Hammer Bottom Butsers
The cricket at Cabris Cricket club, now rather confusingly situated at nearby St Valley De Thiey, was yet another triumphant return to the world of cricket for my good self. I had been invited to play by Pete Bennett of Blue water Yachting, my chauffeur for the day, but did not recall agreeing to play until after selection, but it was a great day out. We were playing against a touring team from Surrey called, rather alarmingly The Hammer Bottom Butsers. Even more alarming was the fact that they had their own logo encrusted shirts, sweaters and even, as my picture today alludes to in graphic details, monogrammed boxes. A box, as any cricketer knows, is a vital piece of equipment used by chaps to keep a very hard cricket ball from colliding with a man’s wedding tackle, however, in 45 years of playing cricket, I have never before been unfortunate enough to witness monogrammed items of this type. I was also rather uneasy at how easy it was for me to procure this photograph, but after I had taken it, the sudden realisation that the picture was to be published, gave voice to several comments about padding the particular area of protection for the sake of vanity. I have of course edited the picture to ensure that these two particular characters cannot be identified, except perhaps by their wives.
Monogrammed protection, but hardly worth the effort?
They are however charming people and, on the day, deserved losers, with Cabris benefiting from the 30 classy runs scored by yours truly, the highest score for our side, cementing a fine victory. Later however, it is revealed that out opponents have only ever won one game whilst on tour, having lost heavily on all five previous tours. Perhaps a little more dedication to the game itself, rather than the slightly questionable use of sineage might pay some dividends?
I hear from Phil at YBH1 yachts who notes that there was no plug yesterday for Currencies Direct. This of course was an oversight that will not occur again.
After my return to Valbonne from cricketing nirvana, I found that nice lady decorator, freshly returned from London where she had witnessed some wedding or other, tucked into her third bottle of wine with Lisa Thornton Allan in the pav. It was thus clear to me then that no cooking would be taking place so we ended up in the family run and bustling Valbonnaise where we meet Jeroen Zaat from Riviera Home Finders celebrating the Dutch queens wedding. I never quite got to the bottom of it, but it seems that her birthday is actually in February but it is always celebrated on April 30th. Whoever is Queen, her birthday is always celebrated on the same date. This would seem to me to be something routed in that countries renowned intake of cannabis.
I am in no doubt that his assembled multitude of fellow Dutch nationals had imbibed well of something, as they were making sufficient noise to cause an altercation with some French diners about the noise levels. These noise levels were them seriously inflated whilst a discussion took place about too much noise. It did not seem to occur to either parties that their discussions were in fact noisier than anything that had gone before, making the situation worse, and at one stake, that nice lady decorator, who as we all know likes a fight, wanted to join in the altercation. It would not have mattered whose side when took, she just likes a good fight. However, eventually relative calm returned and celebrations continued until well after we had left.
Chris France
Golf victory celebrated
As the putt rolled in for the birdie at the first, I knew it was going to be my day. A fine win at golf followed where my mustachioed old git partner the wingco and I took down the metaphorical pants of Pete Bennett of Blue water Yachting and Paul Thornton Allan and administered a thorough good hiding, the sort of thrashing beloved of many public schoolboys. Pete then went home to polish his sword and put on his medals and stand to attention because of a minor royal marrying the daughter of an air hostess, a trolley dolly. Just don’t know what all the fuss is about, especially as I have managed to avoid the TV for the last 24 hours.
At golf I am accused of republican leanings, but with a political stance just to the right of Attila The Hun, this is a long way from the mark. I like a bit of a party and dressing up, indeed nothing gives me more pleasure than putting on the kilt, but that is another story, but this furore is just ridiculous, a German and Greek family, who no power and a lot of money living in a big house are entitled to enjoy a nice wedding, but it has nothing to do with everyday life, bah humbug.
To take my mind off it, here is a picture I took this morning of what I believe must be a triffid;
What is this bizarre plant?
The up side was a nice lunch courtesy of the Thornton Allan’s, which I tried to ensure that I only arrived some time after the ending of the silly pageant. It was very good of them to stage such a big bash just because I, and fellow MOG won the golf, but really, they did not need to go to so much effort. However, even I had no idea that the wedding TV coverage would be so extensive and go on all day. I suggested we change the channel a couple of times, as even a deadly boring programme about archaeology or some other unutterably boring subject would have been more entertaining (for me) but as you can imagine, I seemed to be in a minority of one.
So, like a moth to a flame the big event was so omnipresent it became impossible to avoid. Fascinating in the same way as a motorway pile up, you hate what your are seeing but your eyes are drawn to it. Who was it that told Fergie’s kids to wear those hats? Maybe they were doing it for a bet? I have seen some appalling sights in my time but these were a catastrophe. One of them looked like some kind of ornate orange wash stand with reached down to the poor creatures nose, and they got to sit behind the queen, she must have been so pleased.
The point was made correctly, that there is only one country in the world with the depth of history and the experience and utter dedication to pomp and ceremony to stage such an event which frankly, could easily have gone wrong. During the procession I suspect that the mobile phone network was being blocked within a hundred metres or so, just to ensure no loonies tried to set off a bomb on the route, or tried almost as bad, to send me pictures from the procession. Sadly though, eventually the pictures taken from the procession arrived from that nice lady decorator who was in the crowds waving her flag of St George, before wisely retiring to a nearby pub to take sustenance in the form of London Pride.
