Horse eats pencil shock
My presence yesterday was sought, even required, at the Premier Mardi girls networking event, staged by Karen Hockney at her wonderful villa in Bar Sur Loup. I should have known, Premier Mardi literally translated means first Tuesday. Work it out, was yesterday the first Tuesday of the month?
None of the very attractive girls in attendance at this women’s networking group seemed at all phased that yesterday was not actually the second Tuesday of the month, but no matter. A small turnout was perhaps down to the confusion of exactly on which Tuesday the meeting was to be held, but for all that the quality of the assembled (small throng) was undeniable. I like to think that the lure of my presence was sufficiently daunting and sexually charged, that only the strongest of characters could face up to the metaphorical challenge of a man amongst girls, however more likely is that a combination of sunshine, summer, and boredom with the concept of blogging (for which apparently I am an acknowledged expert) by an old git was sufficiently diverting to reduce the expected numbers somewhat.
Karen Hockney, media princess, and owner of the fabulous venue, the villa in picturesque Bar Sur Loup which overlooks the verdant Loup Valley, was our host for this event and as a writer for The Sun, the Daily Mirror and a host of other if not top-notch, at least well-known publications, regaled us with tales of her best and worst interviews and interviewees. Rather surprisingly Steven Fry did not impress and other stories circulated, the details of which I cannot reveal, however I can tell you that Elle McPherson (for whom she is currently finalising a feature for Hello) is Elle McPherson. That’s all I can say.
Amongst those who braved the meeting, desperate apparently to emulate my err… “success” was Faye Villalba who runs yoga classes in Valbonne most days and kindly offered me a free yoga trial, but I am not really a yoghurt fan, although I am sometimes partial to a rhubarb activia if you will pardon the expression. Dawn Howard is another media type who now limits her writing to the Roquefort Informer. She did however reveal that in the very early stages of her journalistic career, she was assigned the task of interviewing Princess Anne at some horse trials. It seems that the interview started badly in that as she prepared her first questions whilst our Princess was amongst the horses, one of them (the horse, no, that’s not who I meant) ate her pencil. It did not get better from there.
We were all moved by details of a charity for a Kenyan village and what it is trying to do to help. Of course I ventured the opinion more than once that Currencies Direct could help here and in fact everyone gathered, but as I have heard said in the past “some fell on stony ground”.
Having fought my way out after a very convivial lunch, I adjourned to the web for the customary siesta whilst I digested lunch the mornings events in readiness for this lovingly created column.
Max, joining me this afternoon in deep contemplation
I was not alone in enjoying some lateral thinking as my picture of Max the proper dog shows. Luckily I was able to edit out that black and white horse sized catastrophe of a dog that belongs to that nice lady decorator, who was undertaking some ironing wither new I-Ron. She says she was ironing for four hours. She could tell because she had watched four episodes of Midsummer Murders on TV whilst getting to grips with (for her) this very modern piece of technology.
Chris France
Fathers day blow out
So I waved off our house guests at the airport. It was about time. Was it W C Fields who said “house guests are like fish, after 3 days they begin to smell”? Also, the two 10 Euro notes that I had won at golf were getting a big soggy having been stuck to my forehead for several days and looked like requiring a good deal of Savlon later yesterday morning to repair the very obvious ravages of victory.
A good walk was required thereafter to throw off some of the ill effects of being savaged by the Savins, so that nice lady decorator set off with me in tow for an adventure in the Valmasque forest. It was important that she came as I really hate walking through spiders webs and it is my duty to allow her to go first and ensure that the path is clear. What I had not bargained for though was that we would go deep into the something approaching jungle and, wearing shorts, get lacerated by various prickly horrors on the trip.
No more social occasions are in the diary before Thursday, and that particular event is more work that social occasion as I shall be playing nine holes of golf with the International Club Of The Riviera at the Victoria Golf Course, followed by lunch. Obviously this is a networking opportunity in connection with my work with Currencies Direct, so this should not be considered in any way a fun event, no siree, this is work. Similarly on Friday, I shall be a guest of Credit Du Nord at their golf day at Grande Bastide, and will fight anyone who suggests that this is anything other than the daily grind of work, undertaken rather unwillingly in the pursuit of enough money to live on. The fact that I shall need a cap and sun cream should not be taken as any sort of admission that I shall doing anything but networking thoroughly and making the best business sense of the surroundings with which I am confronted.
The sun sets over the Savins
So we sat with a small glass of wine and watched the sun go down as my picture today above captures, but whilst quietly contemplating a few days of quiet and solitude, I suddenly came to and realised that I had overheard that nice lady decorator on the phone last night relating to her friends some of the activities of the last week. One expression which caught my ears which was used when she was thinking about having a drink last evening and battling her conscience was; “my brain is having a bit of a word with my liver”. Can you guess how the discussion went, how the dialogue developed and which organ won?
As the evening panned out, so did a proposed barbecue at ours on the coming Sunday, as that nice lady decorator decided that after 6 days on the juice, she wanted to have another social occasion to look forward to.
