Old Rockers Never Die - They Just Grow Old And Drink Rosé

I awakened on Sunday severely hung over from Saturday’s dinner party at our place but the most worrying thing was not waking up with a thudding head and a throat as parched as the terraces outside and a promise to myself never to smoke another cigarette, but the nagging thought that we had something important to do that day. And then J screeched – ‘it’s Nick’s 50^th today’. Oh god – the very last thing I wanted to do was socialise – again! And so I hung around in my denim shorts and smelly t-shirt just waiting for J to agree that we needed to give our bodies a rest when she appeared in the lounge, all smart and smelling nice. I guessed we were going.

The fact that the cricket was coming to a conclusion, the US golf was on the telly as was the Charity Cup Final between Man Utd and Chelsea, it all had absolutely nothing to do with my lack of inertia or enthusiasm to move my butt, but rather than risk a very costly divorce I dragged myself into the shower and tried to make myself presentable.

Off we went. Nick and Wendy’s place is just across the valley about 10 minutes in the car and it was clear that we were very late. People had already sat down to a delicious looking lunch. I approached Nick and wished him a happy 50^th but he said it was his 49^th – Wendy had made a little joke on the invitation which I had missed completely! Thank goodness I hadn’t bought him a ‘Happy Birthday Now You’re 50’ card.

I didn’t know a single person which is quite unusual in the ‘redneck’ world of the ex-pats and I so introduced myself and then headed straight for the end of the table which had the bottles of Rosé. I ended up sitting beside a guy who clearly liked the sound of his own voice, so as soon as there was a vacant seat at the other end of the table, I made my excuses and moved. It was either the Rosé and complete mind-numbing boredom or sober sanity – I chose the latter which is quite unlike me.

After about 20 minuts on water, my resolve weakened and I had just raided Nick’s fridge for another bottle of Rosé when another, quite interesting couple appeared – even later than us. She was dressed like a 60’s hippy with flowery, calf-length trousers, a tight-fitting white blouse and a floppy hat (made me think of that Jeff Beck classic – ‘going down a bumpy hillside - in your hippy hat). She had a certain elegance about her and after introducing herself (unfortunately I didn’t hear her name) she went off for a swim and her partner sat down across from me. He had an interesting look about him and almost as soon as he sat down we started talking. Thereafter, there was about 2 hours of fascinating chat about the fact that ‘Danny’ had been born in Buenos Aires, had moved to LA, then Spain, London, Italy and finally France. He had been a singer and keyboards player with a heavy metal group called ‘UFO’ plus several others such as Tarzen and Heavy Metal Kids and regaled me with stories of ‘life on the road as a rock star’. We chatted about songs, song-writing and all the groups we knew – Humble Pie, Cream, The Moody Blues and Jethro Tull – he actually knew them – I’d only ever seen them! I even owned up to having seen Abba and the Carpenters live in Glasgow but that didn’t put him off! We agreed to keep in contact and if we do (people always say they’ll keep in touch at parties), I’ll probably have to grow my hair now and start smoking dope!

After I got home I looked ‘Danny’ up on the internet cause I’d never heard of UFO but apparently they were quite big. See him ‘perform’ below in the URL in Tarzen (Danny Peyronel - lead vocals). It wasn’t quite as difficult a lunch as I thought it was going to be. After a bad start it improved dramatically thanks to Danny.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8ZcyE0WW0c

Abigail’s Party

Any of you seen this 70’s play of a really cringeworthy dinner party? It’s so embarrassing that it’s difficult to watch – a bit like I found The Office with Ricky Gervais. Anyway, let me get it clear that I would not categorise J in the mould of Alison Steadman who played the overbearing, hoity-toity hostess of the dinner party – well maybe a little bit - and I certainly would not align myself with her perpetually nagged husband. Well – maybe a lot actually!

But back to Saturday night. I’ve had so many messages, texts, e-mails desperate to know how ‘feeding the Frenchies’ went that I thought I’d give a blow by blow account of the action and in order to do this I have to take myself back and float in the ether watching the whole thing unfold, including my numerous faux-pas.

It all started with me laying the table for 6 people until J ‘informed’ me that there would be 8 people present. Ok – I merely adjusted the table plan which meant using 2 sets of crap cutlery cause our canteen (why do they call it a canteen of cutlery?) only has place settings for 6. I never asked who the other two were – mine’s was not to reason why – JUST DO IT !

The terrace looked like a Gordon Ramsay restaurant with potted plants, candles and soft lighting but unfortunately I forgot to remove Shadow’s food and water bowls which somewhat spoiled the look, especially as the bluebottles and wasps were swarming over a piece of rancid meat. Never mind.

People arrived right on time just as I finished my second glass of wine and second cigarette (I need to get myself in the right frame of mind for these things) and it all started off swimmingly. There was Jacques and Madeline, a French couple who both worked for IBM and therefore have something in common with J and myself, plus another Frenchie, Jean (as in John). Then there was Helen who is a UK based writer and business consultant, the Reverend Anne and J and myself. Oh – and I nearly forgot the Floridian Miranda or Mirabelle or somebody – she said ‘call me Mimi’, so I did. It was easier to remember.