Today I will play cricket for the Riviera Cricket Club up at St Vallier above Grasse close to Cabris. A full report tomorrow.
Chris France
Whirl pool wedding
There was no doubt in my mind, yesterday evening was going to be teetotal and nothing was going to change that. It is not often in my life that I have been more certain or focused on ensuring that nothing could break my iron resolve to avoid all social contact, or at the very least avoid any contact with alcohol. However fate is a strange bed fellow. Sometimes, the best of intentions are undermined by a single persons metaphorical cry for help, thus when I picked up the phone at 8 30 pm last night, I somehow knew who it would be.
Rupert Scott is unexpectedly back amongst us for the saddest of reasons, the death of an associate, and the funeral and attendant issues, and he was clearly in need of some solace, so who am I to impose on him or refuse to adapt my own jealously guarded teetotal regime in the face of human anguish? This will be the basis of my defence when I am subjected to a new cholesterol test shortly, when I am trying once again to reach double figures.
From the above paragraph, you will realise that natural human compassion required me to change my plans immediately and do whatever I could to support a pal at a time of need, and thus once again, despite the best of intentions, I ended up in the Queens Legs playing pool until after midnight.
Modesty forbids me to relate to you who was the most successful player, despite one amongst us owning not only his own full-sized snooker table, but also a pub where he was the pool champion, but the employment of my normal sporting tactics, which of course means the liberal use of gamesmanship, as opposed to sportsmanship which is an entirely different animal, and my tactics managed to achieve the desired effect. There are some similarities with my tennis game, slow it down, keep your opponent waiting with boring deep lobs, or in this case interminable snookers, and then take advantage when their carefully nurtured frustration has built to a crescendo and causes them to crack and do something stupid.
Joining this compassionate crusade was the wingco, with whom I will be playing golf again this morning, before trying to fight the whirlpool of pressure that seems to be exerting massive force to witness some wedding or other on the TV today. I am manfully fighting it, but even amongst grown men there is scarcely another subject of discussion, so my picture today is of the sunset which seems to depict the sun going down on my aspirations to avoid as Peter Lynn puts it “counting each bloody seed pearl on Kate’s dress”.
The sun going down on WANKROYWAG?
I intend fighting until the end. Golf, originally intended to continue throughout the event has been curtailed to just 9 holes, and then staged before the wedding to allow the Hamelin effect to lure otherwise strong men towards their TV screens, luncheon parties have been organised almost everywhere with champagne on tap, but I will have a beer at the golf course, then lunch with the wingco at the Auberge St Donat (even he, the strongest willed of men, is going to “just have a look” between golf and lunch), so I shall be in a void for an hour or so, unable to venture home otherwise I know I will be trapped.
That nice lady decorator will arrive home on Saturday, when, weather permitting, I shall be donning the cricket trousers and weaving the old leg spin magic and caressing the ball to all parts of the ground. That at least is what I have dreamed and I shall do my best to make it come to pass. Any suggestion that I am going to play as there may be a large seam of untapped customers for Currencies Direct is as obscene as it is true. Missionary work of this nature takes on many different guises.
Chris France
Sepukangri, a mountain to climb
So that nice lady decorator caught her flight. Perhaps I should not have got her to the airport so early, but I really did not want her to miss the Royal wedding.
I have begun to play on-line chess with opera impresario Bill Colegrave, who has given himself a rather obscure nickname, . Most people have normal nicknames, like Chazza, or Fatty, but Bill, he has to be Sepukangri. I asked him what he meant and it appears that it is the second highest unclimbed mountain in the world. Given his history of playing me at chess, where I have a 100% record of winning, he perhaps should have chosen the name of a mountain or maybe only a hill that is easily conquered, maybe Ivinghoe Beacon, the highest point in the Chiltern’s at 800 feet, and conquered by children every day would have been more apt? However, as he is a Currencies Direct client, I won’t mention it.
Rock roses in full bloom spotted on a walk in the Valmasque forest yesterday., obviously in celebration of the royal wedding
So there was fleetingly, the delicious prospect of a quiet night at home, without a drink and with the TV remote in my hands for a change. I had just begun to prepare for dinner, which means that I had looked at the take away menu of the pizza van and the Indian in Valbonne, and then the phone rang. I should not have answered it. Rupert Scott, renowned party animal was in town and had a question to ask; did I fancy a quick pint and maybe a pizza or an Indian later? Of course what I should have said is “thanks but I have had such a full on time the last two weeks, I just want to curl up in front of the telly and do nothing”. What I in fact said was “that’s great, just try to stop me, what time and where?” and so I am afraid I must report a massive fall at the first self-imposed temperance hurdle this week.
The Queens Legs for a couple of pints of Guinness, followed by a visit to the Kashmir, for a rather good Lamb Madras turned out to be exactly what I needed, even although my idea of what I thought I needed at the start of the evening was entirely at variance with what it turns out I actually needed. I am not certain that makes sense, and equally I am not certain that pints and a curry made sense in my life last night, or that I was making much sense after it, but I can tell you I enjoyed it.
So as I write this at 5am, the combined effects of cardimon seeds and coriander being the best legal way of ensuring you cannot sleep, I am giving thanks to Rupert for providing the impetus for keeping me awake.