It is of course Fathers Day in the UK on this coming Sunday, so I had noted in my diary certain special bedroom treats that a father should receive rather more than once a year, but I overheard her saying ” of course we don’t celebrate Fathers Day”. I seem to remember that Mothers Day was celebrated once each for every continent plus a few more for good measure, in fact it seems to have been celebrated almost every week, and sometimes twice a week for the last three months, so this was perhaps something that may be described as a blow or more likely a lack of a blow, a seeming indication of a potential denial of that most basic male human rights. I wonder if the Human Rights Act can be invoked to avoid such obvious human rights abuses?
Chris France
Don’t fall over the dog
I had forgotten about the trials and tribulation experienced by Paul Thornton Allan on Saturday evening. For instance, it is a good idea when inviting a dozen or so people to a barbecue for an evening to ensure you have enough gas, so as not to run out 5 minutes after starting cooking and then it is not often a good idea to fall over a dog whilst serving drinks. No one else saw the dog, but we all saw him fall over. Nothing to do with the wine then? Is this what he means by The Big Picture? However it was a very pleasant and funny evening, funny mainly at the expense of the wingco, and for the amusement I caused by wearing my golf winnings on my forehead all evening.
So to Juan Les Pins for lunch on the beach. My readers in the UK have no idea how exhausting it can be to party for days without end, but help is at hand; the house guests will be on the way home tomorrow, so a quiet period maybe ahead, in the meantime it was the storm before the calm. The best way to get to the coast at this time of year is on the train from Mouans Sartoux, 30 minutes and a very pretty trip along the coast in air conditioned double decker modern trains with sockets to recharge one’s phone. It is a very pleasant way to reach the seaside and at the same time avoid any parking issues. Lunch was another triumph, on two levels, firstly we were being treated, and secondly I was able to order the most expensive fish on the menu, with impunity, the sole, which was spectacularly good.
I will however miss Janie, our house guest. My plastic banana palm, which was so diligently being watered by her last year is much dryer this year, and, alas has produced no bananas this time, but I expect she lives in hope. At least mildew is not a recurrent problem. So it will be back to work for me today, to extol the virtues of Currencies Direct and back to walking to reduce the expanding waistband wilfully extended due to nearly a weeks partying. My picture today shows how tough it will be back in the Valmasque, pounding those paths.
Along The Brague river through the Valmasque, prettier and more pleasant than any gym.
The latest instalment of my very popular Happy Mondays blog is published this morning and had taken its lead from the horrible three quarter length trousers that I encountered last week on house guest Savin senior. I am so glad I gave him a golf lesson, now all he needs is a fashion lesson. As I am clearly so well respected as a blogger, I have been invited by media type Karen Hockney to address a ladies networking gathering and talk about the values of writing columns such as these. My natural showing off streak wants to accept, but what on earth do I say? I have no idea what I am doing every day, only why! However, the lure of a number of ladies interested in me will of course be too much to resist, so Karen, I will be there at 10 sharp as requested.
Thereafter a quiet week I hope before a golf day courtesy of credit Du Nord at the Grande Bastide on Friday 17th June, where I shall be attempting to drink back the bank charges I have incurred and enjoy as much other of their hospitality that I can endure to make up for the coming years charges….
Chris France
Hair piece balderdash
I am a not a vindictive man, unless I feel I have been wronged, but my suspicions about how my putter became broken in my bag before the first of the big golf matches earlier in the week have become aroused. Luckily my golfing prowess is sufficiently well-developed that I was able on that day to overcome the disadvantage with a putter borrowed from the caddy master and to take Savin senior to the cleaners, so I was in a reasonably confident when I walked on to the putting green yesterday to get the feel of my new putter, but it was bent. Clearly suspicion must lie in the general direction of my opponent, obviously smarting from the 4 and 2 victory on Thursday; a broken putter, followed by a bent putter? However, such is my ability to overcome misfortune, that I adapted my style to the rather bent surroundings and despite not playing quite as well, dispatched the challenge of my opponent to win with style and ease.
Style is, as readers of yesterdays column will know, is something that does not come easy to Savin senior. Yesterday for instance I caught him trying on a hairpiece belonging to that nice lady decorator and managed to steal a photo which is my picture today. Those that know him will realise that his own receding hairline (aka a balderdash) may have had some deeply profound influence on why he would try such a thing whilst I am in possession of a camera phone, but there you have it, a catastrophe.
I think it suits him.
Lunch in the web took the strain away from my fridge which was trying to keep at least a dozen bottles chilled and was half emptied within a couple of hours. At least on this occasion Savin senior was not denied anchovies, as he had been the day before, presumably some kind of punishment for losing to me, so siesta was entirely necessary before the next round, an evening with the Thornton Allans, he of the exhibition world, or rather he who makes an exhibition of himself if anyone remembers his picture a few weeks back.
Talking of exhibitions, there is a fascinating exhibition of painting of birds in Valbonne until 30th June by Carla Bucknell at 4 Rue De La Fontaine, although a number of great paintings have been sold, a number remain.
A discreet person would probably draw a veil over the proceedings last night , but as the only people who read this clearly enjoy indiscretion, so onwards and upwards.
