Broomsticks and truncheons
So what do you do after a very serious drinkathon lasting several days, when confronted by a sunny Sunday with nothing on the agenda? I know, lets open some wine and get drunk. That seemed to be the message that I received as the sun passed the yardarm yesterday. So at 12.20pm, the bloody Mary’s were prepared and the afternoon of wine consumption commenced soon after.
So I guess I should not have been surprised by that nice lady decorator heading off to bed early, after of course the passing shot at the kids who had once again left the kitchen like war zone.
Kids are wonderful, you can’t live with them and you can’t kill them. They love the facilities we provide, the bar, the pav, the web, (the name given to our new outside bar and lounge area created by that nice lady decorator. It is called the web because once you get into it, it is very difficult to escape. Our house in England was called Hotel California after an Eagles song of the same name, which includes the line, “you can check out but you can never leave”). However they fail to realise that whatever facility they have availed themselves of should be left in the state that they found it, unless of course they have found it after a particularly wild night before that nice lady decorator has cleaned up.
Their continual failure to adhere to this simple creed allows her to unveil her dark side, when she can make Darth Vader seem like a good guy. For me, once was enough, but my kids seem determined to walk on the wild side with alarming regularity.
So last evening was spent doing very little except watching the TV and dealing with my children’s earlier traumatic experience. I had to explain to both of them that, whilst her anger was justified, I did not think her threat to ram broomsticks up their anuses, if they ever left the place in a similar state again, was one that the nice lady decorator would necessarily go through with, but I confess they may have seen through my uncertainty.
You may think it is a dangerous subject to associate broomsticks with that nice lady decorator, and, if she were reading this column I may not be so bold, but it is a connection witch I could not possible avoid given her outburst. My picture today is of some undergarments (I hesitate to call them pants) which were being worn by an anonymous chap on the big boat last Friday and depict another everyday item which apparently may be used in a similar way as the threat of the broomstick above.
Nice truncheon indeed!
Today, nose to the grindstone working on the Tour de Finance for Currencies Direct and my tan. One is on Thursday at Mougins and the other is coming along nicely. At least that is the plan as both can to achieved very effectively from my outdoor office area known as the hammock (now that it has been tidied up, as it also was the victim of the teenage rampage).
At present I have not been informed of a social occasion before tomorrow evening when a dinner is arranged, and with tennis on Wednesday, Le Tour de Finance on Thursday and a birthday celebration on Friday, It would be sensible to attempt an evening of abstinence this evening. However, as regular readers will know, it may be that my instructions in triplicate from that nice lady decorator for this evenings festivities have not yet been handed down, or that something will kick off spontaneously, especially as this is the best time of the year weather-wise and when events tend to be more outside than inside.
Chris France
Cow reincarnation
Now you would think, would you not, that after a full on 12 hour champagne fueled 50th birthday celebration aboard a fantastic yacht in and around Cannes and Antibes, that the next day would be a time for quiet contemplation, rest and recuperation? Certainly that was what I had in mind yesterday, but that nice lady decorator, who had foolishly agreed to work yesterday morning in her decorating role, and looked like death as she staggered towards the Thornton Allan’s to fulfill her promise to utilise her skills in their service, had a different view.
She was, I think is fair to say, not on top form when she awoke. Yesterdays champagne fest had left its mark and the dark glasses and particularly the trembling, which I would normally like to associate with her reaction to me when I stand close to her, was perhaps on this occasion generated from a different reaction, more like the dt’s.
So, as she left, clutching her paint brushes and overalls, there was nothing to suggest that after a few hours decorating and suffering from the excesses of the previous day, that she would do anything apart from fulfill whatever commitments she had taken on, and retire as early as possible in order to make Sunday a day when normal service could have been resumed.
However, as I should have known, she is made if sterner stuff. I had been tootalling around under the previous days excessive champagne cloud, idly pretending to do some jobs, like mowing the lawn in Terrance the tractor, the new, well, new to us, sit on mower. I was just contemplating a bloody mary or a sleep, or both, when the call came; “we have just finished the second bottle of wine, so would you like to come over?”. Every fibre of my being was screaming NO, but then I heard a voice exactly like mine saying “love to, give me 10 minutes” but I know not from whence in came, but it seems to have come from me.
So, at 3pm I trotted across the road, ostensibly to discuss The Big Picture‘s involvement with Le Tour De Finance event in Mougins next Thursday, so I would contend that this was a business meeting as the event is sponsored by Currencies Direct, and got home just before midnight.
As is usual in these situations, a very great deal of conversation took place and I do remember one discussion about reincarnation, I said that I believed in reincarnation, but that you had to come back as a different animal. That nice lady decorator said she would like to come back as a cow. I said “you are not listening”. I believe that at some stage under the influence of a delightful Barolo I had purchased in Italy last week, that myself and Paul Thornton Allan, whilst deep in discussion about the forthcoming event, may coincidentally have dozed off whilst watching Britain’s Got Talent and have been purring in unison. Any suggestion that this was in fact snoring will be met with the fiercest riposte.
My picture today was taken on the epic boat trip last Friday around Cannes and is of a man-made floating island complete with palm trees which I spotted moored behind a boat in front of the Carlton Hotel.
Cant afford a beach front property in Cannes? answer, build your own island on a barge!
