Tennis and a half lob
I could have let him win. Greg Harris, CEO of Cote d’Azur Villas is a client of Currencies Direct and, as such, I should not have overpowered him with a precision array of telling passing shots, looping lobs and deft touches on the tennis court, but that old mean-spirited will to win at any cost took over, and victory was mine.
Actually I can think of another situation where a deft touch could turn into a half lob, but that is another matter. Who was it said that a hard-on does not count as personal growth? I think it came to me in “research” from avid reader Peter Lynn the typo king, anyway, I can justify my glorious victory, as I had just created for Greg a victory of sorts, with an idea to improve his profitability by using Currencies Direct, which I failed to plug yesterday, an omission which was noticed and commented upon by Josef the Persian fixer, thus today, you get two plugs!
We were playing singles as two of our regular four had flimsy excuses for not attending, one being abroad (there are planes back to Nice you know) and the flimsiest of all, the wingco claiming he had to take his son to the dentist. Dentists are open at other times you know. Tennis should be sacrosanct. And then the wingco decided that he would attend the dinner that follows tennis, which is terribly bad show, and was most put out when I told him I was having a day off. He failed to see that his sin of not being available for tennis far outweighed my very sensible decision to allow my body some breathing space before the next onslaught this evening at the Queens Legs, and then the Indian in Valbonne.
This was plan hatched in a slightly alcoholic hazy moment last weekend when it was decided to replicate a typical UK night out, down to the pub, several sharpeners, then off for a curry, a treat denied us in Valbonne until the recent opening of the Kashmir.
My picture today is another from close to home, well part of my home actually, the garden on a lovely warm spring day, when you remember why you came here in the first place, very welcome after a second very poor winter in succession.
The pool, peeking out from behind the wonderful yellow hedge
Post tennis, I had resolved to go home and get an early night, but under the onslaught of verbal abuse from the wingco I almost weakened, and had that nice lady decorator not had a lasagna in the oven, I fear I may have buckled utterly.
I have received a 7 figure offer for publication rights to the book based on this column, with talk of a film and a stage show worth millions more, but am undecided as to whether to accept. I will let you know in due course. If I do accept it will be on the understanding that I am played by Russell Brandt. Any suggestion that the nice lady decorator should be played by Thora Hird are as wide of the mark as they are insulting to Thora.
Antibes Yacht show opens next week and I have been urged to attend by Blue Water Yachting supremo Peter Bennett, well, perhaps that is a slight exaggeration but I did manage to blag a ticket, however, given my lack of sailing prowess, I do hope none of those infernal floating things will be venturing outside the harbour. Dry dock would be far safer, very little chance of sea sickness there.
Chris France
Tennis blind leading the blind
So the jewelry party began. Of course, I was not there to begin with as I had pressing previous engagements which I had managed to arrange at short notice.
These involved a long-standing commitment to playing tennis, and then thereafter, despite my protestations, being dragged, most unwillingly as my regular readers will know is not the case, to lunch at the Le Provencal in Plascassier.
The tennis was most enjoyable, except for the fact that fellow MOG (Moustachiod Old Git) the wingco, and often tennis partner failed to tell me until we are on the court that he is now partially sighted, having been given a different kind of laser beam treatment to the one often meted out to me by that nice lady decorator. Thus, although I cannot recall the result, I do remember that our opponents were most unsporting in hitting the ball to him on some occasions. I recall that we won a set, but believe the game never came to a conclusion as lunch beckoned.
This was a last-minute change from the normal post tennis luncheon venue, as one if our party (and I hesitate here to fail to mention Paul Thornton Allan), considered the Auberge Provencal to be somewhat beneath him.
The tennis four was joined by several other reprobates, in the form of local estate agent Cubby Wolf, who rather fittingly ordered the shark for lunch, and the afore-mentioned Mr Thornton Allen, who was in such a casual mood that he felt it was acceptable to be sporting a cravat.
Those of you amongst us will understand that this is a move down market for him. It was not just the cravat of course that makes Mr T A old-fashioned, him being the only one amongst us in his 7th decade, he considers that certain standards should be upheld at lunch, such as having a choice of what to eat. This is not the way of things at Auberge St Donat which has a fixed menu.
So lunch was taken at the Auberge Provencal in Plascassier, and with jewelry party avoidance uppermost in my mind, I attempted to drag proceedings out for as long as possible. Much of import was discussed, including whether David Cameron’s Big Society was the name for an obesity association.
My picture today is some wild flowers that have sprung up in my garden which I have captured before the mower captures them.
Lawn mower bait
After lunch, I managed to sneak past the “ladies that shop”, thronging around the Miglio jewelry items, for a well deserved siesta, before being dragged from my bed in the late afternoon by that nice lady decorator to administer rose to the shopping hoards that had descended upon us.
I am rather suspicious as that nice lady decorator, who was supposed to be staging the party to earn some money (a novel enough concept in any event, hitherto she has been pretty good at spending it rather than earning it), seems to sporting a number of new items of bling. My enquiries as to how much was earned and when I would be receiving it have so far not been greeted with a verifiable answer. What I have received are bills for wine, a terrace a charming tent like apparition.
I do hope I am not once again to be exposed to the concept of what is mine is ours and what is hers is her own..
