Cars, Trains, Buses and Scooters

Monday night and Guy’s telling me I need to be up at the crack of dawn next day to deliver him to his father’s office 20 miles away in Antibes whilst I am trying to find out where this female lives who is selling her Honda scooter . It just happens to be Antibes. Result!

The advert on the local forum had been promising. A scooter, apparently identical to the one I’ve already got but 3 years younger was available for a very good price but incredibly she couldn’t confirm the make, model or how many kilometers it had done (she did know the colour though – pretty silver !), but as I was driving Guy down that way it was worth having a look at it.

Her advert had said she was willing to negotiate as she was returning to England in a week’s time, which only made me more enthusiastic to get down there before anybody else beat me to it, and at 9.45am, 15 minutes early, there I was, standing outside the ‘Australian Outback Bar’ (yes really) on my phone asking exactly where she lived. ‘Look up to your left’, which I did and there she was, waving from a balcony of a rather swish apartment block, just off the harbour.

Probably no more than 25, speaking perfect English and French and with two under 5’s in tow, she took me into the yard and showed me the scooter. It had been lying there untouched for 3 months but it was immaculate. I managed to get it going and to cut a long story short, after a trial run, I bought it.

Now I won’t bore you with the logistics of getting a scooter back home when you’ve arrived at the seller’s apartment in a car, but needless to say, it involved quite a few journeys – cars, trains, buses and finally, scooters. The plan was to dump the car somewhere in Antibes, drive the new scooter along the coast to Cagnes and then get the train back to Antibes, pick up the car and drive it home. Then return to our ‘local’ station for the scooter.

It was a nice drive along the coast in the sun and the 30 minute journey gave me a chance to properly try out my new toy. Delighted with its performance, I parked the scooter at Cagnes train station, bought my ticket and waited for the train heading back in the direction of Cannes.

I got back to Antibes, drove the 20 miles home in the car and then persuaded J to drive me into Vence to get the bus which was the next part of the logistical nightmare, the part of the multi-transport journey which brought me back down to earth and restored my faith in the crazy world of the French .

From Vence and according to the published timetables, the number 400 bus would take me to the train station (where the scooter was parked)about 10 miles away. It left in 20 minutes time from the town square and when I got there, it was sitting in its bay. I was just about to board it when it just drove off – 10 minutes early! I ran after it and shouted in my best French, ‘are you the 3.45, number 400 going to the station?’ The driver just shrugged and drove off. But hey – that’s France!

Concerned a bit by this stage as that was the last bus of the day heading towards the station at Cagnes, I boarded another bus which was, according to the timetable and its signs, going nowhere near my destination, but in a sort of forlorn hope, asked the driver if he was passing anywhere near the SNCF at Cagnes. ‘Bien sur (of course)’ he replied and within 20 minutes I was reunited with my new Scoot as the kids call them here.

Now this is typical France. The bus which is supposed to be going to the station doesn’t, but the bus which is going nowhere near the trains, actually stops right outside the platforms – weird but French! This is why I use a scooter to get around!

Unique In France

Occasionally, just occasionally I realize that I am unique in France. Is it because I fervently support Glasgow Rangers football team? Well probably not, because the owner of that great team actually has a house not too far away in Antibes, so on certain Saturdays when they’re playing and he has decided to forsake the freezing, pouring rain of Glasgow for the great weather of the Côte D’Azur, I’m almost certainly not alone in screaming, ‘stick it in the ******* net, you ******* ******.’

Is it because I like my steaks ‘bien cuit’ (well done)? Probably not. There's loads of 'heathens' like me who prefer not to have their plate swimming in the blood of the animal they're eating. Is it because I go berserk when I get awful service at the checkout in supermarkets and simply storm off leaving them to stick my €200 worth of groceries back on the shelves? I cannot believe so – poor service is so ubiquitous in France that there must be other fed-up, impatient Anglos like me.

Nope – every now and again I know with absolute certainty that I am UNIQUE in France and it does have something to do with ‘food’ although the French might dispute that.

So when I have Cheddar cheese and pickled onions for a snack – is anybody else in the whole of France doing the same? Unlikely, but possibly. When I make Scottish mince with onions and carrots (not chile – pleeeeease) and serve it with turnips and mashed potatoes, is anybody else eating as grandly? Maybe the Rangers guy down in Antibes so that might not be a unique meal.

But the other evening I reckon I was totally and unequivocally unique in France – no question about it.

