The key bleeper and Katie Melua
For Christmas, one of my Sprogs bought me something that I had owned in my youth and wanted to own again. It is a little gadget that you hang in your key ring and, when you cannot find your keys, it bleeps when you whistle at the correct frequency. I was pleased to get it and spent about an hour on Christmas morning trying whistling at every imaginable part of the audio spectrum, but achieving just one moment of audio bleeping heaven.
Since then, it has remained stubbornly silent despite continued attempts to awaken it from its slumber. This all changed last evening when That Nice Lady consigned herself to the kitchen to prepare my evening gruel (it was another 5:2 diet day) and put on a Katie Melua album. The damn thing suddenly began trilling like a budgie and just would not shut up, and eventually had to be placed in a different room. Now I know what to do should I ever have mislaid my keys. It will be tough but I will have to listen to Katie instead of trying to whistle at the correct pitch.
So the first north versus south banter column for Onboard Online has been published. Click on the link to read it. This is the first in a series in which I explore the comparative upsides of living in the south of England as opposed to the down sides of existing in the far reaches of the tundra strewn, peat infested north. This all pre supposes that one is unable to live in the south of France, the clearly preferred option, although it seems that even the Côte d’Azur has had a very wet winter so far. It will be answered back by pigeon fancying, northern tripe eating Card Bordeaux fab Peachy Butterfield within the next week or so.
Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor comes over all Essex. I do like the pork pie hat though.
My picture today is of White Hart bar manager Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor. I told him that I would not use this picture but I forgot. He did mention to me that he would not read this column, sharing the opinion of the Wingco that it was “ghastly” and so if you don’t tell him I won’t. Anyone unwise enough publicly to announce that he will not read it leaves himself open to the same treatment. It was he himself that told me he had that conversation with The Wingco last weekend. I always like to hear that reaction because it allows me to write terrible things about them, and I know they are torn between ignoring it all and taking a sneak look at what I have said. They are both dear friends and I would like to upset them.
Today, after the euphoria if spending the morning working on the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct, we shall head of for Findon this afternoon for the second funeral of a dear friend in their early 50’s this year. The lovely Ann King’s last wishes were for everyone attending the ceremony not to wear black, but something pink instead, in deference to her fight against breast cancer. These occasions are never happy, but I know I want people to have a good party and not be morose when I pass on. That Nice Lady Decorator has told me that she will dance on my grave, which is why I have requested that I be buried at sea. Later it is the opening party of JAK, the new oriental restaurant at the White Hart, so I have sneaking suspicion I know where we will end up later.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Superhero battle
Pressure of space, fully to report on the goings in Cannes at a Sunday lunch or munch on the beach in this fun packed column, has resulted in you getting a less than fulsome description so far of all the events that took place at the excellent Rado Plage at lunch and afterwards. Regular readers will be aware that we were lunching on the beach in Cannes in the rain, and being entertained not only by the ebullient Peachy Butterfield, but also the brooding Latin presence of monosyllabic, French, rugby-playing, smouldering and menacing Chabal look-alike, Gerald from Blue Square Estate agents, his lovely wife and very senior Currencies Direct operative Pippa Maile, and last but by no men’s least the stunning Sam Watson from Onboard Online, who is so far-sighted that she has employed my good self to write material for her website. The very first one is published today, so read about my opinion of the north.
We had enjoyed a particularly convivial lunch during the MIDEM conference and were looking forward to dropping in at Morrison’s to watch the Ireland v Scotland 6 nations match about which I had waxed lyrical during lunch. That it had in fact started some two hours earlier than I had expected and was nearing the end by the time we arrived matters not a jot. It was a simple logistical error that anyone could have made, but it was worse for me, because I made it.
On the way from restaurant to bar (which seems to be the story of my life), we had come across a super hero altercation taking place on the beach, a picture of which I featured yesterday. I have been thinking about why Superman and Lara Croft might be battling it out on the beach in the south of France, but so far have drawn a blank. It set the scene for the battle between two other heroes in respect of north versus south.
Good versus, err…good
I think it was Peachy, who being from up north, feels poverty more keenly than most of the rest of the party, who said it. We were talking about the relative merits of living in the south of England as opposed to the north (that assumes that one is unable to live in the south of France), which is the subject of mine and Peachy’s banter blogs, soon to be published on Onboard Online. Peachy felt that their should be some medical option against being poor and said” I want to be inoculated against poverty. In fact I need a cash injection”.
One last skirmish at the Palais Des Festivals for MIDEM yesterday morning and then off to the airport, courtesy of Sprog 2, via Chez Pannisse, a nice little beachside restaurant almost within sight of the runway. A couple of glasses of wine at lunch was an excellent restorative after a very heavy weekend and That Nice Lady Decorator was looking forward to her customary pint of Guinness in the bar at Terminal 1, but in a very short-sighted change of policy, only gassy lager was available, so we went to the executive lounge for a glass or two of wine to await the call to board. No sooner had we sat down that John “800 Years Of Repression” O Sullivan appeared. Over a drink he revealed that he had not smoked a decent cigar in some time, and suggested the reason was that I had not been around in Valbonne so much over the past year, thus supplies were scarce. He has clearly not found the Tobacconist in the village with a very decent humidor…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Spiderman, Lara Croft and Peachy Butterfield
During one’s years on this planet, it is possible that one might encounter one of the true great philosophers of our time. I admit that one would perhaps not be expecting to be enlightened on a wet Sunday in Cannes in January, but yesterday was just that Sunday.
