Pound stretcher in Monte Carlo?
“Where’s the Pound-Stretcher shop in Monaco?”, so asked my dear friend and house guest from Yorkshire. I had taken him and his son to Top Marques, the super car show in Monte Carlo, and I was just pointing out the Hotel de Paris and the Monte Carlo Casino, just after we had walked past the Yves St Laurent, Bvulgari and Dior stores, but it seems the opulence was too much for both of them.
By train to the Top Marques show in Monaco for two reasons, the fact that Top Marques have managed to persuade the Monagasque authorities to close off part of the Monte Carlo Formula 1 Grand Prix circuit around the town, and the small matter of the Monaco Masters tennis tournament taking place in the Principality today. Parking will the be rarer than electricity in Yorkshire.
After the show, which has so many fantastic super cars on display that one almost becomes punch drunk with the visual feast, to the point that has the effect of making cars like the Bugatti Veyron, possibly the ultimate car I had ever seen prior to the show, look ordinary. I suggest lunch as they are overcome with the wondrous nature of the super cars on show, one of which I feature as my photo today. My young Yorkshire born friend was particularly impressed with the Knight, a bullet proof 4 x 4 which makes the Hummer look like a dinky toy. I think he could see a way of getting to school on Yorkshire without the need to have to dig the vehicle out of the tundra or snow, depending on the season.
Will it really keep the whippets out?
We find a restaurant near the station in Nice on the way back, and am a little startled by their request for fish and chips. I gently point out that they can still have their favourite dish, but that the fish is unlikely to be encrusted with vein sapping batter, and the possibility of a side order of mushy peas may be an order too far. I do not think the French have ever entertained the thought of lunch being served in the Nice Matin, but when I mention this, all I get is a blank look. I do not think that anything, including newspapers, is well read in Yorkshire, except for those from that northern out post that are stupid enough to sit out in the sunshine without factor 40+, who do then become well red.
From there we stop in Juan Les Pins to collect that nice lady decorator and her Yorkshire friend who have been systematically reducing the summer stock of rose laid in by Le Petit Plage and join them for a late afternoon glass to celebrate the return of the sunshine.
As if insufficient alcohol had been consumed, that nice lady decorator wanted to go to La Kavanou, the new wine bar in Valbonne, but, as I have predicted, it has become a victim of its own success and was too full, so we adjourned to a previously enjoyed haunt Les Caves du Vin, which is a victim of its pricing policy, but also had its smoky french atmosphere ruined by a very poorly judged make-over a couple of years back. The atmosphere has begun to return but two bottles of wine for close to sixty euros illustrates why La Kavanou is so much more successful.
I hear from my old German friend Konstantin Von Kleist, from AFA International who has just turned 65 and is able at last to dip into his pension pot. He tells me that his pension is not enough to live on, but too much to consider dying, so we agree that it is his turn to treat me for lunch next week on the beach at Juan Les Pins, to talk serious Currencies Direct business.
Chris France
Missionary Work, eagerly undertaken
That nice lady decorator wanted to read yesterdays missive where I wrote, in my opinion, complimentary things about Yorkshire and our refugee house guests from that county for the weekend. It is possible that my view of the word complimentary may differ somewhat from others, particularly perhaps from those from up north.
The very fact that she wanted to read it is, of course, a worry as I am always nervous about her reading this column for obvious reasons. She even suggested she should subscribe to it, if you click on the subscribe button then each days column is emailed to you. She tried this but some reason (thank the lord!) It would not load on her blackberry, so she claimed that it was because her phone knew she would not like it. She is not often so right.
So those excited Yorkshire migrants arrived, and were wide-eyed with excitement as we sat in Valbonne square in the sunshine and to the incredulity of our guests and their children, we sat outside and had lunch. Thereafter, important global business in Nice took me there on Currencies Direct business where I met with the co-founder of Internations, and new affiliate Gudrun from Remax-Cannes.
Gudrun is from Iceland, so I thank her for the two biggest things that Iceland has given the world in recent years, a failed banking system and a mountain of volcanic dust. She says it could have been worse, Iceland could have been Japan, and she has a point. This must surely be the final nail in the nuclear power debate?
At his request I also attended the Internations event in Nice thereafter, where much was learned by the assembled delegates from me, and from where I took this not very good photo.
Boscolo Plaza Hotel in Nice, champagne anyone?
The Boscolo Plaza is a very nice hotel, but the open terrace bar on the 6th floor offers a wonderful panorama looking down across immaculately kept park land on to the Mediterranean.
Internations is a quickly growing international networking group, active in 176 countries, who stage regular networking meetings. In the western world, these mostly involve taking over a bar, drinking alcohol and talking to anyone, so it clearly fits in to my normal daily routine seamlessly. It also presents me with enormous possibilities to carry on with my missionary work with Currencies Direct and indeed, there were several pretty young female delegates with whom I would have been more than happy to assume the missionary position.
Today, after having to get up almost before I went to bed, in order to collect my newly repaired car from Cannes, I will journey (rather ironically by train) to Monte Carlo for the super car show called “Top Marques”, now featuring smaller fast boats and watches as well. I am the guest of Type-41, the most interesting super car club and If I am really lucky may get to drive a limited edition Ferrari around part of the Monaco Grand Prix track.
Thereafter I believe there is a plan to take a late lunch on the beach at either Juan Les Pins or Cannes, I have not yet decided, however the more cynical amongst you may guess correctly that I have not been told witch yet. Peter Lynn is at this moment about to email me about what he thinks is a typo in my last sentence, but is it a typo? Do you see now why it would be dangerous for that nice lady decorator to read this column regularly?