Today, I must reinvigorate the wheels of industry (probably in order to help funding for the above) with a pre tennis meeting with Greg Harris at Cote d’Azur villa rentals. I will eschew strong drink, at least until sun downer time…
Chris France
Public school shame
I won the golf. Lets be clear about it, any claims by public schoolboy chaps claiming victory, should be dismissed at once because, as I predicted in this column yesterday, whilst those with girls handicaps claimed to hold the upper hand, their claim to victory is based on the false premise that a real victory can be achieved under these straightened circumstances.
This is appalling behaviour, the kind that even a lowly grammar school where I had education stuffed into me from an early ago would frown upon. The idea of hiding behind women’s skirts to gain an advantage over a male adversary is anathema to me, which just goes to show that much money can be wasted by sending your children to English public schools, unless you want them to end up as scoundrels and ne’er do wells, as is the case with my assailants yesterday. I will not name names here as it is all rather embarressing for those involved, but if I was either Bob Hanka or Mr Clipboard (aka Sir Lunch A lot, aka Mark Gurdon) then I would be hanging my head in shame when reading this.
Imagine children being abused by the various organs of the Catholic church? That was the gist of what a children’s campaigner said on the BBC recently. I do hope that the phrase will not be misinterpreted by my readers. To me, this is a perfect example of, and epitomises what I consider to be one of the dangers which come with following a religion. I commence this theme because I have not heard from regular reader the Reverend Jeff for some time and I need to know he is still alive, and I suspect that this line of discussion might awaken him. He is a dear friend, if entirely theologically misguided, and the laziest man I have ever known, and I expect his defence will be something to do with pastoral care being more worthwhile than the pursuit of worldly goods. However, this does not sit well with a man who was extremely boastful, when we were teenagers, of his MFI golf clubs, until us mere mortals who had to hire clubs in order to play, saw the massive posters warning “these clubs can kill”. They were of course referring to the self same clubs purchased by our friendly neighbourhood religious zealot.
My picture today is of the finished terrace, the building construction over which I have toiled aimlessly diligently over the past few days. The tent like feature is now in place, which may be of some use today if it rains on that nice lady decorators Miglio Jewellery party, to which all girl readers are invited. Us chaps will of course be having a long lunch after tennis, to avoid having to gaze upon the no doubt over priced baubles (actually here, I may side with the Reverend Jeff), or worse still, being pressed into buying them. I am only concerned at what will happen after 4pm, as the wingco has an airport run to do, so there will be no brandy (or perhaps a limited amount?) on his terrace as tradition normally dictates, and I may be homeless for a time.
The new terrace and bar, untested as I speak
After my victory at golf yesterday, we decided that lunch looked good outside in the sunshine on the terrace of Chateau Begude, the scene of my earlier golfing triumph, and as Mr Clipboard was “in the chair” so to speak, due to my impersonation of an estate agent for him when he was stuck in the UK some weeks ago, the lamb cutlets in garlic took my fancy, as did a cognac digestive afterwards. It was the most expensive item on the menu, but if you think I chose it just because it was the most expensive item on the menu, you would be right.
A sundowner to test out the new terrace was required last evenbing, carrying on my habit of thoroughly testing any item in the household likely to come under scrutiny from summer rental customers, and I am happy to report that there were no teething problems at first look.
Chris France
Sir Lunch A Lot in town
I have had several more flashbacks to Saturday at Biot. I think it is fair to say that I have been struggling a bit today after an entire weekend of quality debauchery, and if flashbacks are the only lasting damage, then I will once again have got away lightly.
Anna, our host on Saturday claims that she hopes to “bump into” Peachy Butterfield some time, I guess to give you an idea of scale, Titanic bumped into that iceberg, but she must have a death wish, as anyone who bumps into this man mountain can expect to be seriously physically damaged. There is however little chance of that in the coming week, as he is returning to the UK today for at least a week. He is missing his pigeons, and wants to see how his whippets have enjoyed the first time the sun has ventured above the horizon in months, in the little known northern enclave of Cheshire.
The idea then, of rising from my pit and then trailer emptying and collecting pebbles, in said trailer was not one I relished. That nice lady decorator spotted the first ruse, and reset the alarm clock accordingly. The next excuse, that I had suddenly remembered a doctor’s appointment was dismissed in a trice, so it was back to the “shrapnel defence”, which I outlined yesterday, but it was to prove no more effective.
So I emptied the trailer, and the dutifully collected the exact pebbles the nice lady decorator had decreed from the quarry yard. The prospect of shoveling these labouriously, wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow, onto the terrace surrounds for the expected three trailer loads was so impossible to contemplate that I developed a plan that rather astonishingly worked. I managed to persuade her that the depth of pebbles, if lowered somewhat from the level she had decided, would perhaps give more differentiation to the visual amenity created. In other words, a way if completing the job for one-third of the expected materials, work and costs.
Thereafter, all that was required was straight forward bribery of a nicotine challenged son to do the real hard work and the day began to look up. Until that moment, looking up is not something I could do without a feeling nausea. I must also move some money from the UK today and looking at today’s exchange rate I see another reason for nausea.
My picture today was taken before the terrace reached maturity and was ready for a good stoning.
That terrace. Note the ghostly figures, probably the spirits of earlier labourers employed by that nice lady decorator
Today, 9 holes of golf with Mr Clipboard will be followed, as night follows day, by lunch, but at this stage I know not where. Auberge St Donat looks a hot favourite as Mr Clipboard will be paying due to my estate agent services rendered for him recently. I shall of course suggest that Michelin Star Lou Fassum is nice at this time of year, indeed any time of the year.
9 holes is, as golfers will know, only half a round, but Mr Clipboard has become so decrepit, despite being younger than me (looks can be SO deceiving don’t you think?) he could claims not to be able to finish a whole one.