During a supercharged morning of endeavour, fuelled by my certainty that I, or rather Currencies Direct, could improve the lives of anyone still relying on their banks to offer a decent rate of exchange on foreign currency transfers, and to avoid bank charges, I was unaware of what might be about to unfold.
I had collected up That Nice Lady Decorator and headed for one of my favourite beach restaurants on the planet, the sublime Rado Plage on the beach at Cannes. That it was raining and grey mattered not one jot as, apart from the restaurant, there was the prospect of a good deal of fine company with whom to enjoy a convivial lunch on the beach. The lovely head of Currencies Direct France, Pippa Maile, and her monosyllabic husband, the brooding and magnificent Latin rugby playing caveman of a partner and estate agent Gerald, who is always an easy target for a columnist such as myself, the equally stunning and wise Sam Watson from Onboard Online (not to be confused with the infinitely inferior Onboard Magazine set up by her former partner) and last but by no means least that god-like being Peachy Butterfield, accompanied by his exquisite and entirely undeserving (of Peachy) wife, the most excellent Suzanne.
The normal workaday scene one sees in Cannes. Spiderman and Lara Croft fight it on the beach
I say wise but it is a matter of degree because Sam has had the foresight and sense to employ my good self, but sadly the lack of foresight similarly to employ man mountain Peachy Butterfield, to write for her website. If one wants positive rants about road kill, tundra and the “joys” of living in the north of England then there is probably not a person better equipped to produce such twaddle than Le Grand Peche. However she is so gorgeous I can even forgive this lamentable lack of judgement.
So lunch convened at a little after 1.30pm, rather than the appointed 1pm, it being a given that the female contingent would be the last to appear (they always are). It appears that parking was a problem, but as the famous Croisette was largely free of vehicles due to the inclement weather, and there were vast swathes of empty spaces almost directly outside the restaurant, I formed the (probably erroneous) opinion that the problem with parking was merely a matter of gender. I can say this because I was paying, although I suspect that I am in line for a slap when next I see the tardy but magnificent on-line yachting magazine magnate.
It was during a splendid Cannes style Sunday lunch that philosophy, well, according to my gigantic northern pal Peachy, was to rise to the top of the conversation. I was going to say in the manner of when oil rises to the top of water but it was more in the way that the scum one imagines might form in a bowl of hot water when those chaps from up north are out every day scrubbing their front steps. According to my extremely well fed northern friend, as he sat devouring a very large Cote de Boeuf (very well done of course, well, burnt really) many of the worlds greatest explorers such as Magellan, Columbus and whoever first ventured into and discovered the north of England, much to us southerners distaste, were in fact “rich kids on gap years”. then when we were leaving, I spotted the super hero fight on the beach.
One last morning in the maelstrom of international music and I should be safely tucked up in my bed on Arundel this evening, and be spared the warped view of life as illustrated by my northern cousins.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Transparent Management?
I dreamt that potential new clients for the money-saving services of Currencies Direct were flocking around me like adolescent girls around Harry Stiles, and then I woke up. I was in Cannes at MIDEM, the annual gathering of the independent music industry’s movers and shakers and was enjoying the experience of them all seeing the light, and then came that jolt back to reality. I am in Cannes for the festival, but the rest of the dream was merely a figment if my imagination.
That reality was that I had a really busy day pursuing the many and varied music industry projects with which I am involved, but after a frenetic bout of endeavour, starting at close to 11am I was physically and mentally exhausted by 2pm. That and hungry, and with a large number of nice restaurants on the beach nearby, and it not raining as had been predicted, I felt I needed to find solace in a decent lunch and a glass of wine. Plage Royal was the venue for some quite decent Moules Mariniere, and a couple of glasses of Pomerol, served by the glass, an unusual treat to find a decent wine not served only by the bottle.
Returning to the fray, the BPI drinks party was the next testing event on my agenda, dutifully navigated by 6pm, after which we headed to Ma Nolan’s, the Irish bar, to watch the 6 Nations rugby match between France and England. I know my French readers will not agree but the result was a travesty. Having fought back after conceding two very lucky tries, the gallant England side had edged into the lead before being cruelly denied victory by yet another fortunate turn of events for the French. Biased? Me?
Deflated after this defeat, I had considered not going to the Music Managers Forum party at Vegaluna Beach, but then the prospect of free drinks, a finger buffet and the chance to meet some interesting people overcame me and we went. One of the companies I wanted to track down was the Transparent Rights Management, whose stand at MIDEM I photographed yesterday. As you can see, there was no one on it, so I think they are aptly named. I wanted to see just how transparent they were.
Really transparent
Today will be more of the same. This morning I must once again diligently go about exploiting my music business interests and then concentrate on strategic planning for the future of Currencies Direct. I feel this will be best achieved by staging a lunch on the beach with several of the movers and shakers of the currency world, namely the head of the French operation, the as lovely as she is scary, Pippa Maile, and her brooding, magnificent caveman lookalike and Blue Square estate agent, Gerald Gomis. They are married, but I have never been brave enough to ask why they have different surnames. Also likely to be in attendance is the beautiful and magnificent Sam Watson from Onboard Online, who has wisely employed myself and less wisely, that gigantic northern man mountain Peachy Butterfield, to write an English north versus south banter blog for her company’s website. I am told it will launch imminently, but I was told that in November as well. I like to think of it as a brainstorming lunch, but Peachy will be there as well, demanding Chardonnay and seafood. By that I mean if he sees food he eats it.
