Incriminating picture shock
The phrase “done up like a kipper” comes to mind. Yesterday I was sent a picture of someone by someone else. It was a cruel attempt to incriminate a fine upstanding member of our community, who has featured in this column before, but on this occasion I am unable to identify him. It is of course possible that identification may result if someone recognises his under garments, or the girls perpetrating this ghastly act.
Even I have felt the need to doctor this picture in order to protect the guilty
When this is viewed by the miscreant and regular reader at the centre of the photo, he may well conclude that this must have come from man mountain, the man who can drink his own body weight in Crewe Chardonnay, Peachy Butterfield, whom must be the subject of equally disgraceful photographs himself, so if anyone would like to send me anything incriminating, then please feel free. The naked politician, for instance, may have more reason than most to put Mr Butterfield in the frame (so to speak), indeed in one way this column does seek to frame people. By this, I mean of course that each day I try to find a suitable (or better still and unsuitable) picture for this column, so to have a stock of photos from which to choose each day would be very welcome. I look forward with interest to receiving some offensive items shortly.
Yesterday I travelled over to Villefranche sur Mer to conduct very important business for Currencies Direct, to rescue some other poor unfortunates from the less than tender grasp of their bank, having identified a saving of nearly £160 on a 10,000 Euro transfer. Their tears of joy were touching to behold, such are the rewards of my missionary work. This can be your destiny as well, simply click on this link to take the first steps of emancipation from your bank.
Straight from this missionary position, I returned to reign victorious again at doubles tennis with the wingco and Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur villas who was suffering from the effects of having spent much of the afternoon on his roof in thirty degree heat and who was partnered again by Peter “Misty” Milstead. Misty must be cursing his luck that he currently does not appear to be sporting a large moustache, the pre-requisite for being a member of the very successful, indeed almost omnipotent MOGS (The Moustacioed Old Gits). Indeed , our victory was so crushing that the wingco and I had enough time afterwards for a set of singles tennis. Modesty forbids me to reveal the result of that particular contest, but my claim not to have been beaten at tennis any form of the game this year still holds true.
Some of us, well three of us went to dinner, one notable backslider pleaded a previous engagement, so we missed Misty, who was perhaps trying to avoid the continuing pressure from me to sign up to Currencies Direct. Dinner was taken at the Auberge St Donat in Plascassier, newly open in the evening now for the summer where the tennis was discussed in depth by me. Strangely, my enthusiasm for talking about the game was not shared by my dinner companions.
Today is expected to be quiet, as I am beginning to prepare for a big lunch on Friday, designed to avoid the furore that will accompany another royal wedding in Monaco, where Price Albert has booked The eagles and Jean Michel Jarre to perform in the Principality. Not being a Monogasque resident, and not having received my invitation in the post, I shall be boycotting the whole shebang. Sulky? me? Yes.
Chris France
Tortoise egg omelette?
So in the end, I was resigned to a quiet night in, with just the whisper of that nice lady decorators flatulence to set against the breeze rustling the trees, the murmurings of the tree frogs and the washboard noise made by the magpies. It would have been two days without a serious social occasion, so I did not think it could last. I managed to avoid having go into Mougins to watch the outdoor performance of Mama Mia, the Mougins School play, but only be feigning heat stroke, but then Melissa Graves threatened to arrived clutching a bottle of rose, but at the last moment she cancelled, so flatulence it was.
Earlier, I had of course recovered sufficiently from the effects of the sun when the call came to play tennis last night but this was followed by another call cancelling, whereupon my heat stroke unaccountably returned, so at least my unbeaten run this year may extend the full six months if I can get away with it again tomorrow evening, when once again I expect the mustachioed old gits (MOGS) to run riot over our considerably younger though far less athletic, and frankly nowhere near as good-looking opponents. One of them, Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rental demands a link to his website whenever he is mentioned in less than flattering terms in this column, but as you know I would not allow even the slightest whiff of bribery and corruption to besmirch the journalistic integrity of this column.
The senior (in age terms only) MOG, the wingco, responds by email to an email I have sent him reminding me that he does not have my email address and therefore cannot possible answer the question I have posed. This is a periodical joke, when he remembers, indeed I know what will happen on Wednesday; he will claim never to have received the mail in the first place, then promptly answer the question I had posed. Such is the nature of my friend and tennis partner, irritating until the last.
This morning we had run out of eggs so I suggested that as we have over twenty tortoise eggs, perhaps a tortoise egg omelette might be in order for breakfast? For some reason that nice lady decorator went off in a huff muttering threats against my person. I was only joking (in retrospect), so my picture today is of the omelette that never happened.
The omelette that never was. Actually if I just turned the incubator up to "cook"...
That nice lady decorator has been, well decorating, readying the house for a summer rental in July. I did offer to help, knowing full well that she has a very low opinion of my decorating skills, a lack of skill carefully honed to avoid any such activity over a number of years. My offer was of course spurned as expected, but after all, when one has a decorator for a wife, what is the point of involving one’s self in decorating? after all,why have a dog and bark yourself?
Talking of dogs, that cantankerous canine Banjo has done his best to lower my opinion of him still further, having now taken to urinating on the garden pots and the wheels of Bluebell, the camper.I know who will be changing the wheel should we ever get a puncture, it will be the owner of that pesky hound.