At lunchtime, I’d taken J and Guy for lunch in town and we’d all had quite a bit to eat but that doesn’t mean that when it comes to 9 o’clock in the evening we don’t need something else. The kids were so hungry they were actually eating out of the cat’s bowl (sardines in case you’re wondering) when I noticed the time and asked J if she was making anything for dinner but of course, the answer was a resounding, ‘No. I’m too busy, I’m looking at the Marks and Spencer website’.

At that, the kids delved into the cupboards and started opening cans of baked beans and sticking bread in the toaster, but if you’re thinking Beans on Toast is the unique food in France, think again.

Nope – that distinction goes to me. With no baked beans left and only a packet of crisps visible (chips for any French reading this – some hope !!), I made myself – wait for it – wait for it – I made a crisp sandwich. There – was anybody else in France eating a crisp sandwich tonight? I bet they weren’t.

I’ve always known I was unique and that night I was. And now you know the relevance of the picture at the start of this posting.

Huntin,Shootin, Fishin

If you read my blog you’ll know that I’ve been on a mission recently to get back in contact with guys I worked with 40 years ago. I did see some of them 16 years ago, but there are others with whom I’ve not had contact since we finished our apprenticeship in 1972. It’s a fascinating exercise. We’ve got one left to find.

However, long before I started hunting for these guys, I was trying to trace an old mate of mine, Jeff Thomson, who I worked with in IBM (I suppose that should read – with whom I worked in IBM ???). When I got my first sales territory my boss said ‘right Tom – you’ve got the left hand side of Scotland, and there’s a guy called Jeff in Edinburgh who’s got the right hand side’. Real scientific stuff – eh ?

Anyway, a few weeks later I met Jeff and we were buddies from that moment on. We used to tell each other about our respective clients. He had the Cairngorm Ski Lift Company which meant a rather long, cold trek up a mountain whilst I told him about my new client, a major government office, 10 yards from IBM’s back door who employed a bunch of girls who insisted on partying, partying, partying and thankfully, clients who insisted on spending, spending, spending. A marriage made in heaven if ever there was one.

It wasn’t long though before I found that for Jeff, IBM was merely a vehicle for keeping him occupied during the week – he was really a member of the Edinburgh gentry, taking part in all sorts of country pursuits each weekend and making sure the office was fully stocked with everything the earth could supply. Bags of potatoes would litter the 16^th Century IBM Edinburgh office’s narrow corridors. Pheasants would be hanging in his office waiting to be collected by willing customers, but the worst thing was when he was delivering fish and shellfood to his mates – what a stink!

Occasionally, we had to do work together, and on one such occasion having spent a rather rumbustious couple of days in Aberdeen, we were heading back down the A9 to his house in Perthshire where I had left my car. As we passed some tiny fishing village, Jeff drove his car down onto the keyside where he started talking to some ‘fishing trawler’ types. A couple of minutes later a couple of baskets of huge, live crabs were loaded into his boot, some money changed hands and off we sped southwards.

At his house in Blackford, he asked me if I wanted some crabs and as I had an English mother-in-law at the time, I said I’d take some. I had no receptacle in which to keep the crabs so Jeff just dumped about six of them into my boot and off I set. A couple of hours later I stopped outside my house in Glasgow, opened the boot to get the crabs, which I was sure would be dead by now and there was – nothing! They’d crawled into every conceivable crevice. Getting a torch from the house only helped in that I could spot their beady eyes well back into the voids in a car boot that most people don’t even know exist. By now, a crowd of nosey, but well-meaning neighbours had gathered, all offering advice about how to get the crustaceans from their new, dry lairs. After about an hour of viciously poking them with sticks (the crabs not the neighbours) they’d all given up and were heading for the pot. I watched in a sadistic sort of glee as my mother-in-law popped them into the large pan, switched on the heat and then had to hold the lid down as they battled to escape.

Thanks Jeff !

Film 2009 Presented By Tom Cupples

With books I read and films I watch, if I can’t get into them in the first 10 minutes or so, I go off and do something else. I can’t think of too many films which have gone on to be great movies after a crap opening and anyway, I would be devastated if I spent 2 hours watching a movie, hoping that it was going to get better – and it didn’t! A couple of months ago J, against my better judgment, made me sit and watch Brad Pitt in the film, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and it was utter tosh. So, the fact that my last 3 choices were, in my opinion, all great films, restored my confidence that my judgment is alive, well and as brilliant as ever.