I have some sausages for him. He asked us to bring from England some traditional English sausages, and so our suitcases were crammed with these, Paxo stuffing and Bisto granules. When I stupidly asked if he would like something tasty like pork and leek flavoured I was told in no uncertain terms, not to darken his door with any sausage containing even a hint of a herb.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Carlton does not disappoint
It was my fault that, in the rush to get ready to go to the airport to fly to Nice, a bedside cup of tea was knocked over ? But not by me. “why can’t you just drink it when I give it to you” said That Nice Lady Decorator. She seemed to have lost sight of the fact that I had been dug from my pit before I had a chance to drink it, so I could use the toiletries before she packed them. Yes, I can see now, it was my fault all along.
Reasonably benign weather at Gatwick was apparently going to give way to yet another howling rain storm last evening in England, so I was delighted to be jetting off to the south of France to escape it. I was not prepared to consider the possibility that it is as bad in Cannes (our ultimate destination to take part in MIDEM) as in the UK, certainly not whilst I partook of the now traditional scrambled egg and smoked salmon breakfast at the Caviar House in North Terminal, whilst browsing at brochures of Barbados, which is the next trip on the bucket list tour in March. I have almost as much enjoyment flicking through the Currencies Direct brochures. They can be so rewarding.
I was right to be cynical of the claims. That Nice Lady Decorator and I arrived at Nice Airport in some rather balmy afternoon sunshine and once installed at the fabulous Carlton, even when has a room overlooking the side street, took a stroll along the Croisette to the Palais Des Festivals to register at MIDEM. Before that, I decided that both Sprogs, one of whom lives in nearby Antibes and had picked us up from the airport, and the other who happened to be flying in for the weekend to visit the boy friend, should experience having a drink in the bar at this iconic seafront hotel. One drink each and 56 euros later, I quickly came to the conclusion that this particular box had now been ticked.
A room with a view, sort of
It was that twilight time. Sensible people may have gone back to the hotel, freshened up, perhaps had a short nap, ready for dinner somewhere nice in Cannes. The less sensible decided to have a couple of pints of Guinness at Le Bureau (The Office), a bar just of the main drag which we had discovered in previous years. By that time we were ready for dinner and partook of some not very French tapas at a restaurant on the way back.
Today the whole MIDEM event, which is so much smaller than in its height in the early 1990’s, gets underway. In the old days it took over much of the largely unprepossessing Palais, but now is pretty much limited to a section on the sea front. I shall be down there later this morning, trying to earn sufficient to keep pace with that Nice Lady Shopper, who loves to come to the sales, which traditionally start in France at this time of year. Curiously, unlike in England, the shops are not allowed to have sales generally exception extreme circumstance, instead, these are held at designated times, and this is one of them. A 4 week window of opportunity for an intrepid shopper, a period of worried contemplation for an ageing author and music business impresario.
Once my working day is complete, culminating in a drinks party at the British Phonographic Institute (BPI) stand, the music industry trade association, I shall allow myself a little time off to watch the France versus England 6 Nations rugby match, almost certainly with French commentary, the one time when I shall be pleased to see screens in bars, an insidious trend in France in recent years,
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Snow on the Rivera?
I said to Debs, the Naked Forker, to organise me some sunshine for the weekend in Cannes and she told me to bring snow shoes instead! I was in my office, trying not to think about food, but the mention of a fork had set me dribbling. A diet day can easily be negotiated with just a spoon and a cocktail stick.
There was seemingly an orange warning issued last night by Meteo France, the French equivalent of the Met Office, for snow. What is going on in the world? Are the rain gods out to get me? Are they telling me that I have been wrong all along and I should have learned to swim ? January is now officially the wettest one since records began 100 years ago in England, and there is still more forecast for the weekend before the start of February. That I can believe, but snow on the Riviera? Preposterous. I have convinced myself that it is scaremongering and have packed some shorts. I will not be downhearted, well not until we are diverted to Geneva or some alpine destination craving some snow.
Not that I will have much time to wear the shorts as the combination of my activities at the helm of the estate of the late Steve Marriott and my missionary work saving people money via Currencies Direct will take up much of my time this weekend in Cannes. This will involve my attending a cocktail party at Vegaluna Beach in Cannes on Saturday evening, preceded by a drinks party at the BPI stand at the Palais Des Festivals, and between which I must find a venue to watch France versus England in the 6 Nations rugby.
First we have to get to Gatwick, which may be fraught with difficulties, then to brave whatever disruption that was threatened yesterday, which often spills into the next day, when the French air traffic controllers were threatening to strike again. I think it would make news if they were not threatening. Imagine the headline; “Air traffic Controllers to come in early, smile and work late for nothing”. No I cannot either.
Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor gives it some gangsta style in the White Hart, Jack Hargreaves anyone?