Once again today, no plug for the wonderful services of Currencies Direct, despite the fact that they can save you over 3% on each foreign exchange transfer you make. No, I will not mention it again today, although tomorrow I shall not be so generous as I have currencies business to do.
Chris France
Otway: “clown prince of rock n roll”
Flashbacks from Sunday are still arriving. At my age it is normal not to remember events, which were stunningly important at the time, and which only re-enter the conscious mind a few days later. In I think my unconscious mind was trying to erase the image of Peachy Butterfield in speedos from the memory banks, but the discovery of several empty bottles of Sparkly Staffordshire in the corner he made his own by the bar, brought the terrible memories flooding back.
Then there was the story about the girl whom the naked politician thought was a hooker and whom he chatted up in a in a bar in Monaco, and who he next met a few days later in her job as a senior executive with a reputable wealth management branch of an international bank shortly afterwards. I wonder if he regretted anything he said?
I see my old pal John Otway was described yesterday in the Telegraph on-line as the “Crown prince of rock n roll”, a fitting tribute to the author of “Rock n rolls Greatest Failure”, a book I must point out, in which I am seriously libelled. He is famous for signing almost every piece of merchandise he has ever produced, to the point where an unsigned piece is a collector’s item. Here he is last May signing another book and thereby destroying any intrinsic collectible value.
Otway reduces the value of another piece of merchandise
Talking of journalistic achievements, my new happy Mondays blog for angloinfo was published yesterday but they found the need to edit it rather furiously. Apparently the phrase “they all deserve to die” when referring to loony local motorcyclists is not the kind of language they want me to use despite agreeing with the general thrust of the rant.
Tomorrow I must venture out to find a new fan belt for Terrance the Tractor whose belt has stretched. I am in much the same position myself having lost around three kilos last week with that bug, but my attempts to feed myself up into the superb shape (in my opinion) have met with some resistance from that nice lady decorator, who clearly favours my new “wasted” look. ( I can almost hear Peter Lynn sharpening his pen to make a comment on that statement).
Mr Clipboard is arriving one week hence, but that is not too early to start receiving logistical questions, such as am I available between 9.30 and 11.15 next Tuesday?”, I don’t know that yet, it is next week, miles away. Ask me what I am doing this afternoon and I am not certain. However, I know he will keep on until he gets a decision so I just say yes.
On Wednesday I must journey to Villefranche sur Mer on important business for Currencies Direct, which I promise I will not plug today, then on Friday, the day of the Monaco Royal Wedding, when it is apparently forbidden for any Monegasque office to open on that day, only shops, we have dragged hard-working (in Monaco) former Friend In France joint supremo Janie Ritchie out for lunch in Antibes. Do not expect it to be a short or reserved one. The last time that nice lady decorator was out with her was in London in the spring, and after 7 large gins and tonic each, several bottles of wine and nightcaps, an international incident was narrowly averted, although I am sworn to secrecy as to its nature.
I almost avoided having a drink last night, but with sunset approaching and with lips dry and brittle from the searing sunshine (this bit just for you chaps marooned back in the fetid UK at the moment) I confess I weakened when asked if I should like a beer.
Chris France
Naked politician and the fun police
I don’t know what happened. I strolled into Valbonne to do the customary buying of the Sunday Times, enjoying a rare day off from my duties with Currencies Direct and by the time I returned a party was in prospect. I was sent out to reprovision the house and the bar ready for a small army because in the hour that I was gone, an impromptu barbecue was organised by that nice lady decorator. Peachy Butterfield, The Naked Politician, Josef the fixer, and a whole range of other miscreants then descended on the web two hours later. What would have happened if I had been out for two hours?
Peachy said he was bringing some champagne for the girls, some salad for the girls and some speedos for the girls, so with the latter prospect in mind you will understand why, just as the sun passed the yardarm, alcohol was required, and in quantity. Add the effects of at least a dozen kids and you have the prefect recipe to go out for the afternoon, sadly though, as the host, this was not an option. I am if course jesting, I love a surprise party, and with the weather perfect, the last vestiges of that horrible bug consigned to history, I had some catching up to do in the drinking stakes. No, I wasn’t drinking steaks, I was drinking wine and….no matter.
Two of the guests, Tracy from up north and her impossible good-looking French pilot, Pascale, are so attached to their tiny dog that they brought him with them from Villefranche Sur Mer….on their scooter. He was very cute, and probably very tasty with a bit of Branston pickle, but I doubt you would get more than two mouthfuls.
Of course if we lived in Korea, the evil and massively over sized cocker spaniel Banjo, who excelled himself yesterday nipping one of the children playing in the pool, was treated in the same manner (which frankly he deserves) we would not have required all the burgers, sausages and ribs that were consumed by the gaggle of kids. Banjo burger anyone?
Kids now safe, naked politician is fully clothed
The naked politician lived up to his name briefly being first in the pool before realising that a number of kids were about to swim (as my picture taken somewhat later depicts), and that politically, being naked in a pool with children, may not enhance his stalled political career. He had arrived a little hung over, but the quick dip enlivened him to such an extent that the hand brake had to be applied later by his understandably wary wife. He describes her as the hand brake as she is able with a look and a gesture to slow him significantly in whatever unwise action he is contemplating, or indeed already undertaking. He tells me that the next step up on the restraint scale and a more significant impediment to his wild antics he described as the “fun police”, which is when his wife has applied the hand brake but it seems to have failed.