This lack of ability to complete or even tackle a whole round of golf is however not matched when it comes to the meal table, where he is always able to finish, and is always happy to help out his fellow diners by relieving them of any food that they find surfeit to requirements. Sir Lunch A Lot, as he is also known, will deny any claim that he is overweight through over eating, claiming to be “well-built and heavily muscled”.
I shall, as is customary, win the golf, but also as is customary, I shall almost certainly be denied victory on the surface due to the uncertainties and vagaries of the handicap system. For non golfers, this means that good golfers are often denied victory by bad golfers. But I shall not sulk (for long) as there are bigger issues to confront in life than losing at golf although off the top of my head I can’t think of any at this moment.
Chris France
Lambrusco with a lemonade top?
I have decided that I don’t need google any more, as that nice lady decorator knows everything.
Lunch at a magnificent private villa in Mougins was splendid, except for the unaccountably generosity of our hosts in allowing in some northern riff raff. Peachy Butterfield, once again gaudily dressed in the kind of primary colours one normally associates with backward tribes in Africa, was at one stage considering adding some lemonade to his Chateau Gloria to “pep it up a bit”. Clearly a good night out for Peachy often culminates in a gallon of Lambrusco, with a lemonade top.
This time it was green Ralph Lauren shorts, striped green and yellow shirt and mismatched hooped socks, an outfit which even he suspected looked a little gay. He asked a dear gay friend if there was any danger that he could be mistaken as a non-heterosexual but was quickly reassured that no gay person could ever have such poor taste as to wear anything that Peachy might wear. I have attempted rather unsuccessfully to catch the full horror of it below.
You may think I failed to get Peachy's head in this shot with his gorgeous wife, Sue deliberately, and you would be right
Talk turned to a recent spate of burglaries, coincidentally when the circus was in town, and Peachy announced that the worst thing that could happen is that all his clothes would be stolen.
Other interesting facts came to light. Did you know for instance that the British Association of Plastic Surgeons are if course called the BAP’s? Or that if you are imprisoned in France for any reason, you are entitled to half a bottle of Bordeaux per day?
Simon and Sarah Howes excelled themselves once again, Simon raiding his cellar to produce several bottles of what Chateau Talbot consider to be the best wine they have ever produced, the 2000 Grand Cru Classe which was superior even to Chateau Gloria which passes for every day drinking wine in this exalted household.
Today, unless I can think of a way around it, I will be gainfully employed by that nice lady decorator starting by emptying the trailer at the local tip. What is the point of having a trailer if it always gets filled up with rubbish I was going to ask? then suggest to her that we therefore get rid of it, but given her Fukushima countenance, by which I mean the possibility of a melt down in the next few days, I changed my mind.
The possible meltdown is due to the extra pressure of planning for a Miglio jewelry party she is staging on Wednesday sponsored by Currencies Direct, the completion of the new terrace in time, the erection of some tent like apparition under the old oak tree and concern about the weather forecast for this hopefully outdoor event.
That nice lady decorator does not do stress. By that I mean she does not bottle up her feelings but, as I believe it is described in diplomatic terms, is often frank and direct in her language. She also does not do diplomacy, that is left to me to do in her wake.
Thus after emptying the trailer, I must then fill it with tiny pebbles purchased from the quarry yard in Mougins and ferry these back to the house to add a decorative touch to the aforementioned terrace. I am told three trailer loads will be sufficient, what joy!
Luckily, Mr Clipboard arrives this week and Wednesday for me will mean tennis and lunch at Auberge St Donat, followed by brandy on the wingco’s terrace, plus ca change…
Chris France
Lawnmower breakthrough
After over doing a bit lunch yesterday in Biot, I was looking for some sympathy, but it appears that in my house, when I want sympathy, I’m informed that I’ll find it in the dictionary between “shit” and “syphilis”.
So we were guided around Biot yesterday for the Knights Templars festival by Dracula, ably impersonated by Bjorn Boltd-Christmas (note there is now an added “d” in the surname from yesterday). It seems that fancy dress, or rather something that was in every day use from 800 years ago, when the Knights Templars first made Biot a base, was required to be worn by lunch guests, but my excuse remains, that I had not been told. In the past, some people have mistaken that debonair look that I have been forced to adopt by that nice lady decorator, as fancy dress, but that’s another story, and not one I wish delve into today.
After the festival, we adjourned for a very pleasant lunch at the house of the Boltd-Christmases on a high terrace in the heart of this ancient village. But before that we were treated by our hosts to a demonstration of an automatic lawnmower. It is apparently programmable to cut your whole lawn without you lifting a finger. My picture today shows it at work. It has its own docking station which, after an hour and a half of mowing, it returns to automatically, then when fully charged, sets off on its own again.
Automatic lawn mower
I asked whether one could tie a dog to it so that the dog could be walked, but received that renowned withering look from that nice lady decorator.
Of course, she had guessed my fantasy, which was that if I had one I could tether the biblically bloated Banjo, the dog from hell, to it then change the settings on the mower to manic and hope it eventually found its way straight into the swimming pool. It is quite a heavy machine, so with a short tether, and a deep enough pool….
Amongst the guests for lunch was the beautiful Claire Trigger, former Mougins resident, who, as you can see from my second picture below seems at last to have found her Mr Right.
Don't they make a lovely couple?