Setting off this morning, if all goes to plan, I will be sitting at the Caviar House bar before lunch eating smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, perhaps with a (purely medicinal) glass of something cold and sparkling, just to prevent my cold from developing into man flu. And for those of you who don’t understand quite how serious an affliction this is, it is now official. Men suffer from flu much worse than women. It distresses me that we never get any sympathy. Men are usually deferential to a woman in pain from child-birth, but do men get similar sympathy when faced with something even more distressing? No, frankly they do not.
The Carlton in Cannes awaits us for the next three nights. It is one of the greatest and most iconic hotels in the world and I am looking forward to it. Work will commence almost as soon as I arrive as I have a meeting in the bar. No doubt That Nice Lady Decorator will wish to partake of a glass of champagne, but at 28 euros a coupe, she is going to have to make it last all weekend.
At some stage, I will no doubt bump into my sometimes northern Jewish lawyer who hails from Allwoodley near Leeds. You would not know that Al Yiddley is from up north when you first meet him and he is sober. He is much more Golders Green before the application of alcohol. His northern persona develops as the evening goes on and is usually at its most pronounced after midnight. However he is just one of the great characters I expect to encounter at MIDEM, the annual music business junket to which I am drawn like a butterfly to a flame each year. Where are the matches?
Chris France
After The Lord Mayors Show…
There is an old expression I recall hearing when I was a kid growing up in London; “After The Lord Mayors show, the dustcart”.
It is an apt analogy for today. After a magnificent weekend of great times with great friends, enjoying fine food and wine and culminating in my 60th birthday on Tuesday, yesterday was mired in paperwork, tax returns, paying the tax man, driving through rain to a hospital and then driving back in the rain and the dark, to eat the left overs of the curry which had delivered to the pub last Friday night, and then to finalise the arrangements for attending a funeral next week. Add to that the fact that I think I have pulled my Achilles’ tendon after the fall on Tuesday and I am getting a cold, and the danger that it will turn into that most evil of afflictions, man flu and I think you get the idea. An ugly day bereft of merit. When I got home, I tried to lift myself with glad thoughts of the benefits to the customers of Currencies Direct, but even that did not work.
To rub salt into the proverbial wound, today is a diet day, declared by That Nice Lady Diet Enforcer, and with me being unable to walk at my customary weight-shedding four miles an hour, and the subsequent bargaining position that gives me with my lifestyle, I may have to dig the bike out and see if I can find another way to get up to my exercise threshold. Cycling in the rain is even more unpleasant than walking, but if that is the price I have to pay to retain the body of a 35-year-old, then so be it. Alternatively I think I need to go to Body Shop and see what they have for sale.
Mr Clipboard proudly displays a page of a calender of unfortunate pictures of myself he kindly created as a birthday present.
I was looking forward to going to Cannes tomorrow, but I am hearing dreadful news about the usually benign winter weather experienced down there. I had visions of sitting on the beach in shirt sleeves, sipping a glass of rose beneath the imposing presence of the magnificent hotels in the Croisette. However, with something like a foot of rain (that is about 30 centimetres to all you decimalised chaps) having already fallen this month, and winds that have been strong enough to tear tiles from the roof of my house in Valbonne and destroy some valuable garden furniture, I am not so sure now. In fact my dear friend Deborah, The Naked Forker, sent me a classic piece of French insurance nonsense. Apparently, when trying to claim back for a huge table , chairs and umbrella, ripped apart by the wind, the insurance company wanted confirmation that the free standing furniture wad cemented into the ground before they could entertain the claim! As the Monty Python team once joked in a sketch in the 1970’s, she must have plumped for the “no claim” policy.
I am sure I will make this best of it. On Saturday afternoon it is the 6 Nations rugby tournament match between England and France, so I suspect I shall find a bar, probably Morrisons, in which to watch it. I shall be unable to be accompanied to that particular bar because as many of my long-term regular readers may remember, That Nice Lady Table Dancer is barred from there for repeatedly dancing on the tables after being told not to do so by the manager on several occasions.
However, the scintillation’s of international music cannot be slowed by a bit if rain, so onwards and upwards, but perhaps with a brolly to hand.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
“Double Entry” no use in quiz
The actual birthday kicked off on a much quieter fashion than had hitherto been the case since the celebrations, or should I say commiserations, had commenced last Friday. A walk around the Cissbury Ring near Findon on the Sussex Downs was sufficient to raise enthusiasm for a fine lunch at The Townhouse in Arundel. We had to go there to sort our the bill for the big night out on Saturday and it is fair to say that bill was substantially above even our wildest expectations. The evening was also above expectations so I suppose there had to be a balance.
With it settled by That Really Nice Lady Decorator, I was ready to head for a siesta, but discovered that I was expected to walk through the town of Arundel clutching a bunch of helium balloons emblazoned with “Happy 60th Birthday”, and carrying some sort of party balloon cylinder. I had already had my sartorial credibility deeply damaged by having to go to the Co Op the day before in my full cricket regalia, so I took it in my stride. This stride however, failed to take account of the fact that I was wearing shoes with leather soles and it was raining. It is always raining in England. The result was that I slipped over twice and now wish to sue Arun District Council for a sprained ankle.