Now Helen is quite reserved (or do I mean polite?) as are Jacques, Madeline and Jean and come to think of it J which left me and Mimi (a perfectly formed size zero I would say) and the Reverend Anne to keep the fun going. But more of that later, first the nosh.

The starter was a red and yellow pepper tart and I have to say my lovely wife did a masterful job with it (there I’ve said something nice about her) although if I hadn’t rescued it from the cats the night before we might have been having salt and vinegar crisps and pickled onions. Anyway, the tart survived (no – not J !) and everybody said how nice it was.

The main course was a whole poached salmon which had been marinated in honey and ginger and apart from the bones (which only I seemed to get) was unanimously declared delicious although I have to say that I prefer my potato salad to have potatoes smaller than the chipping variety. Small is beautiful dear if you’re reading this.

Dessert was a new line in chocolate mousse – one you pour instead of spooning. Our guests were gracious in their support. Needless to say I declined the mousse and instead went for the Bird’s Blancmange although I’m not too keen on the banana flavoured one. I jest – J also made a creamy, wobbly thing with mixed berries. Very good darling although the lactose intolerant Mimi (I said lactose not laxative) wasn’t able to eat it and fed me her portion instead.

So that’s the food – ah no – there was cheese at some point in the evening but by the time the cheese came round I was intoxicated with the two beautiful women who sat on each side of me (not two on each side – one on each side making two in total). There was the Reverend Anne who, readers of my blog will know, I’ve invited several times to play a round, and in her response she reminds me of that Dick Emery character who says, ‘oh – you are awful’. Of course the French guests were appalled at my behavior (‘Vot – you vont to play around wiv Anne’) until I explained that it was golf I was talking about (which really confused the Frenchies) and from then on it all went downhill.

The rather expensive white wine I’d bought was declared ‘wonderful’ by one of the Frenchies until I opened the 3^rd bottle – it was corked. I opened the 4^th bottle – also corked. I couldn’t believe it. Normally one bottle out of 50 you buy is corked but two out of four – incroyable!

Then as I was talking intently to Mimi who was on my other side, my chair splintered, split and crashed to the ground with me on it. Cool as ever but covered in the mixed berries which I hadn’t quite put into my mouth as I disappeared from sight, I regained my composure and took another seat from the lounge and carried on as if nothing had happened. The guests were too polite to say anything but I did notice a few of them surreptitiously checking their chairs.

And that’s about all I can remember. I vaguely recall the guests leaving (except Helen who was staying over) but I do remember waking up with the most awful hangover in the morning thinking there was something important happening that day. Oh yes – we had a fiftieth birthday party! It never stops!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXd2DzXCZ1Q&feature=related

Yes ! She’s Retreated.

I mean, of course, J. She’s off (and please don’t laugh), to a monastery for three nights of solitude, soul seeking, meditation and whatever else a ‘retreat’ offers. Let me explain.

Just off the coast of Cannes lie the Îsles de Lérin, comprising two islands, the Île Sainte-Marguerite and the Île Saint-Honorat. Visitors flying into Nice airport may have noticed the two islands just before the plane lands. You cannot miss the crystal clear, bright blue-green shallow water between the two small bits of land which is usually filled with sleek yachts seeking an anchorage just off Cannes.

The Île Saint-Honorat has had a monastery since 410AD and it’s to there that J and her pal, Lynn, are going – some old relics visiting an old relic I hear you say! Being a ‘retreat’, for the most part each day is one of soul-searching and solitude but as J cannot stand being on her own, even in times of self-reflection and self-imposed silence, she’s taking her pal with her.

Of course, whilst they will be subject to the ‘silent order’ of the monks (it’s a working monastery), I’ll be luxuriating in my own ‘silent order’ at home – the kids are in Eire – it’ll be wonderful.

All sorts of jokes having been uttered by me since I found out that J (and Lynn) were going off to Saint-Honorat. ‘You’ll have to leave your dirty habits at the front door’. ‘The monks will be impressed by your knickers – they’ve got a saint’s name on them – St Michael’. ‘J will be at holy communion several times a day – it’s the only place she’ll get her daily intake of wine’. Ha ha !

And then, of course, there’ll be the discussion as J and Lynn appear at the front door of the monastery:

Thud, Thud – (the door has big knockers apparently - so Lynn should feel at home!)

Yes – who is calling at the Lord’s door?

It’s me and Lynn – we’re here to try and keep our mouths shut for 3 days and nights.

Ah you must be our retreat guests – a Mrs Hellon-Evans-Cupples and a Mrs Pattinson?

Yup – that’s us Father, now where’s our suite?

Actually, I’m the Abbot and I’m sorry but there are no suites in the Lord’s house. You have been allocated single cells in the basement beside the interior well and the septic tank. I’m afraid our retreat guests usually prefer the cells with stone beds, no interior light and a basic toilet facilty.