A quiet weekend would have been my choice but with excitable and excited short-term renegades from Yorkshire over running our household until Monday, desperate to enjoy rarely seen sunshine, and able to remove their animal skins for the first time in months, I fear that I may yet find myself once again enjoying myself by the seaside with a glass of wine in my hand. Such are the downsides to missionary work, but I will not be down hearted and shall make the best of it uncomplainingly, as is my want.
Chris France
Yorkshire refugees
Never again. That nice lady decorator decided last week that she liked the meadow look at the end of the garden, so it was not mowed until today, by me, with a borrowed mower. The grass was at least 8 feet tall, and as you know I never exaggerate, but it is over, me and hand mowers are officially finished, I don’t care if the lawn turns into a jungle, no more mowing.
We have the poor deprived family arriving today from Yorkshire. Their desperation for some sunshine is pitiful, however it takes them about five days to turn from blue to white, so as they are only here until Monday (something to do with having to tend the pigeons or maybe they need to look after their livestock or maybe its lambing time?, – steady, Steve Weston) or some other third world activity, they will scarcely have time to thaw out before it is back to the land of tripe and Yorkshire puddings.
Whilst they are here we shall try to give them as good time as possible. I invited them to the Internations event in Nice tomorrow evening that I shall be attending in my capacity as fat controller for Currencies Direct in the Valbonne area, but they just looked blankly at me. I don’t think these simple folk have yet worked out there is anything worthwhile outside the borders of Yorkshire.
My picture today is the one I wanted to show from last week of the wingco guarding a new delivery of wine to favoured lunch haunt the Auberge St Donat.
wingco welcomes in his next few days supply of wine at Auberge St Donat
Friday will see me taking the male contingent of the party from Yorkshire to Top Marques, the exclusive car show staged annually in Monte Carlo. I shall be there as a guest of new super car club Type-41 who are launching their club at the show. It will be different from other car clubs in that their entire selection of super cars are limited editions. Ferraris’s, Porsche, Mercedes, and countless others, all limited editions, are available to members to drive a certain number of days a year, and what a great way to drive a super car without the hassle of owning one. I am sure that most of my readers have already signed up, but just in case you have no yet done so, please mention that you saw it covered in this column and then I may earn sufficient commission to be able to afford to help other unfortunate families from the third world.
Of course the chaps from Yorkshire will no doubt have eyes like saucers, having seen few cars in their lives, and that limited to the occasional Ford Anglia (we have all seen that series Heartbeat, which they claim is set in the sixties, but is really a futuristic depiction of what life may be like up there later this century).
I guess the film equivalent might be Crocodile Dundee, where a chap from the outback with no idea of the modern world experiences the joys of a big city.
So with guests in situ for the weekend, no golf for me. Of course I shall doubtless be verbally abused by various REGS members for being unavailable, but I like to think that any abuse is a reflection of my enormous popularity within this elite golfing group.
On the plus side, this may require me to go to the beach at the weekend for lunch, which will be a change for our Yorkshire incumbents. Would they prefer Grimsby ahead of Cannes? or Scarborough ahead of Juan Les Pins? Of course the idea of eating anything other than fish and chips and mushy peas will not have occurred to them, and I will be interested in how they react to actually sitting on the beach and having food not served in newspapers.
Chris France
No mars bars or pepperoni pizzas
Last night we went to Cannes for the Marianne Faithfull concert at Le Palais Des Festivals, the modern carbuncle and venue for the Cannes Film Festival in Cannes, where that nice lady decorator cavorted up the red carpet exclaiming “no paparazzi” to the assembled group of break dancers and skateboard oiks. I think she was saying that she had finished with pepperoni pizzas for good.
The concert itself was a strangely muted affair, but an interesting event. She had a great band but played a lot of material with which I was unfamiliar, but “Broken English” “As Tears Go By” and “The Ballad of Lucy Jordon” were at least nostalgic, however not a mars bar in sight and no mention either of those antics with Mick Jagger for which she is justly infamous. I took this picture when she came over to get my autograph.
Marianne Faithfull, looking just like her publicity shots
Marianne was nothing like I had imagined, more like a rather naughty granny, with the odd flash of that Catherine Tate granny character, than a faded 60’s icon, even lighting up a cigarette half way through a tissue encrusted, phlegm and flu-laden set, but she can still belt it out. No loss of power in that voice.
I thought it was all going to go wrong earlier on as we got into Cannes a little before the show, and despite my persuasion to the contrary, that nice lady decorator dragged me in to the Majestic Barriere Hotel bar, where she promptly ordered a glass of champagne. I had a small beer, aware of the prices they like to charge, and I was right, a small beer and a coupe de champagne cost 30 Euros (about £25 at today’s exchange rate) , a snip at half the price.
It seemed to go to her head because she described the rather wonderful champagne glass she had been given, as like those used for Bamby shame. This created for me a chain of thought that was not immediately welcome. What kind of shame could there be attached to a cartoon deer? I thought I may have to ask acting REGS golf organiser and self-proclaimed sheep lover and deer friend, Steve Watson for help, (to venison an opinion?). After all he seems at least to understand the concept of shame and animals in the same sentence. Phrases like “on the horns of a dilemma” took on a new and disturbing alternative meaning, however evidently it was just a spoonerism, she meant Babycham, that sparkling perry drink so my fears were allayed, for the time being.
My mower has packed up and I blame Banjo, the disaster dog, whose place in his household would be in immediate jeopardy should that nice lady decorator fail to be his custodian. The mangy mutt has never liked the lawnmower and I think his continual guerrilla attacks on it have worn it down, to the point where it gave up, and I am afraid to say, it may be heading in the direction of that great pasture in the sky, by way of the council dump.