Limping home, I got as far as The White Hart when I felt I could go no further. Stopping in for an afternoon cap, it all began to unravel as That Nice Lady Decorator sought further to extend the period of over extended birthday celebrations. A birthday cake which had somehow escaped the clutches of the revellers on Saturday was produced and wolfed down by the range of miscreants and ne’re do wells who can spend a Tuesday afternoon in a bar. I include myself.
the brooding countenance of Denis The Menace Double Entry Slater counts for nothing on quiz night
I would have settled for a quiet evening in front of the TV with a mug of Horlicks, but That Nice Lady Decorator had other ideas, and that is how we came to find ourselves at the Kings Arms Quiz Night. On the way we had collected up intrepid local accountant Clive “Dennis The Menace, Double Entry” Slater, and his gorgeous wife Anne, who seemed pleased that he was not wearing his Beano sweater which I caught him dressed in over the weekend, and which I feature as my photo today. In fact the sweater is inside out because I asked him to change it due to its lurid nature. One never expects to win such a quiz in an upmarket and well-educated town like Arundel. One just wants not to come last and this is known as Kit Kat Avoidance. If you come last there is a booby prize of a Kit Kat for each member of the team. I am ashamed to say that we did, in fact, leave the pub after loaded with that exact confectionary.
I was able to answer one question due to my extensive knowledge of currencies, due to my work with Currencies Direct. The currency used in the UAE is the Dirham. It can be so useful when one operates occasionally in the world of foreign exchange, or more precisely, helping people to throw off the grasp of their banks when exchanging currency.
So that is it now, the bloody thing is all over. No more drinks for two days and then off we go again, down to Cannes for MIDEM, the annual music business junket and perhaps a lunch on the beach? Weather permitting.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Another cricket debacle
I had dressed in my full cricket gear, freshly pressed whites, cricket shirt, sweater, cricket shoes and cricket box (the last accoutrement I have mentioned may have confused some of my French readers, so perhaps I should explain that a cricket box is an erm… abdominal protector. A cricket ball is hard and could damage some other balls if allowed free access), and was ready to pick up 91-year-old David Goulding DFC, to go to the over 60’s net practice at the Arundel Cricket School when the instructions were delivered.
Those orders involved going across the road to the Co Op and getting some mushrooms for our 5:2 diet day breakfast. “But I have all my cricket gear on, it is the middle of winter and will look stupid” I said, but one look at That Nice Lady Breakfast Preparer was enough, and so I braved the sniggering of the other customers as I waited in the queue to pay. The price of the mushrooms on the packaging was different to what they wanted to charge me, so I could not resist saying “how’s that?”. This will also be incomprehensible to my French readers, or people who do not understand cricket. Suffice to say to those that do understand, it was an appeal that was successful.
Another picture from the big bash at The Townhouse,featuring quite a few false moustaches
Actually, I have been asked by one of my limericists, still hard at it each day in the comments section of this Currencies Direct inspired column, to explain the rules of cricket. She is French and has a better vocabulary than I, and has often correctly pointed out when my grammar has been found wanting, which as many of you know is not infrequent. This I have found a website that explains it all perfectly.
Ok, that is the end of the public information section, on with the news. The nets went well, and I was not this week bowled by anyone over 70, so that was a move forward. My passenger enjoyed meeting up with some old friends, and, duty done, I returned home to prepare for MIDEM. I thought the best preparation would be a siesta as it has been an astonishing weekend and frankly, I am still jaded and elated in equal measure. The last straggler, Mr Otway, departed this morning and the clearing up began. I shall need to make several hour runs to the bottle bank methinks.
Today is my actual birthday, so I have made it to 60, despite the seeming intentions of many of my friends to put a premature end to my life. I would say that around 70% of the gifts I have received involve wine, champagne or spirits and 20% involve cigars. Thus my wine cellar has in many ways remained static, as they managed to drink most of what I had in stock. Still, break even is not a bad result.
I believe we must return to The excellent Townhouse for lunch, to settle the bill for the big bash and I believe I may be treated to that lunch, probably at my expense, by That Nice Lady Decorator. Then from Wednesday onwards there will have to be more rest and recouperation ahead of the next looming liver damaging event, the annual music industry gathering of MIDEM in Cannes this coming weekend. Departing Friday and returning Monday, it will be a full on weekend, so I have decided that I should be cosseted whilst away from home and working, so have booked the Carlton on the Croisette. Only a modest room you understand, not the top floor suite often frequented by Madonna and Elton John at 6000 euros a night.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The aftermath
With the main birthday celebrations over, it was time for the chill down, as I think it is referred to by those young whippersnappers who insist on wearing their trousers midway between waist and ankles. A very late night on Saturday should have been followed by a mellow Sunday, after an excellent welcome by a number of my friends to my good self into the seventh decade. However, it seems that fate had one last kick in the balls for that idea. I had dared to hope for a quiet last few days before officially becoming an old git. I was to be disappointed.
The man I blame the most is one famous pop star John Otway, who had unwisely accepted an invitation to play a show in our local pub, the White Hart (so local that it is next door to our house in Arundel) the day after the big party, which it should be noted, had not finished until around 5am the same morning. In order to get towards that last hurdle, a mass application of Bloody Mary’s to all the remaining visitors to Arundel for my decade-changing status was required. Even that hardiest and the most stout-hearted were in need of a kick-start to go to the pub.