Today, Sunday, is of course traditionally a day of rest, so after the full work schedule this week, I do hope to take advantage of it and avoid any social occasion that the nice lady decorator may conjure up at a moment’s notice, and concentrate on spiritual matters, which should not be taken to mean that brandy will pass my lips.
Chris France
Laying in tripe
In yesterday’s column, I wondered if Peachy Butterfield had laid in enough tripe for dinner on the boat in Cannes, and I would have said that by the look of beach shorts and the colour of him by last evening he looked like he had literally laid in it, however that nice lady decorator, who spent some of her youth up north assures me that tripe is white.
Yesterday was an epic day on board a 25 metre super yacht, especially chosen by Peachy for his 50th Birthday because it has patio doors, thereby betraying his northern roots. It is owned by the naked political figure whom I have previously featured, but whom I am prohibited from naming, and was enhanced by a load of northerners who were clearly excited by the prospect of sunshine and free drinks and food all day.
I have a deal with this unnamed political figure (who lived up to this epithet by streaking naked right around the guests for a bet) that I will not name him, in return for which I expect to receive regular invites to enjoy a day out on his boat, so Mr X, you have my contact details, so please ensure that the invites continue. I do hate the word bribery, and could not possibly ever countenance its use, however, at certain times in one’s life one has to give and take a little, and I am sure this will be properly understood in the world of politics. After all, I have the pictures, and a column to write that if it does not read well, is at least well read.
During the day, various topics were discussed; for instance it was noted that the north of England has waterways that the northerners considered were as good as, and had all the facilities offered by the French Riviera. Whilst it is rather touching that these unsophisticated but generous natured folk feel the need to defend any suggestion that their land is a desolate, damp tundra-strewn wilderness, I pointed out that the temperature of Lake Windermere was barely ever above freezing, even in mid summer, and that by way of contrast the Mediterranean was perfect for swimming naked, as had been illustrated earlier by the birthday boy, and rather inevitably, by the yacht owning secret politician who yesterday both had a skinny dip under the baleful eyes of the Cannes Film Festival police launch, that was keeping an eye on us. I asked if any of them had actually swum anywhere up north, but initially no one could recall actually swimming in the Lake District, although one of our happy group knew there are some swimming baths in Crewe.
I met a very friendly gynecologist who inadvertently offered more material for this column. He claimed at one stage that there are no trees in the north because they have burnt them all for fuel, and was rather upset that he was precluded from wearing his clogs on deck.
I have so many pictures from yesterday that I am spoilt for choice, but have plumped (the operative word) for this one which somehow seems to capture the spirit of the birthday celebrations.
Anyone remember Captain Pugwash? and especially Roger the cabin boy? and what is that mystery hand doing?
By way of contrast we also had a token Welsh Lady on board, in fact there were a great many very attractive girls on board, which, given the picture above depicted the typical standard of male physiques on board, was astounding, and perhaps is an indication that girls from up north like a bit of rough. Hailing from Anglesey, Alex, for that is her name, claims that Great Britain, is an island off the coast of Angelsey.
Of course, with such an unsophisticated clientele, there was not much scope to extol the virtues of opening an account with Currencies Direct, as they do not recognise or accept barter deals, and I imagine would have no use for whippets, pigeons, black pudding and whatever other products that contribute to the northern economy.
Chris France
Mancunian Merlot?
I woke up last night to find the ghost of Gloria Gaynor standing at the foot of my bed. At first I was afraid…….then I was petrified. I have to thank Peter Lynn for that little gem, in fact loads of jokes have been pouring in recently, especially those with Bin Laden as the subject, and now it seems the death of Sevriano Ballesteros is the subject of that black humour so beloved by the Brits? I have already noted a couple of comments on this column yesterday.
Last night into Valbonne to place more posters for Le Tour De Finance. These are best placed strategically in places where ex pats tend to congregate, so La Kavanou was an obvious starting point. However, when asking the proprietor Karin for a favour, it would not have been either just or fair, not to have in turn, sent some business here way, so the costs of drinks taken there will be on my expense claim for Currencies Direct. Earlier I had the same kind of dealings with Cafe Latin, Cafe Des Arcades and The English Book Centre, (although we failed to get a drink there).
My picture today is of a rhino. Not any ordinary rhino, this one was being lifted in a hoist in Portfino and was more concrete than alive. Please don’t ask me the relevance of this photo, or what the rhino was doing there, or why it was being lifted. Just accept that it is what it is, a stupid picture. You can imagine that when I was deciding which picture to use today, I was on the horns of a dilemma. Yes, I am thick-skinned as well, and short-sighted, there are loads of jokes here, for instance when you have a sinus problem in France you can get something called rhino court, so, and I know you are expecting this, perhaps the rhino had caught a cold? It seems such an uplifting picture to me. OK, I have finished and am ready to move on now.
No, I don't understand either
Today will be a big day for a big man. Peachy Butterfield, fresh from the frozen wastes of Cheshire has descended on the cote d’Azur to celebrate his entrance into his 6th decade this very day.
So there is a big day is ahead of many of us. I love to try different wines, and with Peachy Butterfields stated preference to quantity to quality, I am wondering what we can look forward to? I am not sure the Champagne region extends into the Wirral, so perhaps we will be treated to the delights of Stockport sparkling wine? I imagine that if you mix raw alcohol with some lemonade you may get something a little more champagne like and a tad more palatable. The red wine? I expect to see a tanker of a cheeky little Mancunian Merlot pulled up on the quay before we board the boat. White wine is a little harder to predict, but maybe Merseyside has an answer to Mersault? Maybe, but somehow I doubt it.