I am afraid to report a few backsliders in respect of WANKROYWAG, the William And Kate’s Royal Wedding Avoidance Group. Many, whilst claiming to have sympathy with the groups aims, appear to making excuses to be near a TV at mid day on Friday. No names, no pack drill but I would think the wingco may be squirming in his seat if he were ever to read this. Luckily as his opinion of this column is “Ghastly” he will never know that he has been marked down as flaky.
Talking of the wingco and flaky, I am still awaiting delivery of the promised ride-on mower. If it does not come soon then I will have to machete a path through the garden so that I can still see the hills currently obscured by the pampas grass sized forest masquerading as my lawn.
Chris France
Opera Ration
A comment from the Reverend Jeff yesterday caught my eye. He suggests in response to my setting up ROYWAG, the Royal Wedding Avoidance Group, that perhaps it might be better named WANKROYWAG, standing for the William And Kate Royal Wedding Avoidance Group. This is a good point, well made, and I think I may adopt this epithet as it seems to sum up more precisely my feelings about the while worthless event. Even now I feel that it is helping me to handle the whole spectacle.
Preparations are almost complete for the nice lady decorator to fly off for the WANK (William And Kate) event on Friday together with my daughter, Charlie, on the pretext of an interview at a college in London. Given the interview is the day before this prestigious event, I suggested that I should be the one to accompany her, with the crowds that are expected in London, making the trip potentially uncomfortable, but I was firmly overruled. Clearly that nice lady decorator was shielding me from the crowds and selflessly putting herself to the fore and having to put up with witnessing the event against her wishes.
My picture today is of some old git posing for a picture which he hopes will be the front cover of his book, and which he hopes to complete whilst enjoying a few days respite from a nagging headache (aka that nice lady…no I can’t say that).
Old git at work in one of the ante rooms of my office
I am looking forward to whatever culinary delight my son has in mind for me this week, him being on what he is calling his gap year, but I feel I have been over exposed to chicken nugget curry and am hoping for something else equally challenging; marmite and marmalade sandwiches perchance?
I have just caught that nice lady decorator setting our Sky plus system to “record” another 6 episodes of Midsommers Murders, to go with the other 53 episodes that are recorded and so far unwatched. It is almost unthinkable but at the same time inevitable that Fridays event will be set further to clog up the Sky Plus memory whilst she is away.
I have been asked by Bill Colegrave to alert opera lovers to this years Bastide St Mathieu opera events in July, full details of which will be on the websitelater today. As these are normally sold out in advance, it is best to get your tickets ordered soon. Sadly I will be languishing in the UK at that time, which is a shame because I have always fancied a bit of an aria. Someone one described me as a bit operatic but I don’t like hospitals.
The Riviera Business Club roadshow event which was to have taken place in Sophia Antipolis on Thursday night has been postponed. Had I not already decided that no alcohol will pass my lips until Friday, I may have attended, but when considering whether my presence may be required, I came to the conclusion that I have mopped up most of the delegates for Currencies Direct, so may give my liver a short holiday instead.
Shortly I will begin preparations for Le Tour De Finance being staged in Mougins 19th May, where all sorts of financial experts will be on hand to offer advice and help, but more importantly, a free apero will be offered and it will be free to get it! Helen Humphrey, local artist and most of the International clubs will be represented along with banks, financial advisors, mortgage chappies and the like. You can register your interest on the website
Chris France
ROYWAG is launched
This is not a drill, this is for real. Royal Wedding mania has started. It is time to pack up and leave, this is an incident on a par with Fukushima. My comments on my determination to avoid the royal wedding at all costs have clearly found resonance amongst the local male population. Comments, phone calls and emails have all been received today from a plethora of desperate, royal nuptials avoiding, masses, thus I think it time to assemble ROYWAG, the Royal Wedding Avoidance Group.
Amongst those I would like to co-opt onto the committee is my Jewish friend the self proclaimed “circus sized” Peter Lynn, who was the first, some two minutes after yesterdays column was published, who wished to “enlarge my circle” as he put it. I have assumed he meant to avoid next Fridays lurid spectacle, but my first thought is that he had been reading to much in this column recently of the public schoolboy antics I have been er..covering.
The outline plan is two fold; to expand to as many as possible the planned 9 holes of golf in the morning at Le Provencal, or for non players to congregate at “church” at Cafe Latin, then to for all to assemble for lunch at The Auberge St Donat at 12.00, the exact moment the wretched event is due to start.
This movement could give life to merchandising or slogan writing opportunities; in golfing terms “don’t take the driver” (a rather poor taste warning for the son of Princess Diana you may think?) or what about “you can set my doors to manual anytime” for Kate? As I think Jack said to the bean stalk, “this could grow and grow”.
A splendid barbecue yesterday afternoon with Roly and Leslie, at their sumptuous villa near Valbonne. So sumptuous was it, that after spending nearly 6 million Euros buying it, they have decided to knock it down and build something else! They are wonderful hosts, only falling down at the hurdle of whom to invite. Much as I like Jude and Johnny O Sullivan, that’s the end of the sentence. I could not think of a way to finish it off. I took a picture of one of the beautiful outside eating areas behind the pool, which looked fab to me, before they knock it down;
Scruffy. Lets knock it down.