Once there of course, and after a relatively short period of time, normal service was resumed and a splendid performance by that aforementioned pop star, was the precursor to another afternoon of liver punishing revelry. Any sensible person, having experienced utter excess of the weekend so far would have expected the reasonably aged population to have accepted the inevitable and quietly wound down towards recuperation and recovery, but us nearly 60 year olds had different ideas. The Kings Arms and a take away curry (again) became the focus of attention last night.
A famous author gets the Headbutts treatment at the hands of John Otway and Wild Willy Barrett
Many pictures are emerging of the events surrounding the night before and I have to say that few, if any of them are very pretty. It was a wonderful evening of seeing old friends, being entertained by famous pop stars and enjoying fine food and wine, but most of the pictures that have surfaced over the past few days, mostly on Facebook, have failed to capture the gentle and refined nature of the evening. That, or the evening was so much more debauched than I recall.
Returning late from The Kings Head and full of curry and beer, I was ready for a gentle descent into normality, but this was hard to achieve with a gaggle of Sprog friends infesting the house and a rejuvenated Nice Lady Decorator, who decided to join the juvenile throng and start dancing, which was my cue to head to bed.
This morning I shall collect David Goulding DFC, aged 91, and take him to the Sussex over 60’s cricket net practice. David had remembered that I had told him about Mr Otway performing at the pub, and duly turned up to witness him in his pomp. David once played in the Golden Oldies cricket tournament which I had played in Harrogate and Adelaide. The Golden Oldies cricket festival, in which the minimum age to be eligible is 40, takes place every two years and regularly attracts as many as 50 teams from all over the world. The next one is scheduled for Cape Town in 2015, and I am pleased to say that I shall be in attendance, assuming something like not having an account with Currencies Direct does not afflict me in the meantime.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Moustache controversy
What had seemed like a good idea, to do a guided walking tour around Arundel, was not quite so good as it perhaps could have been because stupidly I had told everyone to be ready at 10am. What I had not factored in was that at least 10 people would come back to my house and drink whiskey until 2.30am the night before.
So the rather slow walk commenced a little after ten in some grudging sunshine. As we were walking I received a text from The Wingco, the worlds worst time keeper, to say that he had missed his flight from Nice and was on the next one. That this was not a surprise says a great deal about his time keeping. It is well known in the south of France that a “Wingco” is a unit of time which equates to around 7 minutes. He is regularly a dozen or so Wingco’s late for an appointment, and yesterday it was an appointment with Easyjet that was the focus of his personal Wingco’s.
Thereafter I organised for those staying in Arundel for last nights pre 60th birthday celebration to walk or be driven to the Black Rabbit. One large Bloody Mary was my maximum indulgence so that I would be fully able to enjoy the festivities last night. To be fair, I was not at my best after the night before, but manfully I remained in the pub with the partying throng, studiously avoiding the offers of strong drink.
And so to the big event. The gathering point was The White Hart, where the evening bar take was doubled in about 20 minutes as the thirsty ex pats assuaged their parched throats in spectacular fashion. I was told that I had to be the last to arrive, and I was to be blindfolded by Sprog 1 before being lead to my place for dinner. When the blindfold was released I was confronted by the entire party wearing false moustaches, a picture of one of which is today’s photo.
The lovely and inquisitive Sarah sports a very fine moustache
What is more, I was the only man on the big table full of the my gorgeous girl friends. I had managed to get into my kilt with surprising ease and, with a table full of gorgeous and inquisitive females, it was perhaps inevitable that a few of them are now a little less uncertain about traditional Scotsman’s undergarment arrangements. Happy days!
After a sumptuous dinner at the Roundhouse in Arundel, some of the tables are cleared ready for a brief impromptu appearance of one my favourite duos, the very wonderful John Otway and Wild Willy Barrett. Both are amongst my oldest pals, having been my friends for over 40 years and they played a mesmerising set of bluegrass, country and Otway/Barrett classics, Wild even sawing up a guitar whilst playing one of what he calls Otway’s soppy songs, “Geneva”.
They had played at my 50th birthday, which coincidentally, was almost exactly 10 years earlier. Then they had a PA so they had a microphone stand and had subjected me to participation in a touching little tune called Headbutts, which involved me being made to headbutt the microphone, much to the hilarity of the assembled guests. Last night, I knew they were playing acoustically so that no microphone abuse could be visited upon me, however, inventive as always, Wild adapted the “song” enabling him to hit me with the guitar instead.
The dinner over, a good proportion of the less sensible adjourned to my house where we drank loads of wine, smoked countless Monte Christo’s, witnessed Ziggy, my Norwegian pal do an opera trained vocal version of My Way and sang whilst the Wingco played. An absolutely splendid evening ended at nearly 5am, hence the late posting of this missive usually dedicated to Currencies Direct. Today it is dedicated to all my friends that have made this weekend so memorable.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Peaking too early?
I have used the phrase “peeked too early” in a different context and for which should have been cautioned. In fact that could have been a sub-title to that not very famous album by John Otway entitled Premature Adulation. Yesterday however, I definitely peaked too early.
The trouble is that when you have a bunch of thirsty ex pats arrive from the sunshine of the south of France, ready for a party weekend, they want to start partying as soon as they arrive, even though the celebration dinner occurs tonight. Thus by yesterday lunchtime I found myself in the Swan with a pint of London Pride and a plate of fish and chips.
