Dali Garden in hooliganism shock
So, a bit like waiting for a dental appointment, where you know it is going hurt but you just want to get it all over with, that nice lady decorator tried to bring forward our estate agents meeting to look at Salvador Dali’s house. I suppose he has no more use for it having died, so I suppose it is up for sale. Why else would be going to see it?
She was trying to move the rendezvous as it clashed with lunch, and I think my sulky countenance may have had something to do with the attempted change, but no luck so lunch was truncated.
So the house itself? Nice position right on the seafront in a pretty bay, with a couple of bars nearby. Several fisherman’s cottages knocked together and extended in some rather alarming ways, but it would have been a bit more saleable if they cleared all that clutter and rubbish taking up the whole place.
There were dozens of very dodgy photos and paintings littered about the place, not worth even sending for house clearance, just rubbish and the product if a deseased mind, I wonder why Dali collected so many obscure images?, but there was at least a nice lick of white paint over most things and I reckon you could add a bit to the value by turning it to about a dozen flats and turn it round and make a profit.
You would have to overcome bit of a problem with the pool as some idiot had designed it to be long and thin, allowing only one person to swim up and down at the time, so that would need to be ripped up and something decent put in its place, and as for the garden? there were some nice bits but one part of it was a disgrace, I don’t think Dali had any kids so it must have been the neighbours offspring who collected this load of rubbish and put it in his garden.
If my kids had made a mess like this in my garden there would have been blood
I mentioned this to that nice lady decorator but she seemed less than impressed, indeed I formed the opinion that if we did buy it, she wanted to keep all the clutter as it was. I remonstrated saying that when my garden in my council house a very long time ago looked a little like this, she was all for clearing it up on the spot and giving me a hard time to boot. So just because of some moustache toting charlatan, (of whom incidentally I have the highest regard as a result of his ability to make people believe he was a great artist) has a mess in HIS garden, he is somehow wonderful? Women, I shall never understand them.
Regular readers will once again spotted the lack of a plug for Currencies Direct, and rest assured there will be no such link until at least August 1st when I shall once again take the helm of a great financial empire
That nice lady decorator has a habit of buying handbags. So many has she bought that about two years ago, I suggested that we should call it a hundred that she already had, so that the next one would be numbered 101 and onwards. She fails to believe the handbag she talked of buying yesterday would have been Number 179. As it turned out she decided not to buy it, mainly because the shop was closed by the time she decided she wanted it. The reason she wanted a new bag? not that she normally needs a reason, but she thinks there is something sticky in bag 178, but I have pleaded not guilty.
Chris France
Dali, genius or fraud?
The aim was to reach the Costa Brava to Port Ligueat to have a look at Salvador Dali’s house. I had earlier commented that we she seemed in a hurry to get there whilst I was happy to dilly dali my way down to Spain, but as I was driving Bluebell, (clearly even that nice lady decorator does not have the balls to drive a manic, 42-year-old, underpowered, over bearing and seriously underdeveloped piece of technology) then speed would not be of the essence. Indeed, we have still yet to overtake any vehicle on this trip, which so far must be close to 1000 km in total, this some 100 more than necessary, after the various diversions enforced upon us by that nice lady decorator insisting that her 1978 map of France is still valid. It is also true to say that in the 4 years that we have had her, Bluebell has only ever overtaken two vehicles, one of which was a cherry picker, and the other a Renault Twingo, whilst its driver had slowed down to take a call on his mobile phone, only to re overtake us when he had finished his call, hence there is still only one notch in the dashboard.
Talking of notches on the dashboard, I must report a difference in opinion as to the allure of Bluebell at night. Apparently it is not a red-hot love shack ready for love at the drop of a hat as I had been led to believe, oh no, it a solemn sleeping area, designed to leave the user fresh and ready to face whatever challenge awaits her the next morning. Such is life.
So Salvador Dali, fraud or genius? I am in the genius camp myself. Anyone with such a fraudulent lack of talent who has been able to fool most of the world for so long, and has an interesting moustache, is a sound character in my judgement, just don’t get me to comment on his “art”.
That nice lady decorator takes an entirely different view, having been enormously chagrined when owning a holiday home and hour away, as we did for 7 years, we never made it down to see his house, the glories of which await us but must wait until tomorrow. This is because you have to book an appointment to see his house, a bit like an estate agent, so we cannot see this amazing feature until today at 2.20pm. However, if we are not there by 1.50, they will give our tickets away. I do hope that lunch is rather long and it takes an age for the bill to come in my view, which seems customary so far in Spain, into which we crossed just after lunch.
My picture today is of a fantastic place we discovered down a dead-end and unmarked near Port Vendres.
Le Poisson Rouge on the coast near Port Vendres
We are booked into the only camp site in the village, and it is rather good because you can get away from it very quickly and the town itself is charming. A glass of cava for 1.90 Euros seemed very good value until it was tasted, so that nice lady decorator moved over to a local white wine, not unreminiscent of Sancerre, and with which she was inordinately pleased.