Today, preparations will continue for the visit of that poor unfortunate family from Yorkshire tomorrow that I mentioned yesterday, even now they will probably be on their dog sled or ox cart on the first leg of their trip from Yorkshire to Nice. They must be so excited, even if, as usually happens, their desperation for sunshine ensures they bring some inclement UK weather with them. It will be ironic, as April so far has been sunny and dry every day, but I can just feel the storm clouds gathering, however, even warm rain will probably be a treat for them.
Chris France
Chris France
Hangover on the Richter scale
Monday is traditionally hangover day, and yesterday was amongst the most intense I have ever experienced. The combined effects of the Antibes Yacht Show on Friday, champagne and cake party on Saturday and being Peachyed on Sunday combined to create a startlingly new high in the hangover scale. If there was a Richter scale for hangovers, this would have measure 9+, and as is often the case with events on this scale, and without wishing to be too indelicate, there was also an accompanying tsunami of sorts in the bathroom.
There was no social occasion yesterday, that must be news in itself. So calm could return gradually and some work eventually undertaken in the late afternoon but not until after siesta.
I see some more intemperate remarks in the comments page, some apparently from an embittered Scotsman who seem to be upset at being beaten at golf by an old git despite a 13 shot start. It’s not as if the Scots are not used to losing, one would have thought that it would be second nature to those wild Picts to the north of even Yorkshire. Mike Preston has also had his say.
Marianne Faithful will be appearing in Cannes tonight and it is my duty as custodian to the rights of several musicians from that era, that I attend. No doubt that nice lady decorator will wish to swig several magnums of champagne at the Carlton before the show unless I can divert her into Morrison’s for a far more reasonably priced pint of Guinness, a necessary saving in these times of poor exchange rates.
It seems we left the Butterfields residence just in time on Sunday as I have seen evidence today that once again, Rusty the leader of that UK political party I mentioned yesterday, was unfortunate in that once again all his clothes fell off in mysterious circumstances. Funny how that always seems to happen after a drink. He could have been the man who when stopped by police late at night having imbibed freely, said he was on his way to a lecture about the misuse of alcohol and its detrimental effects on the body. When asked where this lecture was to take place, he said “at home from the wife when I get in”.
One of the very few bad things about living down here is the number of time your car gets dinked by the French, who will not accept that a car parking space is to small, and instead gradually manoeuvre into a gap by nudging cars front and back until they are nestled between two, now newly dented, cars. I had a particularly violent one last week which broke the rear light on the Merc, so early yesterday I had to trail down to Cannes to take the car into the garage. This was when I took this picture and it sums up quite subtly what I think about this French habit and the effect it has had on me.
A dichotomy. Give way in French and the Winston Churchill salute just behind.
Whilst I am grumbling, it reminded me that My Happy Mondays blog for angloinfo was posted yesterday, another masterpiece of misery from a grumpy old git. You can read it here
Later this week, we are taking pity on a poor family from Yorkshire, who are clearly exhausted, cold and disgruntled as usual from the terrible weather that is Yorkshire in the winter. Tundra sandwiches with a tripe dressing is no food for a man, so we have invited one lucky family over to enjoy a few days rest and recuperation and to feed them up a bit and to try to give them enough resolve to face another Yorkshire summer, although frankly how one can tell winter from summer in the god forsaken north is an observational art I have yet to master. The man of the family is also emotionally wrecked having apparently been working on a gritty northern real life disaster TV production about The Chuckle Brothers. He thinks it is a comedy, but anybody not from Yorkshire knows the truth.
Chris France
Anorexic Lesbian?
At a lunch gathering in Mougins yesterday, our host, northern man mountain Peachy Butterfield, described himself as an anorexic lesbian; every time he looks in the mirror he looks fat but he still likes girls.
It was a splendid bash in warm, almost hot sunshine with Peachy in top form and his lovely wife Susie looking peachy, alluring attired as she was, in the tightest of mini dresses.
I met a splendid chap there, who will have to remain incognito for reasons that will shortly become clear. Peachy had excelled himself in the wine department, serving the freshest red wine I have ever encountered. There are not too many 2010 Bordeaux that are ready for drinking yet. I think he felt that the Cheshire Chardonnay and Pennine Pinot may be a tad too rich for the local tastes and decided to treat luncheon guests by shipping in some Bordeaux Insuperior in a frankly doomed attempt to satisfy local taste buds. He does try so hard though, his work ethic is very strong, in fact he stated that if you can get a harness on a northerner, you can get an awful lot of work done.
My picture todays was taken at the Knights Templar festival in Biot recently, and shows an uncanny resemblance to modern northern cooking methods which were do doubt applied to yesterdays wonderful meal.
State of the art cooking methods, Cheshire style
Anyway, back to our mystery man. I had only previously seen a picture of Rusty, as some may know him, with a manic expression driving a boat at night whilst naked. What emerged yesterday which was slightly unnerving was that only he and man mountain, Peachy were alone on the boat at the time. Perhaps it was rather warm?
On its own, that fact would merely raise a whiff of suspicion, a tiny schism of unease, but when one discovers that, as well as being a party animal, he is also the official leader of an obscure but fully registered political party in the UK, and that he once ordered a naked gin and tonic at a hotel (it involves getting all your kit off whilst the barman’s back is turned), that suspicion about what kind of a party political animal he is, becomes somewhat heightened.
Personally, I found him engaging and witty, but at his own admission he is a bit wild, hence later in the afternoon “the handbrake” as he described his lovely wife, was applied with gentle pressure to slow him down.
