of relaxation trying some of the local Banks beer and Mount Gay Rum. This does seen a rather curious name for some of the finest rum that exists, and one wonders if, with that epithet, it is still as welcome in Putin’s Russia as it was before a Pussy Riot? Or am I confusing issues deliberately?
First however, it is my duty to collect some Monte Christo No 2 cigars that Mr Clipboard has brought back for me from his visit to Cuba last week. The handing over can only take place over lunch, that is the law, so we are venturing to somewhere called The Stag On The River at Eashing to comply with the rules. It would be remiss of me if I did not immediately check out the quality of these very fine smoking comestibles and show my gratitude for his kind gift, for which he is charging me cost price plus 25%.
Chris France
A Decorator and black and white
There is no grey. With That Nice Lady Decorator there is only black and white. After a windy walk around the Cissbury Ring, which is not a euphemism, with Colin The Pirate (there is only one I in Colin) and Sandra his sultry goddess, in the late morning, we had a pit stop on the way home (OK, a little out of the way) at the 6 Bells at Lyminster, a quiet unassuming country pub, rescued by serving London Pride. Out of the blue, a plate of roasted potatoes were generously placed in front of us, and, being a (rather too) huge roast potato fan, I tucked in, and I think it is fair to say that I was not alone. As it turns out they had the opposite of the intended effect, as we had talked about perhaps trying out the pub lunch one day. The potatoes put paid to that. Nasty pre cooked, fluffy and tasteless, probably Brake Brothers produced at a guess, did nothing to persuade us to carry out that plan.
Now this is where the black and white theme kicks in. To me, the provision of roasties was an unnecessary but welcome treat, and although not great, I was impressed by the gesture. That Nice Lady Decorator however, was affronted, being of the opinion that a gesture such as this should have involved something more home cooked. She was still chuntering by the time we reached The White Hart, where we had booked for lunch at their new restaurant JAK. We had wanted to offer our support for this new venture, a separate business from the pub, as we had been impressed by the tapas served at the opening party. Sunday is limited to roast dinners, so what could go wrong we thought?
That Nice Lady Decorator at the Cissbury Ring with her black and white horror hound
Two courses for £16 is quite decent value, if those courses are to your liking and there is a decent amount of fodder to consume. The first signs of trouble came when there was no option of a starter. That Nice Lady Decorator does not do dessert, so already alarm bells were ringing. The roast pork duly arrived, a rather small amount for 4 people, but worse was to come. A small bowl of very nice roasted potatoes and parsnips arrived and was placed in front of me and my first though was that it was going to be OK. However, it transpired that the meagre rations were intended to satisfy all 4 of us. Cabbage is not one on my favourites, but faced with a huge mountain of it, I still thought it might work, especially as the carrots and long stem broccoli in garlic were delicious, but an unheated slate for the meat? It was cold before it got to my plate. Very tasty and good crackling, but cold.
Perhaps we could have survived this without a Decorating blow out, but when the second course option was sweet, with no cheese option, the Decorating Operative’s sense of humour “deserted” (can I say that without being accused to a cheap pun?) her. Manchego slices were hastily substituted from their tapas menu, but when a polite enquiry for cheese crackers was greeted with a firm but polite refusal, and after she had returned to our house to bring some of her own, I knew we were on a slippery slope. Perhaps the coup de grace (not a dessert – in fact had it been so that may have helped-) was that her Bring Your Own policy secured a positive but slightly sarky comment from the chef, and that was when the trouble started.
I could go on, but I think that would be counter productive. Better I thought to end on a high note with happy thoughts about the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct and to enjoy the pictures I took at the Friars Club Exhibition at the Aylesbury Museum, which you can seen by clicking on this link.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Friars to Frankinstein
The opening of a celebration of Friars (does that sound like a collective noun?), the iconic Aylesbury music club, with over 93,000 members, myself included, at the towns Museum on Friday night was so brilliant that we decided to go back as paying customers yesterday morning to have another look. In no way could that decision be construed as egotistical, because they are only a mere half a dozen references to my good self and the joy I helped to bring to music fans in the 70’s. It was a similar kind of joy as that which I provide nowadays to anybody I sign up for an account with Currencies Direct. If one were to nitpick, and only one person could possibly be concerned, there were a few errors and omissions. It was acknowledged in one section of the exhibition that I was the first to put on a show locally by The Clash (at the Tiddenfoot Leisure Centre in Leighton Buzzard!), but the there was no credit for my putting on The Jam at the Hunt Hotel in the same town, before they moved on to bigger and better things at Friars, but who, apart from me, would care?