So today, as I take another day off from promoting the services of Currencies Direct, I will at last be allowed a lie in, before I have to do some lieing of my own by agreeing that Mr Dali is a fine artist, much undervalued by the population as a whole. You may think that this is lilly livered cowardice on my part and you would be right, but the lure of an easy life and the glow of contentment that she will exude when she not only knows she is right but her long-suffering husband agrees with her, will be a sight to behold.
Chris France
Enough to give one the Clape
A curious sight was evident as we picked our way along the A roads from Aigue Mortes down the coast through Montpellier (don’t bother) Narbonne and Beziers. Along the open road sat some very attractive girls in easy chairs at various stages along the route, mostly well away from towns. I told that nice lady decorator that they must be ladies of the night, although working during the day. To start with she would not hear of it and considered that they must have chosen their particular vantage points in order to top up their sun tans. The lie of course was given to this when one dusky maiden, as black as they come was spotted (by me) sitting beside the road. By this time, that nice lady decorator had cottoned on and began believing me. A discussion ensued as to how much I imagined they charged. This is of course a trick question that I spotted and avoided straight away, as obviously I would have no knowledge of such an activity and I felt I could not pass comment on what was a fair fee for services of this nature rendered.
When pressed further I said that I though 5 euros would be a sensible fee, but laughter ensued and have no understanding as to why. Gradually, she became more derisory about the women who were attempting to ply the oldest trade in the world on the french highways, to the point where the conversation was not going anywhere and the cleanliness of the girls themselves was being questioned.
It was at that moment that we spotted a local wine area known as Chateau Clape. This was too much of a coincidence and that nice lady decorator amused herself my making the obvious connection and saying it was a sign.
Montpellier was a nightmare, they are digging up most of the town to build a tramway, and taken down nearly all the signposts as a result, and had clearly made no attempt to replace them to help out the poor tourist who wanted to spend some money in the god forsaken place. We left after an hour, without ever finding the historic centre and frankly will not be returning any time soon.
Another town to which I shall not be returning in a hurry is Beziers. the main reason is that it is a hovel and a mess of the worst sort, and I was utterly unsurprised to see that it has twinned with the northern horror that is Stockport
Prior to leaving, we trotted into the centre of Aigues Mortes, which is well worth a visit, for coffee and a little light retail relief (for her) and I managed to take today’s picture. The French have never been strong spellers and I imagine that they were trying to pay homage to St Hovis rather than the erroneous inscription favouring someone called St Lovis. As you can see from the photo, he is also pointing to his heart, which is a clear warning for hovis eaters who are exclusively from up north; don’t use real butter for you chip sandwiches, or you will suffer a heart attack.
St Lovis, French bread head?
I shall be taking up this theme when I am forced to visit the frozen wasteland that is home to most hovis eaters, later this month. yes, I must travel to Cheshire to visit Peach Butterfield in his own environment. I am really looking forward to sampling some of the local produce, if they can catch enough and kill it before my visit.
Chris France
the holiday police will be pleased to note that yet another day has passed without a plug for Currencies Direct
Aigues mortes? over my dead body
When one has spent two days laughing and drinking, inevitably one only remembers some events sometimes afterwards, and so it was over the weekend. That nice lady decorator was in superb form up until having to be helped to bed on Sunday evening, providing much merriment for herself and a great deal more for her hosts and myself. I realised that our host Nigel Graves had got off very lightly in this column over the past few days so I must reveal that I believe they were his underpants that she found in her bag after we left the beach.
If you did not follow the gory details as they unfolded over the weekend, basically the position is this; that nice lady decorator was on a mission to drink the bar dry of white wine at the wonderful beach resort at St Barths at St Maxime and took a fancy to any number of the pretty young waiters who were prepared to “serve” her. Later, when back in the garden of our hosts over a nightcap, she became aware that there were a pair of underpants in her handbag, the existence of which she could not explain.
Nigel will want to deny that they are his, but the voluminous size, unconventional colour and designer skid marks leave very little room for doubt. I don’t know who should be more to blame, her or him, so I will blame them both until they realise that they were in fact mine.
After escaping early yesterday morning, before the rose was opened, we set off in Bluebell heading west, aiming for Arles by late lunchtime. A charming city, with a huge Roman amphitheatre which is the subject of my picture today. Its main use at present is for bull fighting and I swear I saw that nice lady decorators’ eyes light up at the idea of male bulls being humiliated and then killed in savage fashion. I know this to be true because I am certain she bought a ticket for Sunday although she did not tell me. I am now waiting for the excuse which will take us back near Arles this coming weekend.
Arles amphitheatre, the smell of blood from the forthcoming bull-fight caused a rather unnatural reaction in that nice lady decorator
Rather worryingly that nice lady decorator is continuing to go on about buying an Ipad. This would be an unmitigated disaster as she would then very easily be able to read anything I write in this column and administer suitable retribution, instead of maintaining a slightly disbelieving air when her friends mention what has appeared in print. This is usually during social gatherings so drink is involved and thus her memory is often affected, enabling me to get away with some major literary crimes. Actually there are some out there who believe this whole column is a crime against the literary world, Paul Kendall please stand up.