The wingco was wearing a sweater that had clearly never been troubled by an iron and smacked of being about thirty years old. When I challenged him about this clear faux pas, he suggested that his lovely wife Maryse, a former picture editor of Vogue Magazine and Conde Naste, had said that his choice of trouser was not conducive to his pastel colour shirt of choice, thus he had been forced to change shirts at short notice, and so his choice of late night sweater, another reason no doubt why they were the customary hour and a half late. I am sure that the sweater in question was once a dear favourite before being downgraded to gardening jumper some twenty years ago, and it’s aroma bore witness to its long service in this respect. But for all that, a glass of red wine, well more than several, seemed to calm him.
At one stage I am afraid the b word came up. This blog is considered “ghastly” by the wingco who refuses to read it, but has painted himself into a corner as when he does, he cannot complain about its contents for fear of me realising that he is an avid reader.
Today being Sunday, I will have a day off from my tireless promotion of the services of Currencies Direct, so you will not have to read about how much money you can save on foreign exchange transfers for at least one day. Lunch will be taken at Juan Les Pins on the beach, probably at Le Petit Plage, so a tough day ahead.
Chris France
Madcap drinks
An alcoholic haze. No other description works. I am writing this whilst stuck in the web late in the evening with that nice lady decorator, with a shed load of wine on board, listening to Syd Barrett The Madcap Laughs seminal 1970’s album. Blimey it is weird. Those of you who are old enough to remember the drug infused times that were the early 1970’s will understand how brilliant this was, but it is imperative to have either imbibed freely or to be chemically challenged in order fully to appreciate the wild unbridled madness that encapsulated those times.
Luckily that nice lady decorator had reached the required level of imbibement (can I say that?) To be able to reach that state.
Lunch had been a triumph. Lou Fassum, the Michelin star restaurant had provided a sumptuous feast in the sunshine on the terrace looking down to the Mediterranean, over Mandelieu La Napoule rather than the more swanky Cannes, and although the drinks we had consumed eclipsed the food bill three fold, it was still remarkable value, just 50 Euros a head (about £42 at todays exchange rate) and an event that we continued to celebrate when back in the web in mid afternoon.
The one down side was the attire of the day chosen by Savin the senior. Three quarter length trousers are one of my pet hates, and I think he wore them deliberately in return for his golfing hiding on Thursday. As I once heard him say of a person fashionably challenged in the same way “either you have grown remarkably in the last few weeks, or you need to sack your tailor”.
My picture today was taken of the fine deserts that were served against the terrace railings, which somehow encapsulate the wonderful prison we found ourselves in during the afternoon (this must be a contender for Psueds Corner in Private Eye).
Lou Fassum terrace desert
It is possible that I fell asleep some time after lunch for a few minutes (try 90) but thereafter I was in full effect, especially when Wayne Brown from FR2day arrived, once again without a viticultural offering (the second time this week), and proceeded to help me with a fridge problem. The problem is that my drinks fridge, although quite sufficiently large to accommodate most peoples needs is not being big enough to cool the vast store of wine that we were required to lay in to cover the enormous appetite exhibited by house guests The Savins. Thus him not bringing a bottle helped me by failing to exacerbate the storage problem, and enabled me to line up another stay at his apartment in Cannes during the summer.
So the evening continued to develop, the Savins produced a piece of cheese that had earlier cost 19 Euros on Valbonne market, so I broke open my Chateau Gloria as a nice red was required to compliment it. This lead to a nice little 2000 Bordeaux that I rescued from the local supermarket recently. I think it had been on the same shelf for ten years.
Today, the final Savin golf clash will take place at the Grand Bastide. The same rules apply, if I win expect boasting of the highest magnitude, should an unexpected reverse occur, little news of it will emerge through this column. Of course nothing should go wrong, carefully laid plans have worked well, he will have hangover to match mine, but I find a hangover also calms my golfing exuberance, so this must surely be an advantage. Also, by carefully avoiding the golf course where the unexpected happened last year, and by cunningly choosing a course which I know he does not favour, I have left as little to chance as is possible.
Chris France
Dampness at that age to be expected
It was of course completely necessary, indeed imperative to celebrate my great golfing win yesterday with several glasses of rose over a late lunch in the web. Equally, it was then necessary to siesta by way of preparation for the evening, because yesterday, I received the dreaded call “Is the pav open?”. This is Rupert Scott’s code when he breezes into town for “are we up for some eating drinking and partying”. There are those amongst my readership who will guess the answer to that rather quickly, and so it came to pass, a few drinks in the web then up to Valbonne for drinks at La Kavanou with Rupert and his serenely beautiful wife Sophie and our house guests The Savins.
Some thought it to be an unusual way in which to exhibits ones recent gains, but personally I felt it was completely normal to spend the evening with the 10 Euro note golf winnings stuck to my forehead as we headed into Valbonne. However, before we stepped into the door of La Kavanou, that nice lady decorator made some unspecified threats about what she called childish behaviour, and weakly I was forced to unstick said bank-note from its prominent position and put in rather damply in my pocket. When I said something of the to her about having to place the rather moist about my person, she made some vague and malevolent suggestion about old chaps and incontinence and having to expect damp patches that I did not quite catch.
The natural summer progression is becoming well established, An aperitif in the wine bar and then into Valbonne Square for some square bashing (v. To abuse food and drink), on this occasion joined by Rupert and Sophie Scott. In the wine bar, I came across Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs and vivacious wife Pat. I told him I could have used his services yesterday when my wireless router was blown up by lightning, and which I hope shall be repaired this morning. He probably invented the wireless router as well, but for all his claimed inventions which have no doubt made his as rich as Steve Jobs, he lives a meagre existence, playing cards with his wife last night, nursing a half bottle of a modest Provencal rose and sharing a glass. I would have thought though that he could have splashed out on two straws. Such are the eccentricities of the super rich.