Can you spot myself, the Reverend Jeff, Otway, Wild Willy Barrett, Magenta De Vine, Pete Frame, Kris Needs, Dave Stopps…
After some early retail therapy for That Nice Lady Decorator in Aylesbury, it was my turn to indulge myself with a second visit to this splendid exhibition, this time not distracted by bumping into so many old friends. I am publishing one more picture of it, today in this column, but have decided that I have so many, although not that good, I am going to create a different web site of pictures dedicated to the Aylesbury music scene in the seventies, and starting with the photos I took yesterday. Watch his space. It might have been built today, but lunch is booked at JAK, the new restaurant at the White Hart with Colin the Pirate and his sultry goddess Sandra, so I suspect I shall be incapable of doing anything meaningful by late afternoon.
Last night, after driving back to a rather spring like Arundel, and a late afternoon traipse around the Cissbury Ring in some pleasing sunshine, we arrived home to find that starving child Sprog 2 had arrived back unexpectedly and was disappointed that there was no food in the house. This statement ignored the array of tins of various foodstuffs, the cold chicken, tuna, pasta, bread, vegetables, biscuits fruit and cheese which were lying around. It appears we had no ham for her customary ham sandwich, which was of course an oversight, which, had we been warned she was coming, might have been avoided. There was only one thing for it. We decided to try to deal with this starvation and treat her to a curry at the Kings Arms last evening.
Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor popped in whilst doing his customary rounds of all the pubs in Arundel and for some reason we discussed Friars, as he is an old music head, and then conversation turned for some stranger reason to John Otway. I was telling him that John is proud of the fact that he has never repaid or recouped an advance from a record company in his 40 year career, which prompted the immortals line “John Otway has stitched up more record companies than Frankenstein”. I would like to claim it as my own but I suspect Mr Taylor would fight me if he found out, but as he has said he will never read this column, I think I will.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A celebration of Friars
The town of Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire was the focus of my life after my family moved from London when I was 14. I was 17 when I first met Currencies Direct client, John Otway, when I was going our with the Revered Jeff’s sister, the luscious Liz Potter. The good Reverend was an even earlier champion of the immensely gifted performer with no musical ability, both of whom were born in what was then a pretty market town.
Mr Otway was the single most important influence in my choosing a career path in the music business. I began promoting gigs whilst earning a living as a dust man, which usually involved booking him and erstwhile partner Wild Willy Barrett, and gradually, I developed a network of pub gigs during the mid to late 1970’s. This was all beneath the radar of the big gig in the town, the iconic Friars club, run by promotor Dave Stopps, which has played host to Genesis, Marrillion, David Bowie, Black Sabbath and hundreds of other acts over more a period of more than four decades.
A text from David Bowie
With the help of respected local journalist Pete Frame, I and some others set up a local rock magazine called the Aylesbury Roxette. Pete was the legendary creator of cult magazine Zig Zag, and went on to draw rock music family trees, depicting pictorially which personnel had played in which bands. These made such an impact they were turned into a book and then the BBC made several TV series based in them called, not unnaturally, Rock Family Trees, I and another soon to be famous rock journalist called Kris Needs (with whom, incidentally I went to Aylesbury Grammar School) and several others conspired to create this local rock music magazine. Pete was also writing for various music publications such as NME and Melody Maker and between us, based around Friars, we created a vibe (you see I can swing back into music biz talk at the drop of a hat) that had a lasting effect on the town.