You will note that once again there has been no mention of my activities with Currencies Direct, who are doubtless continuing their work of saving you money on your foreign exchange, even while I am on vacation camping it up, so to speak.
Followers of my angloinfo blog Happy Mondays will already be aware that the new episode was published yesterday, click here to read it.
so as the day drew to a close we settled on a camp site near Aigues Mortes. I told that nice lady decorator that it was French for “over my dead body” but I don’t think she believed me. Tomorrow, Montpellier then Narbonne are in our sights before heading on down to Argeles sur Mer for another debauched night of fun with our gay Norwegian mates.
Chris France
An early Barth
The first thing to say is that as I am on holiday, there will be no mention of and no link to Currencies Direct in today’s column. It would be crass and anti social to do so, thus it will not happen.
To the tune of Summer Holiday, at least in my head, we journeyed to the resort of St Barth, on the edge if St Maxime thought thankfully without Cliff Richard, for a thoroughly enjoyable and impressively expensive day on the beach featuring lunch and a swim up bar, which even I, a determined non-swimmer, felt compelled to check out.
Later in the afternoon one of the cheeky children Liam, decided to offer some ice to his parents. The fact that they were asleep on loungers on the beach at the time should in no way belittle a truly heart warming gesture. To try to cool one guardians down when it is very hot seems a very laudable, and open-hearted gesture and in my opinion should have received a vote of thanks rather than the threats against his very being that resulted.
i was not in favour of drinking in the Barth until today
My picture today was taken at lunch looking over the swim up bar to the Mediterranean in the background, and I hope shows exactly how tough the camping life can be when on the road with Bluebell. Accompanying us are Iueuan the uphill gardener, now also known as the The Graves digger, the personal gardener to the Graves family, who eschewed pink today for an ensemble of check and hoops, that is until intercepted by the redoubtable Melissa Graves who explained to him in caustic detail his fashion faux pas.
Recent readers will realise the fashion faux pas are his hallmark, but this was a statement too far for Melissa who demanded he change before being allowed to drive us to the beach. The results were equally ugly but no one had the heart to say. he seemed pleased with the result however.
Last night I expected a muted celebration, fearing that the party had peaked too soon at the beach, but our host were made of sterner stuff, even to the extent of sampling the home-made vodka manufactured by Nigel Graves. Graves would be a very suitable name for anyone daring enough to drink more than four glasses could be heading for an early Graves. To top it all we had been drinking a nice Graves Bordeaux at lunch time, so I think there is a theme running through here that should act as a warning.
That nice lady decorator of course has never taken any notice of warnings of any sort in any circumstances, and nothing changed yesterday. I saw warning signs from the point of the ordering of the second bottle of white wine, and then periodically through the afternoon, and alas into the evening.
The discovery of some underpants in that nice lady decorators beach bag raised some rather ugly questions. How did they get there, why were the there and most importantly who’s were they. As they were not Y fronts that reached the armpits, they were clearly not mine so I am forced to conclude that another pretty young waiter has experienced the fright of his life and another beach venue will be off the list for life. Indeed, perhaps the whole coastline might be off limits for a while.
Today we head off west, with the ancient roman city of Arles in mind, at least to start with, but will go with the flow and see where Bluebell takes us.
Chris France
The “Graves” digger?
There is of course one really uplifting fact that goes with letting out ones house out for three weeks; banjo goes to prison for the whole period. That nice lady decorator coos at him over the past few days telling him it’s like a holiday camp, but he knows when he looks at me and I have a smug grin on my face, he knows what is coming, half rations (still more than enough for his huge frame) no lovely walks through the Valmasque, and no possibility of stealing food from tables without serious retribution. happy days, for me.
The final preparations to get the house ready for the clients are fraught with stress. Not for me of course, unless caught in the crossfire of that nice lady decorator’s laser beams, although in my experience it is always as well to look busy and industrious whenever the laser beams are pointing in my direction, anyway all was well, and we set off in Bluebell the camper, next stop the Var.
So no more promotion of Currencies Direct until August, although I am so dedicated, please look out for any daily inadvertent mentions and links and feel free to complain in the comments section below if you spot any.
Bluebell behaved impeccably and we reached our destination of Trans en Provence in time for some early evening champagne snifters ahead of a barbecue. Earlier whilst being sent on some errands by that nice lady decorator in Valbonne I came across some Japanese tourists taking pictures in Valbonne Square. I offered to take a group shot for them, but when I said “wave” they all just legged it.
The Graves family continue to help out people wherever they are, giving us an alternative to sleeping in the camper by offering us a sumptuous room, once again feeding their gardener Iueuan or something like that – but pronounced Yayan (pictured her today – I do so like pink on a man) and offering to sell me a raffle ticket for African orphans, but I turned down the opportunity, with my luck I would probably win one.
pretty in pink?
Today we are scheduled to lunch on the beach near St Tropez, at a place called st Barts that has a restaurant with a swim up bar. Being a confirmed and determined non swimmer, I cannot see many positives about this, unless the bar is at the shallow end. Don’t get me wrong, I like seafood, and I also like things like soup and custard but I wouldn’t want to standing in it whilst eating it.