I tell him I am besieged with complaints about the late posting yesterday. I blame Tony Coombs for people’s disappointment. If he had kept his invention of the internet to himself, no one would have been upset, but on the other hand, my daily column, writ large in the lives of the growing army of happy followers of this column would not exist and so they would all be bereft.
Later, we bump into Suzanne from Le Tasse De Coleur in Biot who is accompanied by Calvin, the pink pilot. Pink, because he likes to wear pink, as he was last night.
A summer of love? probably not
Thereafter the hard-core adjourned to the web for a nightcap, before we bedded down in our log cabin chalet pictured above. This summer retreat, as I like to call it, is another creation by that nice lady decorator, although she did buy it in kit form and it took her 7 days to build last year. I wonder if Noah had a kit for his ark? It is fully equipped bedroom, but without the benefits of water or toilet facilities. I like to think of it as a summer love palace. She does not.
So with reparations of the internet now far advanced, I will be able to continue in my quest today for Currencies Direct
Chris France
Life; a bowl of cherries?
Pesky thunderstorms caused grief in more ways that one yesterday; apart from the obvious threat of the inability to sit outside in the open air (until the sun came back just about in time for a sun downer), the main problem was our house guests forsaking rose for red and white wine, both of which are considerably more expensive, especially when Pedro decided he really like my small stock of Barolo, having spotted it from 50 paces as he arrived. I had hidden the Chateau Gloria, at least for the time being, but he has a nose with a bloodhound if there is a decent red within a square mile.
Before I had time to uncork several bottles, several people chanced by. Colonel and Mr Clipboard came for a last drink before they depart for reality which is England tomorrow, so I thought it only apt that I should be wearing on my forehead the banknote that I parted them with yesterday at the golf course. I think they appreciated the gesture but cannot be certain.
Talking of golf, the first of the Savin wars golf matches will be playing out as you read this. If the result goes the way it almost inevitably does, then tomorrow expect to read a full report of a glorious triumph, if the almost impossible happens and the handicap system inexplicably lets me down then I suspect I may have other important subjects to cover which may mean that I simply do not have the space for the full story. Instead there may be some useful information for foreign exchange users about how they can benefit by opening account with Currencies Direct.
And so, before I had managed to open more than a couple of bottles, the wingco and his delicious wife also “chanced by”. This is of course far too much of a coincidence so I suspect there was some subterfuge by that nice lady decorator, as they appeared out of nowhere clutching a nice fresh Merlot, so fresh it was still steaming and the wingco promptly dispatched it, along with several other bottles in his usual direct non nonsense fashion. He was enjoying himself so much that I found him quite early on with some cherries hanging from his ears, when I took this photograph. As you can imagine, I have no idea why he was adorned in such a fashion, but at least it gives me an opportunity to come up with a natty caption for the photo. As you can also see it is still light, so excuses in the form of “it was late, I had drunk a little too much” will not be accepted.
Tragically flawed ear muffs? A new style of earphones? or just another fashion statement that I will never understand?
I know this post is a little late today, but I have a good excuse. During the thunderstorm yesterday, the lightning gods, clearly impressed by the prose, style and wit exhibited in this daily column decided to try to boost my circulation by the application of some of its power into my wireless router, which blew up, so the delay is due to the repair work.
Due entirely to the lateness of this post, I am happy to be able to report that another 10 Euro note is, as I write, sticking to my forehead in the customary ritual which follows a glorious victory. 4 and 2 may not sound a lot to a non golfer, but let me tell you non golfers out there, that I administered a thorough thrashing to the venerable old gentleman who was kind enough to lose to me in such a sporting fashion. I think it was the victory sign that he flashed at the last hole, but again I cannot be certain
Chris France
Banana palm miracle revisited
The sight of a venerable old chap, which could have been me, with a 10 Euro note stuck firmly on his forehead at lunch at Chateau Begude yesterday was the sign that things had gone rather well in the golf for at least one partnership. My partner, and fellow mustachioed old git, the wingco, lived down to expectations by contributing not one jot to our stunning victory over Captain and Mr Clipboard. The very fact that Clipboard junior unilaterally decided to buy lunch after the debacle of handing over 10 Euros to each of the winners is a sign of just how deeply the Clipboards were whipped. That the result actually hung on the last putt is of no moment, the victory was a deeply deserved culmination of intense pressure, good gamesmanship (as opposed to sportsmanship) and lack of bottle from some Wellington types.
Lunch then was a joyous affair for some, miserable for others. I count myself fortunate to have been on the joyous team, and to have enjoyed lunch enormously, even being able to utilise an expression invented by old friend Peter Lynn this week, which ideally summed up one shot from Clipboard junior; “an Abdul Hamza”, which means a nasty hook, out of sight, the likes of which we never want to see again.
Today, as warned, is start of Savin week. The Savins when they come to visit are understandably overcome by the warm sunshine and the cheap rose and take full advantage of both, particularly the latter. The lady of the partnership, Janie is the one who last year spent a week watering my fake banana palm with spectacular results, as my re-used (sorry Moya) picture today encapsulates.