It seems that breakfast aboard the boat in Antibes will be followed by lunch after rowing around to Juan Les Pins, then an afternoon spent between the Isles Des Lerins just off Cannes. If that was not enough, dinner will then be served on the boat. I do hope he has laid in a enough tripe to feed everyone. That this peculiarly northern English style event is taking place at the same time and in close proximity to the Cannes Film Festival is especially incongruous. Perhaps the idea is to try to spot some northern theatrical big names; the Chuckle Brothers perhaps, or Little and Large? If it is then perhaps Peachy may have more success in Morecombe?
Chris France
20th aneurysm?
I guess in was inevitable, I have seen a few Bin Laden jokes, jars of fish food in his image, an old sandal floating on the sea, but my favorite recently was in the same vein was from a friend who is making explosive prayer mats, he says prophets are going through the roof.
And talking of explosive, last nights tennis at the Vignale was an explosive affair. Modesty forbids me to reveal who won, but suffice to say, one half of the usual MOG (moustachiod old git) pairing, the junior partner, and the writer of an infamous blog about the daily lives of the idle rich in Valbonne, of which anyone reading this will be aware, remains unbeaten this year, whilst the senior partner, the wingco, has suddenly realised how much he is being carried by his much younger and fitter subordinate.
The reason for the breakup of this established tennis partnership was the failure of our leader, Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villas to turn up. He cited injury as his excuse, but frankly a small boil on his posterior or whatever flimsy pretext he had invented could not hide the truth. As his stand in for the night, Noel “Larry Gatsby” Coward, showing just how a middle aged American should be dressed for tennis, resplendent in long white trousers, cravat, monocle and no doubt original 1936 Fred Perry tennis racket said; “clearly his wife needed some thumb exercise and he was under it”. This is of course as shameful as it is probably true, and will elicit a brown envelope from the committee should it ever happen again.
The post tennis dinner was taken outside at Caprichio, a nice relaxed restaurant up the hill at Chateauneuf where the drinks bill was double the food bill, a bitter blow given today’s pound versus Euro exchange rate.
Notably absent from this august gathering was the wingco, no doubt smarting from his defeat. That it is rather ungentlemanly to play tennis and then fail to attend dinner is in no doubt. His excuse, that he had guests arriving for dinner at home, betrays either a lack of basic planning skills or a contempt for his fellow players and must be viewed as a bad show. This is particularly true as these “guests” were not mentioned until after his defeat, but any suggestion that he failed to attend the tennis dinner simply because he lost is as scurrilous as it is probably true.
Sadly, discussion turned to the privations of getting old, with one member of our party, Peter Misted (there may be an L missing here), my successful partner for the night, getting misty eyed about the old days, when he could finish urinating before the timer controlling the light in the gentleman’s toilet went out. There was also discussion about a 20th anniversary being misheard by one of our party who asked who had been the victim of a 20th aneurysm. I have however promised both chaps anonymity as long as they both sign up for the free services of Currencies Direct. Boys, you know it makes sense.
My picture today was taken last week in Portofino, where we stopped on our way to Venice in order for that nice lady decorator to terrorise the local hotel staff community as I reported the last weekend. I think a period of time may be in order before we return.
Portofino, an Italian gem
Today I must finish distributing posters for Le Tour De Finance event next Thursday, when free aperitif’s will be served between 5 30 and 8 30. That should be enough to fill the place with thirsty ex pats, but there are also a range of financial experts on hand to answer any queries you may have about financial well-being whilst living in France.
Chris France
Glass half full?
I have long been a fan of the stupidity of the European Union, especially enjoying the mess that is the euro, and that fact that I know in my capacity as fat controller for the Valbonne area of Currencies Direct, it will get worse. I delight in the fact that the Germans appear to make the rules, the French ignore all the stupid rules and the English slavishly obey all the rules. There are restaurants all over France serving cheese in nice moist way, which totally contravenes EU regulations. It is therefore with some delight that I have seen a recent directive making it an act of racist abuse to call gypsies gyppos, in future apparently, they are to be referred to as Caravan Utilising Nomadic Travellers.
Whilst we were in Portofino last week, we came across a kind of wine glass that we had not seen before, which is designed not to blow over in the wind they get there from time to time. It seems to me a good way of cutting down on ones wine intake, which is something that is exercising my mind again this week, with 2 big bashes lined up for Friday and Sunday, After all, if one did not want to drink a whole glass, one could still have half a glass of wine as my picture shows, surely?
Just half a glass for me.
So, 2 big bashes to come this week. The Friday bash for Peachy Butterfield is heading out of control even before we get there. It seems that the event takes place all day on a boat starting in Cannes, starting with breakfast and lasting until dinner. First going to Juan les Pins for lunch, heading to the Isle des Lerins (is that plural for leery?) for the afternoon and back to Cannes for dinner, maybe I should take some of those half glasses above on order to pace myself? barely a day to recover before it will be necessary to do it all again, this time on Sunday on the classic yacht Berenice with the International Club of the Riviera for as “Reach For The Stars” lunch, to celebrate the Cannes Film Festival, again lunch on board the boat in Cannes harbour, what could be better?