Yesterday, I was perhaps a little too hard on Mike Preston, who featured in this column in perhaps slightly less than flattering terms. He has made a fulsome response on the comments section today but he does have some redeeming features. He was able recently to exact terrible revenge an oik who borrowed 10 euros from him recently. At home in Plascassier, he received a knock on his door from a youngster with a scooter and crash helmet who asked for10 euros for petrol to get home to Nice. Mike took pity, but also took his name and address and was promised repayment the next day. The name the scooter lout gave was of a prominent french footballer, so it was clearly a scam, confirmed by the non appearance of the scooter lover to repay his debt. Mike had however taken the bike number and spotted it some days later in the Super U supermarket car park, where he chained it up and left his phone number.
It took 2 days before Mike got the call, whereupon he said it would cost 15 Euros (£12 at today’s exchange rate) for him to come and unlock it, 10 euros to repay the debt and 5 euros for his time. Better than that though, he told our scooter lover at midday that he would be busy until at least 8pm. One up to the good guys!
Mike is running another of his incomprehensible (to me) quiz nights at Brittains restaurant in Valbonne this Friday, the phone number for bookings is in his comment on yesterday’s column.
Golf result? who cares?
A lovely summers day yesterday on the golf course was enlivened by some good company, but later in the afternoon, someone asked me, at a champagne and cakes party, if there was a result. But do you know what? I cannot remember. I do recall a fun round of golf and a very lucky Canadian chipping in at the last to deny me….nope, its gone, just don’t remember any more except that a very nice round of golf was enjoyed in great company in the Cote d’Azur sunshine, and that REGS organiser Steve “Dolly the Sheep” Weston was ecstatic, but for what reason I do not recall.
I saw no sign of those alleged lovebirds, Dave “Tripe” Goddard and the beautiful buxom bombshell, Maria. Of course their secret relationship (a secret shared by just the members of the REGS golfing group) if it exists, will remain just that, a secret. They may have been there (sic), but I am not certain as I was under strict orders from that nice lady decorator not to stay for one moment after the golf. In monopoly parlance the message was; “do not pass go, do not collect £200 (250 Euros at today’s exchange rate), go straight home, do not go to the bar, or else you will go to jail. Leave immediately you have finished your round, in order to attend a champagne and cakes party on Mougins”.
My life is worth little enough in any event, but I meekly complied, and what a lovely event it was, in a stunning garden beside a beautiful pool being served copious amounts of top quality champagne and home-made cucumber sandwiches and cakes. A wonderful afternoon enlivened further by a very good Armagnac as the sun went down to send us on our way despite the presence of Mike “Quiz Night Preston”. Now he is a lovely chap, well-educated and widely traveled but he is far too interesting in his own mind for his own good. He was being so interesting that it seems that his current partner became so fed up with his interesting-ness, she left before we arrived, necessitating our continued receipt of just how interesting he can be. This continued all the way to his house, which was nearly a kilometre out of our way, but so interesting was he that it seemed more like 20km.
Mike is of course legendary quizmaster for his regular quiz night at Brittains restaurant where one might expect questions such as, name ten elements in DNA, or give the simple chemical equation for aspirin in Swahili. I was also not aware of who won the Lithuanian tiddylewinks cup in 1923.
My picture today was taken at the Antibes Yacht Show in Saturday where I snapped this guy on some kind of jet invention hovering above the harbour. Personally I can think of other ways of getting high that does not involve the wearing of a wet suit.
One way to around Antibes harbour, and no mooring fees...
Today we are once again invited to Mougins, this time to the home of northern man-mountain Peachy Butterfield for a barbecue. In order for him to maintain his enormous bulk, and with one eye on his great love of northern culture (?), I may eat before we go. I am not sure my delicate constitution is quite ready for pigeon surprise, or woolly mammoth steak in tripe dripping, or whatever other northern delight he has in mind. For all that he is a genuine and generous natured chap with a stunning wife, but given his self-professed love of wine in quantity rather than quality, I may take a nice 2005 Bordeaux to add a different dimension to his Matlock Merlot or Cumbrian Claret that will probably feature prominently.
I am also slightly concerned as to where he will source the northern peat for his barbecue, and do hope he remembered to light it last Tuesday in order for it to have time to reach the correct temperature.
After today, a day off tomorrow before Marianne Faithful appears in Cannes on Tuesday. I shall be seeking a mars bar to hold aloft in tribute.
Chris France
20,000 celebrate distortion of the truth
20,000 hits. The 20,000th hit on this website occurred yesterday and at current rates of expansion viewings will top 100,000 this year. This is a testament to my readership, who seem to be happy to continue letting me getting away with distortion of the truth, evading blame for my own shortcomings, being less than complementary about my wife, that nice lady decorator, and generally ignoring any facts that may get in the way if a good story. Let this be a warning for any miscreants that dare to do something remotely stupid and or embarrassing or anything that my twisted mind can construe as such, anywhere near me in the coming year. I will be watching.
The Antibes Yacht show yesterday was a splendid affair, but before that, it was my duty to set HSBC on the correct course to offer their undoubtedly fine services, by arriving at a very sensible commercial deal, which will allow me to recommend the bank without fear but with favour, the favour being an insignificant consideration, which I shall no doubt bequeath to charity after I have forsaken this life for something better down there.
This is a tacit warning to my siblings that unless they begin to treat my as the veritable old gent that I am clearly not, then the local donkey sanctuary may be getting a surprise bequest after my demise.