Oh – Thomas has told me about that – there must be a ‘retreat’ near Maidenhead Police station. He’s always going on about the stone bed, no light and metal toilet with no seat.

And of course Mrs Hellon-Evans, there’s no paper provided.

Oh – and I was hoping you could get me the Daily Mail delivered to my room each day.

No – I meant there’s no paper for the toilet. Oh never mind. Let me help you with your cases. I must say Mrs Hellon, you’re case is rather heavy.

Yeah – it’s all me make-up and stuff like that.

I just hope that there’s no chocolate or alcohol in here Mrs Hellon. The Lord does not like guests in his house partaking of pleasures. We’re all here to suffer under the Lord’s guidance. And may I remind you that dinner is communal and we expect our guests to be naked except for the habit we provide. No make-up. No hair or other bodily adornments.

You mean I’ll have to take my belly-button piercing out before I come down to dinner?

I’m afraid you will Mrs H.

And my toe ring?

That as well Mrs H.

About dinner Reverend? Can we pre-order and Lynn and I want to share the bill for the wine so can you make sure the wine waiter knows that.

I’m afraid you’re under a misapprehension Mrs.H. Dinner is whatever our monks have gathered from the fields during the day. The Lord’s gracious offerings. And I’m afraid we only serve water from the well.

What you mean - there’ll be no Rag Puddins or Sausage Curry? Chips or mushy peas? And no Blossom Hill chardonnay?

I’m afraid not. We pride ourselves on self-sufficiency. We do everything for ourselves.

Ah yes – Thomas is always complaining about having to do that.

So getting back to the rules Mrs H – dinner is at 6pm and then lights out is at 7pm. We expect total silence between 7pm and breakfast which is at 5.30am. Breakfast will consist of an apple left outside your cell door.

Wot – no Full English with black pudding and hash browns?

No – I’m sorry. Just an apple. The only sustenance the Lord gave to Adam and Eve.

Would you just Adam and Eve it – ha ha - that’s a joke Abbot. So when’s the next boat then – the next boat into Cannes so Lynn and I can go and do a bit of karaoke?

I’m afraid there isn’t one Mrs H. You’re now here in our silent order for the next 6 months.

How come – I know there’s at least one boat a day back to Cannes.

I’m afraid somebody has fully booked every place on the boat for the next 6 months. I’m told he sounded like he had a Scottish accent!

http://www.travellinghistorian.com/ironmask.html

Feeding The French

We have a dinner party organized for tomorrow night. It’s probably the first sit-down occasion when we’ll have a few French people present and it’s giving J and myself nightmares. We’ve met these people a few times before when our friend Helen has held soirees at her apartment in Nice, so they’re not strangers. But still – this could be a social disaster. It could all be on Facebook on Monday, or worse, on the local forum or even worse than that there could be French sniggers as we walk into the local bar next week!

The problem is what to serve for dinner. And more important than that, do we have canapés to start? And if we have canapés would it be ok for me to serve pickled onions and cheese and onion crisps with them? What about slices of chorizo? No, no – nothing spicy you idiot. And do I get good champagne or just the normal stuff? I haven’t slept for a week since J told me about hosting this dinner party.

When J and I were discussing it (sorry – when J was telling me that IT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN), I wanted to cancel the whole thing or just have a Barbie and make it easy on ourselves, but J had her own ideas. She wanted me to make Crêpes Suzettes but that would be culinary suicide despite the fact that I think I make a pretty mean pancake or crêpe. If I did make pancakes would it be ok to serve them with warmed up Nutella chocolate sauce or would I have to make the proper orange, lemon and liqueur sauce and set the house on fire as I tried to flambé them in a pan with cheap, Greek brandy? If I had a deep fat fryer (I’ve asked for one for Xmas), I could have surprised them, and surprised isn’t an exaggeration I suppose, with deep fried Mars bars! I suppose they would call them Mars bars en-croute.

As for the main course (you’ll have noticed we’re going backwards here), I suggested we do a rib of beef on the BBQ because, as it’ll be a warm night we’ll be eating outside on the terrace and there’s nothing like a barbie to make everybody feel relaxed. But the French will want their beef red raw, whilst I like mine to be well cooked and that’s not really possible with a single joint on the Barbie, so that idea was knocked on the head. Something I’d like to do to my wife for having the social irresponsibility of inviting Frenchies in the first place.

What about the starter? Will I try my mean French Onion Soup on them or should we stick to slices of Scottish sausage wrapped in puff pastry? What about the easy option of smoked salmon but then they’ll want to know if it’s French salmon, farmed or Canadian. Oh my god !

And then there’s the wine. I drink plonk but I do try to take a reasonable bottle when I go visiting (about €2.50) but the first thing the French will do is look at the label and it’s at that point that things could go downhill if I’m not careful and there’s absolutely no chance I’ll use my wine boxes – sacre blue! Maybe I should just pour some plonk from my wine box into a decanter – nobody would question that would they? Everybody would think it was real good stuff but then they’d look for the tell-tale signs of sediment at the bottom of the decanter which you always get when it’s a really good wine. Of course ! I could put some cigarette ash at the bottom of the decanter – that would fool them.