Last night then, the music scene centred on Friars and its main organiser David Stopps, which many of my contemporaries and I had helped to create, was celebrated at an opening of the Friars Club exhibition at the Aylesbury Museum, and I was lucky enough to be invited to its press launch. A number of luminaires were in attendance. Some members of Marillion, Otway, Pete Frame, Dave Stopps and Howard Jones were all there and special filmed tributes were shown from the likes of Genesis and many more besides. The highlight for me was when David Stopps revealed that he had received a text from David Bowie, whom he had championed in the early seventies at Friars, which is the subject of my picture today. David Stopps was chocked up by this and I can quite understand why. Friars was focal point of it all.
So many old friends were in the same room at the same time, celebrating a great time in our collective youth that the evening passed in a blur. I saw no irony at all that the exhibition with a number of rock dinosaurs such as myself in attendance, was staged at the Aylesbury Museum. Even dinosaurs need to eat so, having consumed a rake of prosecco, a plate full of nibbles and relived many a childhood dream, the decision was made to go for a curry, undoing much of the hard work I had done to ensure I am at my Adonis like self when I set foot in Barbados on Wednesday.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Kings Arms and getting legless
So to lunch yesterday at the George at Burpham, which is a very pleasant experience, as the pub has been sensitively refurbished and is a comfortable venue for the most important meal of the day, but could be vastly enhanced by the provision of a decent menu. The food is always good, but the chef (if he is responsible for the menu choices) has the imagination of a stunned gnat. Suffice to say that three of the four intrepid members of the steering committee of the Arundel Luncheon Club found that battered hake with chips to be the best option. The chef can clearly cook, but will someone please give his some guidance? Nearly Hairless Nick, do you not have some influence? Lamb, chicken, game, and something spicy would be a good start.
Over lunch with the beautiful Ali, mentor to the stars, and her husband Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson, whilst a hail storm of biblical proportions raged, as today’s picture bears witness, there was a wide-ranging discussion which covered many aspects of life including the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct and getting legless, which one might think could be an inherent problem for a pub landlord. As his name suggests, he took this rather too literally and decided to have a motorbike accident in his younger days which involved him getting partially legless, hence his epithet of Pistorius in this column.
Hail storm turns everything white in Burpham
Recently, these wonderful chaps have suffered a fire at their brilliant pub in Arundel, The Kings Arms, and are currently battling insurance companies whilst they sleep in the bar, This is, thankfully (and I am being entirely selfish here), undamaged, which is apparently the opposite to what one may witness upstairs. It is a testament to their fortitude that they were determined to open the pub the same afternoon following the blaze, which had involved five fire engines and gutted the upper floor. One can still see the holes in the ceiling which were drilled by the fire brigade to allow the water they were using to stop the inferno spreading to drain into rooms below, thereby protecting the said ceiling.
Insurance assessors and insurance companies in general are clearly nearly all delinquents with the kind of sympathetic qualities one might find at an abattoir. Twice they have arrived at the pub and given conflicting advice about how to deal with the damage, which means that after 10 days of dealing with the aftermath of what must have been a deeply shocking experience, Charlie and Ali are still unable to touch anything from upstairs whilst the assessors, err… assess.
It seems today that the insurance company are sending in their forensic experts to examine the seat of the blaze, presumably to confirm that Henry the Hoover, identified as the alleged culprit by the fire brigade, despite not having been used for 4 days (shame on you Ali) was to blame. That Nice Lady Decorator put it more succinctly than I, “Are they coming to arrest Henry the Hoover?”, she said as the second bottle of a rather cheeky Italian arrived. The moral of this tale is not to leave any electrical appliances plugged in, even if the power is switched off, which seems to have been the reason for this fire to start.