Our summer plans, already in tatters as a result of invitations to Lords for the first and second days for the Test Match against India next month, are now further in doubt as we have been invited to a Bastille day (14th July) bash chez Josef the fixer on his mountaintop palace overlooking the sea at Theole sur Mer. I am awaiting a decision as it was our intention to take Bluebell the camper to The Costa Brava at that time. Clearly once I have ben informed of our joint decision, I will inform myself
Chris France
George Michael Deep Purple shock
I am calling the police. Someone has stolen my new Aviator sunglasses that I acquired last Sunday. It is an outrage, I left them on the sideboard for half an hour whilst I popped out, and when I came back they had gone, if only I had been wearing them.
I have made preliminary enquiries and it appears that the only person who has been on my estate during my absence was Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs. As he has recently mislaid a pair remarkably similar, indeed identical to mine, the finger of suspicion must necessarily be pointed in his direction.
Last night some time off from my tireless pursuit of customers for Currencies Direct, and into the deepest depths of Provence, well Magagnosc to dine with Justice of the Peace and Magistrate extraordinary Mr Humphrey’s, as he was free. Well, I say dine, but the invitation was for drinks and nibbles. This seemed like a far more interesting scenario than just dinner as I assumed that Neal would be serving the drinks and that the lovely Helen Humphreys would involve herself with the nibbling bit, but it seems she did not share this particular brand of my culinary enthusiasm.
I see in the papers today that some time singer and clothes designer Usher wants to see Kate Middleton in his underwear. This reminds me of how I once thought a good number of years ago. My father was a travelling salesman, and he always joked that he was travelling in ladies underwear, but I have no idea why I have just thought of that in the same column about a visit to Mr Humphrey’s palatial mountain top estate, as there can clearly be no connection.
Our driver, Paul Thornton Allan of The Big Picture was admonished at first for failing to wear the chauffeurs cap and generally for giving a bit too much lip. At one stage his tip was in doubt, but he rescued it eventually. The tip was “don’t take me in the car again unless you actually have to”.
One subject amply illustrated the heights that the highbrow nature of discussions reached during the evening. It involved the suggestion that women apparently choose deodorant based on how phallic they perceive the packaging to be, this was the contention floated by Phil Jeremy, former male model and extreme runner extraordinary. He suggested that on this basis bigger was better.
My picture today is of lavender by my pool, which is almost purple in colour. Stay with me, there is a reason. There is a purple and lavender theme running through the next paragraph.
Lavender by my pool, almost purple don't you think?
But more extraordinary to me was the revelation from Mr Humphrey that his wife had agreed that he should be able to choose three people with whom he has a standing permission (sic) to sleep with without it affecting his marriage, should the opportunity ever present itself. The three are Liz Hurley ( a choice which seemed to divide men and women, the men much in favour, the women aghast), Shania Twain, a decent choice and the third?….wait for it; George Michael. Regular readers with deep insight, and with knowledge of Mr Humphreys love of mauves and purple , indeed he was wearing something deep purple last night, and I don’t mean Ritchie Blackmore, will be unsurprised by this revelation or my picture today. However, his protests that he did not want to sleep with “a fence” (a receiver of swollen goods) fell on stony ground.
Finally, as I was leaving, I was asked if I knew Vic Burns? Apparently it does if does if you stick it up your arse.
Chris France
Nice plums!
The relative calm of Cannes today was a welcome relief from the vagaries of the English weather which I had endured for the previous two days. The sou wester’ has been packed away, but before long it will be needed again, as I shall be setting off once again to London on a month or so to take in the first day at Lords.
Mr Humphrey’s (he was free), to whose less than humble abode we have been invited for the first time tonight, may think that gong to Lords refers to the opening of a rather androgynous or seedy club, but in fact, as most people know Lords is the home of cricket. The first day of the Lords Test Match is a genteel but often vastly amusing event, full of great old cricketing characters. It is usually a champagne soaked occasion but I am hoping rather forlornly that this is the only kind of soaking I can look forward to, however it will be mid summer in England so I shall take my umbrella.
India, the side ranked No 1 in the world are England’s opponents. To be there for the first day is a special treat, but another awaits on day 2, the Friday, as I have today secured a corporate entertainment invitation, an opportunity to eat and drink at a companies expense. You may think given my clear commitment to the services of Currencies Direct that it would be this worthy entity that extended an invitation to me, but alas, that one is still in the post, apparently.
But, back to tonight. It is a rare treat for me to be invited into the house of someone so highly valued in his own fashion industry, especially one who is treated so shabbily in this column. I see I have managed to use the words fashion and shabby in the same sentence, and it some ways this sums up the man. Never in the 7 years that I have known Mr Humphreys (who is always free) has he to my knowledge either; had gainful employment, or worn the same colour cardigan twice in the same month. I am in awe of the number of shades of purple there are in his wardrobe. The delicious Helen Humphrey will also be there to greet me in the customary manner much to the irritation of her husband.