What to do? What to do ? We’ll let you know how it goes. Wish us luck.

Cars In France

I’d love to have a new car. I love the smell of the leather, the knowledge that you’re protected from any faults for three years and the fact that each time you get a new car there are all sorts of new gizmos to play with. Sat Nav, climate control, cruise control etc etc (shows you how long it's been since I had a new car). But there’s no chance of me getting another new car in France (I’ve had two), because within a week, some adolescent idiot will have scraped his/her keys down both sides causing thousands of euros in damage. This has happened to me twice and to several people I know. I swear, if ever I caught somebody doing that to my car, I’d be in prison for the rest of my life – nuff said!

So why cars today (I always feel I need to justify my blogs)? It’s a couple of things but mainly a story my brother told me the other night. And before I continue, I haven't gone off my trolley - read on.

My brother must have one of the best jobs in the world. He drives around Scotland, visiting all sorts of beautiful places, stopping for lunch beside a loch, below a mountain or in a bay overlooking the sea. But last week as he was driving past an old landmark not far outside Glasgow (Jackie Stewart’s father’s garage), he spotted a flame-red Ferrari parked under a tree.

As is the norm in Glasgow, a heavy shower had sprung up, almost out of nowhere, and this guy who had an open-topped Ferrari, had stopped under a tree to get shelter. Despite the fact that he most probably had a hard top stored in his boot, the rain was so heavy that all he could do was to sit in his car with an umbrella up. Robert thought it was the funniest thing he’d seen in a very long time.

Back to France. The other thing which happens in France is that your car can be wrecked in the car park of a supermarket. Doors caved in, bumpers smashed, wing mirrors removed etc etc and that’s just you popping in to get a litre of milk. They just don’t care. Parked cars are there to let French drivers know when they need to reverse., or to go forward. Parked cars are a legitimate ‘bumper zone’ to let the Frenchies know when they’ve reached the limit of their turning zone. It’s accepted. It’s just a French thing. They’re stupid and they don’t care.

So …… my tow bar fitted to the back of my Jeep is my greatest weapon. I just reverse now and when I hit something, I know I need to go forward a bit. Not nice I know but sod them.

It reminds me of a situation quite a few years ago when my son, Stephen, and I went off to Calais on a ‘booze cruise’. We’d filled the supermarket trolley to overflowing with crates of beer and boxes of wine. The car park was on a hill and as we reached our car I said to Stephen to keep hold of the trolley otherwise it would roll off down the hill.

Of course, you can all guess what happened – Stephen was distracted by a sixty year old French woman in hot pants and let the trolley go. It was almost like slow motion as the fully-laden trolley ran downhill, straight into the bumper of another car. Being the honest, decent citizen I am, I put my business card on the windscreen, simply saying I’d seen what happened and for the owner to contact me.

We got back home and within a couple of days a really obnoxious, bolshy woman was on the phone demanding to know what had happened to her car. She was so obnoxious that I decided not to admit liability and said that all I’d seen was the car which had caused the damage. She demanded to know the registration plate so I made up a series of numbers on the spur of the moment. And then she said ……… that’s ok I’ll be able to trace him cause I’m in Scotland Yard’s stolen car crime squad ! Aaaaaagh !

Sir Bobby Robson R.I.P.

There’s been hundreds of tributes to Sir Bobby Robson who died on the 31^st July, the best of which was Sky Sports. I don’t intend to do another tribute here to a football man who was as passionate as any person can get about football, suffice to say he was a giant, leading teams to huge success in England, Portugal, Holland and Spain. Despite the fact that English football managers are some of the most successful in European football, none of them have come anywhere near his achievements with different teams in different countries.

However, on a lighter note and as a legacy, he’s left us with some hilarious quotes, most of which were probably gathered in the immediate aftermath of a football match when most managers cannot string two words together. Here they are:

”The first ninety minutes of a football match are the most important.”

"We didn’t underestimate them, but they were a lot better than we thought”

"I’m not going to look beyond the semi-final, but I would love to lead Newcastle out at the final."

"He’s very fast and if he gets a yard ahead of himself nobody will catch him."

“Ray Wilkins' day will come one night.”

"I would have given my right arm to be a pianist."

“I'd say he's the best in Europe, if you put me on the fence.”

"There will be a game where somebody scores more than Brazil and that might be the game they lose."

"He never fails to hit the target, but that was a miss."

“Some of the goals were good, some of the goals were sceptical.”

Sir Bobby to Bryan Robson: "Good morning, Bobby."
Bryan: "You’re Bobby, I’m Bryan!"

.

An Abomination in Mayfair

The current American Embassy in Grosvenor Square in London’s Mayfair district is an abomination. In a district of wonderful Victorian and Edwardian buildings, the huge concrete monstrosity is an eyesore of the greatest magnitude. How it ever got planning permission is beyond me.