My advice that the raiding party should try one of the Italian restaurants such as Osteria or Papadelle for lunch was ignored as they all liked the very English menu at the Swan. I had forgotten how much they would all crave a dose of plain English food, like bubble and squeak or fish and chips, which are unavailable in the Valbonne area, although fish is available in France, it would not usually arrive at the table clad in high calorie, waist expanding batter. Anyway, as I expected, we joined them for lunch and managed to avoid a complete blow out until later in the evening.
Where I may be living after the cost of this weekend
Yes, I managed a short siesta whilst dreaming as usual of the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct, before the south of France brigade, joined by English Treasure John Otway, and my two wonderful gay pals, Ziggy and Morten, or Bang and Olafsun as one of my friends once described them, descended upon our house for pre dinner drinks. They had all agreed that the idea of going to a pub and having a takeaway delivered to eat in situ was an intriguing idea, and so it came to pass. The Kings Arms in Arundel has, uniquely in my experience, adopted such a policy and will even supply plates, knives and forks and even napkins if you have your takeaway delivered to the pub. However, can you imagine the chaos of trying to order a curry for 15 people (the gorgeous Rachel “Lady In Waiting” and John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees having arrived later)? Someone was always going to be unlucky and it was That Nice Lady Decorator who got the job of collating the requests and formulating the order. Can you then imagine the logistics of placing some 30 dishes on the bar ready for consumption by the marauding hoard in a busy pub late on a Friday evening? I can now that I have seen it. Anyway, it all seemed to pass off very well, but inevitably, some stragglers ended up at our house until well after midnight. I took to my bed at about 1am. Today is supposed to be the big day, not yesterday.
So tonight, with the rest of the party arriving at different times, I shall endeavour to remain focused on the evening, whilst all around me start partying much earlier. I have arranged to lead a walk at 10am this morning, which seemed such a good idea in the pub last night, so unless I can use the excuse of dreadful weather, which is a decent bet, I will be slogging around the Duke of Norfolk estate this morning with an overhung rabble.
I will be needing my sensible hat, never much in evidence, to escape the clutches of the party people if I am to make it through this evening without collapsing in a heap.
Chris France
Jilted John or Stunted Nigel?
One of the limericks from the Reverend Jeff yesterday suggested something quite premature might result from my wearing the kilt on Saturday evening (if I can get into it). Nothing of course could be further from the truth. Twice in two minutes is not premature, it is lightning quick, just as are my reactions are when I spot a possible client for Currencies Direct.
My reactions were however little slower yesterday after a diet day but quickly picked up in the evening when a couple of pints of London Pride at The Swan Hotel sped me on my way to the Thai night at the White Hart. We had decided that it was not fair for the management at the hotel not to be warned about the possible, no probable, excesses of the raiding party this weekend. I believe that 7 of their 8 rooms are booked for people arriving to dine with me on Saturday evening, and if you are a regular reader of this column, you will know the sort of people with whom I tend to associate. Rock and rollers or bon viveurs or both. It may not be pretty.
Warning delivered, barricades, goggles and hard hats ordered, ready for the first arrivals today, we treated ourselves to some Thai food next door. Not having had much spicy food in the past week in Tenerife, and having to be satisfied with nasty gassy beer, it was nice to be able to make progress on both fronts last evening. It was also a vital piece of pre preparation for a rather large weekend. I shall not be sixty until the middle of next week and I am afraid to say that I expect some of my friends to do the most they can to ensure I do not get to the promised land of free prescriptions.
The food at The White Hart was exquisite. The restaurant was packed with a number of the usual suspects, including flame haired siren, The beautiful Carolyn who was smouldering in a corner, thoughtfully sharing a table with a couple in a gooseberry like fashion. Later on in the bar, Nearly Hairless Nick came up with a most excellent piece of blogging content. For some reason, rather deeper than I would like to probe, he was trying to remember the name of a one hit wonder from the 70’s, and, being the local music business guru, asked me if I could identify him from a lyric he provided. When, to my surprise (as many of my closet friends such as Mr Clipboard and The Wingco contend that I know nothing about music) I managed to help him out with a name that came from the deepest recesses of my memory, Jilted John, he said it was on the tip of his tongue but he kept thinking it was something like Stunted Nigel. In some ways that may have been a better epithet.
Stunted Nigel, or a Spanish horseman?
James “Desperate Dan” the landlord was there, as you might expect, with his fiancée the stunning Mighty Omega, who excelled herself by telling me in all seriousness that I should be proud of how good I looked for a man approaching 70. I must explain that I have been spouting on about approaching the beginning of my 7th decade, which means I will shortly be 60, but she had clearly not understood. It was only when everyone else around her laughed that the penny dropped. She was however wonderfully contrite, and was showing this to me in a most satisfying fashion, until I sensed the brooding presence of Desperate nearby and let go of her quickly.
Ok, that’s it, we are off. Downhill from lunchtime. Let battle (with my liver) commence.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Underwhelmed by undergarments
The limerick writers who infest the comments section of this column have been enjoying the possibility that I may wear my kilt at a significant birthday celebration on Saturday evening. My excuse, apart from the one I offered yesterday about the interest girls have in the under garment department of traditional Scottish dress (and I do mean dress), is that it is Rabbie Burns Night, so when better?