Talking of purple, I took this picture of my plums ripening nicely, with not a wasp in site, as is seldom the case in England.
For some reason this picture reminds me of recent discussions about speedos or "budgie smuggler" Nice plums!
Golf has been abandoned today whilst I throw off the last vestiges of a truly horrible virus that has had me in its grip this week, so I expect to see Tony “I invented the internet” scouring my garden again for his Aviator sunglasses he claims he lost during festivities at ours last weekend. They are apparently, and some may think rather conveniently, exactly the same as my new ones which are just a few days old.
Late yesterday afternoon I met Icelandic bombshell, Gudrun from Remax-Cannes in Cafe Latin. I was wearing another pair of sunglasses that were left in my garden last weekend, but she said nothing so they could not have been either her’s or her husband, Melchior’s. I find the wearing of unclaimed sunglasses is a god way of finding out who has lost some, I wonder if Tony “I invented the internet” will notice anything different about me when next we meet? Anyway, over a glass of rose, we considered many important currencies matters and gossiped. As it was Friday afternoon, you will forgive me for indulging in a great deal more gossip than finance.
Chris France
Jobsworth culture alive and well
Escape is complete. I am back in the world of sanity. I shall never in my life buy another thing from any HMV store anywhere, ever again. I was trying to get a replacement for an ipod that would not wake up, which had been purchased from those morons, but was told I had to take it back to the exact store where it had been bought to receive a refund. Having purchased the item in Guildford and with just an hour to spare before leaving for the airport to catch a flight back, this was a clear impossibility. I was reminded of the Monty Python pet shop sketch where the dodgy owner suggests that to the poor customer that his brother in Bolton would have a replacement for his dead item. Indeed the ipod has shown as much life as that Norwegian Blue since Christmas, a month after it was bought Such poor customer service will do for them eventually, in fact from now on this blog will seeks its downfall.
I then witnessed another clear example of the “jobsworth” attitude endemic in Britain yesterday, in a pharmacy in Kensington, before managing to battle through the airport with the hordes of fellow escapees. It seems a chap was trying to get the pharmacist to issue some drug or other, but because the doctor had written “tablets” rather than a powder, he refused to supply it, as it was against regulations. The poor customer patiently explained that it had taken him 5 days to get a doctor’s appointment, so it could take him 5 more to get the prescription written correctly, but to no avail. Common sense is dead, as well he might be if these drugs were urgent.
Common sense is also a notably lacking attribute in Banjo, the horrible hound much beloved by that nice lady decorator (but very few others) who infests our household against my better judgement. Last evening, after an exhausting two days in the UK, we were relaxing in the web over a nightcap when suddenly the idiot spaniel let out a torrent of noise which she calls barking but sounds more like a wounded wolf in extreme pain. Obviously, not content with irritating our household, he wanted his malevolence to be spread throughout the whole neighbourhood. What was concerning him? The big shadow he himself was creating, which had the audacity to move without his permission or understanding.
He has previous when it comes to lacking in common sense. He has always expressed his dislike of smoke by issuing forth in a similar manner and at a ridiculous volume whenever my neighbour has a bonfire, and a plastic bag blowing across the lawn brings another monstrous tumult. He has also scared off the pizza delivery boy by biting him on the way down our drive. (Obviously the delivery guy must have got his order wrong). It is said that dogs often take on aspects of their owners persona, but with even that nice lady decorator shouting at him that he was stupid, I decided to let that possible fact remain unspoken. A case of letting sleeping dogs lie? Actually that is a good point, if he could speak I know he would lie.
Partial eclipse of the moon in the south of France
My picture above was taken earlier last week and is in fact a picture of an eclipse of the moon. I took a picture of the total eclipse, but as you may imagine, the screen was rather black.
No rest for the financially challenged, so back to work today, in Cannes to discuss the opening of a Currencies Direct office there, well perhaps a corner of the Remax Cannes office just behind The Croisette.
Chris France
Aviators in the flower bed shock
I knew I looked an idiot at Nice airport, temperatures in the low 80’s, with jeans, leather jacket, scarf, thermos flask and emergency rations, but I was returning to England, and I needed to be well prepared. I know its supposed to be summer over there, but I also know UK weather forecasters; “the chance of a blustery shower” will mean, as I predicted, wind and rain.
The day had started well, I found my Rayban Aviator sun glasses which bear a remarkable resemblance to those once owned by Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs at the weekend. I know he will claim they are his, but they were discovered in a flower bed, I mean I bought mine last week. If they are his, I imagine he must have been looking down with his flies open for some reason. Should they turn out to be his, then I am concerned that they may have been damaged on their trip into the flowerbed, so I have decided not to tell him, then to test them thoroughly throughout the summer and return them to him (perhaps) in November if I am satisfied they are still operating correctly. There is of course no reason to pack them for my short trip back to the England, the testing will have to wait until I am back where the sun shines.
I did however capture where they were found in a photograph. Amazingly it looks like a great likeness to the great inventor himself! At least I hear that Tony was this colour on Monday morning, the day after.
Tony I invented the internet" Coombs with Aviators. I would get that nose looked at Tony if I were you, looks more like a giant bluebottle.