I have not yet mentioned Currencies Direct more than once and will not do so as I am now on holiday until the end of the month, and am only 10 days from the trip to England for the Lords Test against India (cricket for those ladies amongst my readership who will never understand) where English beer beckons. Yayan, the Graves gardener (could he in some ways be described as “the Graves digger?”) professed a love of “dark and mild”, a peculiar northern beer mixture. Where on earth my Welsh friend (yes he is Welsh as some of you would have gathered from the silly name) could have picked up such a nasty northern habit is alarming, especially as he considers his Welsh accent to be “southern”, which of course is stretching it a bit.
Before that though, the next striking point, starting tomorrow is Arles, an ancient city to the west, en route for the Costa Brava if we get time and Bluebell continues to behave, and also as long as that nice lady decorator continues to behave as well.
Chris France
Worthless activity? yes
So I had lunch after playing tennis, and instinctively, I felt it was a move which would not reward me in the way I deserved. The phrase “you are not having lunch as well as playing tennis with one day to go before the rental clients arrive?” should have given me a clue, and I confess that had I listened a little more to my intuition, I may have picked up a few negative vibes. Once I had returned from lunch, my faux pas, which had not been consciously evident to me before lunch, became apparent. It was not that I could contribute towards the sterling job being undertaken by that nice lady decorator, it was just that I had clearly been having fun whilst she was working, and that fact alone could not go unpunished. The fact that this was the state of play existed in reverse for the best part of the last twenty years counted for nothing and was dismissed out of hand, and so, I was given a series of those non jobs that husbands and boyfriends know so well when they have transgressed some unwritten rule.
Thus I swept a terrace which had been swept two days before, but obviously needed doing again, despite the fact that there was no perceivable difference before to after. The pav apparently needed to be hoovered despite having been thoroughly cleaned just two days ago, then a series of other worthless task were assigned. I say worthless, they were worthless from my viewpoint, however I am certain that the nice lady decorator attained some gratification from my due completion of said worthless endeavour.
Lunch of course was required after a gruelling game of tennis with one Bill Colegrave and Mr Clipboard taking on the mighty MOG’s. In truth, it was a very good game of tennis, so good that I fear I have forgotten the result, however it was very close and a thoroughly enjoyable game in the rather hot sunshine.
Bille Colegrave with rather elite golf shirt, but also a glass in his hand
At lunch, Bill was sporting a golf club shirt as my picture above shows. Many of us golfers have these, from Wentworth, Troon, Sandwich or Celtic Manor and many of the famous golf courses around the world, but how many of us golfers have a shirt from a golf course in war torn Darfur in the Sudan? If I could have predicted one of my friends to have such an item it would have been Bill Colegrave, because of his previous experiences and interest in Afghanistan, and Africa, the former of which he has written about in the past.
And so today our journey starts in Bluebell the camper van. Not too far on the first leg, merely to Trans in the Var, about half an hour by normal car and about an hour and a quarter in Bluebell, to stay with Melissa and Nigel Graves. Melissa is already known to readers of this column for the photo of her sellotaping up her mouth when in my presence to ensure she did not say anything stupid to be reported in this column. This picture featured in my top 15 pictures from the first year of publication. Little does she know that this sellotape trick will not work, partly because she is always talking and because of the quantity of words that issue forth, there is not a person with sufficient cerebral power to remember everything that she says, and partly because, given the prodigious output, she is bound to say something stupid at some stage, but mostly because she of her Irish origin.
On Sunday there is talk of lunch on the beach at at St Barts, near St Tropez, and although I would prefer to be at home extolling the virtues of Currencies Direct, that nice lady decorator prefers the beach, so, hey ho….
Chris France
Pomegranates and death row
I am untouched by the frenetic activity that is going on around me. That nice lady decorator is working at the speed of a whirling dervish to get the house ready for rental clients arriving Saturday, and I am making my full contribution to her efficiency by staying out of her way, deep in my hammock until choosing the right moment to suggest an evening beer. As you can imagine, this is tricky work; too early and I will be accused of interrupting her tight agenda, too late then the accusation surrounds leaving her to work whilst others loafed. I have a number of years of experience in trying to unravel this conundrum, but I confess I have not yet mastered the timings yet, mainly because the goalposts keep moving.
Such is the stress that our proposed social occasion on the Cap Ferrat with our incomprehensible northern friends, the Caston’s, had to be postponed last night due to pressure of work. I, having successfully completed the myriad of tasks set before me today was entirely ready to go over and eat tripe and pigeon and whippet, or whatever northern delights awaited me, and considered for one moment suggesting that perhaps I should go alone and leave her to catch up on her allotted work, but I confess that I had seen earlier a suggestion that the blue touch-paper was in danger of igniting and thought the better of it.
Magnanimously I took control of the new dinner arrangements, and once I had found the take away pizza menu, offered to take charge of ordering whatever took her fancy on the menu. This has three positive effects; firstly the newly cleaned kitchen and cooker need not be disturbed, secondly no one is forced to try to survive on anything I have cooked, and thirdly, it will give me some sport, in that it seems customary for the catastrophic canine, Banjo, the hopeless hound, to try to bite the pizza delivery boy, but preferably after he has delivered our dinner. Of course I will have to give a false name and disguise the address after last time. But at the last moment, just as I had the menu in my hands, an alternative scenario presented itself in the form of one of my sons friends said he was going to get some kebabs, and somehow it just seemed right to say yes.