Its a miracle! Bananas "growing" on a fake palm
So expect to be regaled with gory tales of excessive alcoholic intake and golf, as Pedro, the other part of this two person invasion is quite a decent golfer, almost but not quite in my league, thus I have to give him a couple of shots start, however he is rather ancient so I do not mind this as long as he does the decent thing and loses to me on each outing. This is not normally an issue, in fact with one minor aberration I am unbeaten either home or away in some three years. The only problem I envisage is the danger of a slight rash on my forehead where I shall be sticking the customary bank notes after victory.
If you think that this will preclude me from undertaking any services for Currencies Direct this week, you would be wrong. The Savin’s themselves will be prime targets as they have children living abroad and one never knows when they may need to transfer foreign exchange in a hurry.
Some adverse reactions in the comments section of this column yesterday, mainly it has to be said from the female sex, complaining about my diatribe about pink cars. Apparently quite a number of girls have either had, or more alarmingly still have pink cars and whilst it may have been an excuse during the flower power times and in the seventies, I will accept no excuse now. There is a comments section at the bottom of the page which often has much better material than the daily drivel I write, and if you are masochistic enough there is a subscription button low down on the right where you can ensure you never miss one riveting episode of this column, as it will be delivered to your computer every day! What joy! You may be astonished (as I am) to know that there are nearly a hundred dear sweet misguided souls who read this every day…
Chris France
Pink Fiat 500? Why?
On my travels during last week, I think I found Neil (Mr) Humphrey’s new car. A pink Fiat 500 seems to me to be a very bold fashion statement or any kind of statement to make, and it is one that I will be trying to interpret in the coming days. I have featured it today as my picture and would welcome comments as to what it all means. I myself had an original Fiat 500 in 1972, but mine was the estate version, with a sun roof, so very up market. The sun roof came in really handy when one had to carry a big bass bin in the back on the way back from a gig with John Otway in about 1973, which would not fit unless the sun roof was open. Also, it was February, so a little fresh if I remember correctly.
Regular readers will know that I take my fashion lead from our local resident magistrate very seriously, so if this gives me an indication of the summer trends, it appears I need a new wardrobe as pink does not yet feature widely in my clothing collection.
I am sorry, I can accept no excuse for the colour unless there is a fashion statement that I do not understand
My angloinfo blog has posted again for this week, Happy Mondays indeed. I do hope I have been sufficiently grumpy for them, indeed I will be really grumpy myself unless I am once again victorious in all formats of golf this week. On Tuesday, I shall be playing 9 holes with Mr Clipboard , his father (Colonel Clipboard?) and the wingco, assuming the horrid thundery weather that has been dogging us (can I say that now in this context?) for a few days abates and then lunching at Chateau Begude, the golf course of choice for older people. Yes, it was indeed Mr Clipboard who chose the course, ostensibly because his father is rather old, but Mr Clipboard himself is no spring chicken and 18 holes appears to be 9 holes too many for him to be able to haul his paunch around the course without losing either interest or the will to live. Of course, as he is also a client, I shall endeavour to submit the cost of the round and the lunch to my accountant as a justifiable business expense.
Yesterday to Cafe Latin for more Currencies Direct work. A meeting with fellow music business professional Steve Tannet head honcho at Expresso songs and stunning wife Madeleine to reorganise their foreign exchange needs and to chew the fat about the demise of the music business which seems to be getting nearer every day. Whilst my claims to fame largely involve unsung rap artists, and popsters such as Bucks Fizz, Sam Fox and Rolf Harris, his stable is far more credible with the likes Glen Matlock and the legendary Chaz Jankel of Ian Dury & Blockheads fame amongst his interests.
As the rain cleared yesterday evening, I realised that the wingco must have loads of very fresh wine laid in for the aborted barbecue yesterday, so on some spurious pretext we happened past his house at 6pm to help ensure the wine did not go off. 2010 is going to be a vintage year, I hear. So, having made the customary dent in his wine lake, we headed into Valbonne Square where the Clipboard family were dining, just to set the bets for the golf today. I offered Mr Clipboard a discount on the bet if he paid up front, but for some reason he did not accept this generous offer, so I expect this will cost him dearly.
Chris France
A good eight inches
I have noticed that the nice lady decorator has a slight speech impediment, every now and then she stops talking in order to breathe. This of course in no way detracts from the quality of her output, how do I know this? I know, because she has told me (without having to breathe).
So a late barbecue lunch with the wingco was the plan. Late because he is habitually late, it is built into his genes and late because lunch tends to become dinner and turns into a session, so a later start is less dangerous. It is impossible for him to be on time as he is a musician, and I was so looking forward to some nice fresh red wine, but the thunderstorm gods struck again with a vengeance not seen since Noah’s heyday and at least 6 inches of rain was deposited during the morning, whereupon I took this picture of my garden. I am sure that the famous weather forecasting faux pas where that big blonde Scandinavian (Agnieta ?) weather girl on UK TV suggested after a heavy snow fall that she “had a good eight inches this morning” before realising what she had said may be on youtube within 5 minutes, would have had something to say about it.