A little hiatus at Nice Airport, it seems that as I was sweating like a rapist, the authorities wanted to examine my galoshes in detail, but as they say, all’s well that ends well, but whoever said it was not subject to an enforced trip into the cold and wet. As soon as we arrived and managed to get the Gatwick Express, we met a charming young lady adorned in Hunters (Wellington boots). She was on her way to an outdoor festival appearance by Kings Of Leon, so a wise choice of footwear for England in June.
The next part of the wonderful English adventure amply illustrated why I moved to France. Nice airport, the second busiest in France, seldom if ever has queues at passport control, but Gatwick? Try best part of 2000 people trying to get through the five posts open. 30 minutes of my time was spent queuing. At current rates that means that I lost over £200, at my hourly rate for Currencies Direct, at least that’s what I would like it to be, but it often has one or sometimes even two zeros missing. Then the delight of the Gatwick Express, where I was charged £27 for a half hours “express” which may have approached 50 miles an hour a couple of times. The toilet was out or order, and it was dirtier than Banjo’s bottom, an absolute disgrace, I just cannot understand why so many of my readers still choose to live there. There was some solace though, Google maps on my blackberry was able to pinpoint Fullers pubs, purveyors of London Pride, and I discovered at oasis of calm just off Kensington High Street, the Clydesdale, a wonderful pub where I calmed my frazzled nerves with a pint before my college duty. With duty finished, a couple more pints than to a Thai restaurant where that nice lady decorator stocked up on as much coriander and chilli as possible to ensure that she could not sleep. This of course means that I am also denied sleep, it being one of those unwritten laws that I’d she cannot sleep, nobody sleeps. Home today though.
Chris France
Rock n roll in Mouans Sartoux? no
Despite being in a semi fragile state after the bug that has laid me low for 2 days, I summoned enough energy to go to Fete de la Musique in Mouans Sartoux which happens on June 21st, last night, the longest day each year. This is about as rock and roll the French get, with dozens of bands and groups setting up in the street and playing everything from hard rock, through punk to Jazz. You just wander about and watch what you want. I particularly like listening out for French accents attempting classic songs. Last year for instance I thoroughly enjoyed listening to a peculiarly androgynous French singer attempting “Stairway to Heaven”, which sounded more like “steervay to eaven”. I do hope he or she did not mistake my laughter for praise, but then I find rock ‘n roll funny. Amongst the funniest I have seen in recent years was AC/DC in Nice.
I have been thinking about which song or lyric would be the most funny in French. One that sprang to mind is “I’ve got a brand new combine harvester” by The Wurzels, or maybe “Why Aye Man” by Mark Knopfler. Now they would be funny. As it turned out, I heard neither but I did hear “Fat Bottomed Girls” sung by a rather large French lady who could not see the irony in her choice of lyric, perhaps she did not understand it? Anyway, I took this picture in the Square de la Chateau in Mouans Sartoux which sums up how the French like to enjoy their music. Dinner first, a few glasses of wine, coffee then goggles and crash helmets on, no I am joking, they like to hear some music over dinner then go home. Not one pair of beer goggles or a crash helmet to be seen.
Typically French Mouans Sartoux tries to do rock and roll. It is a valiant attempt but it's not Glastonbury is it?
So today, it happens. Yes I must leave my beloved France for a couple of days whilst I return to purgatory (just outside Slough), well actually Kensington darlings, where my daughter is going to college in September. In my day you could not get into Kensington without a passport and a letter from your pater or house master, now it seems even the daughters of oiks like me can get in, as long as they are willing to pay. Actually willing is too strong a word, probably “trapped” would be a better description. Anyway, such is my lot that I must attend an open evening at Ashbourne College just to find out what the money is being spent on. This whole nobby school thing is a bit alien to me, in fact I was with arch academic Bill Colegrave at our barbecue at the weekend, and he asked me what house I was in. I think he was referring to Eton and was a bit confused when I said “Council”.
This means that for 2 whole days I will be unable to promote the services of Currencies Direct, but I do hope you will not be bereft, I will be back to full promotional speed by Friday.
Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs called today to say that he thought he had left his sunglasses behind on Sunday, He actually left behind a great deal more, but managed to take at least 4 bottles of wine away with him,albeit he had to drink them first. I asked them which model they were. It is always crass to be found wearing someone else’s sunglasses, but as coincidence would have it, the model of his sunglasses was exactly the same as mine, brown Aviators. What bad luck for him, as there was, and will be, no sign of them.
Chris France
Man constipation more painful than childbirth?
So this week I have featured bottom flossers, budgie smugglers (speedos) and Mancunian Merlot and the readership has increased significantly. I know I don’t make much attempt to be high brow, but I can now see a clear journalistic path before based on innuendo and smut. What has changed I hear you say? actually very little.
I have not been at my best today, indeed I had to take to my bed for much of the day. This should not be taken as any admission of over imbibing yesterday, indeed I will site the example of an old friend on a cricket tour to Jersey whose name I cannot mention as he something big at the Foreign Office, who one lunchtime drank 24 Grolsch lagers and ate a prawn sandwich. He was adamant that it was a dodgy prawn that made him ill. I am certain I have a bug but that nice lady decorator is sceptical and as usual, totally lacking in the warmth and support a man who is ill deserves. She pretended not to hear the bell designed to summon her, so I had to phone her to order tea.