At the Antibes Yacht Show I meet Brian Robertson at The Big Picture stand which boasts one of the best pictures I have ever seen. I took this photo of it with him trying to sneak into the shot at the back, which also features both Paul Thornton Allan, the creator of The Big Picture and Pete Bennett, head honcho at Blue Water Yachting, and new Currencies Direct affiliate who was taking time off from his stand to drink some Mr T A’s excellent prosecco.
Celebrating The Big Picture
There were also another itinerant Scotsman lurking on the stand, in the form of Bryce Johnston, both still chuntering on about their respective whippings at my hands at golf in the REGS knockout cup recently.
Their suggestion, that they both caddy for my next opponent in the semi finals, Dave Wilson, and employ the worst American styles of sportsmanship in order to try to deny me what would be a startling victory over a very good golfer is to be expected. There was talk of strategic coughing, heckling, even employing the use of a klaxon.
My teacher at school of a subject then called British Constitution, was of the opinion that a large percentage of our gross domestic product should be used on, amongst some other very worthy causes, to build up Hadrians Wall high enough to keep out the Scots. He also had opinions about significantly widening Offers Dyke, the tiny water way that separates England thus isolating the home country from the land of the slag heap, and some ideas about blowing up the 2 bridges that connect Cornwall to the mainland and having it (Cornwall) towed into the Atlantic and torpeaded, but these are far too reactionary to print here. However, at times like these in the face of this Scottish provocation, I see his point.
So after the prosecco, I thought it would be rude not to sample some of the excellent rose on offer, and eventually retired to the Blue Water Crew area to drink well, everything at their free bar. But what possessed us to leave this free event and go to The Hop Pole in Antibes for a pint of Guinness, lord only knows. It must have seemed a good idea at the time.
This morning then, I am not at my best, but REGS golf is calling and I shall be on the tee at 10.33. I do hope I am drawn with Dave “Tripe” Goddard and the statuesque Maria, we have so much to talk about. It will be interesting to see whether their stories about their respective and almost certainly entirely coincidental absence for the Landlubbers golf gathering last weekend match up. Actually, it would probably better if I interviewed them separately, then I may discover a flaw in their cover story, if indeed there is a flaw. Perhaps there is a plausible reason?
Sadly, I cannot enjoy the normal 19th hole discussions as we are invited for champagne and macaroons this afternoon, so must hot foot to Mougins to join that nice lady decorator who will once again to trying to drink her own body weight in champagne.
Chris France
Taking Yorkshire out of the girl
Cafe Latin now has broadband wireless internet connection. I know this for sure as yesterday morning whilst waiting for our French Currencies Ayatollah, Pippa Maile, to arrive for a meeting I spied the exceptionally beautiful Nancy Allen with her laptop, reading this very column! What good taste she has, although I admit that Mike, her very lucky husband is much more of an acquired taste, which of course, I have also acquired.
My scouring for a second hand sit-on mower has not yet produced any tangible results, and with a son who, having done 2 full days of real work this week is understandably exhausted, but more galling, has enough cigarettes to last the weekend, this leaves me with no bribery leaverage. I am this faced with the prospect of having to mow the lawn myself. This is an entirely unreasonable proposition, so I am casting around for a young whipper snapper that wants to earn a few quid doing it for me.
That nice lady decorator took lunch in Nice yesterday with a friend from Yorkshire. So there they were, sat in one of the most advanced culinary cities in the world, with probably 100 great restaurants to choose from and an enormous range of international and Provencal cuisine from which to choose and what dies the girl from up north order? Yep, fish and chips as my picture below captures. I suppose they must have sold out of mushy peas. You can take the girl out of Yorkshire, but you can’t take Yorkshire out of the girl.
Fish 'n chips in the Cours Salaire, Nice
Talking of taking Yorkshire out of the girl, I am looking forward to the REGS golf event on Saturday where I hope to encounter Dave “Tripe” Goddard and the impressively endowed Maria whom as only REGS golfers know may be a little closer than has hitherto been admitted. Of course their secret is safe with myself and my fellow golfers, but I would like to extend my personal secret congratulations in case I am right.
Today I must journey to Antibes, where a meeting with HSBC will steady them on their chosen path of targeting the ex-pat community, and my presence is required at the Antibes Yacht Show, ably sponsored by new Currencies Direct affiliate Blue Water Yachting. I have chosen the boat that I would like as my reward for my very successful SEO work, and hope to take delivery after the show, indeed this is one of the negotiations I expect to undertake in the Antibes sunshine.
Last night to tennis without fellow moustachioed old git the wingco, who was otherwise engaged. This is a very poor show and he may be getting a brown envelope from the secretary of this happens again. Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villas was allowed to partner me again, a real treat for him as he has never in these circumstances been on the losing side, something that he is entirely un-used to. Tennis was followed by dinner at Capricio in Chateauneuf de Grasse. Modesty forbids me to tell you who were the unlucky thrashed partnership, but Pete Milstead and Larry the Lamb will no doubt be licking some metaphorical wounds this morning. Indeed the subject of licking entered the conversations last evening, as did any number of (for me) unnatural sexual practices, the waitress, nightly sex with ones wife and a number of other tall stories, but as I had previously been served with a yellow card for daring to make notes on my blackberry at the table, I cannot remember enough of the embarrassing stuff for publication today, or can I? Perhaps I have just run out of space? Only time will tell. On that basis I do not expect to have to contribute to dinner the next time my three other compatriots are on the game, so to speak. Guys, you know it makes sense.
Chris France
Cannes Terrorised
I hesitate to use the word thrashing but can find no other word for it. I was playing golf yesterday with taciturn Scotsman Brian Robertson in the quarter finals of the Regs Winter Cup at the sun drenched Grande Bastide. In England, the maximum handicap that a gentleman will play off is 28 but I have discovered that rather than one, there are two races in the world that pay no attention to normal accepted world-wide golfing handicap etiquette, the French and now the Scots. Suffice to say after a very strict interpretation of the rules, I had to give a man young enough to be my son a 13 shot start.