Perhaps the crusted port was pushing a things too far, and the bill, when it arrived, was rather shocking. The wine was my choice so I must shoulder much of the blame. I shall be more careful this evening when I must journey to Aylesbury, for the opening of the Friars exhibition at the Aylesbury Museum. It says much that a celebration of what a group of us thrusting young chaps managed to create in seventies in this formerly nice old market town should be recognised in a museum. There will be more details in tomorrow’s missive.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Shepherds pie, sideburns and cricket
It was an innocent comment but if I think back, that was when the trouble started. That Nice Lady Decorator and I were out walking at Cissbury Ring near Findon on the South Downs yesterday morning in splendid and rare sunny weather and were descending quite a steep path back to the car park when I said “you go down hill quicker than me”. We had been talking a little earlier about the speed with which some people were able to get drunk, and I believe she must have thought that was to which I was referring. The comment was met with that gaze which is somewhere between a laser beam and a blowtorch but much more destructive. However a quick explanation about how I was praising her ability to walk down hills quicker than I, just about repaired the situation.
As soon as we got back from the walk, I was forced to book a haircut because I had looked in the mirror and remembered that the night before, after rather too many pints of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord at the Red Lion, we had met up with that red-headed and gorgeous siren Carolyn, who had come back to ours to help devour a huge shepherds pie which had been constructed by the Decorating Operative. Inevitably a bottle of wine was open and by the time I sat down to take a sip of mine, another bottle was required. The third took a little longer but the upshot was that a merry, devil-may-care attitude descended on the girls. That Nice Lady Decorator for some reason took exception to my side burns (“too long, too straggly”) and set about then with some scissors. One look in the mirror this morning and I knew that urgent repairs to my deep seated good looks were required.
The top of the Cissbury Ring
Haircut completed, the customary chastisement delivered to Edward the hairdresser about the fluffy scuzzy grey hair surrounding my hair cutting throne, which always seems to be there after my haircuts nowadays, I returned to the house in order to consider the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct and prepare for cricket practice with the Sussex Seniors at the Arundel Castle Cricket Club.
As soon as I arrived I knew I had made a mistake. I had purchased a new cricket sweater embellished with the motive “Sussex Seniors” some weeks before, assuming that these were club sweaters, available for all to buy, but as my wearing of the said item was noted, and became a subject for discussion, I quickly became of the opinion that I had made a rather presumptuous purchase. It may be that these are only awarded when one is picked to represent one of their teams, as I have not, yet. Think of it like wearing an England cap when cleaning the England teams boots. My only excuse is that I had been asked to confirm for which games from the fixture list I may be available.
After practice, no fewer that 8 of the dozen or so who had attended from all over the county, some travelling 20 miles or more to attend, adjourned to the White Hart for a post practice pint. It is almost as if the whole set up has been formed for me. Practice in Arundel, then the gathering at the pub next door to my house. I could not hardly improve the situation to suit me more. The tradition amongst my generation of cricket players was that, whilst the game was played hard on the pitch, after the match, the social aspect was almost as important and one would always stay for a drink with the opposition. I had never before found myself in a pub after practice, so this is an extremely satisfying development.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A shower at cricket nets
My picture yesterday of the indoor cricket school at Arundel was unaccountably mistaken for a large shower by one of my French limerick writing followers. Although quickly corrected by others, I was slightly uncomfortable with the idea of a communal shower, unless the context was a saying from the late great Terry Thomas. “What an absolute shower” which was one of his hallmark phrases, delivered in that disdainful upper class fashion that made him so popular. This was pointed out by the Reverend Jeff yesterday and reminded me that when I used to play tennis in those halcyon days of a French summer not two years ago, Mr Clipboard enjoyed himself by coming up with some franglais in the inimitable Terry Thomas style. My favourite was “Quelle morceau de chance, mon vieux haricot”. Anyone care to venture a guess as to which of his catchphrases this alluded too?
My nemesis, Lloyd, the man in the purple crocs and the moth eaten cricket sweater, a shower all of his own
It was on the way back from a slightly less sombre hospital visit in Guildford to see cricket fan, improving after her stroke, dear old Aunt Pam, when That Nice Lady Decorator developed a thirst. We decided to stop at the Swan at Fittleworth for a pint. This is a sleeping giant of a pub, probably 17th century at the latest which was so badly abused by its previous owners that they had placed a table and some chairs in the inglenook fireplace! An unforgivable sin, and a pub to which I swore I would never venture again, until I heard that the rabble that had been in charge had been ejected and the inglenook restored to its previous glory. It does not yet have me complete seal of approval as the omnipresent grey/green paint suggests a gastro pub pretending to be more trendy that it actually is, when it does not need that to be that pretentious, but a decent pint of Doombar (and incidentally a terrible pint of Harvey’s, so bad I had to send it back) rescued it to the point where I consider the jury is still out, considering its verdict.