With teenage offspring, who have discovered the joys of beer and wine, there is always a danger when we go away for a few days that the house will be in disarray when we return. Previous returns have been greeted with such give away’s like the Hoover still in the lounge, mop and bucket in the kitchen, but this time, there was nothing obvious to give the game away. I am certain that a party was had, but so far, have no proof. What was required was the laser beams that the nice lady decorator employs for eyes, but she was thoroughly jaded after the long weekend, so they may have got away with it.
Banjo, the despicable dog has developed a limp. I was sharpening my biggest knife in order to put him out of his misery, (you have to be cruel to be kind sometimes), and was eyeing up the chainsaw but she who will not be amused, his protector, claimed he merely has a slight sprain. I misheard and thought she had said he was a bit of a pain, and found myself agreeing before her focus returned and I retired into my box again for another night.
Today I must send the invites for Le Tour De Finance to all those happy people who like a free aperitif in lovely surroundings in Mougins on 19th May and deposit the rest of my posters around the area, before heading into Antibes to reset HSBC on the correct course.
Chris France
KG2 or KG4?
Bruised and broken after a very big weekend in Venice, we set off back to Valbonne arriving back last night. Sadly I was unable to implant the idea of Lake Garda or even Lake Guardia as it is sometimes known (by me) or even La Guardia in New York, all suggested in comments by people with no idea of how difficult it is to write a blog on a tiny screen with a throbbing hangover.
In summary then, Venice is a fabulous place to visit, I had never been before, but one needs very deep pockets in order to enjoy it to the fullest, which we did, but at very considerable expense, indeed to such expense that the nice lady decorator has come out of decorating retirement today in order to undertake “paying for Venice” duties, and from where my picture today emanates.
"Just one cornetto"
The big push for Le Tour De Finance sponsored by Currencies Direct, is about to start, so expect an email invitation from me in the next few days. I know where you all live, and back sliding will not be permitted.
I am rather afraid today that I may be called upon to do some kind of manual work. The wingo talked me into buying a sit on mower from him in March but has been unable to supply said machine because of some spring thing that has broken off, so I think some brute force and ignorance is required, and clearly the wingco is far too well brought up to know how best to apply this technique. I first learned it when at age 16 I was the proud owner of a bubble car. It kept going wrong, and two of my neighbours were continually pushed into helping me to keep it going. One particularly bad day, I heard them discussing whether the car would best benefit from a KG2 or a KG4. Under the impression that these were parts that needed to be bought in order to make the thing work, I began worrying how much these items might cost. It turns out that they were discussing whether to hit it with a 2 kilogram or 4 kilogram hammer. I have found a 4KG hammer in my garage, so it will be kill or cure for the mower today. In fact I am so fed up with the whole scenario, I quite fancy a bit of kill.
Not a drop of drink passed my lips yesterday, nor will it until at least Friday, when a certain Mr Peachy Butterfield has a significant birthday. I do believe that he will be entering his 6th decade sometime soon, and doubtless there will be an opportunity to rub his nose in it, by which of course I man to join in any celebrations that may occur. I have heard talk of a boat, often driven my a naked political figure, may be involved, so I must be sure am top form and thoroughly rested before anything gets underway.
Then Sunday for the International Club Of the Riviera, and the lunch aboard the Berenice during the Film Festival in Cannes, to which we have been invited (as long as we pay). This may give you a hint as to the kind of activities to be endured in the coming week, all sorts of film start chaps arriving and swanning around, then a week later some boy racers hit Monte Carlo for the Monaco Grand Prix, which probably means that the veterans Grand Prix will be staged this weekend, a much more user friendly event where the drivers are approachable, and don’t have egos the size of houses. I will find out today and report back.
Chris France
Shutter Island lives
Murano, or Shutter Island as I called if after the horrid horror film, was an experience, but not one that I would recommend. Having been dropped by the ferry at the arse end of the island and been forced by that nice lady decorator to “enjoy” the glassware for which the island is justly infamous, we finally found some civilisation away from the prison style dormitories that prevail around the glass blowing factories. Perhaps the “accommodation” is part of the punishment for creating such monstrosities? The world’s limited resources are being squandered on such disastrous style statements, such as in the picture shown below. It had a sign saying “no photography” but I felt it was my public duty to expose to the world the full horrors of what I had been forced to experience. At least with Auchwitz you choose to bear testament to the horror perpetrated. Here, there was no choice, at least not for me.
Greenglass horse from Murano, will go well with the chesterfields don't you think
As I say, we did finally find somewhere civilized for lunch and enjoyed pasta with clams and Sardines Venetian, which I would like to describe as blinding because that would be the kind of joke one would expect if a regular reader of this column. As it was they were good but perhaps not blinding.
Then back into central Venice to see the Rialto Bridge and seek a cafe where we could indulge in an afternoon cigar, with a little prosecco to wash it down. Helicopters over head continually overhead marred a convivial last afternoon, a trifle noisy due I suppose to the presence of the pope in Venice. I suggest that they are there to ensure
the pontiff does not nick off for a quick dalliance with a nun, but find no one amongst our party who will concur. I suspect there may be some amongst us with catholic sympathies.
In the evening, Harrys Bar, with its long tradition of hosting the rich and famous for over 80 years was the venue chosen for an aperitif. Having failed to gain entrance yesterday due to at least one of our party being improperly dressed, we ensured that the nice lady decorator was not once again wearing her gondaliers costume, and tried again. Her claim that the reason for being refused entry earlier was that some of us were wearing shorts was clearly not the main reason for our being disbarred, so we were determined not to allow her to make the same failed fashion statement again.