So barbecue plans were put on hold whilst the deluge was dealt with. I directed the flood relief team from the safety of an upstairs room. It was being led by that nice lady decorator, supported by my son and a friend, trying to rescue tortoises and also trying to stop the torrent from entering our back door. My exhortations to them about trying not to get too wet as they filled sandbags and erected temporary flood relief measures went unheeded, and indeed a couple of drops of rain actually splashed on my clothing as well, but no matter, that nice lady decorator can deal with that later. My pool which had been a little short of water due to a leak needed pumping out but the sun returned for early evening so what else to do?
That reminds me of another job for that nice lady decorator, orange rope holding up my hammock? what was she thinking of?
And so with a beer in hand I contemplated the coming week, and realised that I have only two days into which to force nearly a months work for Currencies Direct. The reason is that the Savins are coming on Wednesday for their annual carnage inducing trip, where almost certainly I will be able to spell out Janie Savin in empty rose bottles before they leave after 5 days. Longer term readers will remember Janie as that wonderful blonde person who spent the last trip assiduously watering my fake banana palm every day. We did not have the heart to tell her, but then miraculously, due entirely to her irrigation skills, a tiny bunch of bananas appeared on the palm on her last day. If I can get the permission of old friend Moya Janko, who holds me to account when publishing previously published photos, I will use it this week sometime. Moya, speak now or forever hold your breath.
Their annual junket also involves golf, where I will once again be relieving Pedro of some of his ill gotten gains (he is an accountant but likes to call himself a fund manager) on the golf course, indeed my forehead is moistening nicely in expectation of having one of Pedro’s many bank notes stuck to it before long. Expect full details later in the week, unless the impossible happens and his handicap benefit throws up the wrong result, in which case no more will be said.
Chris France
Bohemian 60’s style lives on
As I arrived at the Vignale tennis club last week in my tennis shoes carefully lined with plastic bags after that nice lady decorator had left them out in the thunderstorms on the spurious pretext that they were a bit whiffy, I encountered infamous local sixties icon Anthony Bay, who has featured in this column in the past. There is a particularly lurid story concerning him showing off in a bottle green velvet suit in London’s Carnaby St in about 1968 before falling over in a puddle whilst presumably somewhat chemically challenged. Nowadays he is a much more sober character, running art tours in Provence, mostly for Americans coming to Europe to discover what art is all about.
It is good to know however that Anthony has lost none of his love for rather bohemian clothing, but as many of us know, it’s all about where and when. At the tennis club I found him resplendent in an Indian light weight long coat as my picture below captures. He said he had bought it 25 years ago (but it could have been 125 years ago) and that he was breaking it in for day-to-day wear. Now, I know he has to cut a dash for his clients, and be artistic, but is this going a little too far? It seems to be working for him on one level however, as he was being driven about the tennis club car park in a convertible piloted by a beautiful girl who was at best half his age, who was no doubt one of his nieces. I never did work out why he was in the tennis club car park with a beautiful young lady, as despite the picture of him holding a racket, I witnessed no attempt by him to play tennis.
Anthony Bay. Anyone for tennis?
The best laid plans to go to the golf club in the afternoon and take a dram with the rest of the REGS was dismissed out of hand by that nice lady decorator who had something far more fulfilling in mind. She needed me to cut up pieces of wood for a new floor she is laying. This was an extremely laborious task, which befall me as she was unable to locate her jig saw, unable that is until the last cut; “here it is she exclaimed”, pleased with herself for remembering at last where she had left it. I think Rod Steward had it wrong, it should have been “the last cut is the deepest”.
Late lunch today with the wingco requires an extra portion of alka seltzer to be stored away ready for the after effects of the cheeky little Provence red that no doubt awaits us. Some people believe I am not serious when I suggest that the wingco, who is an excellent guitarist, would attempt a blues improvisation on the basis that Sir ‘enery Cooper “woke up this morning, boxing glove on me ‘and”, but I can assure you, I am being entirely truthful.
My old friend Peter Lynn emails me with his ideas for a couple of new golf expressions; He suggests that when you top the ball and it goes straight into the water it should be called a Bin Laden, and that when you hook it and the ball is out of sight, this should be called an Abdul Hamza. These are worthy suggestions and I shall be using them on Tuesday when I play golf with Mr Clipboard, and Mr Clipboard father. What would be good epithet for him? Father Clip? Moses the tablet?
Talking of tablets, I must now take mine and go for a lie down. A busy week ahead with friends arriving from the UK, but still enough time to undertake some services for Currencies Direct.
Chris France
Tennis shoes punished
According to that nice lady decorator, my tennis shoes smell. They were a bargain at 5 Euros from Decathlon, but I have always suspected that their claim to have “leather pieces” as it said in French, may have been the tiniest piece of exaggeration. They are however very comfortable, and also this year like my good self, unbeaten at tennis, so in my opinion, not widely held in this household, they should be revered and cossetted. Indeed I was considering having a plynth made so that they could take pride of place in the hall.
Imagine then my astonishment then that said shoes, with such a pedigree and having achieved so much on the world of tennis, when I discovered that they had been put outside to endure several thunderstorms over a 3 day period due to the aforementioned allegedly noxious odour emanating there from. After I had poured out over an inch of water from them, some 5 minutes before I was due to leave, I was then forced to find some plastic bags in which to place my feet so as to play tennis last evening as my picture today shows.