Once on that slippery pub slope, it was perhaps inevitable that we would return to Arundel and seek solace in beer. With the shepherd’s pie in the oven, consisting of the left overs from that Sunday lunch, garnished with a mash of only vaguely identifiable vegetables, and having arrived home after the first pint, we went to check out if the Red Lion was still offering the second best beer in the world, Timothy Taylor’s Landlord. It was, and thus That Nice Lady Beer Drinker expressed contentment, if only after the third pint had been administered.
Earlier, I had been diligently monitoring the Sterling exchange rate via Currencies Direct as I shall be using their services in the next few days. It is currently hovering just above the 1.20 mark, and so if you need to move money into euros, talk to me now!
Earlier still, just after dawn at about 10.30 (Dawn is the cleaner – only kidding – I have That Nice Lady Decorator to do all that) I had tried out my dodgy ankle and managed about 3 miles of walking without ill effect so I am now nearly cured, a bit like a nice ham, and ready for more cricket nets today with the Sussex Seniors. This net practice, by invitation only, (so either I, or more likely my ownership of one of Kevin Pietersen’s bats) has allowed me over the hallowed threshold of acceptability in senior cricket circles. The fact that traditionally, the cricketers retire for a pint at the White Hart afterwards is in no way connected to my enthusiasm to attend.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Trouble with going t’werk
If you have been reading this column recently you will know that Peachy Butterfield and I are currently engaged in a series of north versus south banter blogs for yachting website Onboard Online. Whilst thinking about themes to develop in the coming weeks, I saw on Facebook something about twerking. Now I am of an age where I may be slow to pick up on current slang for sexual acts or even sexually alluring movements, but after a little internet research, I believe that twerking involves moving ones hips around, whilst squatting to hip hop or bounce music. It seems it is an amalgam of the twist and the jerk. If I have been tardy in finding out about its true meaning, think of those poor saps up north, well the few of them that have jobs, because if you insert an apostrophe in the right place it becomes t’werk, a phrase often used by chaps from Yorkshire when they are about to leave the house to take part in some useful labour, like down the mines or scaling fish, or cutting peat. I can feel the next banter blog writing itself.
Talking about righting ones self (ouch) yesterday was a day for quite contemplation of the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct and recovery. I was not in the best of states after a fabulous luncheon at mine the day before, which culminated in some dancing, maybe even twerking, and although I have only a hazy recollection of events, the pictures on my phone tell the story. I do however recall James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord returning to collect his errant partner, the sensational and Mighty Omega, some half an hour after he thought she had followed him home. Amongst the items left behind were some keys, an iPad mini, cigarettes, flowers (although they may have been a gift), a lighter, a mobile phone and some more keys. There were only 6 people at lunch for Christ’s sake! I may have to open a lost property office.
Cricket practice at Arundel Indoor Cricket School
So a quiet return to gradual sobriety and a 5:2 diet day was punctuated by cricket practice with the Sussex Seniors in the morning. I was accompanied by Colin the Pirate, who had expressed the desire to attend cricket nets and bowl once again after some 20 years without a ball in his hand, well at least a cricket ball. He was a revelation. Eventually he managed get some deliveries to get to the end of the 22 yard (about 20 metres to you metric types) double sized net (about 6 metres wide -as shown in my picture above) without hitting the side netting. About an hour in to the session he told me he did not think the pitch was taking spin, but as I had not seen him pitch one by that time (apart from the one that bounced 6 times and then ran along the floor, before again hitting the side netting) I was unable to comment. I did think afterwards that he was trying to tweak (or twerk?) his deliveries. Now that should get the limericists juices up and running for today.