Peter Lynn had tried to talk me out of ordering a Bellini there, but I was determined to see some belly dancing as that seems to be what he did when there. So a couple of bellinis and a couple of martinis and we were over 100 Euros worse off and not a bare midriff in sight.
Worse was to come as we found a cheap restaurant near St Marks Square, which cost a mere 150 Euros a head for dinner, a snip, at least I felt snipped afterwards, a bit like a man from the Jewish faith might feel.
As soon as it was suggested that she was beaten, when the nice lady decorator initially refused a grappa, saying “I am not going to drink that shit”, and the realisation that she would be held to account for said refusal, she decided belatedly that she would indeed partake of “that shit” and in fact in the end, as I had predicted, one was not enough.
Today we will leave Venice and head back through tunnel hell that is Italy towards the Cote d’Azur, and if I get me way, a slight diversion for a night at Lake Guardia. However, regular readers will be aware that my chances of getting my own way require subtle even subliminal suggestion, cunning and a good deal of good fortune.
My angloinfo blog was posted this morning and enables me to have another rant about Royal weddings, this time the farce set for Monaco
Chris France
Pope pontificates
What does the word pontificate mean? Is it something to do with the pope thinking about what to do? We discovered, by way of a gondoliers who was driving the gondola upon which we spent an hour exploring Venice,that the Pope had decIded to coincIde his first visit to Venice with my first visit.
Did the Pope consider the fact that I was in Venice for the first time? I know he wanted to meet me, which was the only reason he decided to visit. He called me in he morning but I didn’t take the call, but I got a message; fancy a couple of beers at lunch time? As it turned out, I did, but not with him, the narrow-minded old catholic that he is.
What terrible timing. I considered the beer offer (he said he was busy a bit later having to go to a bit of a do in St Marks Square) but as I did not have high hopes of converting him to the religion of hedonism of which I am a serious aficionado, that’s the reason I did not take his call, and laid low. I told that nice lady decorator that he would never convince me or convert me, and much as this will disappoint the Reverend Jeff, she accepted that.
After the quintessential gondola ride, where that nice lady decorator, resplendent in blue and white hoops herself was twice mistaken for a gondolier, we went to St Marks Square, but were subject to such serious security measures because of some Pontiff’s visit that we headed off to Hotel Monaco on the Grand Canal, for what turned out to be a big, big lunch. For some reason of higher mathematics, that I will never understand, lunch was down to us, well me, and the figure 7 appeared at the front of the bill. It was a very, very good lunch and at that price it needed to be.
Yes, it was a good lunch, much enlivened by prosechio, pino grigio, barolo and grappe, which of course had to be further supplemented by a few beers and prosechio on the way back to our hotel. I am certain of nothing except…no I am not even sure I am certain of that.
My picture today is from the lovely city of Venice and features that nice lady decorator in our very pretty gondola, she is the one sitting down, not standing on the quay in case you are confused.
a couple of gondoliers
The gondola ride was exciting for some and worrying for others. Many will know that I am not a good sailor and that I do not swim, and so the prospect of a trip in a flimsy and tiny boat, with a driver standing up, and a big stick the only means of propulsion across a busy and wide canal with what looked like a three metre sea running, filled me with alarm. There was the very real possibility that I might fill up the gondola with my breakfast. However, with steely determination, and eyes fixed on the horizon at all times, the tempest was tamed with only queasiness to show for it.
Last night, we trotted off to a local tratoria for more food, which could not be justified for any reason except greed, following the totally excessive lunch earlier. It is bizarre how hungry one can become so soon after a gargantuan meal. I was so hungry, I would have ordered pigs trotters from the tratoroia had they been on the menu. The fact that they were not was a surprise to me, what else might one expect of a tratoria?. At the very least I expected was to have seen a del-boy or a Rodney Trotter look-alike behind the bar.
Today we shall go to see where Murano glass is made. When the suggestion was made to visit the island of the same name, I volunteered to stay behind and guard our things in case the hotel began to sink, but my offer was rather pointedly spurned. It is a well-known fact that Venice is sinking and one cannot be too careful. It appears that Murano “is an interesting place and I will be entertained by a visit there.” This is of course palpable nonsense, but my only outlet for a truly objective opinion is in this column. Any attempt to enter into a reasonable debate about the degree of interest I personally have in glass blowing was a complete non starter for me, and our friends Morten and Ziggy are far too aware of that nice lady decorators excitable nature to consider any other option than enthusiastic agreement to her suggestion.
There is however a modicum of hope; the Pope. It is just possible his itinerary will preclude the visit, and not even the nice lady decorator will be able to change that.
Finally, I was wondering how to get the almost daily plug in for Currencies Direct, but decided I could not find a way today, maybe tomorrow.
Chris France
Focus? what, both of us?
In Prtofino this morning I came across a couple of Swedish girls, who were trying to get someone to take a photo of them with their own cameras, the sort of thing that happens every day at tourist traps. After the guy had fiddled around a bit, one said to the other “Vot is he trying to do?” her friend said “He is trying to focus”. Her friend looked back and said “vot, both of us?” So that s got todays column off to a poor start.