And now the Americans are putting in planning permission for a huge new embassy across the Thames to be situated between Chelsea and Vauxhall Bridges. They feel that the security problems inherent in Grosvenor Square means they have to move but the new proposal has run into problems – ha ha !

The newish mayor, good old manic Boris Johnson, who was actually born in New York, has told the Americans to stuff it unless they come up with the goods. And what are the ‘goods’?

Well the Americans have not paid a penny in congestion charges since the scheme started saying their ‘diplomats’ are exempt. They owe £3 million and good old Boris says they need to stump up the readies if they want to get their plans passed. He’s also demanding that they contribute a rather smallish £2.5 million towards the London Crossrail costs which is a bit rich cause I don’t think that line will go anywhere the new Embassy. The Yanks also want to construct the building with its ‘back’ to the river with a 15 ft earth embankment at the front to prevent car bombs.

All of this is troubling Boris (not a name you’d normally want to use to negotiate with the Americans) as he struggles to impose his will on the Yanks as they strive to get out of Mayfair.

However, nobody seems to have mentioned the real reason that the Americans want to move across the river. If constructed, it’ll be not too far from Britain’s MI5 spy centre and no doubt the old US listening devices will be pointed at Millbank House hoping to hear a few snippets of ‘offensive counterintelligence’. If they did listen in, hopefully they’d hear the national outrage over the case of Gary McKinnon, an Asperger Syndrome sufferer who hacked into the Pentagon looking for details of UFOs and alien contact. The Americans want to extradite him and McKinnon’s lawyers are fighting this. If extradited, we all know what will happen – he’ll get some ridiculous sentence. Maybe 20 years for an offence which would maybe get a large fine in the UK.

Anyway – I back Boris. I love Americans but just sometimes they get a little too big for their boots.

Anyone For Cricket ?

A nice little interlude before the football season starts. Yup – the Ashes is on TV and for those not of a cricket persuasion, the Ashes is a biennial contest between Australia and England over five (test) matches. It’s being played in England this year and we’re at test number 3, the first being drawn and the second, a thorough drubbing for the ‘Foster Drinkers’. The third match is going to be all-important. If England win, they cannot lose the series, although if the 5 match series remains drawn, the Aussies will retain the trophy, a small terracotta urn containing the ashes of a reputed bit of cricket equipment, a bail or a stump – nobody knows.

Why am I, a Scotsman, so keen on cricket? I’m not really. I like the test matches (the internationals) and the limited over games but I don’t watch the county games otherwise I’d be watching it on the telly 6 days a week, if not 7!

I like the major games because it’s a fascinating study in strategy. Five days of backs against the wall or, on some occasions, all out attack. Or, depending on the game, it can be both. And I particularly like how a team can be really on top and then a bowler comes on and changes the whole state of play. It’s strange to think that batsmen, even the best batsmen in the world, need to be ‘at the crease’ (batting) for maybe an hour to have a real impact on the game and yet a bowler can change the whole perspective within a ten minute spell.

I love the fact that despite fierce on-field rivalries, when a bowler whizzes one past a batsman’s helmet, there is invariably an smirk exchanged between the two adversaries – not something you would get in football. And when an innings finishes, the team on top usually claps off its best performer. All very civilized.

And then there are the statistics. Bowling and batting averages. Strike rates. Best innings for their career and this series and all series against the team they’re playing. Being a ‘numbers person’, I love all this stuff. Yup, OK, I’m a bit nerdy that way.

But alas. Just as the third test was about to begin, the Midlands heavens opened and turned Edgebaston into a lake. They spent all morning mopping up to try and make the ground playable and just as they were about to start, 6 hours late, the electricity was cut off – all these bloody Frenchies turning their air conditioning on I bet! Grrrrr!

What’s Happening at Le Brin ?

Le Brin d’Olivier (the Olive Branch) - where did that name come from? Can’t remember being consulted. People think it’s a Jewish retirement home! I suppose they’re right – I’m 'careful' with money (according to my missus), I’m retired and I’ve had the op!

Actually, It’s pretty quiet these days chez nous. The kids returned from Corfu on the 23^rd and they have now left for a month in Southern Ireland with their father. It’s strangely quiet. No bickering over who has control of the TV remote. No slowing of the internet as Guy and Kitty download music and watch You Tube several hours a day. No continuous queue at the fridge as they harvest whatever food there is on the shelves like a couple of locusts. It’s idyllic, although J is already missing her ‘little dears’. I’ve fixed Skype on her PC so she can see them every now and again so we’ll see just how much they are missing their mum as they will be the ones to initiate contact.

Changing to the weather, it’s been really warm for the last 5 weeks or so. The ground is parched and the sprinklers are on every second day. It’s too hot to do much. Within a couple of minutes I’m soaking in sweat even if I’m just doing light outside work but of course, there is the pool and I have to say it’s almost worth working up a sweat just to be able to jump into the refreshing, clear, blue water and cool off…….. several times a day. It’s so hot that I’ve had to go and get a haircut only 6 weeks after my last trim which is unheard of. The ‘coiffeur’ (barber/hairdresser) doesn’t speak English so it’s a wonder that I emerge with something resembling a decent haircut. Yesterday, we were having a chat about the local music festival (Nuits du Sud - see URL at end and make sure you choose the English option) and he kept saying, ‘Moriad is playing on Sunday – you must know Moriad’. I shook my head, ashamed that I hadn’t heard of this famous, English group. Eventually he went off and got a brochure and proudly pointed to a picture of Murray Head. I’d never heard of him but seems like he’s quite popular in France!