I may have covered this subject before, but it is a fact that when a man is ill, it is far worse than anything a woman encounters. Women may argue that childbirth is a little painful, and indeed so might it be but they have never had man constipation. Man flu is of course the most stark example of a condition that women claim is the same as normal flu, clear poppycock. Anyway as I write this I believe I am slowly recovering and managed to take this picture from my sick-bed showing the paths of various jets which we never hear.
The evening sky over Provence, no volcanic dust here, yet
Tomorrow I will have to dig out my winter gear as I have to go to London on Wednesday. It is no use my friends in England telling me the weather is lovely, I have Sky Sports and I saw the Test Match washed out and Wimbledon under cover, with scudding rain at both venues. Three jumpers, a woolly hat and my galoshes should do it, thank god I am staying the comparatively balmy south, imagine if I had to go as far north as Chester or Manchester, it does not bear contemplation.
I am reminded of a couple of events that took place at the epic weekend barbecue. I recall Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs whilst drooling over Bluebell, our 1969 VW camper van, claiming he was going to buy 3 and rent them out. Clearly he was so excited about this idea that he celebrated in such style that his long-suffering wife had literally to bundle him, dribbling, into the car at about 10pm. Another gratifying event was Banjo the cataclysmic cocker spaniel owned by that nice lady decorator seems still to be suffering from his theft of a the bait of a sausage heavily laden with mustard. Twice during the night he was whining to go out and headed to the pool for a very long drink of water. Of course, as he is not my dog and is not welcomed by me into the household, it was the job of that nice lady decorator to get up and let him out. I am pleased to say that she is very fed up with him at the moment, which is very pleasing. Perhaps the next time I offer to have him taken away for putting down she may be a little less negative?
As I am ill, I will be unable to get the usual plug in for Currencies Direct, so that will have to wait until tomorrow when I hope I shall be recovered.
Chris France
Bottom Flossers?
Bottom flossers, now there Is a concept that I had not previously considered. Peachy Butterfield decided yesterday afternoon, having as usual consumed the usual several vats of wine decided that he wanted to swim, doubtless to show off what a fine figure of a man he is, but after the ongoing discussions about the unsuitability of speedos in this column and in my ranting Happy Mondays blog for angloinfo, the new edition of which is published today, I told him that his favoured mode of dress, speedos were banned in my pool. This was the point where he said that in that case he would borrow his wife’s bottom flossers. By this I took it to mean that she was wearing those skimpy creations much-loved by women (and many men).
You will understand then why I relented, and he took to the pool like a fat porpoise. It was he who once said that he thought he was anorexic as every time he looked in the mirror he thought he looked fat.
At one stage, I tried to educate him about quality red wine, even opening a bottle of Barolo, but it is a lost cause, so I fetched the Chateau Manky for him, having previously added the box front to from a particularly nasty and very fresh wine that I believe is one of his preferred wines, to my collection of fine wine boxes nailed to the big oak tree, as my picture today captures.
A delicate and heady mix of diesel fumes and smog with just a hint of Coronation Sreet
This was all witnessed by 30 or so revelers the last of whom departed well after dark. A special mention for the least coherent amongst us must go to Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs, who could not even say the word coherent by the time he was dragged away by lovely Essex girl wife Pat.
Banjo, the appalling cocker spaniel was hoping for a field day, attempting to steal whatever food he could. It is all about a lack of training, so I decided to commence an impromptu training session, leaving a sausage with as much mustard as I could cram into it on the edge of a table. I think it went well, once stolen and eaten he was shaking his head in a most satisfying manner. One of our guests, Leslie Bufton liked him so much she wanted to take him home, but my offer to put him in their car immediately was overheard by his custodian, that nice lady decorator who thereafter kept a close eye on the heinous hound, but could not understand why he was shaking his head.
For once, there is a clear vista of 2 days without a planned social engagement, before I have to drag out winter clothing for a trip to England and back mid-week. So two clear days to avoid alcohol and ready myself for some London Pride, so I must not be jaded before the first pint arrives.
Today I must follow up some leads to people who can benefit from the services of Currencies Direct, but also have the dubious pleasure of going to Nice to pick up a new sofa. There is one problem here, the old sofa is still in position, and will need to be moved to accommodate the new one, but no one seems to have given any thought to this logistical problem . Not a case of sofa so good. Doubtless our garage which I have been diligently de-cluttering of that nice lady decorators “valued” possessions will now become a staging post for the old one for the foreseeable future.
Chris France
Stategic talks deplete beer supplies
The news that there was a new bar open near Opio meant only one thing; we needed to go and check it out. Yesterday afternoon, we did just that via Super U, the local supermarket, to pick up several vats of wine ready for a barbecue that we seem to be staging today the concept of which was born only yesterday but now has nearly 30 people attending. The moral of this particular story is; when I am asked if we have anything planned for Sunday, not meekly to say to that nice lady decorator “whatever you have in mind for me”. This was supposed to mean that as it is Fathers Day, perhaps she was going to surprise and delight me. I suppose in retrospect I was surprised, but not quite in the way I was hoping for. Delight is a subjective concept, and although I am delighted that so many new friends are apparently able to make time to come and eat and drink at my expense, the fact that once again several hundred more Euros at still a rather nasty exchange rate will depart from my wallet is something less than delightful, and no doubt that fiend who deposits bottles all over my garden from time to time will be busy again today.