Great shoes, shame about the legs
I remonstrated with that nice lady decorator. I rather like the aroma, something of a combination of freshly mown grass with a touch of good old earth I like to think, however I was in a minority of one, even my children deserting my side on this one, and amongst the descriptions I can print were Rancid Polecat and Rotting Cabbage.
Still, the plastic did its bit, my unbeaten tennis credentials are safe (although it did not look good when we were 3-0 down and lost the first set) so all was well in the end, and they are now pegged out on the line recovering from their watery ordeal.
With the thunder gone for the time being and the sun warm again, we headed to Valbonne square for lunch. I was hoping to meet some poor unfortunates who have yet to sign up with Currencies Direct. Things went downhill (or uphill?0 from them as we adjourned to from the square into the web to try out the prosthetic we bought recently from Italy. It was very cheap when we bought it at about 4 Europe a bottle, but the time you factor in the 140 Euros for the car being towed away and rescued from the Italian Gestapo, it became a tad less of a bargain. This was not noticed by the attendant throng though, and luckily I was able to imbibe sufficiently to nullify the pain, until this morning that is, when the pain seems very real again, and seems to have taken on a different complexion.
As the outdoor luncheon party in the Var was postponed today due to the possibility of thunderstorms, I attempted to gatecrash the REGS golf tournament at St Donat without success, however I shall go down this afternoon to join them for a drink in a final farewell to Dave the Fade, our ex leader, who passed away last week.
Tomorrow, I am expecting lunch with the wingco. So I shall have to dig out my crash helmet and goggles and prepare my palate for red wine in massive quality and minor quality. I shall adopt my rock and roll position and expect to be regaled with him singing the blues, as he was at the tennis club earlier in the week, when he suggested that an improvised blues number in the style of the sadly deceased British boxing icon Sir Henry Coopper might be a welcome addition to my repertoire currently available on Itunes. So far, I have yet to accept such a kind offer.
Chris France
Narrow escape for lorry driver
I should have known that the nice lady decorators insistence that we put in arrosage (automatic garden watering system) into parts of the garden after the last two months of glorious weather would have the correct effect. She was right (nothing has changed). The plants that were wilting a few days ago in 30 degree heat are now all luxuriant again and the damned grass is growing. However, the arrosage has not yet been turned on. This is because we have had thunderstorms of biblical proportions over the last few days. Clearly the gods of rain are angry at her for insisting on the new watering system. At first I thought tennis last night was going to be a victim of this torrential unseasonable rain, but the clouds rolled away and we were bathed in wonderful sunshine, and the good news is that I managed to extend my unbeaten run this year on the tennis courts into June, but the bad news is that the camping trip in Bluebell to the Var on Saturday looks decidedly doubtful, unless I can get fins attached in time. Could I then call her Bluewhale? If I cannot blame the weather on the arrosage, then I can definitely blame it on UK tourists; there are several old friends in town so the sooner they leave and take this British weather back with them, the better.
My picture today was taken last weekend when we were in Cannes courtesy of old pal Wayne Brown from FR2dayand shows that nice lady decorator giving her customary laser beam look to a lorry driver who had edged within one inch of our table when taking a right turn. The UK Health and Safety nappy brigade would have had a field day with this one, dozens of happy revellers in the Cafe du la Marche having to move slightly to accommodate the lorry, with not a gendarme in sight and clearly all crash barriers are banned in Cannes. But no-one was hurt, the lorry driver who was in the deepest danger was able somehow to avoid the laser beams emanating from that nice lady decorator (although I thought I detected a searing of the paint work) and more important, not a drop of rose was spilled.
Lorry driver dices with death. Note the hand from behind keeping the umbrella out of the path of the truck, unless they were asking permission to go to the toilet?
Given the crap weather yesterday, a French national holiday, at one stage before tennis was rekindled, I considered that I may feel the need last evening to venture into the Queens Legs or la Kavanou, strictly you understand, to see if there are any potential bank victims that I have failed yet to save by introducing them to the financial wonders of Currencies Direct. Some people may think it cruel of me not to mention to that nice lady decorator that it was holiday today, she is of course working and I hope blissfully unaware that there may have been an excuse to avoid labour today. She is a far better person when she is working, all her energy is taken up in pursuit of her work to the extent that the nagging does not have the same intensity. Thus I am always encouraging her to work as much as she can. I even thought about daring to suggest that she hand over her takings to the man of the house when she comes home, although even in her weakened and tired state, this would have dangerous territory for a joke, so I chickened out. Man or mouse I hear you cry, and as The Reverend Jeff would always say, “show me the cheese” Lunch today, weather permitting with a couple of pilots, a plumber and their wives, should be an interesting meeting of minds.
Chris France
REGS salute Dave The Fade
An emotional day yesterday as a collection of ex pat golfers joined the Dowling family to say a final farewell to our golfing hero and the heartbeat of the REGS and Landlubbers golfing groups at Nice Crematorium yesterday afternoon. Dave the Fade, as he had become affectionately known as a result of this column and due to his ability to slice the golf ball so badly that he was in danger of it hitting him on the way around in a circle, boomerang style, refused to call it a slice but a fade, hence his nickname. He made many appearances in this column, most notably when cursing the fact that he had been drawn to play with me, but I know he enjoyed it, we would always have a laugh, mainly at the banana shaped shots for which he was renowned, so it was fitting that the golfers found the nearest golfing establishment to the crematorium with a bar to drink for a last toast to him afterwards. So I have today decided that I will not plug Currencies Direct, in deference to losing a friend and also a customer today. Dave the Fade, RIP.