There is no better way to spend a bank holiday afternoon than at a fantastic villa with great company, great food and a cigar to finish off, I think I was in heaven this afternoon, indeed that illusion was only shattered late in the afternoon by that nice lady decorator asking me rather too loudly of I was still awake. As it turned out I wasn’t, but I entered full wakefulness swiftly after her question was relayed to me at a volume that was undoubtedly a breach of safety decibel limits.
A barbecue was reward enough for the traffic jams our hosts had caused recently due to a new fire hydrant. As I mentioned earlier, my cigar stealing pal John O Sullivan was also there. John, their is a tabac in Valbonne selling good cigars, I am emailing you a map, do the decent thing. His lovely wife Jude was described at lunch as a “Siren”. Of course, my interpretation of this description was a reference to her good looks, not her voice. I know she will believe me.
And so that’s it. No more social occasions in the foreseeable. I shall be living the life of a hermit this week until Friday, and I cannot say how much I am looking forward to it. I shall of course, use the time wisely to complete the book and promote the services of Currencies Direct. You knew there had to be a plug somewhere!
Chris France
Cricket balls up
Rather alarmingly, I have agreed to play cricket again next week at Cabris. They have a cricket pitch up there, just the other side of Grasse, and there are several teams in the area. I know I must have agreed to play as I have received a call confirming it, but do not recall when I agreed to such a stupid idea. Whilst I was once a decent cricketer in my youth, and I single-handedly guided Little Horwood to a famous victory in division 6 of the Buckingham and District League when marooned in the UK last summer, I am now pushing 60, so any activity of this nature is probably ill-advised. It is certain therefore that I agreed to this folly whilst under the influence.
To blame for this state of affairs is Pete Bennett at Blue Water Yachting, as I understand he plays as well. I can see no other connection. Talking of Mr Bennett, he is supposed to be involved in the royal wedding golf avoidance plan for next Friday, but has not quite understood the main thrust of the activity, wedding coverage avoidance, as he has asked to make sure the golf is over in good time for him to dash back and watch the boring event on TV. It seems that he is a royalist and once met the queen, so feels he should witness it. I know some queens and am also a royalist but have not the slightest interest in seeing what Carla Sarkozy Bruni will be wearing, or trying to spot the Prince’s bald spot, or to guess whether he is wearing a syrup (of figs – wig; cockney rhyming slang), although that would interest me more than event itself. I do hope that the wingco will be available for a long lunch during proceedings, just to ensure I miss it all.
Bluebell the camper van is unwell. Easter is normally the time when we attempt the awakening from hibernation, but she does not seem to want to wake up this year, and that is how I feel today. The events of the last 2 weeks have ground me down to the point where I did not even want a beer last evening, perhaps I am sickening for something.
Bluebell the camper, still in hibernation
Today to a barbecue somewhere in Valbonne with Roly and Leslie who were both deeply involved in medical research. I wonder if they can advise me what to do about a rather nasty irritation, perhaps I should divorce her?
Then this week another concerted attempt at temperance. If I can get through Tuesday, then that nice lady decorator flies off to the UK on Wednesday, although I may need a drink to calm my nerves in the face of my sons cooking. Not sure I can face chicken nugget curry when sober..
Mr Clipboard tells me that he has applied for tickets for almost all Olympic events and all ticket prices. He has worked out that he will have a bill of £10,000 if he gets his whole application. Just how many tickets has he applied for in the women’s volleyball competition? I mention this because something has been troubling me about the Olympics, If one member of a synchronised swimming team drowns, do the rest drown too?
I love the Irish, you can always have a good joke at their expense. I heard Jude O Sullivan saying she had to take a scarf she bought back to the shop as it’s too tight. This was before the Baileys had taken full effect on Saturday evening.
My angloinfo Happy Mondays blog is published again this morning. In no way should this be seen as a blatant attempt to advertise the wonderful services of Currencies Direct
Chris France
Pigeons in bikinis?
I awoke to the sound of rain and thought I had died and gone to hell or woken up in Yorkshire. Some friends eeking out a living from their pigeons in that wild and untamed outpost, claimed in a message, presumably carried by one of them, that they (the pigeons?) were in bikinis. John Surtees, for that is his name has a rather err..northern view of clothing, you know the sort of thing, the colder it is the less they wear, as evidenced every Saturday night up north, where white stilettos are all the rage. His handsomely endowed wife Rachel wanted it mentioned that she was preparing fish in Dill, with no batter to be seen, but I have no idea where Dill is, and I am so sorry that batter stocks are running so low. I imagine she will want to give me a battering after reading this.
It is true that the first rain of the month has been falling, whilst there seems to have been a short smog inspiring warm period back in the UK, but unless it rains sometime, how can I get any decorating done? It’s all very well being married to that nice lady decorator, but if she does not live up to her name then why keep her? So the rain yesterday was very welcome in that it produced some tangible decorating results and protected my wine stocks, at least until towards evening when we were invited to dinner at Tim Bucktwo’s and Lady Jill.
My picture today was taken at Biot some weeks ago, but it could have been taken in Yorkshire. It was a Knights Templar event, celebrating life as it was in the middle ages and as you can see could have been taken in any Yorkshire outpost yesterday, I am just not certain of the reason he has a chicken under his arm.