The more astute amongst you will have noticed that I am getting towards the end of my daily missive and I have not once mentioned my activities with Currencies Direct. This is because I am determined not to mention them in every column, in case people suspect that I may have an ulterior motive for expressing my views in this daily column. Indeed, I would like you all to keep watch and make a comment in the section below should I waiver from this well intentioned course of action.
Pomegranates rescued from death row
My picture today is of pomegranates. There is a story here. we have this spindly spiky deciduous tree like shrub in our garden which someone told me was a pomegranate bush. I believed I had been had as all it did is grow bigger and spikier for two years before I resolved that it had to go. I had planned a day in April for its execution, but it rained, then I forgot about it and it developed leaves and got a stay of execution, then suddenly three weeks ago, with no warning and for the first time, it developed pretty red flowers, which are now turning into pomegranates. it must have heard me or had second sense, a pity Banjo does not have the same sensibility.
Chris France
Do you like to watch Queens?
I should have been more concerned when Paul Thornton Allan of The Big Picture said “I like to watch queens”. It may well be that he was referring to tennis and the tournament that takes place at Queens in England, but it is not something that I would be pleased I had said. My concern is based upon a possible misconception. Hitherto, with his beard and unkempt artist look, I had come to accept Paul as a ladies man, but this chance comment, and it’s possible consequences have raised in me the slimmest of doubts about his sexual orientation…This was at the social occasion earlier in the week before a rather annoying person ruined my day yesterday by continuing to wear a bank-note belonging to me on his forehead, at least those were the reports I was receiving. I will not be disheartened and there is a return tennis match on Friday planned where doubtless any ambiguity as to who is the superior partnership will be settled once and for all.
Tonight to the riches of the Cap D’Antibes, to a gathering with Jo Caston and long-suffering pilot husband, where I shall remain vigilant in case there were any poor souls who have yet to be converted to the joys of opening an account with Currencies Direct. Jo is a dear sweet bubbly girl who lives a lot of her life in Hong Kong, but retains a house on the edge of the Cap, one of the most exclusive areas of real estate in the world. Sadly she also retains and is the unfortunate bearer of a northern accent. This requires constant interpretation of her dialect into the Queens English, interspersed with “doyerwhat?” as she is quite unable to understand English when it is spoken properly.
I am expecting “trouble up t’mill” type of food to be served, fish n chips, mushy peas, tripe and black pudding, assorted road kill, you know the type of thing but I am looking forward to it, as long as my interpreter can keep up with the vernacular. I do so like communing with those unfortunates denied a proper existence by their birthright, for they are the salt of the earth.
Yesterday was spent in more planning, indeed the hammock ropes are sufficiently stretched to show the degree of hard work that has gone into the logistical planning for the summer. Whilst I am hard at work planning, it is somewhat gratifying to know that the nice lady decorator is also earning her keep by decorating and cleaning in equal measure in readiness for our first and only rental customers for this summer, who have rented the house for three weeks starting Saturday. Because of the obscene amount of money we seem to be able to get away with charging for summer rentals, that nice lady decorator takes the view that the house should be as clean and tidy and freshly painted wherever possible, and I agree with her, as long as agreeing can be done from the supine position I like to adopt whilst in planning mode in my hammock. This year though, I think she has gone too far. I mean coats of arms hanging out of the windows seems a bit over the top, or is it just the Moroccan carpets getting a shake out?
anyone reminded of the classic Rolling Stones logo? no, me neither
So a quiet evening was the result, with just a few beers in the web, the decision was made not to drop into Cannes for the beach electro party, and very wise decision it was, probably.
Chris France
Etiquette disaster from old Wellingtonian
And so to tennis and lunch at Auberge St Donat. I am constantly being pilloried by my better educated peers about not going to a proper school. Consequently I do not know which finger should be sticking out straight when drinking tea out of china cups or how best to eat cucumber sandwiches, indeed in my house when I was growing up we were more likely to get tea in mugs and eat salad cream sandwiches, but not those dainty little things I keep seeing on Midsummer Murders ( got to be the most dangerous place to live in England), oh no, these were great hunks of bread sawn off a huge loaf. Anyway, I digress, because of my perceived and possibly very real lack of understanding about quite how to behave in certain circumstances, I often just watch and listen to my (in their own minds) superiors for pointers about to behave with decorum and wherever possible to employ the correct etiquette.
Restaurants in particular, and how to conduct one self therein are a constant source of enlightenment for me. So imagine my astonishment yesterday when Mr Clipboard, who went to Wellington, a school that I do not have the heart to put the boot into, left less than his share of the cost of lunch, and then left the restaurant early, causing one of us, namely me to stump up on his behalf. The actions of a cad and a bounder.
Is this the correct way to behave when you have been to Wellington? Well it appears that Mr Clipboard was at Wellington for at least part of his education but it has been revealed that he was actually thrown out before having to complete his education at Guildford College. No university has been mentioned. Perhaps in this light his failure to pay his full share of the bill is put into its proper context.