Having installed Skype to be able to have video calls with Timmy, my youngest son who is in Qatar, I am pleased to say that we’ve had quite a few online sessions. His latest comment is ‘7 days in – 116 to go !’ He went off to Doha on his first weekend off but is now working 12-14 hour days. When I ask him what’s he’s doing out there he says he could tell me but then he’d have to kill me! All I get is that it’s 130 degrees and the food is great.

It was Angie’s birthday yesterday and last night J and I went over to help her celebrate. Tan had got her a beautiful necklace from a very expensive jewelers in Cannes and as you would expect, Tan asked the shop assistant some searching questions, the most illuminating of which was, ‘what’s the most expensive thing you sell here?’, to which the reply was, ‘two million euros sir’. I made a mental note not to let J anywhere near Boucheron.

So, that’s it from Le Brin. The weather is scorching. The animals are listless and I feel very guilty in proclaiming that it’s just too hot to do any work. Still the Ashes (cricket) is on and the football season has almost started with friendly matches now taking up the boring TV hours between 9 and 11 at night. C’mon the Gers.

http://www.vence.fr/Nuits-du-Sud-Music-Festival-2009.html

Stelios and easyJet

I first came across Stelios when I started flying from London to the south of France on a regular basis with easyJet. The airline had only been going for a couple of years and the service was patchy to say the least. If a problem occurred in the morning, that problem would multiply so that when I flew in the evenings, delays of a couple of hours were not uncommon. Throughout all these problems however, the owner of easyJet, Stelios, would there at the check-in queue reassuring passengers. He would then wander up and down the aisle during the flight, asking for feedback and invariably if there was a delay, he would offer everybody (139 with a full plane) a free drink. Given that a Gin and Tonic was approximately £3, it was a costly freebie and probably wiped out his profit on that flight.

Stelios, then floated his airline on the stock market and it has gone from strength to strength, certainly in terms of number of routes and the inventory of new planes they leased.

Today, on my occasional forays to the UK, I travel with one of their competitors, Aer Lingis who, in my opinion, offer a much superior service. Seat allocation when checking in. Large, leather seats. More legroom. No hassles with slightly overweight baggage. But Aer Lingis only operate out of Gatwick which is ideal for my current flights. Any other destination and I will be back to easyJet.

Why am I writing about an airline and it’s founder? It was an article I read the other day about Stelios in which he described his approach to money. He was given a sizeable loan by his shipping-magnate father (£500m is the estimate) and went onto to become a sizeable competitor to his father’s shipping line, selling it eventually for £1.4b. Makes nonsense of the old adage about how you make a small fortune. You start with a large one – ha ha!

It was one of the things he said in the article which prompted this post. He said that when he became successful, he changed his clothes (I can only assume he meant he improved his dress sense) and got rid of his Porsche. Well, I don’t know about the Porsche but I was always amazed when I saw Stelios wandering about on the Monday flight to London. Here was a billionaire who dressed liked he’d slept in his clothes on a park bench. He was so untidy. He is a big man and it’s sometimes difficult to dress big men but this guy was the proverbial tramp. The back of his suit trousers hadn’t seen a press since the suit was first worn. His jacket was similarly creased but he was always niceness itself, even signing autographs for stupid passengers who thought he was some sort of celebrity.

Since those early days in easyJet, Stelios has gone on to found a number of other ‘easy’ businesses. The ill-fated easyInternet Cafés. The easyRentacar which seems to have disappeared. He’s now doing easyCruises but again, I haven’t seen the distinctive orange cruise ships which used to stand out like a beacon when we looked down to the Med.

He also founded, if that is the correct word, an easyBus service which took passengers getting off his planes at Luton and ferried them into London for a £4 fare. I once followed this billionaire (he claims he’s not worth that much) off of a Luton bound flight and watched him selling his £4 bus tickets on the concourse at Luton Airport. Ever known a billionaire to do that?

Anyway, if you’ve got 10 minutes to spare, read Stelio’s thoughts on money and entrepreneurship in the URL’d article and remember what Dell Boy once said – ‘d’ya know, the French don’t have a word for entrepreneur’!!!

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/personalfinance/fameandfortune/5931325/I-ditched-my-Porsche-when-I-started-easyJet.-Ive-had-a-Smart-Car-ever-since.html

Lavender

It’s lavender cutting season. Well, for me at least. It’s not a job I enjoy, cutting the flowers off of about 50 yards of lavender plants, but at least when it’s done, the garden looks a whole lot tidier.