More astounding claims emerge over lunch, this time from Bill Colegrave, who claims to have once been captain of the Great Britain Boules Team and competed in the world championships. That would clearly be a lot of boules. Then Tony Coombs claimed to be the unsung hero who helped create the internet. As this is the first time I have met him (and may soon become a client of Currencies Direct), I am prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps next time we meet he will explain to me how actually it was he who split the atom, and he was also the first man on the moon?
Today the exciting prospect of lunch at the Howes, one of the best houses I have ever been allowed into. It was originally built for Formula 1 racing driving legend Nelson Piquet, with views down from Mougins to Cannes, where I very much hope to enjoy some Chateau Gloria and smoke some Montechristo number 2’s, the finest cigars known to man.
This will be at the expense of golf with the Regs, where my presence was eagerly awaited by two of my golfing compatriots whose secret relationship I managed not to reveal recently. I have received several offered of new balls, or at least I think that was what was meant, but sadly cannot play as there is a possibility of rain, and with the luncheon plans outlined above, who can blame me?
Chris France
Knights Templar, where’s Simon?
My few home truths about the frozen north appear to have hit a nerve with some northerners, who are clearly just emerging from hibernation after a long winter. I have had to deal with and dismiss a few comments (see yesterdays column).
I am asked so often for the phone number of the Kashmir in Valbonne (Tel 0493751615), I have decided to publish it, despite not yet having received the standard offer of a free meal which is now long overdue. Please ensure that they are aware that you got the number from this wonderful missive, and that I am hungrily awaiting the standard back hander (is this a kind of curried vegetable?).
The certainty of staying in and drinking nothing alcoholic was gradually replaced by a short sun downer in the pav, and then early doors at the wine bar in Valbonne, La Kavanou.
We meet Dr Henry Brew and the lovely Vinetta, and Henry reminds me that his uncle is the current President of Ghana. At first I misheard in the busy and packed wine bar, almost a victim of its own success now, even after the increased space available with the moving of the bar. “I didn’t know there was a President of Ganja” I said before I was corrected, but I guess if it existed it would be a pretty laid back job.
Once we were out, I thought perhaps The Valbonnaise or Elysee Carnot for a spot of dinner might be on the agenda, but a combination of tiredness and red wine overdose suffered by that nice lady decorator, with the subsequent lighting of the fuse to what has become known as a decorating outburst, caused me to resort to a (actually very good) take away pizza from the pizza van near the parking lot. There I waited until the enforced short walk in the cool night air had calmed the decorating outburst.
Today we are invited to lunch in Biot by the absurdly named but very charming Bolt-Christmas family (I shall be seeking guidance as to how this name evolved) to witness the parade of the Knights Templar. When first informed of “our” plans, I was looking forward to seeing Roger Moore and his old volvo sports car in his guise as Simon Templar in “The Saint” but then I found out it was some dodgy parade by some rather doubtful chaps dressed up in old clothes.
Biot is a very pretty village about 6 miles away from Valbonne but the parking is diabolically limited in normal conditions, so with a big festival in town, parking will be near impossible. Buses have been talked about, but there seems to be a perfectly reasonable idea to walk by following the Brague river which flows from Valbonne to Biot. What is completely unreasonable is the idea being mooted that we also walk back. This of course is entirely out of the question. It is one thing to walk down alongside a beautiful river towards the coast with the prospect of an invigorating lunch in prospect, quite another to contemplate slogging up the river valley full of lunch, in failing light dashed by spray from snow melt, with wolves circling (ok I made the wolves bit up). But you get my gist. The others want to walk, I have another four letter word in mind; Taxi.
My picture today almost inevitably is of part of that walk down. Tomorrow’s picture may well be if a taxi if I get my way, even if I have once again to invoke the “shrapnel defence” where I claim to have a piece of shrapnel embedded in my leg, which when it moves about, is so painful as to preclude walking. To make this more believable , it is often necessary to effect a limp, one of the few times when this word elicits any sympathy.
Chris France
A northern sandwich
Peachy Butterfield. Just consider that name. My first thought was that it sounded like a name one would give a grim northern industrial estate to make it sound fluffy and nice. But it’s not what you think, it is the name used by a man with whom I dined at the Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne last night.
This Cheshire Charmer, a comparative new oik in town, is a mountain of a man, often resplendent, as he was last night, in red and daffodil yellow, the daffodil and mountain element influences clear from Cheshire’s proximity to that wonderful slag heap bestrewn country known as Wales.
Cheshire is a little known and not fully explored tundra infested outpost of northern England, close to the arctic circle where electricity is rare and outside toilets are revered, however when I put those facts to him, “Peachy” claimed that Cheshire is actually a misplaced home county.
He is a larger (with the emphasis on large) than life character that has descended upon Valbonne in the last few months. He suggests that looking rotund (which he does really well)and sun tanned (which he doesn’t do as well, unless you consider the effects of high blood pressure and the subsequent reddening of facial features duplicate a sun tan) is a good starting point for assessing his character. I suggest that he may have something in common with, David Dickenson, the orange one, presenter of various appalling TV programmes who has clearly overdosed on sunbed courses, and might have been his role model.
What is utterly astonishing though, is that this man mountain from Cheshire is seemingly able to command the attention and respect of his wife, described (by him) as the “old coote”, the impossibly pretty Susie. They were accompanied by some other renegades from the frozen north who had already had more sunshine yesterday than they get in a whole summer back home in Coronation Street or wherever they live.