This particular lunch was taken after tennis yesterday morning, and after I had completed my exacting tasks required in respect of my work with Currencies Direct, where once again I was able to protect my unbeaten record this year. The minor aberration of losing a hastily convened tie break at one set all with lunch pressing cannot possible be considered a result, merely a way of deciding who should win the ten euro wager, and given Mr Clipboards clearly impecunious circumstances evidenced by his cutting and running at lunch time, I was delighted to hand him the bank-note, which he rather immaturely decided to wear on his forehead over lunch as my picture today shows.
Mr Clipboard looking rather stupid with a banknote on his forehead
He insisted that I take the picture, and although I have tried to airbrush in some style, you can see it was a tough job.
Today, after the customary run around the Valmasque forest and along the Brague River with the dogs, one good and one bad, I shall be continuing the detailed planning required for the forthcoming camping trip about to commence. This is an onerous task and requires considerable concentration and I find is best undertaken from the hammock. Which campsite, their various good and bad points and particularly which have internet access as I must continue to post this column each day despite being away from home are the main considerations. Why?, I hear some of you ask, and the reason is clear, I have a veritable legion of followers desperate to improve their lives by reading this daily insight into the lives of the idle rich in Valbonne. Indeed, when it is late posting I often receive a torrent of abuse from my happy followers, both of whom cannot wait for the latest exciting instalment. That is my line and I am sticking to it.
Chris France
Organisational debacle
My old pal John Otway called me yesterday to rope me into doing some work for free on his new film. Having persuaded his fans to get him a hit single and a subsequent appearance on Top Of The Pops for his 50th birthday in October 2002, the latest scheme for the “clown prince of rock and roll” as he was described earlier this week in The Daily Telegraph, after tearing up Glastonbury in his customary fashion, is his long-held dream of making a film (about himself of course) with a release aimed at his 60th birthday in October next year.
The first scenes will be filmed shortly, in fact next weekend as he has been asked to open the new Age Concern shop in Aylesbury, the perfect opening scene for an aged attempted musician. Anyone concerned about age and its effects on John who wants to attend should have a look at the link here.
This of course gives me an excuse to dig out an old photo of myself, John Otway and the Reverend Jeff who was unaccountably going through a bad hair period in his life, and thought the wearing of crimson strides might take people attention away from the mullet. He was wrong. I believe I am sporting a “I knew John Otway even before he was a star” badge, a huge collection of which were always about his person.
from left to right; The Reverend Jeff, John Otway and myself circa 1974
A pleasant trip down to Frejus yesterday became the trip from hell once the jobsworths running the camp site set their levers to “disappoint and irritate holiday makers wherever possible”, but all was solved after a mere two hours of delays and petty officialdom with various copies of passports summoned to the front desk to enable the camping trip for my daughter and some friends to go ahead.
Last night to the Thornton Allan’s across the road to welcome back Mr Clipboard and his lovely wife, Lady Clipboard. I had thought I may be off their radar as I have not yet received my detailed timings for golf, lunch and tennis which no doubt await me over the coming few days. Perhaps he has heard that I am unbeaten at tennis this year and can bear to be a part of extending that unbeaten run? or perhaps he has finally run out of or more likely got bored with giving me 10 euros each time we play golf, that being the agreed wager, and seeing his bank-note subsequently attach itself to my forehead in customary fashion.
However,when I arrived I discovered that the organisation for golf and lunch had been delegated by Mr Clipboard to the wingco. This is an unmitigated disaster because the wingco is to organisation what Rudolf Nureyev is to sheet metal welding, ie one is totally alien to the other.
I will draw a discreet veil over the debacle of organisation, but suffice to say that once I took over the logistics, everything was arranged in a trice so tennis and lunch are on the agenda now later this morning. Before that however I must complete my days work arranging the careers of some dead pop stars and putting considerable time into my commitments to Currencies Direct, which once again I have not plugged today, so I should be ready to play tennis at 11.00.
Lunch will be taken at the Auberge St Donat at Plascassier and we will be joined for both tennis and lunch by renowned local author Bill Colegrave taking time off from running his boutique hotel and wonderful wedding reception venue Bastide St Mattheu. Please do not search google for the photograph of Bill asleep on the lawn at a party last year.
Chris France
Banjo birthday shock
Banjo’s birthday? what an absurd concept, attempting to celebrate the birth of the worst dog ever to set foot on this earth. It was my daughter that suggested it when I was giving her lift on the way back from Mouans Sartoux. I stopped the car and said if there was to be any more of that talk she could walk. It would be like celebrating the birth of Adolf Hitler or Jack The Ripper. Banjo, as most regular followers of this column will be well aware is an over fed, over sized over bearing thirty kilo mutant cocker spaniel, owned by that nice lady decorator and with an evil spirit dedicated to making my life as miserable as is possible. His malevolence extends to biting pizza delivery men, defecating right by my hammock, stealing food from tables and other countless vandalistic acts, and for this he is constantly being rewarded by the female inhabitants of this house for his bad behaviour. It is said (but not by me in the earshot of that nice lady decorator) that dogs often take on the traits of their owners, and although she is almost as badly behaved at times, I think she would draw the line at defecation in the garden in daylight, although come to think of it I am not absolutely certain.