Modesty forbids me to reveal the scale of the victory, and who was the losing party, suffice to say that no Scots will feature in the final stages of the competition. He is however an intrepid sort and clearly has exploration in his blood, and although my picture fails to capture his true spirit, the tree behind him will never be the same again after his visit into its central core to retrieve his ball yesterday.
A lumberjack moment from the Scottish challenger
Bryce Johnstone, another Scot joined us for this match. Having been beaten easily by me in an earlier round, he was keen to pick up some golfing tips, which I am glad to say helped his game enormously. Unlike many of his countrymen, I sought no reward for this guidance. Over a couple of beers afterwards his unstated claim that women should be like golf caddies, either holding your balls or getting your bloody tee ready, was not aired and in any event is not an opinion I am allowed to hold.
With the spring weather delightful, I fear that we shall not be requiring the services of The Kashmir, the Indian restaurant in Valbonne much before the end of October, but if you go in, and the waiter says “Curry OK” I suggest you say “OK, just one song, then back in the kitchen”.
That nice lady decorator headed into Cannes last night for her semi-annual jamboree with an old girlfriend Debbie Barrett who is attending MIP TV which is being staged at the Palais Des Festivals. This usually starts with champagne in the Carlton, followed by dinner, followed by her and Debbie terrorising all the young pretty waiters in their sights.To ensure that no teenage pretty boys are left undisturbed, they attempt to visit as many venues as possible to wreak their terror. An overnight stay is usually followed by days of remorse (which does not mean she is engaged in one of her favourite pastimes, watching re-runs of Inspector Morse on the TV), in turn followed by a gradually unfolding litany of bad behaviour, some half remembered, some not remembered at all, and some made up by my good self, based on that lack of remembrance. This continues until the tall stories get so tall, even she knows she is being would up.
Important Currencies Direct business will discussed this morning, with Le Tour De Finance uppermost on the agenda. Two vital gatherings of this nationwide tour are planned in this area, on 19th May at Mougins and 24th May at Nice. At my suggestion, these will take place at apero time so that one can gather the business information one needs to function properly in France whilst enjoying a glass of wine between 5 and 8pm. More details on the website.
Then I must prepare for the Antibes Yacht Show which opens today, but I will await its peak tomorrow before venturing into this hotbed of super yachts, lunch and who knows what else.
Chris France
I can’t stand it with a bandit
Three days away from alcohol. That was the aim, and I got over half way there. It is better to try and fail than never to try. I don’t know who said that, or indeed if I have paraphrased it, but the underlying message is clear. Nothing ventured, drink gained.
The Mougins School yummy Mummy’s did not make contact, so either they are playing hard to get, or much more likely they woke up to the fact that they may have been funding lunch for an old lush that would prove of no benefit to them. So I thought I would go and collect the sit on mower promised to me by the wingco. Stupidly, I had failed to factor in that by arriving just before lunch, I would be under enormous pressure to have lunch with the old formerly myopic rock and roller. As Adam in the bible or the koran or something would have told you, temptation is wily animal and regular readers will be in no doubt as to my strength in this department and I knew instinctively that I would give in without so much as a whimper if lunch was mooted, and so it came to pass that I took lunch at the Auberge St Donat at Plascassier with the wingco. My picture today was to have been of him directing the latest shipment of wine into the restaurant, in readiness for his next visit, but it would not load, so instead here is a picture of some wild asparagus we picked on the morning constitutional.
Wild asparagus from the Valmasque
As an affiliate for Currencies Direct, the wingco refused point-blank to discuss business over lunch, so we talked as usual about music and literature. As the only literature with which I am familiar is largely contained either in the kids Beano comic or is available only on the top shelf of slightly dubious establishments, the discussions mainly revolved around music. The wingco has a very wide-ranging and deep knowledge of many strands of music, I just make money out of it. “Ever the Philistine” he said, but I do not collect stamps and have no idea how may have come to that conclusion.
However, in an unguarded moment, I did mention that I must spend time yesterday afternoon editing my book. “What book?” Asked the wingco, and I could see the gaping hole opening up in front of me. Regular readers will know that the wingco is less than enamoured with this column; “Ghastly” is his generally held view, so I normally avoid the subject of my own literary output. Indeed he is of the opinion that I also ignore literary taste when writing, so the idea of a book of my “ghastly ramblings” as he would put it, is enough to get that moustache bristling. I managed to change the subject before the volcano erupted, and steered the conversation on to something far less controversial, such as the situation in Libya.
Suffice to say that a good lunch was had, and once again we were the last of the 200 plus diners to leave, having hoovered up many an unfinished bottle of red wine as is the tradition. Sadly the mower, which was the object of my original journey, remains marooned in a field surrounded by building material and I do not expect to take delivery any time soon, certainly not this summer.
By the time you are reading this, I shall be well on my way to victory in my golf quarter-final knock out for the REGS against that renowned bandit Brian Robertson. Suffice to say that if I do not win it will be once again due to the uncertainties of the handicap system. I can’t stand it with a bandit…
Chris France
Prolonged Dwindling
The Sunday Times covered the story of a woman who did not want to die of old age so she committed suicide, to avoid what she called was “prolonged dwindling”. This seems to me the perfect phrase to describe the state of a number of my friends. Amongst those for whom this epithet could, in my humble opinion, have been created is Steve Weston, golf organiser for the REGS. After his sheepish outburst over the weekend, and my reprinting of the photograph that he himself sent me last summer of his favourite sheep , I received an email from him saying “she is a pretty girl, you don’t have her email do you?”