But it was not just chaps, Pauline Bull, ex Miss England and once a semi finalist in the Miss Universe competition, and regular golfer with both groups, flew back from a trip to England for the afternoon especially for the funeral, before flying back to England last night. It is such a pity, Dave would have so loved the attention from a former super model.
Steve Weston holding the newly instigated Dowling Cup in memory of the late Dave the Fade Dowling.
A public holiday tomorrow in France will be my cue to avoid any serious work. Obviously I had to take the day off on Monday when it was a bank holiday in the UK, and with lunch arranged for Friday, work will alas be at a premium. Then there is the working garden lunch at Aups over in the Var on Saturday, which does not mean I shall be doing any gardening, but it does sadly mean that I will miss the normal weekend golf, where no doubt there will be more toasts to our lost mentor. Talking of the garden lunch, I have asked what the format will be should the current thundery weather not have slipped away by then, but answer came there none. Neither Bluebell the camper, nor myself nor indeed that nice lady decorator like the rain, so well laid plans may need to be revisited.
Paul Thornton Allan of The Big Picture tells me that he has read an expert opinion that he would get more out of life if he started what he finished, so he has been looking around the house for things to finish. So far he has finished a bottle of rioja, a bottle of merlot, a cheeky little Bordeaux, some cheese, a packet of pork scratchings and a packet of crisps and says he feels much better…
Mr Clipboard (aka Mark Gurdon) has been on the phone organising his trip next week. So called because his military bearing, hardly ever in evidence when he lived down here (apart from his short back and sides, well short, no, almost non-existent all over haircut) he now has a clipboard and all social occasions are diarised to the minute, hence 9 holes of golf will be played next Tuesday at 10.30, the restaurant is booked for 12.30 sharp, and then thankfully I am off his radar for whatever he is busying himself with from 2.30pm onwards. I am told the wingco will make an appearance on the day, and play golf like a cricketer, which is customary.
Chris France
Captain Hook armless?
I had not planned to go out. Then I remembered that it was supposed to be chess night at La Kavanou, the rather special wine bar in Valbonne and as I am unbeaten (except for one minor drunken aberration) at chess this year, I decided to pop down. To my consternation, news of my chess prowess has clearly spread far and wide because by the time I got there, there was not a chess player to be seen.
My normal chess foe, Bill Colegrave, is 3-1 down in our on-line series and in deep danger in the subsequent match, despite having been Russian chess master Gary Kasparov’s publisher, and his claim to be able to call Gary for advice. Perhaps his chess would have been better had he deigned to read his prodigy’s books? Anyway, what could have been a disappointment turned into a convivial few glasses of wine with a chap I know only as Biggles. True, I did not need his gory explanation of exactly what happened to his leg or the operation to fix it, with graphic description of the exact course of events, or to hear how he was called out recently to a sinking yacht, sinking because the toilets which had decided to let water in rather than expelling it, but he is a compelling character, and the world would be a less interesting, but perhaps saner, place if he was not around.
On the way back, I was caught in a thundery showere so took shelter in the Cafe des Arcades long enough to see Jude O Sullivan pretending her Baileys was a coke. Tall story in a tall glass.
Some of my readers have questioned whether or why I paid 42 Euros for two Bloody Mary’s at the weekend, so my picture today is living proof of the purchase.
A bloody snip
Earlier in the day I had decided to take the train for my meeting in Cannes to explain the virtues, to a collection of up market estate agents, of the value that they could offer their customers of opening an account at Currencies Direct. That the train was cancelled and I had to drive mattered not a jot. A large throng of soon to be enlightened souls had gathered to hear me speak, more than can be counted on two hands, assuming Captain Hook was amongst the congregation, but I like to think that it is quality that counts not quantity. But seriously, the chaps in Cannes that I met today are quite capable to keep me in the manner to which I would like to become accustomed.
Earlier still, I had delivered to my old Jewish typo guru, Peter Lynn, the final manuscript of my book, printed in double spacing, for him to check for typos. I had weighed it up; should I contract security experts Brinks Matt to move this clearly massively valuable manuscript from Valbonne to Mougins? Or should I say nothing to anyone and just hope I did not get mugged by terrorists acting for the literary elite, desperate to get an early look at its contents.
Eventually, after a quote from said security company. I decided on the more secretive approach, but will fight anyone who suggests that this decision was in any way influenced by financial factors.
Pete was understandably thrilled by the prospect. Comments such as “you are going to owe me big time for this” and ” lunch at Lou Fassum is the very minimum I shall expect to repair your quirky grammar” should be taken in the context they were uttered, in other words in reverence for the classy prose deposited on his desk for his enlightenment and enjoyment.
Today will be a sad one as we the Regs and the Landlubbers say a final farewell to our golf hero and former leader Dave the Fade in Nice this afternoon after he failed to make the final cut.
Chris France
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