Having been in the UK for the first half of the week communing with other Currencies Direct delegates, I was missing a bit of Square bashing (meaning to abuse food and alcohol in Valbonne Square) so I went twice, once for lunch to meet up with a Scotsman Archie, renowned for singing Irish songs when drunk and his lovely Scottish wife Linda, and then again in the evening, with Peachy,
The male element of the party last night were initially delighted when this bus pulled onto Valbonne bus station, as they believed in was a bus service for ladies of the night.
Happy endings envisaged by the Coronation Street crowd
Tennis yesterday afternoon was a triumph. Sandwiched between lunch and dinner with the great unwashed from up north, (a northern sandwich? – tripe anyone?) I am sure no one would begrudge me a couple of hours leisure time in my busy schedule to impose my tennis skills on my opponents (except perhaps, those opponents), Greg Harris, from Cote d’Azur Villas, my partner on the day, reaching seldom dreamed of heights of winning without losing a set due in no small part to my expert guidance (and taking every shot that was directed towards his very dodgy backhand).
Talking of backhanders, I am always happy to feature worthy local events in this must read column. The decision on which events to cover is almost entirely commensurate with the level of backhander received, so it was with some delight that I can tell you there is to be a special “Art for Water” event on May 6th in Valbonne. Dr Henry Brew is a resident of Valbonne. He is a bit of a dichotomy. He is German, with an English name, comes from Ghana and looks and plays guitar like George Benson. He has set up a charity in Valbonne designed to raise funds for <a href="here“>water for Africa called Here To Grow. People that know him may be a little surprised that water is at the heart of his main priority, because he is more often seen with something stronger in his hand.
Chris France
Currencies delegate in french boy shock
During dinner on my last night in London where dinner was taken at the Chop Shop in Butlers Wharf, a beautiful and wonderfully well endowed new Currencies Direct delegate, reveals that she is particularly partial to beautiful young French men. She is clearly not yet aware that revelations of this nature to me, may occasionally surface in this column, but as she does not know this to be the case, I will not mention her name, however Michelle may be aware of whom I speak.
Earlier, I meet my old pal and successful failure John Otway in order for him to seek my guidance of what career step he should take next and then, at last, this morning I am back in Valbonne, ready for a fearsome barrage of sporting and social events in the coming days. Tennis, golf, lunch, tennis, lunch and lunch, although not necessarily in that order.
I am also to be subjected to a jewellery party, being staged by that nice lady decorator on next week in our garden. She is hoping to make maybe 150 Euros profit from the event, failing completely to factor in the 2000 Euros (about £1750 at today’s exchange rate that is being spent on resurfacing the terrace. It is worse of course, because I shall be expected to stump up the cash for the building works, whereas the proceeds from the event will remain firmly in her grasp.
If there are upsides to being in London, these are limited to the opportunity to drink proper beer, and the absence of that monstrous mutt Banjo from my sight. The fattest dog in the world has of course deposited his particularly odorous calling cards all over my lawn, despite the absolute condition of his continuing to grace my household, that any of his little deposits would be cleaned up the same day. This has reminded me that in a competition in the US aimed at finding the best definition of a modern term, Political Correctness” was “a doctrine fostered by delusional, illogical minority promoted by unscrupulous media which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a piece of shit at the clean end”.
My picture today is of Mr Clipboard, but I have absolutely no idea what the meaning of this pose is. Perhaps if anyone has any suggestions, please leave a comment?
Mr Clipboard mimicking a pig. No, I have no idea why either.
That nice lady decorator wants to put a tent type contraption in our garden. I was apparently asked when distracted a few weeks ago if I had any problems with that, and admit to having some vague recollection of some type of conversation, but I had concluded that a tent in the garden, for whatever purpose, was unlikely to disturb my little world much. That is my defence. It seems than, that rather than a tent in the accepted sense the word, a vast construction involving tent canvas, supports and the like which will be big enough to house a small army of Bedouins and a flock of camels to boot. Some 20 square metres of tent canvas will be required plus loads of sticks and ropes to keep it in place. Of course the cost element has not been fully looked into and it is clear then these vital facts had been wilfully kept away from me attention and so I shall soon be the happy owner of a tent contraption costing more untold Euros. Now, as my selling of Currencies Direct has been described as a lot of hot air, so it seems that I will have to stoke up the fires and the make the hot air delivery a little better to help finance the sail like object.
Chris France
Big panting
“He was looking as cheerful as one could expect in the circumstances”. So said Samuel Pepys of Sir George Jackson, who was Hung Drawn and Quartered on the site of a pub of the same name in the City Of London, from where I am writing this, so where better than to put to the sword a pint, well several pints of London Pride? The best beer in the world and the only thing that makes London a worthwhile place to visit.
Before I set off from sunny Valbonne on Monday, I experienced the worst exchange rate deal I have ever suffered, this time instead the bank giving me a crap deal, as was customary, it was at the hands of that nice lady decorator. I had asked her she had any English cash. She replied that she thought she did, but she had no Euros, perhaps we could exchange some? I duly handed over a 20 Euro note, expecting some £16 in return. £2.70, that’s all she had, but by the time that became clear, the Euro note had been squirrelled away out of my sight, where the sun does not shine and apparently the deal was sealed.
My picture today was taken last weekend on my way in to Valbonne on foot to collect the Sunday Times, and shows spring flowers beginning to send winter on its way.
Spring on the way to Valbonne
So year 2 of the blog is underway. I am in the city of London for a few days helping the old country to emerge from difficult economic circumstances, so cannot be at home to acknowledge the adulation that I know will not be heaped upon me for this momentous achievement. 600 words of erudite informative and witty prose (with the odd deliberate typo to keep one or two of you anally retarded followers interested) is sometimes hard to achieve each day for 365 days in a row, and there are many (including the wingco; “ghastly” as he described this column) who would say that I have failed in that quest.