That chicken was making a fearful noise
Easter is of course a time for a party, when rising from the dead seems to be a theme for some obscure reason, but I have no idea why I have connected that with Yorkshire.
At dinner Jude O Sullivan, renowned for her prodigious appetite for Baileys, that nasty liqueur, revealed that she was recently in seventh heaven. The duty-free area at Dublin airport had laid on, especially for her, a free tasting of different Baileys varieties. It seems that now one can “enjoy” this cloying vomit inducing nasty sticky after dinner drink in hazelnut, coffee or mint flavours. I say after dinner as the accepted norm for the very few people with such an unsophisticated palette that they can enjoy this foul concoction, is to partake of this egg nog like slime as a digestive after dinner, however regular readers will know that Jude has the ability to imbibe Baileys at any time of day. The problem now is, which flavour to keep as emergency rations in her handbag? A dilemma indeed.
John O Sullivan who was also present revealed that his name is the third most common in Ireland, but seemed surprised by general acceptance of his name being connected with the word common. Of course I may sometimes refer to him as a common thief with his accountant like ability to wriggle out of paying gambling debts, and his uncanny ability to smoke cigars that he has not bought, this time thankfully courtesy of our host Tim Buck-two.
As this is Easter Sunday, I shall avoid the usual advert for Currencies Direct and instead concentrate on more spiritual things. I think cognac will be todays spirit of choice.
Chris France
French police can drink on duty
The French police are currently allowed under French law to drink 25cl of wine at their meals, which I think is a very sound approach to policing. That old “have you been drinking sir” phrase, which we all dread, could perhaps be changed to “have you been drinking more than me?”
The British police can learn a thing of two from the French, such as it someone is caught robbing someone, they go straight to prison immediately pending their trial. If they plead guilty then the time served before the trial is off set, plead not guilty and it is ignored. How much less petty crime would exist in the UK if this very sensible provision was taken up?
So with no social event in the diary today, and after the last 10 days of full on debauchery, then one would think it would be sensible to eschew drink, right? Wrong, after an exhausting morning working in the garden, that nice lady decorator suggested a beer in Valbonne Square, and although I know you will know I fought manfully to resist the idea, you may also suspect that eventually I gave in. You may believe that, but I could not possibly comment.
Valbonne square today, not that I was there, oh no.
The gay rights movement seems to have adopted the French cock, but given it a pink feather boa for the gay rights march in Paris. I do hope that Mr Humphreys has seen it, as I am certain elements of it will feature in his wardrobe for the coming week, indeed, perhaps “church” at Cafe Latin, before the royal wedding will be the time for him to unveil something royally awkward? Personally, I am in the “hiding from the wedding” camp, I hope to be on the golf course and nowhere near TV next Friday, and I hope to be amongst others of the same opinion. That nice lady decorator will be on the streets of London with her flag, how I hope it rains…
Actually, I may have to attend church next Friday to see if Mr Humphrey is free, and to see whether he will combine the new French gay icon with something in celebration of the wedding of a balding royal to the daughter of a former air hostess. I have heard it said that whenever Kate or her family enter a room in the Palace, members of the royal family say under the breath “doors to manual”. Feather boas and virginal white are right up Mr Humphreys street I would suggest.
So a comparative day off yesterday, but a dinner engagement tonight and a barbecue on Monday are already in the schedule, to which I have gained unauthorised and no doubt temporary access. From Wednesday onwards, that nice lady decorator will be gone for a few days, so I shall be able to decide my own agenda, complete the writing and editing of my first book, or maybe I shall call it a a novel? which now has a provisional launch date in June courtesy of the English Book Shop in Valbonne. As we speak, a venue big enough to accommodate all my fans is being sought, with a take over up to half of the cosy new wine bar in Valbonne, La Kavanou, looking a firm favourite.
With the offices of Currencies Direct now closed until Tuesday, I can take a rest from the frantic networking that marks out most of my days. Regular readers will be aware of just how much work goes into what some could misinterpret as a wild social life, and will no doubt full understand my requirement for a day of rest yesterday.
Chris France
Viber-rator failure
Banjo, the calamitous cocker spaniel, is mostly black and brown with a little bit of white, so I reckon he should be renamed Birmingham. He was foisted on this household by that nice lady decorator who wanted a guard dog masquerading as a pet. It was a failure on both counts, he only barks at the lawnmower and pizza delivery boys, and if ever there was a burglar he would probably sleep through it.
Someone who shall have to remain nameless was discussing acute angina over the weekend, but I think that nice lady decorator misheard. At least that was my judgment made by assessing the scowl with which I was blessed when the conversation was all but finished. I can only think she was worried about my heart.
At lunch, after administering the usual thrashing to Mr Clipboard on the golf course, which once again he refused to accept on the basis of his girls handicap, he admitted to using some kind of phone application called a Viber. I have no idea exactly what it is intended to do to benefit the user but the suggestion was made that perhaps it was a viber-rator? In any event it seemed to vibrate with alarming regularity. Perhaps it has some kind of wake up call facility? In which case it failed miserably this morning as we were on the second hole before he “arrived” yesterday. Bearing in mind his overbearing and frankly brutal interpretation of anyone failing to adhere to his daft deadlines, I do hope he will punish himself thoroughly for this timing aberration, perhaps he should set his viber-rator to stun?