Firstly – ‘The Taking of Pelham 123’. Now remakes are usually rubbish (Omega Man springs to mind) but this was just brilliant. I don’t think it got a great write up when it was released but almost as soon as I started watching it I could see it was going to surpass the original which had Gene Hackman in the leading role as the New York Subway operator (that’s trains not sandwiches!) negotiating with crooks who had hijacked a train. From memory, the action in the original was better but being a bit older and cerebral, I look to screenplay (that’s dialogue) to make me appreciate a film these days and the screenplay in Pelham 123 was superb …. with Travolta making the film. He was utterly brilliant. OK – Denzel Washington was probably the leading actor but Travolta ‘stole it’. Great film. Great performance.

Next – Knowing, starring Nicolas cage. Now I can’t work out whether Cage is a great actor or a truly appalling one so I keep watching his films trying to work out the answer. Luckily, his films all seem to be quite good so it’s not too onerous a task trying to judge his performances. In Knowing, he is the main character as you would expect and is convinced that a lady from the past had known about future disasters. Of course, he’s correct and the disasters duly take place. The special effects (particularly a crashing plane) are very impressive and with some scary aliens around, it didn’t take long before the hairs on my arms were standing straight up. It also had a quite unusual ending so all in all, it was a very good film. Disasters, aliens, and an unexpected, unusual ending made sure it was right up my street.

Finally, the new Sci-Fi movie, District 9. The film features a huge alien space ship which has been hovering above Johannesburg for the last 20 years. The authorities have to house the aliens somewhere so create a new township, just for them – it’s called District 9. The film is actually shot like a documentary and has no well-known actors in it and will not be the ‘film of choice’ for quite a few people, but I thought it was brilliantly made with a very original storyline and with quite a bit of humour interspersed throughout the film. Excellent.

Can’t wait for Avatar though which is released in December. James Cameron, he of Titanic, Aliens, The Abyss and Terminator 2 fame is the director and doesn’t spare a buck when making his films. Shot in a new form of 3D, it promises to be the film sensation of the last few years and of course, it's just in time for the Oscars.

Barry Norman – eat your heart out.

Tony Blair’s A Saint !!

I’ve previously written about the French mayoral system which basically allows, nay encourages, local mayors to run their towns as personal fiefdoms. I’ve not heard anything bad about our Monsieur Bertaina but did encounter his absolute power when he arbitrarily stopped our housebuilding project for about 10 months and hauled J and I up before him to get a ‘royal dressing down’.

I also explained that this culture does not restrict itself to small towns and villages and goes right to the very top, mentioning the ex President, Chirac (pictured), as someone tainted by stories of corruption when he was Mayor of Paris. Of course, his financial shenanigans only came to light when he left his mayoral position and became President of France but like all these nasty little foreign countries, e.g. Italy, there is a law which protects any serving President from prosecution, no matter the alleged crime.

However, now that Chirac is no longer in power, the authorities are chasing him, with all sorts of people crawling out of the woodwork to give their side of the story and what a story it is. It makes the UK MP’s Expenses scandal seem like an insignificant little issue.

So what was Chirac alleged to have done? It all comes down to the fact that the all-powerful mayors have the ability to offer huge public works contracts to companies without too much in the way of corporate governance.

Kick-backs for these contracts in the form of suitcases full of banknotes were routinely delivered to the Mayor’s office and it is rumoured that Chirac and his family spent €18,000 a month on food alone and when you consider the small salary French politicians are paid, that ‘s quite a food bill. The money was also used to favour important, but low ranking employees by providing them with chauffeur driven cars, whilst union leaders were provided with ‘inducements’ presumably to lessen the likliehood of any public disorder.

But most, if not all of this, probably went unnoticed in Paris, where French government ministers were routinely handed bundles of cash on a monthly basis as a way of increasing their meagre salaries – and this was legal. No receipts were necessary , no books or records were kept of who got the cash and how much – the cash was just handed out from a ‘special fund’ as it was known. You can see the potential for a bit of skimming here and there can’t you?

So, it’s all happening here in the courts of the French capital. The ex-President (Chirac) is being chased by the Justice Department and the current President (Sarkozy) is using the very same Justice Department to prosecute the ex-prime Minister (Dominique de Villepin) on conspiracy charges. Bet Tony Blair is glad he wasn’t a politician here! He looks like a saint compared to this lot.