Having successfully negotiated the cricket practice with my new bat made for (newly retired from the international scene) cricketing legend Kevin Pietersen, although not without another reverse against Lloyd, the worst dressed cricketer I have even encountered, who bowled me with one that bounced twice – so in my book it does not count – I settled into a mercifully quiet evening to catch up on the TV overloading the Sky box hard drive, but by 9.30 I could stand no more of the banal offerings of modern TV and headed for my pit to write this lovely prose for you, my dear reader.
Chris France
Mushy peas and the gas bubble
I was still suffering, in a very windy sort of way, in the pub yesterday lunchtime and at lunch afterwards at ours. On Saturday evening, after that magnificent victory over Ireland in the 6 nations rugby tournament, and having only ingested one meal by evening, I was a little peckish and wondered if That Nice Lady Cooking Decorator had any plans on the feeding front. She dutifully disappeared into the kitchen and arrived back triumphant with a home-made (not by her) pork pie garnished liberally with what looked like the bright green, almost luminous, nasal contents of someone who had been seriously suffering from a bad cold, and had at the same time recently experienced a very dangerous dose of radiation sickness.
Incredulous and trepidatious (at that stage I was unaware how much that word carried portent for yesterday) I politely asked what it was. Mushy Peas was the answer. It seemed that she thought that as we had consumed the Irish at rugby, it would be apt to consume something else loud and green. It was very tasty, but even at the time of eating I knew there would be trouble ahead. Regular readers will know that the operation of my constitution is a recurring theme in this daily column, where I am often want to let off some hot air, often about the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct if you ever have need to move money into a different currency. I think that kind of hot air is much easier to handle than the type and aroma I was producing for most of yesterday.
Having cleared the White Hart with huge clouds of noxious gas yesterday lunch time, we adjourned to a late lunch at home where I had that Methuselah of St. Emilion (not Medoc as I had stated yesterday, that had been drunk at the last luncheon event) waiting. Colin the Pirate and the Sultry Goddess Sandra texted to say they had forgotten they were invited, which says much for their state when the arrangement was made the week before, and chicken was introduced into the intended menu as a result, but all the more for us I thought.
Dancing on a Sunday afternoon… not sure about the Boy George impersonations
It all went very well and ended up with That Nice Lady Decorator and the beautiful Mighty Omega (or just plain Meg to those who are not in awe of her) dancing to popular tunes from the seventies and eighties, as my picture today shows. By this time, Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson and the gloriously exquisite Ali had wisely returned to look after their pub. Ali had been most distressed at lunch time to have been forced into serving at the bar due to it being so busy, instead of her more usual position providing eye candy for the locals on the other side of the bar.
So that is it for the time being. A diet day has been decreed by That Nice Lady Diet Enforcer as my bikini awaits me in Barbados in 10 days time. Cricket practice takes place for the Sussex over 60’s, or the Sussex Seniors this morning, where I shall endeavour not be bowled out by Lloyd, a canny 76-year-old who bowls whilst wearing purple crocs on his feet and wears an ancient cricket jumper that he must have had since he was a teenager. It must have been the subject of the close attention of hundreds of generations of moths to look that bedraggled. I shall of course be trying out my new bat, made especially for Kevin Pietersen, which I managed to purloin from my dear friend at Adidas (Ben, dinner will come soon with fine wine).
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Rugby the winner, and me
I thoroughly enjoyed sitting at home in the inglenook in early evening with the log fire blazing and cigar in hand, on three levels. Firstly due to knowing that England had beaten the Irish in the 6 Nations tournament yesterday, secondly that I had won (but will probably never see) 10 euros from Irishman John “800 years of repression” O Sullivan and thirdly because he was not with me and so could not grab another good cigar from my humidor. Regular readers will know that the last time he bought cigars for me, the Irish Punt was the currency, and they should all know could be exchanged for real money and at a good rate with no bank charges, if he were ever to use his Currencies Direct account.