To paraphrase old pal Paul Kendall, aka Ken Poodle, the wingco suspects that my readership was as big, if not bigger at the start of the blog as it is now.
I am instructed to visit some shop called Next and buy some up to date shirts and “underwear that does not look like something my dad used to wear” according to that nice lady decorator. I don’t know about my contemporaries, but personally I find it rather rewarding and very comfortable to follow the Bridget Jones example of the wearing of big pants. The modern fashion of course, is for ones pants to be visible above ones waistband, and despite my protestations that I can achieve exactly the same effect with items that Bridget could identify with, apparently having underwear that reaches up to one armpits is not the look she is seeking for me to adopt. I have just learned to my cost that a Y front is nothing to do with asking why?
Mr Clipboard (aka Mark Gurdon) is even now trying to organise his schedule for next week, in order to maximize golf, tennis and lunch opportunities. Regular readers will know that he has become an obsessive time manager since he moved back to the UK, forgetting the disorganised lifestyle attitude that epitomizes the ex pat community in the south of France. Doubtless the clipboard is filling up with commitments even as I write. But as usual we will all ignore his schedule and do what feels right at the time. This is particularly true of the wingco; as polite as he is late to every appointment.
Chris France
A year of blogging in pictures
One whole year, 365 blogs, over 18,000 viewings and no writs. Several threats, the odd reputations ruined, but I will get over that.
There have been so many pictures that I have taken over the year in support of this missive that I thought today, its first anniversary, should be dedicated to a look back at the photographic highlights.
The top 15 for me would be:
1/ Bill Colegrave enjoying am early siesta, with strategically placed glass of wine ready for his reawakening.
Picture of the year, Bill Colegrave "relaxing" at a summer barbeque
2/ Sarkozy the pig and his handler, although which one is which is open to discussion, spotted in Northern France.
Sarkozy takes his pet pig for a walk at tea time,or is that the other way around?
3/ Nick Kail, regs golfer. Just …..don’t
Nick, have you ever heard of sun tan cream? I think it may do the job a little more efficiently
4/ The Fishermans Friends singing on the beach in their home town of Port Isaac.
Port Isaac Fishermans Friends performing on their home town, pity the tide went out!
5/ Happy throng at birthday party for Paul Thornton Allan’s entry into his 7th decade.
The wingco cuddling up to Wayne Brown plus other revellers
6/ Again, Mr Thornton Allen is the subject, finding some hitherto unexplored bits of Provence in the search for his golf ball. Its in there somewhere.
I know my golf ball is in here somewhere
7/ Mark Gurdon, now aka Mr Clipboard impersonating ZZ Top whilst skiing, or rather lunching. Sir Lunch-a-lot lives.
Mark Gurdon looking a lot better after winter in England
8/ Cipieres, provencal village tucked away in the foothills of Provence.
walking above Cipieres in the foothills of the southern Alps
9/ The picture Steve Weston sent claiming that this sheep looked like me
Male or female?
10/ Nigel Hindle, high up banking and property person at HSBC lets his hair down and joins the models on stage at the career and Lifestyle exhibition in Valbonne.
Senior HSBC executive loosens up before work
11/ Melissa Graves, trying to keep her mouth shut whilst this intrepid reporter is trying to extract gossip
Mellissa Graves with sellotaped mouth to ensure no gossip escapes
12/ This was taken from the inside of our hotel room on 29th floor in Berlin
Perhaps he was cleaning the windows, from a rope?
13/ Not strictly from this year, well, not this millennium actually, myself John Otway and the Reverend Jeff from around 1975
Myself, the Reverend Jeff and John Otway, aptly for the Reverend, this was taken outside a church about 35 + years ago. Dig those red strides!
15/ Cricket, the great leveller, a right wing Tory M.P. and a firebrand communist spart open the batting at the Veterans Cricket Tournament in Yorkshire.
Julien Dismore on the right, Tory MP Nigel Adams on the left. neither would appreciate the description of their positioning in this photo!
Some seem to enjoy this column, whilst others like the wingco describe it as “ghastly” with the emphasis on the “h” and moustache bristling in the way only he can (imagine the love child of Terry Thomas and Brian Blessed and you will get the idea), some can’t be bothered to read it, such as that nice lady decorator who describes it as “writing silly stories for my friends”, which is harsh but fair. However, look out for the book later this year…and keep watching out for those plugs for Currencies Direct because they are not going away. You know it makes sense, sign up now.
Chris France
Duck sur Prize
Ireland has had a terrible time over the past few years, so my decision to have a word with Valbonne resident Will Johnson, brother of Martin, England’s rugby coach, to ask him to get the English team to ease up yesterday in the match against Ireland was a generous and selfless gesture. England of course won the bigger prize, the 6 Nations tournament, so in that context, beating Ireland yesterday may have been viewed as a little selfish, and when one witnesses the uncorked joy of their inhabitants for something to go right in their country, then one knows the correct decision was made. To help further the repairing process for a Nation in tatters, I indulged the locals by agreeing with them that their rugby team was the best in the world, although I did not bring up England’s winning of the European trophy, as to do so may have removed some of the elan from their happy smiling faces.