Today I will be going down to a camp site somewhere near Frejus to deposit said daughter there for 10 days. This should not be viewed as punishment for the birthday suggestion, but is in fact something she is looking forward to. Personally I draw the line at sleeping under canvas, in fact I draw it well before that, although I must admit to looking forward to our camping trip in Bluebell the camper, pictured here today ready for action next weekend. This type of camping is of course completely different with fridge, cooking facilities, electricity, ipod and double bed. It is undertaken in a classic vehicle harking back to those old hippy days in the nineteen seventies, but with creature comforts. More glamping (glamourous camping) than just camping.
Bluebell raring to go next weekend, now with new carpets and curtains
Don’t miss my regular weekly grumpy old git blog for angloinfo which is published today. Entitled Happy Mondays, is designed to promote Currencies Direct (something that I am determined not to do in this column today) but is constantly being edited by the thought police masquerading as editorial assistants. Message to angloinfo, “get off my back”
On my way back from Valbonne village to buy the Sunday Times, a weekly ritual, I spotted a sign that I had seen last year and was up again “Fete des Groules”. When I got home, I used google translate as I did not know what a Groule was, and apparently nor does google as it came back with “celebration of groules”. So we decided to go down and have a look in the afternoon, and were confronted with loads of middle-aged french people with tressle tables set in a nice an olive grove, with a dance floor and loads of them dancing to something akin to umpah music. To be fair, it did not seem like the kind of event we would enjoy, except on a “take the piss and a laugh at it rather than with it” level. I suggested to that nice lady decorator that perhaps the party was an annual event staged by Mr and Mrs Groules, and do you know what, I think I saw them, and a number of relatives, or Groules as they must be called if I am right.
Chris France
Crazed lunatic in the garden
Why were various clothes strewn all over the lawn on Friday night? I thought we had been burgled or rather vandalised by a cruel gang of crazed lunatics until I began remembering….It had been a long day, lunch in Antibes, drinks at the Blue Lady, drinks in Mouans Sartoux, drinks in the web. I still think a crazed lunatic was involved, and I think I am married to her.
Much of great import had been discussed during the day, a good deal of it about Currencies Direct, but I do not recall all of the details, in fact I don’t recall many of the details, if any. Such are the trials and tribulations of getting old and drinking too much with that nice lady decorator, a gorgeous waif and a taciturn but often very amusing Scotsman.
Thus today has been on the quiet side, mundane activities such as commencing packing for the usual complicated logistics of a family summer which include ten flights, camp sites, accommodation in London for the Test Match at Lords, accommodation near Hurtwood Park for the polo and The Faces, accommodation for the dreaded two days we will be spending communing with the natives of the wild windswept north of England, and the extra packing that is required in order to survive such a hostile landscape, accommodation for the son for his engineers course in Antibes and the loving care required to ensure Bluebell the camper does her best not to let us down on our trip to “Costa Brava or bust”. The last big trip out for a big camping adventure ended in “bust” being towed back for repairs the first day, so anything past the first afternoon has got to be a plus. I had planned to take care of all of the above today, but ended up sitting in the web doing very little.
Max the proper dog is partial to a swim and regularly makes use of the swimming pool, indeed he gets more use out of it than anyone else in our family, it is sort of his private pool into which the odd guest and family member are allowed into occasionally. The problem is, that he is in it so much that he had managed to bleach his eyebrows in the chlorine, as my picture today depicts.
I hope Mr Humphries does not see this, it may give him some bizarre fashion ideas
I think it was reverting to a large gin and tonic that finally shook off the self-inflicted damage from yesterday, but manfully I resisted until well after six pm before coming to the conclusion that nothing else would work, kill or cure. This is the last full week we have here until August, the house is rented from next weekend until the end of July for silly money, enough for us all to go on holiday and more besides, but how much of a holiday can it be having to second part of it, albeit just two days, near the Arctic circle at somewhere called Chester. I suppose there will be an opportunity between scudding snow flurries to witness the northern lights, although Peachy Butterfield says the bitters are very good and his personal favourite, and by the looks of the size of him he has tried all of them in profusion. I know that have a beer up north called Black Sheep but have never been daring enough to ask what they put in it, or how they despatch the poor animal before it finds its way in liquid form into glasses to keep out the cold. I am told that it has another use, as a balm to keep the midges away when the tundra softens, but frankly I will take a chance with the insects.
Chris France
Worshipping at Cafe Latin
With all my recent missionary work with Currencies Direct, I realised that I had been neglecting “church” at Cafe Latin in Valbonne on market day. There was a good turnout for worship, but I was distressed to note that my guess of black and white checked shorts and black shirt for the summer look dictated by Mr Humphries (he was free) was completely wrong as he was in turquoise and white with flip-flops. so I had got it wrong again. Amongst the local luminaries present was renowned local artist Helen Humphrey. She was at her most demanding especially when demanding service from the young attractive male waiter, the least efficient of the staff on call. When I challenged her about this, she said she preferred her coffee to be delivered by someone young and pretty, perhaps the exact opposite of her husband in both respects.