Awaking late, we were in a quandary, which is not a four-sided valley. A little late for breakfast but a little early for lunch, a decision had to be made. Several people recently have been waxing lyrical about a pub at Easebourne near Midhurst called The Duke Of Cumberland. Nearly Hairless Nick was amongst the most strident supporters of this UK pub of the year 2012, so we rang up to book a table and were told that the only option was for the first sitting, and that was in the bar as otherwise it was fully booked. Be there at 12. And you can have the table until 1.30 we were told. We booked, and decided to trek north in search of this eaterie, which was damnably difficult to find, but well worth the search. A splendid 16th century building with great views greeted us when we finally arrived via some decidedly dodgy roads, which were not fully appreciated by the Merc, which, although pretty in the manner of a hairdressers car, does not like to get its haunches dirty and would rather be powdering its nose than taking on steep, narrow and precipitous pot hole strewn lanes.
Once there, I explained that I was a successful author and a blogger of no small repute (in my own mind) and that I wanted to enjoy lunch in their wonderful dining room, and, lo and behold, they decided that there had been a cancellation and that we could dine in their in their splendid restaurant looking out across the hills of Sussex. Scallops on a bed of greenery and pieces of bacon (which was not how they described it) was magnificent and That Nice Lady Decorator expressed contentment with her mussels, not muscles). it was a very fine pre cursor to heading to the Kings Arms in Arundel in order to witness the glorious English rugby team stamping its authority on the Irish, a theme with which I would be content to continue, probably until the end of time.
The excellent smoking cabin outside at the Duke Of Cumberland
On the way out of the Duke I spotted two log cabins, one of which I show today as my photo. A big log fire with seating and warm coats supplied to enable someone with more time on his hands, a good cigar and a chauffeur to shoulder the driving duties, to have enjoyed a decent smoke over a glass of port from their excellent and varied wine list. Sadly there was no chauffeur yesterday, but the seed has been planted. They had another similar log cabin situated in a multi level pretty garden with a large flat screen TV, ready for that rugby match, again adorned with coats for potential customers. How very civilised!
Today we are staging a small lunch, mainly it has to be said, for landlords and their partners. Charlie “Pistorius” Malcolmson and his beautiful and exquisitely formed mentor to the stars (Amanda Holden, Russ Abbott and Ben Fogle) Ali will be there, James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord of The White Hart and the wonderful Mighty Omega will attend. Both landlords will eschew their own establishments for a few hours in the late afternoon. Also expected are one-eyed Colin The Pirate (there is only one I in Colin) together with Sandra The Sultry Goddess, making a rather good team to help me drink a Methuselah of Medoc, which has been patiently waiting to be owned since 2007. I expect it is a given that we will need to go to both pubs before the off to collect up the various landlords and camp followers. Read all about it tomorrow.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
More domestic danger avoided
I have bought her an iPad, and iPhone and an iRon, so I did not expect to have to do my own ironing. I am having something of a domestic crisis at the moment. After the sewing debacle the day before, from which I can still feel the pain, I was suddenly confronted with a creased shirt and no Nice Lady Decorator available to do her duty. Now chaps all know they should not have to wield an iron as the are dangerous hot things that can hurt you. Much better to leave that sort of thing for the women folk as chaps tend to get injured when undertaking domestic chores.
So after narrowly avoiding serious harm, but rattled by the experience, and with the sun out for the first time in ages, and That Nice Lady Decorator back in my good books, we decided to pop out for a pint. I had heard about a pub at Angmering called the Spotted Cow which I had not previously visited. This was an alarming situation as I thought I knew all the pubs in a 5 mile radius, especially those in pretty villages, and so this gap in my knowledge was eating away at me. It is quite a nice, is slightly run down establishment, improved by having the second best beer in the world, Timothy Taylor’s Landlord on tap.
We had not planned to have lunch but as it was still sunny, I said “It doesn’t look like reindeer” so on the way back made a spontaneous decision to drop into the George at Burpham where Nearly Hairless Nick is the bar manager (I think) and see what was on the menu. He is a deer chap as you can see from today’s photograph. The menu has expanded somewhat, to the extent of putting us both on the horns of a dilemma, if you get my drift. I searched for venison but settled for wild mushroom and spinach risotto instead.
Nearly Hairless Nick is on the right.