Now I may be wrong, but to my knowledge, even that most dangerous of sheep ” A clever sheep” as the Monty Python team once included in one of their sketches, has not yet mastered the use of a computer terminal and I imagine as a result she may not actually have an email address. I was tempted to lead him a false trail; sheepish@muttondressedaslamb.com, or perhaps dolly@lonelysheep.com, but as the dwindling was clearly accelerating by the minute, I took pity on him and decided tell him the truth. Her email is legoverlamb@loversheep.com.
A comment from Lin Wolff at the English Book Centre in Valbonne was concerned about my descriptions of some ladies as “well endowed”. She wanted balance in the column, which of course is not really a concept I understand, asking for men to be described as well endowed when they are, so I am happy to confirm that just about all the old gits I know are well endowed, with enormous stomach width.
My picture today is of a very well endowed cross bloke from the Knights Templar Festival in Biot a week or so ago,
Wonderfully well endowed Knight of the night...
I am suffering a bit this morning, not from drink you understand, but from soreness caused by excessive sunbathing yesterday. This is especially for my coterie of readers back in the UK who I know will be upset for me, and will be wanting me to experience some of their normal spring weather, something I am keen to avoid at almost any cost.
Talking of the UK, that nice lady decorator has fabricated some flimsy excuse to be in London later this month on the day of the Royal Wedding. The idea of standing on the streets waving a flag of St George in rain lashed London in a gale is not exactly what I had in mind for that weekend, so I have politely declined the offer to join her, and her lack of argument about my decision coupled with the palpable removal of anxiety when I declined has led me to believe that perhaps she did not want me to be there with her. Perhaps my comments such as “there is nothing in this world that I would rather not do that go to London to see the Royal Wedding” had given her clue as to my feelings?
Today, I am possibly being taken to lunch by some of the yummy mummy’s from Mougins School who will no doubt be well endowed (you see Lin?balance) but that will be of no import to me. I am told that the reason is that they want to pick my brain about the forthcoming Mougins School Gala in May, and to ask for sponsorship from Currencies Direct, but want really to believe that there may be an ulterior motive. I am happy to accept their largesse whilst they have a pick at my very well endowed mental carcass, after which they will probably need a shovel as well.
Chris France
No wool over our eyes
I had missed sheep loving Steve Weston, organiser in the absence of Dave The Fade, of the Landlubbers golfing group at Opio Valbonne, aka Chateau Begude in lovely warm spring sunshine. For some months, Steve’s previously self-confessed love of sheep had remained either as a suppressed desire, or perhaps one to which he had not given voice, but yesterday it all came flooding out. “I like sheep, but that love could be misinterpreted”.
I heard him say it in the bar afterwards, as did the assembled coterie of golfers, but as soon as I asked if I could quote him, the atmosphere changed. Have you ever seen a sheep caught in your headlights? It was if he had suddenly realised that what he had said might be quoted in this column, as if he had seen the horsemen (or sheepsman?) of the apocalypse hove into view. I hesitate to use such an animalistic metaphor, but I think the main thrust of meaning is clear. The impending certainty that he was about to become metaphorical road kill was clear to see in his eyes.
It must have been so galling for him. Not once since before Christmas had he uttered anything that encouraged discussion of this rather sinister obsession escaped his lips, determined it seems to allow the effluxion of time to drown memory, but he should not worry, I know with the utmost certainty that his “secret” will be safe within my readership which is limited to the just the five major continents. For old times sake, my picture today is Steve’s favourite sheep, a picture he sent me himself in an unguarded moment.
Hello Dolly?
A couple of notable absences of regular attendees to these golfing events were duly noted, but I will fight anyone who suggests that the excessively well endowed Maria and the brooding and magisterial Dave “Tripe” Goddard’s absence was in any way connected. However it seems that I may have to fight every member of our golfing fraternity to be able to defend the obviously innocent and entirely co-incidental absence of them both for Sundays match.
This week I must prepare for the Antibes Yacht Show, starting on Thursday and sponsored by Blue Water Yachting, where I shall mingling with the great and good and where I will no doubt encounter a number lost souls still using their banks to transfer foreign currency, and where I shall be using my full range of missionary skills to rescue them from their from their ignorance.
Until Thursday then, I am determined that strong drink will not pass my lips, well, in daylight hours anyway, and not for pleasure in any event, however I cannot rule out some last-minute impromptu business gathering in which case I may be forced to succumb.
Tickets have been purchased by that nice lady decorator to see sixties icon Marianne Faithful at the Palais Des Festivals in Cannes on 12th April. These were secured without reference to me, or to my diary commitments, but when I questioned whether I would be able to attend, I was reminded that I have no executive responsibility for social occasions, and furthermore I had been warned previously of this clear protocol. Obviously, the cost had been applied to my credit card as is customary, but as usual this not an item for discussion. The fact that old pal and self-proclaimed pop star John Otway (who still holds the record for the longest gap between appearances on Top Of The Pops – 24 years) had planned to jet in to see me for important guidance on his career direction, or that a tentative arrangement had been to link up with a well-known stand up comedian who will also be in Valbonne on the same night was, in her mind at least, of no consequence.
My weekly blog for angloinfo has been published, and is now one of their most successful columns you can read the latest issue here.
Chris France
Two ball, up for grabs?
Today I was hoping to confirm that a secret relationship between two of my golfing compatriots was still a secret shared only be the entire Landlubbers golf group, of which they are part, however it appears that there will be two very important parties to this secret arrangement who will not be in the line up for Sundays round of golf at Chateau Begude.