Common decency does not permit me to suggest that he had used said application to help his needs at any hole or on the golf course, or indeed prior to playing.
Also present for the golf, and unlike Mr Clipboard, on time, were Paul Thornton Allan of The Big Picture and Pete Bennett of Blue Water Yachting and much discussion took place at lunch in respect of Currencies Direct and how much they could contribute towards the long-term success of his Blue Space project, a state of the art on-line portal for all yachting needs. Thus I shall be submitting the receipt for lunch today to my accountant and I trust there will be no argument as to its veracity in terms of setting the cost against my tax bill.
The web. Once in it is very hard to get away
Whilst the chaps, well, some of us, were beavering away (on our viber-ators?) on a working lunch, the girls, including that nice lady decorator, decided to lunch in the square at Valbonne. Just after lunch, at around 6pm (!) She arrived back into the web, the newly named outside terrace and bar area, pictured today, for an early evening glass of rose, obviously thirsty having no doubt drank nothing throughout the luncheon gathering. Several other female miscreants were in tow, whom were also unaccountably thirsty, making considerable inroads to my wine stocks, until at least 8 30pm. At this stage it became clear that cooking would be an activity far too complicated to contemplate for that nice lady decorator, so I adjourned to the pizza van for dinner. 30 minutes to wait for a pizza? I am afraid I could not accept such a delay so headed up to the Kashmir for a take away curry, where I briefly met Tony “inventor of the internet” Coombs and his lovely wife Pat. However they were accompanied by a drunken Irishman in the shape of John O Sullivan muttering something about cricket, so I was glad to collect my curry and head home.
There is the delicious prospect today of a bank holiday in the UK, and no social occasion in the diary, well, that is as I write. It is entirely possible that before I write Saturdays column, I shall have one again be dragged kicking and screaming to some social event.
Chris France
Grinding the faces of the poor
At the tennis lunch yesterday, there was a small baby sitting on the terrace of Auberge Provencal in Plascassier. Its mother asked me wind it, but I thought that was a bit harsh so I gave it a dead leg instead.
The MOGS (mustachioed old gits) in the form of my good self and the wingco, extended our unbeaten tennis run, destroying all before us in the world of crusties tennis in Valbonne. MOG mania cannot now be far away.
Over the victory lunch, where once again Mr Clipboard took advantage of my generous nature by failing to pay his share of the bill, discussion ranged over the events at his soiree the night before. I had forgotten that the police arrived at around 11.30, due, I am certain, to the wingco’s bellowing laugh, much in evidence when laughing at his own jokes. I do not recall the police joining in with the laughter however.
Mr Clipboard, from his lofty perch supported by an education at Wellington and a successful career as a builder, although he prefers the term “developer”, enjoyed the building boom of the 1990’s where he first learned how to grind the faces of the poor. These deeply instilled traits, exacerbated by a sadly misplaced sense of superiority, are clearly much in evidence, and he is now becoming well-known as someone who only pays his gambling debts when it cannot be avoided. He also took great delight, earlier this week, in further grinding the faces of the poor (me) by intercepting my tip, left for hard-working waiters and waitresses at lunch, on the grounds that service is included. I suppose back at that grandiose public school, he probably treated his fag with the same lack of humility.
Perhaps it is the fact that my own career has been marked by my widely renowned very careful attention to the financial basics that upsets him so. In the minds of the public schoolboy fraternity, and especially Mr Hindle, Mr Clipboard and the wingco, this marks me out as a “barrow boy”. Some may believe that this description bestows upon me unworthy praise, indeed John Otway once described me in print as his “personal banker and loan shark” and it is true to say that I did have a little sideline going, aged 17, which stirred my entrepreneurial juices, allowing me to take a cut from work undertaken by my friends, including the said Mr Otway, before he found fame and, well infamy rather than fortune.
So the class war rumbles on, those of us who were born with plastic spoons in our mouths must eek out a living, close to the bread line, whilst rather garrulous builders live the high life on the proceeds of the hard work of the poor.
It is a good idea, when buying new tennis balls, not to leave them unattended in the garden
My picture today was taken just before Max, the faithful old family retainer, took to the swimming pool to fetch a tennis ball. As a confirmed non swimmer myself, it appears that I pay for the pool as a private swimming facility for the dogs, and although Banjo, the heinous hound is banned from the pool as he is far too smelly, it is as if he does not understand plain English.
So after the tennis triumph of yesterday, I am looking forward to the golfing triumph which awaits me this morning at Le Provencal Golf Course, where once again I shall attempt to remove some of those ill-gotten gains from the pockets of Mr Clipboard, and will be keeping an eye on any tip I may decide to leave after lunch.
Chris France
Urban cowboy style
Dinner last night with Mr Clipboard and lovely wife Ashley, is enlivened by fellow guest Mr “like a stallion” Humphreys (he was free) and his rather alarming choice of attire in what he described as his “urban guerrilla” style, but which the assembled multitude collectively decided was more “urban cowboy”, with a some influences from Mr Ed, the talking horse.
Many interesting concepts were discussed, but as usual I was only allowed to make notes when no one was looking, it being generally accepted now that any stupid behaviour or inappropriate comments will be truthfully reported in this column. The word truthfully in this context is of course subjective. It is also accepted and understood that if I do not make notes then I will surely forget most events by the time it comes to compile this missive, and thus there is a concerted attempt to prohibit note taking.