So we left PortoFino, which is a very pretty and beautifully kept tourist trap, having stayed in the worst room at the Nazionale Hotel, right on the port front, a mere snip at 200 Euros, for a room with a view of air conditioning machines and the sky impossible to see from any vantage point in the room. In fact the room had no vantage points at all unless you are a lover of pot holing, or just like the idea of living in a cave. Perhaps unsurprisingly, given the consumption levels earlier in the evening of pino grigio, when all the air con machines were functioning fully at 1am, that nice lady decorator decided to fetch the poor hotel duty manager and insist that he stood in our bedroom to hear what she considered to be a cacophony created by said machines. Perhaps opening the window onto the subterranean terrace exacerbated the problem, I am not sure, all I can be certain of is that I know this, because I was sleeping soundly until the moment she burst back into our cave and commenced explaining her complaint to the poor Italian sop, who spoke no English, whom she had dragged up from the front desk by his ear. At the moment, I was awoken by a mixture of shrieking hysterics from her and whimpering from the hotel official. I decided to feign sleep otherwise we would have been moved to a junior suite costing twice as much. Of course after much calming from the luckily quite good-looking, but clearly afraid, Italian lick spittle, she settled down and slept soundly shortly thereafter for a full 8 hours. Perhaps the thrill of the chase (of a lost cause) was sufficient to lull her into sleepiness. Nothing however was mentioned in the morning, so once again a storm in a teacup.
Portofino is a tiny village, a little like an Italian version of Clovelly in Cornwall, but warmer dryer and considerably fuller of pasta. It is close to a pit of a town called Genoa, which from Nice is reached by a motorway journey of less than 3 hours, but marred by having to negotiate over 100 tunnels en route, which were not enjoyed in the Merc with the top down. My picture today was taken on the way up to the fabulous Castello Brown, clearly named after Wayne Brown from FR2day, well they charged us 5 Euros to get in, so there was some similarity. We rang him whilst outside to see if we could get mates rates, but he did not take the call, so we had to full price.
Portofine, viewed from the walk up to Castello Browm, the
We arrived in Venice, in time for an early evening beer, before our lovely Norwegian gay friends, collectively knowing as Bang and Olafson arrived, before a quiet evening to explore the wine stocks of Italy, that nice lady decorator determined to terrorise some more Italian waiters. Elton John’s new lyrics to “Candle In The Wind” in celebration of the demise of Bin Laden was discussed, apparently, “sandals in the bin” is expected to be a big hit, especially in America.
Chris France
Beer denial effective
The trip down to Portofino along the Italian Riviera with the top down on the car was delightful as was the town itself , the atmospheric and beautiful port. I was standing in the port area looking out to sea last night when there was an altercation nearby. A muslim chap was bemoaning the demise of Bin Laden and during a “discussion” with some of the locals became so animated that he fell into the sea. Being a good citizen I summoned help. I do hope the letter gets there in time for the police to be able to rescue him.
Before we left, there was a little more work to do on the patio. That nice lady decorator’s patio laying skills have of course in the past required the crucial correct mix of sand and cement to enable her to be creative without concern about the quality of materials, and the downside of that was that, until recently, I was the only one capable of the kind of perfection she demands. This is true in a variety of other areas, some of which are rather too delicate to go into in this column. Unfortunately, that required that most feared of activity, physical labour on my part but I am happy to be able to report progress in that area. With a combination of careful tutelage, threats, bullying and hefty bribes contributing somewhat towards the “training” of my 18-year-old son to take on this mantle having only partial effect, I discovered the missing element last week. Beer denial, yes that was the missing piece in the jigsaw in the training process, and the discovery of this vital strand of apprenticeship development has contributed a great deal to the cement production process and, as a result, my own general well-being.
I suggested in a recent review of the cricket match between the Hammer Bottom Butsers and Cabris Cricket Club or rather in a picture I featured of their monogrammed boxes (that crucial piece of equipment designed to protect a chaps ability to reproduce) that the shot was sufficiently close up for only the wives of the miscreants to recognise them, but lo and behold in, the teams on-line report of the match, it appears that the whole team were immediately able to identify the two members (sic) of their team who were caught literally with their trousers down. For clarity here, I am afraid I must show the picture once again.
As Rolf Harris may have said "Can you see who it is yet?"
This admission throws up some important questions, such as how were the rest of the team so easily able to identify their teammates from such an intimate shot? In all the cricket teams in which I have played in the past, I can honestly say that I have seldom, if ever, seen a team-mate “boxed in” as it were. Might there be a clue in the first two words of the team name, the Hammer Bottom Butsers?
Today then onwards to Venice, which I have never before visited, but I am told it is a haven for mosquitos, however I am also told that to keep a high level of alcohol in one’s blood when subject to these pests is one of the best forms of defence, and, as I hate mosquito bites, I fear i may have to risk further damaging my liver this weekend. Live damage is a well-known danger when confronted by my hard-drinking hard smoking Norwegian gay friends, but with two days of abstinence behind me, I have seldom been better prepared for the privations that await me.
I am taken to task again by Phil the yacht for not getting in a plug forCurrencies Direct yesterday, but my new policy is not to plug their wonderful services ever again, however I am prone to lying.
Chris France
College expenses, for me
My rigorous testing of the outdoor loungers initially went well yesterday, helped by the warm sunny weather and as yet there are no problems to report, except for one of the cushions on the flat sun lounger has a small mark on it. I have made a note for the cleaner, aka that nice lady decorator, who was busy putting sand over the top of some recent cement work she has completed. You can see from this illustration, that we all have our separate tasks to complete and that we all pull together when it comes to preparing our house and garden for the summer.