Further, to join in this touching and joyous celebration, we went to a belated St Patrick’s Day celebration organised by the International Club of the Riviera at the Scandinavian Terrace on the Croisette in Cannes yesterday. Amongst those attending were the lovely Jude O Sullivan who entered the raffle solely because there was a 2 litre bottle of Bailey as one of the prizes. Sadly, all she won was a duck, as my picture below shows.
Jude O Sullivan very happy with her duck prize
This prize was clearly very special, and worth every single Euro of the 10 Euros cost of the raffle tickets. As all proceeds were going to a charity, that can be the only reason why a prize like this can be acceptable. I imagine there must have been an appeal for prizes for the raffle that I did not receive, otherwise I could have divested myself of loads of clutter from around the house to offer as prizes. My old slippers come to mind, as do those broken garden shears and that candle that won’t light. The Scandinavian Terrace is a very agreeable venue for warm Sunday in the spring, with a view across the Croisette on the beach at Cannes, just one piece of irksome Health and Safety nonsense, no bottles allowed on the terrace. What do they think we would do with them? Lob them over the hedge at the sunday crowds thronging the promenade? It cannot be French owned, such a ridiculous regulation would never be considered by the locals.
As interesting aspect of this celebration was the provision of an Irish buffet, including Irish stew, black pudding and potato cakes, maybe it was this the Health and safety chappies were worried would rain don on passers-by?
The Riviera Comedy Club reopens Monday 28th March at Morrison’s Irish pub in Cannes and then Tuesday 29th March at the Hop Pole, the Irish pub in Antibes with a show featuring Junior Simpson from The Real Macoy TV show and others. Interestingly they are now doing early and late shows starting at 8 and 10 respectively. I shall probably attend one or the other, assuming the normal complimentary tickets are couriered across pronto as usual.Today I must forsake the warm spring sunshine of the Cote d’Azur to fly to dreary old London to ensure the wheels of industry do not come to a shuddering halt. My presence is often required at times of world uncertainty as I believe it seen as essential that my figure is seen bestriding the city occasionally. That and I have some business to conduct with Currencies Direct. Well that, and I need to get some new shoes and clothes.
Chris France
Golf two ball, hot news
“Gruff northerner in shagging shock?” That was the headline I had in mind when my suspicions about a secret relationship between the voluptuous Maria, and the very gruff Dave “tripe” Goddard, two stalwarts of the REGS golf grouping were all but confirmed at a chance meeting of one half of this happy golfing two ball in the Queens Legs on St Patrick’s Day.
Dave, who is from Yorkshire has the unfortunate affliction of having been born in this god forsaken outpost of England. He smoulders in much the manner of a Yorkshire slag heap and has the endearing (for some) habit of starting every conversation with “nar lad”, after which I glaze over and understand almost nothing.
They have apparently been “playing together” rather a lot recently, but want to keep their relationship low-key, so to respect their wishes, I did not use my intended headline. Because of the utmost probity and discretion exercised by every member of this elite golfing organisation, and the fact that nearly all members are regular readers of this column, and will now be aware of this situation, I am convinced that not one person will mention it to them. This is testament to their collective responsibility and decorum. their secret is safe with us. I only wish I could be playing today in order to confirm this.
So the year of the blog approaches. This column will be one year old on Tuesday 22nd, and so far it has received over 18,000 hits… To celebrate I shall be compiling my favorite pictures of the year on Tuesday, so any of you who have been caught in silly poses this year, be prepared to receive more ignominy this week.
Red nose day came and went, but I still have a red nose. I even made a donation, but I still have a red nose. I want my money back. Many people had to buy a plastic red nose, but I have gone one better, I have spent years cultivating a real red nose, such is my dedication to the cause. This takes a very large sum of money, spent over a very long period of time, but for the life of me I do not see how this sterling effort can benefit those poor unfortunates, there must be some higher science at work here.
Another picture of the swollen Brague, which unaccountably reminds me of my bunyans, as they swell up when I wear my brogues. The Brague swollen by recent rains and snow melt. Banjo, fetch the ball...
Banjo, the vacuous, varicose (well, something in that vein) cocker spaniel is ill. He did not come for his food last night, not that he needs to eat for at least a month given his enormous bulk, so for me it is a double whammy because I also save on the dog food. However, even my sense of humanity (or dogmatism?) is touched as I normally don’t like to see an animal suffer, although I can make exceptions, so if that nice lady decorator considers it may be time for the him to go to that big dog kennel in the sky, or more likely that burning dog pen down below, then I will of course be at her service. I suggest that it would be better to put him out of his misery as soon as possible, even offering to get up early and get the deed done, even to pay, but some inexplicable reason my offer is spurned.
I have left the rugby until last because I wanted to savour the moment. The culmination would have been when the 20 Euros (about £17 at today’s awful exchange rate) note from that seldom used article, John O Sullivan’s wallet, being passed to me, where inexplicably it would have got stuck to my forehead all evening, but in the end England relented and rather than rubbing our Irish cousins noses in it, settled for a 6 Nations tournament victory.
Chris France
Ash for cash?