So there were also subjects and themes that I cannot report, simply because as a result of my advanced state of degeneration, I cannot remember much of embarrassment without notes.
From my notes for instance, I know that the marketing department at Mitsubishi were all in deep trouble after launching the Nissan Pajero in Spain. The problem was that the launch apparently, took place without realising that the word Pajero in Spanish means something relating to masturbation. Not too many people then were going to be happy driving a Nissan wanker.
Other stories emerge, such as one of our number, who wishes to remain anonymous, but Lorraine will know of whom I speak, who has experienced bananas up her exhaust pipe (no, I don’t understand either). Another concept which was discussed is that none of us knows where area code 0898 is, otherwise most of us men would choose to live there.
The wingco made an appearance, comparatively rare in recent weeks, having had his brother in town for a week or so, and complaining of hard-drinking until 4am every night for a week. I suggest that after a few early nights he will be back in the saddle, which is continuing the horse theme, but last night by midnight, it looked in his case like the horse had bolted after the stable door was shut again. He did however make one point in defence of paedophiles; at least they drive slowly past schools.
Nigel Hindle showing us some of his best Saturday Night Fever dance moves
Discussion turned to the subject of my photograph today, one that you may have already seen, but it is so good I can’t resist using it again. Specifically, chat turned to Mr Nigel Hindle, who featured in the top 15 photos from the first year of this column, and his stag night some years ago. It seems that as the instigator of various dastardly deeds at several stag nights for friends, his own stag night provided an opportunity for some to get their own back. Sadly for reasons of bad taste, I cannot reveal too many details but whilst running across a lawn in the early hours whilst fully covered an treacle and feathers, he broke his ankle, with the result not pleasing the wife to be, that he used a walking stick to get up the aisle.
One of his more cruel deeds for which he was receiving this dire punishment, was to have one poor chap stripped naked, pinned to the ground and a very large rocket attached to his maleness by rope and then to light the firework, which raced into the air without the poor chap knowing that the rope had been cut.
So, another quiet night in the Cote d’Azur…
Tennis this morning to blow away the cobwebs, when the wingco and I will no doubt combine again as the undefeated (this year) mustachioed old gits against Mr Clipboard and John “I crashed my 777 at Heathrow” Coward, followed by lunch..
Chris France
2011 Bordeaux?
How is it that “having a couple of friends over”, which I was told about yesterday lunchtime, could extend to 35 people descending upon me, last night just when I was looking for a quiet day? I was just sitting back with a glass of rose at Chateau Begude after lunch, a 10 Euro note stuck on my forehead with a very sore Mr Gurdon (aka Mr Clipboard). On this occasion, he was not sore due to the indulgence of those curiously public school boy activities that seem to be inveigled into every conversation, but due to his being destroyed on the golf course by a much older man who gave him a 4 shot start for 9 holes. It was at this moment when that nice lady decorator revealed the arrangements, that even for her had got out of hand.
You know you are in trouble, when one of the people invited, Peachy Butterfield, asks if his 10 house guests can come as well, and before discussion is entered into, asks if they should all bring their swimming costumes. Perhaps I should not have made the pool lights fuse at just the wrong moment, but perhaps it was a good move, given the swim wear in view. Speedos, which were no doubt lurking beneath those colourful trousers, are not a good look for a man of his age. He kindly brought some more of the freshest Bordeaux I have ever encountered, but was disappointed that he could not find any 2011, which may be due to the fact that the vines have not yet even flowered, but I guess a man emanating from such backward northern wastes may not have known that. Actually he revealed that his addicted to brake fluid but he could stop at any time.
My picture today was taken last week from Grande Bastide golf course looking up to the old village of Opio. I thought a picture from the golf course yesterday may be a little too painful for Mr Clipboard, who was so upset, he pocketed the generous tip I had left for lunch.
Opio, viewed from the Grande Bastide golf course
Not again? I exclaimed, when that nice lady decorator told me to be scrubbed and groomed and on parade for 7pm this evening. Yes, I can hardly believe it but we are out again this evening, this time as a guest of Mr Clipboard. We must arrive “close to 7.30” which in his case means no earlier then 7.29 and no later that 7.31, so we will need to synchronise watches. I wonder if there is any of that 2010 Bordeaux that peachy brought left? that I can foist on my hosts.
Talk turned last night to the Royal Wedding next week in London, for which that nice lady decorator has concocted a flimsy pretext to attend, although not as a guest you understand. It is odd, the divergence of opinion over this event. The women are all goey-eyed and determined to watch every last nuance either in person or on TV, whereas the men are all setting up golf days or other activities so that no vestige of the most overblown and over-hyped event in modern history can touch their beings. I do not think it would take much to decide which camp I will be in. The good news is that I will have three days starting next Wednesday in which I can decide what to do and when. I am sure I can do it, but it will be eerily quiet without orders being barked at me from 8pm to midnight each day. I have promised to walk the dogs each day, so off to the kennels on the way back from the airport…
Chris France
Topless volleyball?