Viv Frost, leading light on the local literary scene and wife of local mortgage expert and Russian speaker Matt Frost agreed with the concept of man flu being much worse than childbirth. However her qualification for this statement has had to be edited for reasons of space.
Paul Thornton Allan from The Big Picture was also worshipping and had brought with him a rather girly satchel, which Phil Jeremy, long distance runner extraordinary exclaimed! “Its a bit gay”, but then went on to say he had something similar himself. A former male model, perhaps there are hidden secrets in his closet? Anyway he went on to reveal how he had once walked through some of the more unsavoury parts of Liverpool (indeed is there a savoury part?) carrying said satchel/man bag, and when pressed by his associate to hide it told him not to worry, anyone mad enough to walk the district with a bag like that was clearly identified as a loony and given a wide berth.
I sneaked this picture of the gathering, just before prayers
a large gathering at church at Cafe Latin
And so on the train from Mouans Sartoux to Antibes for lunch to celebrate avoiding the Royal Wedding in Monaco. I said to that nice lady decorator that when we were young, we had no money, a black and white TV and lived in squalor but at least I was sleeping with a hot 18 year old. Now we have two houses, smart cars, big screens but I am sleeping with someone a lot older and that she was not keeping her part of the bargain. She pointed out that if I wanted to sleep with a hot 18 year old, I would be very quickly back living in squalor, with a crap car with only a small black and white screen. It was a good point, well made.
And so to lunch in Antibes to meet the lovely Janie and her taciturn Scot sometimes partner Jim. That nice lady decorator declined the offer of a very reasonably priced local rose wine as she has spotted a very expensive Sancerre on the menu and proceeded with the help of Janie to demolish most of the restaurants stock. Serious damage is done to my wallet, so in solace on the way back to the station I felt it was necessary to pop into The Blue Lady in Antibes for a revitalising pint of Guinness, a move rather surprisingly supported by that nice lady decorator. At least they did not have an expensive Sancerre on their menu for her to abuse further my largesse. Finally, after a very thirst inducing train ride back, a short stop for a sundowner in the very quaint and very French village of Mouans Sartoux. And to think now the weekend starts…..
Chris France
Dog encourages drinking
Banjo, the stupid spaniel introduced into this household against my advice, has a wonderful habit he has developed of trying to catch bees in his mouth. Today, the best possible scenario occurred when one of them stung him and he squawked like a stuck pig. It itself this was gratifying and just deserts for all the hardships and strife that he has visited upon me in the past two years, but when a trip to the vet was mentioned I was rather too hasty in suggesting it was a job for me. That nice lady decorator knew that if I took him he would never return.
Now if you want to escape from the wife for a late drink on a summers evening, it is best if you own a labrador which also likes to escape and can almost inevitably be found at the local restaurant. Such is the situation with Gerald Gomis, fiery latin rugby type, who I suspect holds a candle for me, as he once texted me twice in a night saying he loved me, only to claim he though he was texting his wife. The night before last he arrived as we were finishing tennis dinner at the Auberge St Donat, found his dog, proceeded to order two beers and a bottle of wine. Clearly, as far as his wife (the lovely Pippa, Business Development manager for the whole of France for Currencies Direct) was concerned, it was going to take some time to find the animal.
Thus it was quite late when I got in, and being slightly tired and emotional, (after all,it is a great achievement to be unbeaten at tennis for so long, six months, and one that needed to be celebrated) so I retired at a reasonable hour, before midnight, only to be awoken by that nice lady decorator, who had disrobed and was in the swimming pool calling for me to join her. Being a confirmed non swimmer myself, that would have been folly, but I did manage to take this picture from the bedroom window, before I shut the shutters to drown out the noise rather than risk drowning myself.
Late night swim anyone?
Today is likely to be a big day out. We are to go to Antibes, where we shall meet a couple of friends with the sole intention of drinking and eating to excess whilst having a laugh. The sun is shining, the wine is cold and the resolve is implacable, I am on a mission today.
July will feature polo twice in my diary, according to that nice lady decorator.I am awaiting my outline schedule for the summer with bated breath. Actually, what a stupid expression, what on earth does bated breath me? Anyway, polo in Surrey and polo in the Var, two very different prospects, the first in the Var next Sunday, the 10th July where the weather will no doubt be very warm. I do hope they will welcome Bluebell the camper, as this will be the first day of our camping trip down to the Costa Brava (if the old girl makes it – I mean that nice lady decorator not Bluebell) and the second a rather incongruous pairing of polo and a performance by The Faces at Kenny Jones Hurtwood Park Polo Club on 23rd July where it may be warm but more likely it will be wet, as anyone seeing U2 at Glastonbury recently will no doubt testify..
The more astute amongst you will have noticed that this entails my going to England in summer (a fleeting concept I know), but one occasionally has to show solidarity with the old country, as long as one has tickets for the Lords Test Match and there is some decent beer available.
Chris France
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