The letter C apparently does not exist in the Icelandic language. So intoned the beautiful Gudrun from Re-Max estate agents in Cannes at lunch at Cafe Latin in Valbonne last week, so according to her, when Iceland ran out of cash last year, all they had left was ash, so they sent as much as they could. She is wisely anxious to become affiliated to Currencies Direct, a very wise course of action for anyone involved in selling or renting property, so I expect the flood of new affiliation requests to grow even more in the coming weeks
Any suggestion that the weather in the Cote d’Azur was appalling or that it rains incessantly is clearly a huge misunderstanding. Nothing could be further from the truth, it was 21 degrees yesterday with clear blue skies and the top was down on the Merc for the first time this year, but this type of weather creates a different problem. The lawn will need mowing. I need to murder some daisies as my picture below shows. Unfortunately, the doubtful dog, Banjo, hates the lawnmower more than he does pizza delivery bikes and wheelbarrows. This will be less of a problem when I have a sit on mower, which I am promised soon, as I am having it specially adapted “road kill” option fitted, in order to be able to run over miscreant animals. I wonder who will be first?
Lawns are supposed to be green, so what are these infernal daisies doing? I am looking forward to getting my sit-on mower, for the next time they raise their heads.
Sadly I was unable to make lunch at the Auberge St Donat yesterday or able to accept a late invitation to play tennis for two reasons, I must prepare for my trip to London on Monday, I already had a lunch scheduled and I have a very sore head still from the rather late night at the Kashmir in Valbonne. Actually that is three reasons. What possessed me to stay in the restaurant drinking more with Roger the rabbit and his city friends, I do not know. Thus today has been an introspective day, awaiting the return of the whirlwind from the UK last evening.
Tomorrow is of course another opportunity to see a big game played by men with funny shaped balls. Ireland versus England will be the climax of the 6 Nations rugby tournament, which I shall be witnessing live at The Queens Head at 6pm today, and I issue this open invitation to come down and join me in gratefully accepting the 20 Euros that John O Sullivan will hand over to me when England wins. I know that his wife, the amply endowed Amazon beauty, will be hoping for a different result, as she counts money only in terms of bottles of Baileys, so tomorrow her husband is at serious risk of losing 2 bottles. Of course, given previous form in this area, I shall have to ensure there is no backsliding on the stakes as has happened before when I attempted to extract payment of a bet, him applying (his version?) Irish law about no bet being binding unless made without a drink in your hand.
Then to rub it in a bit further, we shall all be attending the International Club Of The Riviera’s St Patrick’s Day Celebrations at the Scandinavian Terrace in Cannes in Sunday. This will raise my spirit is enough for me to be able to face a trip to London next week for 3 days. I feel my presence is required in the city to steady nerves in these political and radiation charged times.
I must also confer with old pal John Otway about what shape his combined entertainment with renowned stand up comedian Steve Frost will take later in the year, and I must also consult my lawyers, Novak and Good about an irksome legal matter, and to renew our dog insurance.
Chris France
Chinese curry favour?
Riviera Radio reported this morning that a chinese company, making, er, china, had made a slight error on their commemorative Royal Wedding plates. I am sure they will now become collectors items showing, as they do a picture of Kate Middleton nuzzling up to Prince Harry, Williams brother.
Perhaps it was Freudian, and given the disparate nature of royal relationships in the Royal Family over the last two decades, who is to say that such an error may turn out not be an error at all? After all, perhaps the love child of Princess Diana and his father (Charles ?) may eventually get his feet under the Middleton table at some stage?. Kate’s mother is of course a former British Airways stewardess. Doors to manual anyone?
This got me thinking about what other merchandise could be marketed either inappropriately or in a manner which might cause amusement (to me). After careful thought, it seems to me that it comes down to books. Maybe Charlie Sheen should write ” A Life Of Sobriety”? Prince Andrew “I loved Ginger Tosser” (which as regular readers will know is a Cornish real ale), or Prince Charles “Fidelity is Everything”? This could lead to Colonel Gaddaffi; what about “Turn The Other Cheek”? or even Tony Blair “I am not in it for the money”?
The deluge has abated so I ventured out to the Brague River in the Valmasque forest again this morning (without the non waterproof, waterproof jacket) and took this picture below:
I hope my ark is ready for delivery
Last night I ventured into the square to Valbonne to see if I could find Jude O Sullivan, and her supermarket trolley fill of Baileys, and from there to the Kashmir Indian restaurant to ensure that the kitchen is progressing satisfactorily. I went to the square at the behest of a message on angloinfo suggesting a gathering, but it seems the Irish contingent amongst us are not enjoying the prospect of their imminent rugby defeat which will occur at the hands of the mighty England on Saturday. The demise for Ireland started when they joined the euro. Nothing good could come of it, and they know it.
Once Government approval had been received from the governing body (and what a body!), Soraya, she and husband Bill Colegrave convened at the Kashmir in Valbonne with the wingco and beautiful wife Maryse. But it was after the dinner crowd had scuttled off to bed that the trouble started. Some city types were making a lot of noise in one corner, so I decided to join them. I think it was 1.30pm when we finally spotted the staff in their pyjamas and went home.
That nice lady decorator is back tomorrow, and I have been living like a vegan hermit for three days. Not a drop of alcohol has passed my lips, and only the smallest amount of food, barely enough to keep a mouse, in aid of expected substantial weight loss. And the result? Absolutely zero. So that’s it, I have had enough (or rather I haven’t had enough), I am starving and dehydrated and fed up, so I set out last night intent on getting properly fed up, so to speak, by way of several Guinness’s at the Queens Legs and a curry to commiserate. I will have to find an alternative method to lose that extra muscle that I seem to have accumulated, or trash those lying bathroom scales once and for all.
What is all the more astonishing is that people keep coming up to me and asking if I have lost weight. Perhaps I have? But how does that fit (or I suppose rather more literally, fail to fit) with the problem I am experiencing with my belts? I can only believe that they have all shrunk at the same time.
Chris France
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