Yesterday was spent catching up on paperwork relating to my now less than burgeoning music business interests, reduced somewhat after a sale of some rights mostly relating to rap music, dealing with new customers for the excellent foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct and looking at the limericks and their writers who were have a field day with my hotel room mistake revealed in yesterday’s column. What with the kilt and a naked shower in the wrong hotel bathroom, there appears to be a theme running through this daily missive which involves clothing, it’s removal and a suggestion of dampness. I was going to say moist but that is somehow more feminine.
What looks like a commode thoughtfully placed close to the dinner table in Tenerife
Anyway, back to drier topics. A dry day yesterday on the food front, being a designated diet day, was actually quite welcome, but the considerably less appealing prospect of two of the 5:2 diet days back to back was alleviated by Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor, who called to say that the White Hart next door is having a Thai night this evening, and, as we both love Thai food, I am delighted to say that the intended day of fasting has been postponed or can I say the fasting is slowing? , certainly until after the weekend. The restaurant at the pub has not been in use since about October, and this event presages a reopening in February, with an oriental flavour to the intended offering. Hurrah!
It all starts to run out of control on Friday. Man mountain Peachy Butterfield, his gorgeous (far to pretty for him) wife Suzanne, Roly, and the splendid alluring Poly Bufton, and the guardian of Chateau Gloria, Simon Howes and his exquisite wife Sarah are the advance party for the big dinner on Saturday. The problem will be Peachy, and Roly, oh and Simon. They will understandably be excited at the prospect of being there on Saturday evening, but are they likely to sit in their hotel rooms the night before and spend it quietly? I can answer that one. No they won’t, and I am afraid I am looking forward to be dragged into whatever mischief they can concoct. If any of you wish to avoid a loud carouselling group of ex-pats, full of the joys of English beer and on the look out for food and entertainment, you would do well to avoid Arundel this weekend.
Various other miscreants, such as my favourite Norwegian gay chums Morten and Ziggy will arrive eventually, having booked flights from Norway into Stanstead. It is a small geographical mistake which will mean a lot of travelling, but they both have an enormous ability to drink, so I am sure they will catch up when they arrive. And that is the problem. How do I stop the weekend peaking too early? Mr Otway is putting in an appearance and with myself and That Nice Lady Decorator renowned for a lack of restraint, I can see it all going wrong, even before the Wingco and his glorious wife Maryse arrive on Saturday. And then there is the small problem of lunch on Saturday. How am I to avoid strong drink, cigars and good company when I need to be fresh in the evening? The answer is that I probably will not, and that is the issue.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Hotel rooms all look the same…
From 23 degrees to 3 degrees in four hours was the unwelcome difference in temperature from sunny Tenerife to foggy Gatwick. I can already feel the tan beginning to fade.
It has been a nice week away, but I am jaded. I must be getting old, but not old enough for a bus pass according to regular reader and this columns most prolific limericist, the Reverend Jeff, who, being far older than I, is in a position to know these things.
There was one last potentially embarrassing moment before we left. I had gone for my normal 4 mile walk, leaving That Nice Lady Decorator to pack. When I returned, she was not in the room, which was being serviced by the maid. I explained that I needed a shower and could she delay her activities for a few moments. I was a bit miffed that The Packing Operative had packed the shampoo, and curious as to where she had gone. I had not noticed the hair curlers before and subconsciously made a point of asking her about them. She had also packed the hairbrush which was very annoying. Then, coming out of the shower I noticed a computer on the table which was not mine. I was in the wrong room! I quickly grabbed my clothing and left, finding her waiting patiently in the correct room a few doors down the corridor. She found the whole thing very amusing but it could have been quite catastrophic. What would have happened if the inhabitants of the room had returned whilst I was in their shower? Especially if she was young and blonde and gorgeous (although given the average age of the hotel guests, it was more likely to be a granny). Anyway, I escaped unscathed and am determined to look at the room numbers more closely in the future.
Last sunset in Tenerife
The first of two back to back diet days now, to try to make up for the excesses of the last week, and build up some stamina for the coming weekend, is actually something that I would be dreading normally, but actually I am sort of looking forward to not having a drink. We will have a house full this coming weekend with both Sprogs threatening to turn up for their dear old dads birthday celebration, and several old pals flying in from France and elsewhere to rub my nose in it. It will all start unravelling on Friday evening when the advance party arrives. I have even considered wearing my kilt on Saturday evening, just to give the girls a thrill. They all want to know whether anything is worn beneath it, and some of the more adventurous may be persuaded to try to find out. I do hope so. I was tempted to say something about their expecting a big shock, but sadly the shock, if shock there be, will be quite small.
Today though, it is back to my desk and the never-ending crusade to save people using from using banks for foreign exchange transactions. You must know by now that Currencies Direct gave a much better solution. There is also the planning for MIDEM, the annual music business junket in Cannes at the end of January. I need to book the restaurants for the 4 days I shall be there. Oh, and some meetings I suppose. It will be my 33rd MIDEM I think, and is always a chance to catch up with some old friends from the music business, which has now largely disappeared in the form that I knew and loved. Cd’s, cassettes, even vinyl have largely disappeared to be replaced by digital delivery of music, still a dark art, to codgers like me.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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