I planted most of mine as quick-growing ground cover several years ago. It needs next to no water, produces masses of lilac/purple flower heads and attracts a multitude of bugs, bees and butterflies. Apparently, laid across a doorstep or a window sill, it also acts as a deterrent for the horrible scorpions which we get down here and which can give a nasty sting if encountered.

One of the side benefits of the lavender cutting season chez nous is that I smell gorgeous for a couple of days, even after I’ve been in the pool. The smell lingers on and on and is one of the reasons why its dried flowers are bagged and used for wardrobes and clothes drawers. You can even put some under your pillow and drift off to sleep in a lavender enthused stupor, although in my case it would probably just make me think of all the cutting I still have to do.

Of course, commercially, lavender is big business in the south and higher regions of France, with the flower heads mainly being distilled to produce a highly sought after oil which is used in a variety of ways from perfume making through to medicines and soap making. One ton of flower heads (and that is a lot of flowers!) produces anywhere between 5kg and 20kg of essence. Me – I just put them in my trailer and dump them at the tip, a rather unglorious end to a glorious growing season of vivid purple flowers. Maybe I should take them up to the perfume factory a couple of miles away and see if they’ll give me anything for them?

A bottle of after shave would suffice.

Rip-Off Rome

Italian tourist authorities are apparently going apoplectic about a couple of Japanese visitors who were charged €600 (£500) for a fairly average meal in a Rome eaterie. OK, it was a fairly expensive restaurant but the meal of pasta, a dessert and a bottle of chardonnay should have cost no more than €100 for the two of them – not only was the bill a bit over the top, the tip the restaurant added was €115! The tourists, probably not wishing to cause a scene, left the restaurant and went to the police and the whole affair kicked off. In the aftermath, the restaurant had its licence removed so a justice of sorts was done.

The article went on to say that the unwary traveler to Rome is ‘ripped-off’ as soon as they reach the airport with unlicensed taxi drivers conning tourists by charging €100 for the trip to the city centre, whereas the licensed drivers only charge €40. An ice cream at the Colloseum costs the princely sum of €6!

This happened to me years ago in Rome (the taxi bit that is) and you wonder why the authorities, if they know it’s happening, allow it to continue. Of course, you tend to get ripped off everywhere you go these days although I cannot think of one instance of it happening when I’ve been in the States.

Only a few weeks ago I was charged €28 (about £25) for four drinks in Nice, two of which were cokes. The scam was quite a clever one. I asked for a large white wine and when he listed the wines available, I chose an average one. When the bill came, I noticed that he’d charged me €16 for a large glass of Chablis, when I’d chosen Chardonnay. Had I complained, all he would have said was that he’d misheard me. I could have pressed the point but it’s their loss, I’ll never go there again but hey, we were tourists to them. They probably never expected to see us again anyway!

I was also the centre of a huge rip-off in Portugal quite a few years back. BT had booked a conference on the coast and we went to a rather up-market restaurant whose speciality was fish. The waiters came out flourishing huge plates of fruit de mer with large lobsters featuring prominently – this was the starter. Despite my reservations at the cost of £36 per person (just for the starter), the majority of the 30 or so people ordered it. Of course, when it came, there was plenty of crab but not a bit of lobster in sight. I discussed this with my director (he had asked me to pay the bill) but as we were hosting several senior American directors he asked me not to make a fuss and so we let it go. This was some 16 years ago and the bill eventually came out to some £3,500, about a £1,000 of which was the starter.

A few years later, I was the guest of Visa in exactly the same resort. As I was known to have visited said resort before they asked if I knew of a particular restaurant. Yup – it was the same one and they’d booked for 40 people! I told the organizers my story and off we went to the rip-off joint. I took the greatest pleasure in cancelling the booking and telling them why but they were probably still full on that particular night and probably ripped off even more unsuspecting souls.

Of course down here on the Côte d’azur, every non-French person expects to be ripped off if you call in a builder, plumber, electrician etc etc etc. It’s estimated that prices for jobs are inflated by anything up to 40% and as there seems to be a bit of a cartel operating, (i.e. every tradesman quoting to a non-French adds up to 40% extra) you always get a high price so the choice you have is what high price shall I choose!

The problem is that no matter who quotes you a price, you just assume you’re being ripped off which is a sad way to live life. The secret is to find friends of Guy and Kitty whose fathers are tradesmen and then become VERY friendly with them. C’est la vie.

Home From Home !

Ever since Timmy was a sprog, just out of nappies, his diet has consisted solely of burgers, pizzas and anything which has seen the inside of a deep fat fryer. When he came out to our house a few weeks ago, delicacies such as foie gras (goose liver paté), pied a couchon (pig’s trotters) and daube sanglier (wild boar stew) were completely lost on him. I tortured him mercilessly until the final day, the day of his departure, when I took him to the local bar and he salivated as he ordered a steak haché (burger) and frites but was crestfallen when I told him there was no chance he’d get the staff to put a slice of cheese on his burger. In the Midi, it’s either on the menu or it’s not. Full stop!