Talking of sand, I wonder if it is from the same batch that the Irish have imported? it seems they reckon that when they get the sand laid down properly, they will drill for their own oil.
Now, I almost made it. The bar was set high, 3 days without a drink, and at 6pm last night, when I was due to play tennis, I would have successfully completed my mission in total, but then with tennis postponed because of the non availability of the wingco, (very bad show) the news was received that my daughter had been accepted into the most expensive school in Christendom for her A levels, and there was unconfined joy throughout. At this stage no one had addressed the cost of such success, which is why the champagne was opened and any number of teenagers arrived to help celebrate and enjoy my largesse. I took a picture but it is too graphic to publish, there are so many empty bottles, all of which I have paid for, luckily in Euros, that it was for too distressing for me, so it its place we have a nice picture from the cricket match at the weekend where the Hammer Bottom Butsers were ceremonially raising their flag, in the same way that queen does when she is in residence. I am just glad that they did not raise their game to such heights. I am also glad that there was no other reference to queens at all in the raising ceremony, especially as I am about to depart to Venice to meet with a couple of dear Norwegian gay friends.
The Hammer Bottom Butsers, raise their flag, if you get my meaning
So joy was unconfined, certainly I experienced joy for a nano second, that is until after the nano second had passed and during which, the euphoria, which seemed to be universally encompassed, I had failed to concentrate on the real issue here, the cost. Suffice to say that I shall require daily reports from the school and, if, at any stage there is any suggestion of back sliding, then there will be trouble (for me).
So we will set off today for Portofino, the gem in the Italian Riviera, where no doubt we shall find some modest accommodation and a very reasonable Chianti to quell the thirst built up over a long day travelling, unless they have a Barolo or something similar, but that is to prejudge it, a full report of the journey will appear tomorrow.
Our departure for Venice means that we shall not be in Valbonne to witness the event to be staged by Dr Henry Brew, which will take place in Valbonne on Friday at 7:00pm at L.A Galerie Ada Loumani, Valbonne, where a fund riser is taking place to help Henry’s dream of making water available in Africa. Frankly, we have all the water we need here, and as W. C. Fields, a renowned drunkard, memorably intoned, when asked if he wanted a drink of water, “water? fish f*ck in it.”
Chris France
Bloody Mary? Bloody shame
Once again, I sat last evening with a non alcoholic Virgin Mary, otherwise know as a Bloody Shame, according to old friend Mike Findlay, guitarist with The Secret Police, a Police tribute band, as part of my long-term plan to avoid alcohol. It began yesterday and I intend it to extend all the way into tomorrow afternoon. Yes, it is a tall order, but having now successfully negotiated two nights without a drop, at complete variance to the weak-willed nice lady decorator, I am feeling extremely self righteous and feel almost certain I can manage avoidance once again at lunch time, and then coast over the metaphorical line of abstinence that will rush up at me at 8pm this evening after tennis.
Yes, this evening I shall be attempting to loosen up the cricket ravaged joints sufficiently to play tennis, if we can find a fourth, the wingco being unavailable due to a work commitment. Does he not understand that work must never get in the way of a sporting or social occasion; bad show I say, see me afterwards and write out a hundred times” I must be available for tennis when asked”. One more transgression and he will need to pad his backside for the inevitable punishment that will follow.
Whilst sitting at our new outside bar, enjoying said non alcoholic beverage, the subject of Iron Man competition which is held each year in Nice came up. It is a competition in which a load of very fit and highly testosterone charged and huge men attempt a 5 mile swim, followed by a 10 mile run followed by a 50km bike ride, or something of the like, and that nice lady decorator began drooling about the prospect of large muscles. Personally I also like large mussels as well, albeit with a different spelling, and I prefer a cream sauce or perhaps a dash of curry sauce and maybe a side order of chips. She was however, not amused, when I suggested that Iron Man was all about being a male super hero, whereas Iron Woman was more of a command. My picture today shows the bar just before drink up, or rather for me, don’t drink up time.
The new bar, with the rare distinction of not having a drink open on it
So packing for Venice has commenced, with a possible stop over at Portofino on the way. I will include a liberal dose of seasickness tablets for the gondolas, in case there is a breath of wind. There is no point in depositing a good lunch over the side of a river taxi so precautions are obligatory. Actually, it will not be the gondolas that require the tablets, I hope that is clear.
Having never been to Venice before, and not being a good sailor, I am not confident of anything more than about 90 seconds on a boat without consequences that are a little too graphic to go into here.
Today I shall continue with the promotion of Le Tour De Financeon 19th May at Mougins. I think the offer a free aperos is likely to be the tipping factor for most ex pats, at which this event is carefully aimed. Offer the thirsty ex pats a free drink and they will go to the opening of an envelope. That’s the theory that we (by which I mean Currencies Direct) are working on. For those based more over towards Nice there is another event at the Boscolo Hotel on 24th May. It’s as if they (the expats) have to be persuaded to help themselves avoid disgraceful rates when using banks.
Chris France
Bins out on a Sunday?