My normal probity prohibits me from mentioning their names, but in a completely unconnected way, I shall sorely miss Dave “Tripe” Goddard and the comely wench Maria from our normal golfing crowd this weekend.
Some may consider the fact that both of these stalwart regulars will be absent for the same weekend a little suspicious, indeed, there was a fleeting moment when I considered that very concept, and I know that this possibility may be running through your minds as well, but I quickly came to the conclusion that it is just one of those amazing coincidences that life throws up.
And talking of throwing up, Dave the Tripe’s (tripe? that’s enough to make anyone throw up) rambling suggestion relating, I think to a two ball, and that somehow I may find my balls in my throat (how I laughed!) or Maria’s, that I may need new ones altogether could have been open to misinterpretation if one did not know these two dear souls so very well.
I needed a rest from the cement ridden hell that became my Saturday. That nice lady decorator decided that the much vaunted new terrace required a small extension. Stupidly I agreed saying that I liked Marcus the builder, and it would be nice to have him around again to complete the work. To my horror, that is not what she meant. My worst fears materialised when I was sent on an errand to collect stones, the cement mixer was uncovered and I was handed some gloves. A brief attempt at the “shrapnel defence” was seen through in an instant, and so my tired old body was set to work.
This was whilst I was still in full possession of all the down sides that one takes on board when drinking beer and eating curry the night before. I had been with, amongst others, “Professor” Tony Coombs, which he now calls himself, self-proclaimed “inventor of the internet” who sought to justify his design ideas for a pooper scooper grazing lawnmower in a comment on this column yesterday, but when drafting a response I remembered a lot of things that he does not remember after last Saturdays excellent luncheon in Biot. I wish to draw a discreet veil over these events, but the wine bar in Valbonne, Cafe Des Arcades, The Queens Legs and that rather dodgy Russian dancing club in Mougins may all have been involved, I recall everything, but it’s just that he cannot remember…
My picture today is of what I thought was a very interesting stone I found in the Valmasque forest. I know, I need to get out more.
I swear it was not there yesterday.
I have a note on my phone, from which emanated from I know not where about a village in France in the Pyrenees called Condom, where they are apparently importing condoms from China and stamping them with the village name and reselling them as authentic Condom condoms. I did a little internet research and found the village, and was interested to find several sections in which I was interested. Take Condom recruitment for instance. I also felt duty bound to click on the quick access button but was a little disappointed when looking at the “work in progress” section.
Only 1 person spotted the April Fool about film rights for this column. Perhaps you all believe it is so well written it is not a surprise… I will leave you now, but it would upset regular reader Josef is there was not at least one plug for Currencies Direct.
Chris France
Pooper scooper lawnmower
Never a truer word spoken in jest. A night without a drink on Thursday night meant that distraction was required. This caused that nice lady decorator to watch yet another episode of Midsummer Murders on TV. Apparently it was the one that she had not already seen, which rather than distracting me, drives me to distraction. I have said before that it must be one of the most deadly places to live as there is at least one murder each week in this pretty English village. I escaped into my kennel to do some work, returning just in time for one of the policemen to say “I am thinking of changing jobs, it seems that there is a call for a funeral director around here”. How true.
I had hoped to get to Church at Cafe Latin yesterday for this weeks fashion tips from Mr Humphreys and check he is still free (of gainful employment) but architects meetings and Currencies Direct business to attend to in Cannes precluded worship on this occasion.
Then suddenly, I was in Cannes, the sun was out and the beach beckoned. So I know you will understand that it was necessary for me to respond to that nice lady decorators call for lunch, this time at the Miramar beach, from where I took the picture below. The food was very good, my slightly seared tuna in Thai sauce being particularly good, whilst that nice lady decorator tucked into a chicken Caesar salad, but the cheapest rose at 27 Euros? sorry, we wont be doing that again.
Miramar beach restaurant in Cannes on Friday
Last night a disparate rake of delinquents, all old enough to know better, gathered at The Queens Legs for beer followed by curry at The Kashmir, the new Indian restaurant in Valbonne. I admit to having been one of those who is certainly old enough but clearly not wise enough to have avoided such a motley throng. We even had some Irish in our midst, obviously joining in with the English joy of their recent triumph in the 6 Nations rugby tournament.
The Kashmir had wisely ordered a dozen cases of Baileys once they knew that Jude O’Sullivan was in the party, which meant she could leave the super market trolley full of emergency supplies behind. However, I am sure she had at least one emergency magnum in her bag, if only to cover the time taken to get from the pub to the restaurant.
Amongst the “facts” discussed was that one of our miscreants has a fear of belly button fluff; This is such an embarrassing admission for a grown up that I fear I cannot reveal the identity of this poor deluded fool, but if you see Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs looking rather worriedly at his midrift then please do not be too surprised. This lead to a discussion about the scientific name for belly button fluff, and according to Tony Coombs, it is called bellibuttonia. A simple internet search reveals the truth, Umbiphilia, not to be mistaken for the fear of umbrellas.
The mad inventor of invention claims, tells the assembled multitude that he is working (in his mind) on an improved version of the automatic grazing lawnmower featured in this column last weekend. I identified a design fault in that if, or rather when, the horrid horse-sized cocker spaniel Banjo leaves his huge roundabout sized excretions on the lawn, the Mark 1 version just goes around it. Tony’s version will (in his mind alone I fear) combine a pooper scooper mechanism. Nurse, its time for that straight jacket.
Chris France
mark 2 of the grazing lawnmower, input from readers required, steve and bill would not have jobs without me,
Umbiphilia!!!!
Condom, village in france selling chinese versions,
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