The bar was, well, open. It was working as a bar and a restaurant called Choucho, and seemingly a sister venue to the one of the same name in nearby Roquefort Les Pins, but limited to pizza and rather bizarrely steak tartare. I think it was the second night of operation. I considered asking for a steak tartare ” au point” but did not think they would get the joke, thus, We had dinner in the sunshine in a car park onto which they had places a dozen tables over the newly painted parking bays, which consisted of a pizza and some beers plus a carafe of rose. So after a very brief dinner we adjourned to the web to plan strategy for today.
The web; great for strategising, hard to get out of.
Strategic talks took place in the web until late in the evening. It was decided we need staff today, so my son James and a friend have been pressed into service. Unfortunately, this meant my son was involved in this strategic discussion, and he is a very thirsty boy for beers he does not have to pay for when talking, and also when not talking, thus I may need to replenish my beer supplies this morning before the onslaught this afternoon.
I must head back to the land of wind and rain this week, to London, but happily for just one night, just enough time to avoid hypothermia and drink some London Pride. The reason is we must visit Ashbourne College, the ruinously expensive college chosen by my daughter Charlie, whom I promised I would never mention in this column, so I won’t.
Of course, this destroys the golfing and tennis activities had pencilled in for the week, so no more golf until the REGS tournament at The Grande Bastide next Saturday the 12th June. I am guessing that the Fete De La Musique may draw us to Mouans Sartoux on Tuesday, as it traditionally held on the longest day, and that has reminded me that when I get to London on Wednesday, the nights will already have begun to draw in, ready for the winter which cannot be far behind. Fete De La Musique It seems to entail any number of groups right across the musical spectrum, setting up and playing in the street. This is about the only time of the year that this very French enclave comes to life.
Chris France
Freebies come at a cost
Obviously, when invited to a freebie golf event where everything is free, including an open bar, it is not acceptable to get drunk and arrive home a little happy. That was the clear message I managed to detect from the countenance of that nice lady decorator yesterday afternoon. Had I been given the opportunity to explain that if one is ever in a position to make the banks pay for the aberrations visited upon one over the years, then one must grab these opportunities with both hands and enjoy to the fullest extent possible, then perhaps she would have understood. Instead I decided on an extended siesta to wait for calm to return.
A Texas scramble is a type of golf tournament where you play as a team. It is not some kind of deep south deep throat. Had it been so, then she may have had a point to argue, but all I had done was to drink and eat to the fullest extent possible to try to assuage the hurt the banks have visited upon me over the years. The best example of this was before I was enlightened by the services of Currencies Direct, I could have saved 33,000 Euros on one transfer from the UK, so to be the subject of such scorn that I personally feel should be reserved for child molesters or rapists, and just because the results of my personal banking vendetta were a slight unsteadiness and the merest hint of slurring of words was quite hard to take, especially when it is usually I who has to clear up the mess caused by a certain other person in our household consuming enough wine for an extended family on regular occasions.
Anyway, back to the golf. A Texas Scramble is a team game. You link up with a another, on this occasion Gerald Gomis, the head of the Cote d’Azur section of Leggetts the estate agents, who had kindly invited me to the golf day to try to beat other teams. However, it is also normal that the other partner contributes towards the team experience. This is clearly a concept that Gerald finds difficult to grasp. He is French after all, a charming man, but as a golfer he makes a good rugby player. Of the team points total of 39, he contributed 2 points. It was not for want of trying, indeed on the golf course he can be the most trying of company, but our efforts went unrewarded due to a catastrophic error in the scoring systems. Such is life with banks as I have learned to my cost over the years.
speedos or not speedos? you decide
More comments about speedos, especially from the female of the species has caused me to look deep into the vaults of my photos for something to entertain you today, and I have found it and show it above. This picture was taken aboard the naked politicians boat a few weeks ago, and is perhaps a final comment on the open discussion in this column on the subject of speedos, and their relative merits.
I am slightly bemused by the system that I use to create this daily diatribe. It is called wordpress, and when you want to insert a picture it gives one the message “insert into post”. I do hope this is not literal advice related to speedos and merely an unfortuante turn of phrase. I am also a little uneasy with the section where one creates a headline: “Enter title here” seems a little presumptuous as there are those amongst us who have yet to have bestowed upon them a title, and the subsequent right to abuse the expenses system that such a reward seems to engender.
Chris France
Statistics: just numbers?
Who was it that said; “Statistics? There just numbers, right?” I can reveal that it this was the expression used by one of my losing tennis opponents on Wednesday evening, but on this occasion he was not referring to the scale of my victory, by which I mean the one exacted by myself and Moustachioed old git (MOG) the elder, often known as the wingco on our hapless opponents, or was he?
Statistics are a part of the game of golf as well, and yesterday was no exception, where I whipped a whippersnapper of 69 and an Australian (which always gives me extra pleasure) of a similar age to me on the golf course. Luckily for them no money was being wagered, but I won out in a very real sense as I also now have two new customers for Currencies Direct. Thus you will know that the bill for lunch will be submitted to my accountant as a justifiable business expense.