At last, a day off from the social maelstrom that has overtaken us in the last few weeks, the idea being to wean us away from alcohol, I drank a virgin mary, that is to say tomato juice with all the Bloody Mary trimmings but vitally, without the usual vodka, and that nice lady decorator took a tonic water, hopeless attempts to fool ourselves we were actually weakened but then she had a glass of wine, so some of us have willpower, others do not. For me a day without alcohol was attained.
During my walk in the Valmasque this morning, I think I found the 400 year cork oaks that are supposed to be in a secret location in the forest. As it is a secret, I cannot reveal where they were, unless the usual fiver finds its way over to me in the traditional way. Here is a picture of it (or them)
Cork oaks at a secret (unless bribed) location in the Valmasque.
My angloinfo blog theme developed the WANKROYWAG yesterday, where I was able to vent my spleen about the whole caper, and it is gratifying to see my miserable ramblings amongst the most read of their blogs. There must be some very angry people out there.
So a rare night in, spent in front of the television watching reruns of Allo Allo. I commented that Gordon Kay, the actor who plays the cafe owner Rene looked a bit weird, with his eyes seemingly looking in different directions, a bit like Marty Feldman, after making a good recovery from an accident when a piece of wood went through his wind screen and lodged in his head. He was lucky to be alive and was in a coma for some time. I wonder what the doctors said to him whilst unconscious, maybe “allo allo”? Listen very carefully, I bet they said it more than once.
For the rest of this working week I shall be hard at work preparing for the Currencies Direct staged “Le Tour De Finance” which will be setting up at Les Paradise des Ouseaux, a splendid venue near Le Parc de Mougins overlooking the Etang, which is apparently on the market for a mere 17 million Euros, as long as you don’t want all the land. The event will be stuffed full of experts in all areas of finance, banks, mortgage chappies, insurance, even translators, in fact everything you need to be able to live in France comfortably. To make it even more attractive it is free to get in and it is at apero time with aperos and nibbles free as well. To make it even more interesting, renowned local ex pat artist Helen Humphreys will be there, perhaps dabbling in a bit of painting. Posters will be appearing near you soon. You must all attend, I know where you all live.
On Sunday I bumped into John Balodis from Valbonne Online and lovely wife Jayne showing off 3 week old new addition to their family. What was a little worrying is that after less than a month of life his new son already has more hair than he does.
I am still as stiff as a board three days after my heroics for Cabris Cricket Club. When I next see Peter Bennett of Blue Water Yachting, who talked me into the stupid enterprise, he will be in for a kicking, if I can hobble towards him without him noticing and if I can raise my leg high enough to get a kick in.
One final thought for the day, there must have been a change in policy as they don’t usually allow Bins to be taken out on a Sunday.
Chris France
Mayday, and a small foot in it
I was asked yesterday why women often have smaller feet than men? so I did some research and it seems that it is one of those evolutionary quirks that allows them to stand closer to the kitchen sink. I thought that was a nice piece of controversial information to start off the week.
A splendid stagger around The Valmasque in the warm sunshine began to loosen up my seized joints, locked in mortal combat after playing a proper cricket match yesterday for the first time since last summer and only the second time in 7 years. I was Viagra stiff last night after all my exertions, but unfortunately not in the way that nice lady decorator may have hoped (to avoid). My picture today was taken at the Cabris cricket ground as the teams turned up to survey the pitch and break open the beers on Saturday.
Cabris cricket club, a look at the pitch
Yesterday, Mayday, is a special day in France. Known as labour day, it is actually a contradiction in terms as work is forbidden, and although the supermarkets were all shut there was still a good deal of commerce going on around Valbonne Square due to the antiques market that is staged on the first Sunday of each month. We took a stroll down to do some mild square bashing with a couple of beers and a pizza where we meet Jude O’ Sullivan, clutching a much smaller bag than is usual. She is a little off, describing me as “mean” after my last piece mentioning her and her love of Bailey’s in this column, and I suspect that she has a larger bag, full of that essential (to her) afternoon tipple lurking somewhere near her table. I suggest to her and that nice lady decorator that a man knows when a woman is going to say something clever or interesting because it starts with “a man once told me..”. This was after that nice lady decorator went on to tell me about the French Mayday tradition of selling Muguet, lily of the valley, in bunches from stalls set up everywhere on Mayday only. Do you know what? she was right!
Thereafter it was back to the web to chew over the weeks events, but as that nice lady decorator was intent on providing me with untold and un-needed details about some wedding or other that she had attended, I glazed over and decided to test the hammock to its full extent. I am glad to be able to report that it came through rigourous testing with flying colours.
From today, three days of temperance must be observed as we are in training for a big weekend in Venice next weekend with our dear Norwegian gay friends Morten and Ziggy, otherwise known as Bang and Olufsen, a name thrust upon them by my old pal Paul North, award-winning fridge magnet salesman and former butcher. It will be, as usual, a full on drinking and smoking affair, the boys both being big cigar fans, so I must stock up the car with enough Montechristo No 2’s to last a weekend, 3 boxes should do it.
I have learned an interesting fact this weekend; Did you know that scientists have found a food that diminishes a woman’s sex drive by 90%? It’s called a Wedding Cake. I suggested this concept after a few glasses of wine to that nice lady decorator, but she had a complete sense of humour failure. I shall never understand women.
I have just realised that there is as yet no plug for Currencies Direct, and, not wishing to disappoint my Persian friend Josef and Phil, who have both in the past mentioned this unfortunate oversight, herewith the website where you can save up to 3% on foreign exchange transfers.
Chris France
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