After a brief siesta, we had planned to go over to Shoreham where Mr Otway was going to perform a few songs at a beer festival with ranting left-wing poet Attila The Stockbroker. Politically Attila is situated quite a long way to the left of Stalin. I met him around 25 years ago at the Edinburgh Festival and discovered that this arch communist had taken advantage of the Margaret Thatcher Council House Right To Buy scheme, and had almost paid off his mortgage. This was too much of an opportunity for fun to be missed. I spent a long time discussing how he managed to juggle his political beliefs, whilst enjoying the benefits one of the Iron Lady’s most controversial policies, and being a capitalist home owner. More fun was to be had when he revealed that he had a small boat moored on the south coast. I don’t know why, but he strongly objected to me calling it a luxury yacht.
Anyway, in the end, with the hangover from the night before, lunch out and then the Wales versus France rugby match on in the pub next door, we flaked out and lit the fire and opened a bottle of wine and I dreamed of new customers for Currencies Direct. There was one small incident in the White Hart, when, after that Nice Lady Decorator had finished her third pint of Guinness, she asked the gorgeous Melissa the barmaid to “take these empty glasses away, I don’t want to look like a lush”. That they were her own empty glasses, and in my opinion she would be hard pressed to defend a charge of being a lush, counted for nothing.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Dangerous sewing debacle: one seriously injured
“Why have a dog and bark yourself” was perhaps not my most tactful opening, and if I think back, that was when the trouble started. I had been waiting for about two years for That Nice Lady Seamstress to get a button sewn on one of my shirts and had finally snapped and asked if we had a sewing kit. These are the implements of a mysterious dark art for me, and I venture to suggest that the same would be true of any good clean living normal man.
She did not take the hint and showed me a curious looking box, which I had not seen before with all sorts of buttons, reels of cotton, pins and needles inside. She deliberately ignored my pathetic scared look which I had been practicing. I opened Pandora’s box, selected what looked like a needle and some dark blue cotton (it was a dark blue shirt that was missing a button) and prepared to do woman’s work; sewing. I say selected and that was true, but picking up the needle is beyond anyone without long girly finger nails and is thus clearly impossible for a man, I had to enlist the help of that Unhelpful In House Seamstress Operative to extract said needle from its pretty little tin. Now as we get older, it is often true that our eyes gradually become unable to see small things, like the eyes of needles, so once again, I had to beg for help in order to get to the next stage.
The water is just not going away
Reluctantly she threaded the needle and asked me what I thought I was doing with blue cotton. “It’s a blue shirt” I said triumphantly. “I know that” she said rather testily, “but all the other buttons are sewn on with white cotton”. Once re threaded with the correct colour, I felt certain that she would take pity on me and take over, but no. I ploughed on and discovered that sewing is a very dangerous and painful pastime. I wonder if any of my in-house limericists will be able to resist using the word “prick” when it comes to my sewing escapade.
Exalted at my eventual success, although nursing several life threatening needle inflicted injuries, I spent the afternoon with happy thoughts of the benefits of Currencies Direct, and the arrival in early evening of dear old pal, pop star and film star, John Otway. We met at the Bridge at Amberley in the early evening to commune with beer and discuss the continual functioning of UK entertainment business and thereafter, we adjourned to Arundel, taking in the White Hart, the Kings Arms and a blues night at Arundel Jailhouse before ending up, post curry, at the Red Lion for the simple reason that it was open until midnight. The curry had been delivered, as is now customary, to the Kings Arms, where we once again availed ourselves of the opportunity to enjoy some of India’s finest dishes over a pint of proper beer , rather than that dreadful gassy lager that they insist on serving at most Indian restaurants. I feel very strongly that these nasty fizzy excuses for ale should only be served when it is very hot, and although these kinds of meals can be very hot in a different sort of way, I see no excuse for it. At this stage , one might say to me “easy Tiger”.
So, nursing a monumental hangover, courtesy of my old performing pal, who said it was a good idea to have a glass of Scotch upon being ejected from the pub at closing time, I shall spend today whimpering in a dark corner and cursing alcohol in general and John Otway in particular.
Chris France
Chris France's Blog 