Amongst the people whom I met for the first time was a solicitor who looked more like a member of AC-DC, who spoke of his round the world 15 month trip in his yacht. He had a great sense of humour, which must have been almost as good as my own solicitor who also exhibited a great sense if humour, especially when it comes to invoicing.
My picture today was taken at the second tee at the Victoria Golf course where the International Club of the Riviera were staging a golf gathering. The club is so international that even Australians are allowed in, but as long as they continue to lose everything meekly, then I personally extend them a warm welcome.
The second hole at Victoria Golf Course
My piece in yesterdays column about speedos brought a myriad of responses. My old friend Peter Lynn described them as budgie smugglers. I love the expression, but it does pose some questions; yes I am going to pose them. Why budgies?, who would want to smuggle them, and why would one do so by secreting them in ones swimming garments? I am hoping Mr Lynn can enlighten us.
My friend from earlier days, Julie, a regular reader, and indeed contributor to the comments section of this column, who fondly remembers being as she put it “my squeeze” a great number of years ago, pays tribute to the fine figure of a man that she recalls so well, by suggesting that speedos should only be worn by young adonis-like olympic swimmers and those with a similar physique. If you put these two facts together I think you get a good idea of why I was so attractive to ladies of the opposite sex (as a close friend once described the fairer sex) in my younger days< not that I am unattractive now. I do hope that she is not still lusting after the young men in tight clothing.
Today I am hoping to drink back some of the bank charges imposed on my meagre fortune by bankers at Credit Du Nord. They have kindly invited me to a golf day at the Grande Bastide, although at this stage they don’t know it, as the invitation came via former rugby player Gerald Gomis, the once sent me some very loving texts, but claimed he thought he was sending them to his wife. I told him I love him too. It is an 18 hole Texas Scramble, which golfers will know s a particular format of the game and not an episode of Dynasty.
After all this work for Currencies Direct on the golf courses this week, I shall take a few days off from golf and work until a quiet lunch on Sunday, Fathers Day, and hope for a result.
Chris France
Love balls and speedos
Speedos, now there is an interesting discussion point. I suggested in a recent angloinfo blog that speedos, those tight-fitting old-fashioned swimming costumes much enjoyed by old French and Italian men with their “love balls” all rather unnecessarily on show and a truncheon like effect that we could all do without, were a touch perverse. I suggested that they were something akin to the plague, but am distressed to find some support for the wearing of these ridiculous items. Personally, I am more in the Baron Sacha Cohen manquini style camp (operative word?), well I would be if that nice lady decorator would let me.
Talk of swimming costumes reminds me of a picture I took recently in Portofino, just across the border in Italy during the trip where that nice lady decorator terrorised the hotel staff late in the evening after the usual several flagons of wine. Many luminaries have visited this pretty port and had their photos taken, but few would have been captioned like this tribute to the wonderfully endowed (this just for Lin at The English Book Centre in Valbonne) Jayne Mansfield, pictured on holiday in the 1950’s;
The subtitled Italian reads" The San Fruttuoso wonderful walk is the setting for her uncontainable size"
The picture of her was nowhere near as good as the caption, although I see what they mean about uncontrollable size.
After a diligent morning working on my golf swing ready for the first of two golf events that I am required to attend in my networking role for Currencies Direct, I spent a desultory afternoon in the web, without a drink, finalising my French tax forms, which are now late. Do they not understand that a great deal of calculation is required in order to be certain that as many expenses as possible are properly claimable against tax?
Thereafter to tennis where I remain undefeated for a 6th straight month. It is merely splitting hairs to say that we did not play at all in March or April, this is tittle-tattle from the mouths of the green-eyed amongst my associates who are understandably doing their best to ensure that I falter before too long.
Unaccountably, discussion over dinner to celebrate my unbeaten status this year, well I was in a minority of one celebrating this particular milestone, there was a discussion about who was taking low dose aspirin. How this subject moved on to a new initiative from the French Health Service I do not recall, but apparently according to Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa rentals all of us in the French system will shortly be sent 3 bags and will be invited to defecate into one of these once a day for three days, so that we can all be screened for potential or real illnesses. Much schoolboy hilarity followed, and I am ashamed to say that I was involved. I may return to this theme tomorrow.
Today, the first of the golf events this week. It will take place at The Victoria 9 hole golf course on the edge of Valbonne, a trifle unsophisticated a venue compared with its more illustrious counterparts, but, as I have already said, I am not there to enjoy the golf, merely to identify and collect up any customers that I can for Currencies Direct. Usual rules will apply, if I have done well, there will be a full report, should I play badly then little will be said. It’s not that I am a poor loser, no, well actually, now I come to think of it, yes it is, I am.
Then on Friday, with scarcely time to take breath, an 8.30 shotgun start at Grand Bastide for the Credit Du Nord “Trophee Golf, “2eme Edition” as they put it. The term “shotgun start” has always confused me. Who gets shot, or is someone getting married? There are times when I would like to marry my driver (golf club not chauffeur) but that is another matter.
Chris France
Chris France's Blog 