In a desperate attempt to get some food surrounded with something fatty, our Yorkshire house guests plumped for escalope milanese, and calamari hoops in batter, the latter being the closest to fish and chips that was available. Plump being the operative word here, if I ate things like that every day, I would also expect to end up the wrong side of plump.
Lunch was taken (after their visit to Marinaland – where all they saw were some fish, and none of then encased in batter, and not a Morris Marina in sight) on the way to the airport on the beach somewhere between Biot and Villeneuve Loubet, where even I “plumped” for something with a few more carbs, moules frites au curry, mussels in a curry sauce and chips.
Originally the plan was for a day of recovery today but golf and lunch are now fixed (on Mr Clipboards schedule, arrive 10.30 sharp, tee off 10.44, finish 12.35, lunch 12.45) and judging by the number of telephone calls that have been made and received today, I am beginning to suspect something is on the horizon for tonight but I have yet to receive notification from that nice lady decorator. Then I think there is something occurring on Tuesday evening, again inspired speculation on my part as no instructions have been issued or received.
This is a real concern for me as I have so much work stacking up, it is horrible to contemplate. For instance, apart from my urgent work for Currencies Direct, each of our outdoor seating items need to be rigorously tested, indeed I am testing one as I write. My hammock, or one of the office ante rooms as I like to call it, is even now experiencing the kind of testing vital to be undertaken annually ahead of the rental season, which this year will comprise just three weeks in July. My picture is taken from the site of this thorough testing, indeed as the actual testing was in progress.
hammock testing in progress
Despite much evidence that multi tasking is a myth, as I have carefully explained in an article earlier this year in Riviera Woman, I have realised that in my case it is possible. Simultaneously whilst continuing the thorough testing of the hammock, I wrote my new Happy Mondays blog for angloinfo which is published this morning.
That nice lady decorator remembers nothing about being carried up to bed on Saturday evening, denying it could ever have happened, despite those doing the actual carrying confirming that very fact. There is always a wonderful amount of wind-up material in those instances where memory has clearly lapsed.
Any number of serious transgressions can either be recalled or invented, and the trangressee, in this case that nice lady decorator, can never been completely sure where reality ends and invention begins. What joy! I had a great deal of entertainment last night as a small impromptu gathering developed in the Pav where some of her doubtful behaviour from Saturday night became a topic of conversation. I think the fact of whether these events occurred changed from doubt to certainty somewhere between being told she was at one stage trying to set fire to a fart, and then took part in a game of topless volleyball in the swimming pool. I do so love it when the certainty that she would never do such a thing is replaced by the nagging doubt… Actually that is another epithet to describe her at some stage in the future. indeed, it compliments the other description I came across recently, the nagging headache
Chris France
Marinaland?
Today my guests from Yorkshire are due to make the long trek back to the frozen north. Before that though, they have decided to go to Marineland, but what they have been calling Marinaland in Biot, the aquatic park where the attractions include sharks, polar bears and killer whales. I am not certain if that is what they are expecting, I have heard it suggested that they believe it may be a large display of Morris Marinas, the iconic working class car of choice in the 1970’s.
When faced with a question about uncertainty, our lovely house guest Rachel said that she was not sure whether she was certain or not. She is from Yorkshire, so I could not resist the old gag about the word “gullible” not appearing in the English Dictionary. It may have been funny if she had understood the joke, but hey ho.
Beautiful sunny weather took us to the beach again at Juan Les Pins and La Petite Plage in particular, where our guests insisted in ordering the biggest bottle of wine they could find, a double magnum of rose as my picture today depicts;
- Our waiter tackles opening the biggest bottle of rose available
Having arrived back from the beach on the train, I was looking forward to a quiet evening with perhaps a sun downer, but with a rather nice magnum of St Estephe cru bourgeois opened, it seemed churlish to refuse to help drink it, and then I cannot recall the full sequence of events. However I do recall my son asking if he could have a beer with some of his friends, and this morning it looks like I have been robbed. Every last beer has gone from the beer fridge several bottles of wine, but whoever robbed me rubbed salt in the would by drinking all the beers and wine, jaegermeister, vodka and gin and leaving all the bottles strewn around our new terrace, which has been dubbed “the web” for reasons that are becoming clearer. Before I call the police however, I will be talking to my son this morning to see if he can throw any light on events.
Doubtless, post Marinaland, on the way to the airport, just to make absolutely sure our house guests leave, we may take a late lunch en route. In some ways it is a bit sad they are leaving, they have turned from blue to white in the recent sunshine, and I think I detected a rosy cheek last evening, or was it a cheeky rose?
There will be no rest this week for the wicked, as another renegade from the English weather, Mr Clipboard, is flying in for a few days and demanding to play golf on Monday afternoon between 3.45 and 5.45. As usual his visit has been carefully choreographed to ensure he makes the fullest possible use of his time in the sunshine, and as is also customary, I have received my schedule in triplicate.
Luckily, I do not seem to have been assigned any activities on Tuesday during the day at least, so I shall be using this day as the day in which to achieve my weeks work. The world of currencies will reap the whirlwind of my activities then.
The book is nearing completion. It will be ready for publication by the end of the month, after which I shall be seeking a summer date for the launch, which I hope will take place under the tender guidance of the English Book Centre in Valbonne. I have not yet received the offer from head honcho Lin Wolff, but given the clear commercial possibilities here, I think I should be able to pay her something…
Chris France
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