Last Monday, Timmy flew out to Qatar where the Americans have an air base which supports the coalition Air Forces as they cross the Persian Gulf on their way to Afghanistan to support the ground troops. Despite his mother’s severe reservations, Timmy couldn’t wait to get out there and I applauded his enthusiasm. In Qatar he’s not in a conflict zone but supports those who put their lives on the line every time they fly in to bomb the Taliban, but following his posting to the Al Udeid air base, Timmy is likely to be posted to Helmand Province in Afghanistan itself and that will be an altogether different scenario.

But back to the current posting. Timmy was positively drooling when he was telling me about Al Udeid. Because it’s an American air base, it has all sorts of facilities the Brits can only dream about. It reputedly has a Burger King, Pizza Hut, a KFC, bars, cafés and even lawyers and accountants. It even has a hut when you can order a car and have it shipped to the US!

Of course it was the ‘gourmet’ outlets which Timmy enthused about and last night when we were ‘Skyping’, all I got out of him was the excitement of wandering about an air base the size of a small town (25 square miles) looking for eateries. He'd already found a 24 hour mess which no doubt pleased him immensely given that at home in Glasgow, he is prone to going off for a McDonalds at 2 in the morning! He was definitely looking forward to a real good serving of American food.

In that respect I am with him 100%. I love American food. I love the way they seat you, they serve you and the fact that nothing is too much trouble – even an extra slice of cheese on your burger! I’ve had the best meals ever in the US. I still drool over the buffalo meat I had in Freemont, California. The meat loaf and corned beef hash in New York. The Southern food in Charlotte and the burger and beer I had at the Braves game in Atlanta when they asked for proof of my age – I was 41!

So Timmy, if you read this (and I’m sure he will – he’s a recent convert to my blog believe it or not), I am soooooo proud of you. Everybody out here in France is proud of you. I am jealous of you. I’d love to be there too, serving my country and supporting the Americans and the Brits in Afghanistan as they try to rid the country of a regime which made Saddam Hussein look like a charity worker.

I’d love to wander around the base with you looking for all the 24 hour food outlets but we both know we’d be like barrels within a few months – well I would!

So Timmy, when you’re loading a bomb on the next Brit plane, chalk on the side, ‘To Bin Laden from TopCat’ (my nickname at school). ‘Rot in hell with your son’. Yeah – nuke them! Sorry – getting carried away.

Here’s a URL for the Al Udeid airbase. Picture is of Timmy (aka Maverick)… or Tim as I’m supposed to call him now.

http://www.weekspace.com/Qatar/qindex.htm

Day Of The Phone Calls

I’ve had visitors on and off since mid-June, the last ones leaving on Wednesday. It’s great to see old friends but in order to socialize, my personal admin has to be put off so yesterday was a catch-up day - a day of phone calls.

Call 1 to Bank Number 1

Hello, Mr Tom Cupples here.

Bank – ah Mr Cupples, welcome to the premium banking service – what can I do for you?

Me – I called you before I went on holiday. I had a fixed term savings scheme maturing and I complained that the form you sent asking me to nominate another account for the money did not have the obvious option – that of putting it into my current account until I decided what to do with it.

Bank – hmmm yes. There is a note to that effect.

Me – so what did you do?

Bank – we put your money in another 1 year fixed term account.

Me – please take it out and put it in my current account.

Bank – we can’t do that. It’s locked away for another year now.

Me – you can take it out – what if I died?

Bank – yes of course we can take it out, but we’ll have to charge you for removing your money before the year is up.

Me – ok, so you send out a misleading form and now you’re saying you want to charge me for keeping my money with you. Have you got the number for the Banking Ombudsman please?

Bank – where was it that you wanted us to move your money Mr Cupples and of course there’ll be no charge.

Call to Insurance Company

Hello – Mr Cupples here.

Axa – Hello Mr Cupples, what can we do for you?

Me – I renewed my scooter insurance a few weeks ago and I have not received my little green sticker yet and my last insurance expired on the 1^st July.

Axa – Ah – don’t worry Mr Cupples. The post at this time of year sometimes takes 2-3 weeks to get to you.

Me – but you’re in Nice

Axa – ah – it doesn’t matter where you are – you could be at the other end of the street. It’ll still take 2-3 weeks.

Me – how do businesses survive when the post takes 2-3 weeks?

Axa – we’re in France Mr Cupples. One learns to adjust.

Call to Bank 2

Ring, ring, ring, ring.

Hello – you’ve called at the wrong time. Please call back.

Brrrrrrrrrrr.

Note – no answerphone. No options. No Bank !

Call to Bank 1 (again)

Hello Mr Cupples. It’s you again. What can I do for you this time?

Me – yup – your premium client.

Bank – ah yes.

Me – you know that money which you so kindly put in my current account ?

Bank – yes.

Me – well another part of your bank is offering twice as much interest as you are so I’m calling you to see what you can do before I transfer it to them.

Bank – nothing I’m afraid.

Me – but you’re part of the same bank.

Bank – ah yes but we’ve recently bought them from the UK government and they’re able to offer higher interest rates.

Me – so let me get this straight. As an old, financially stable bank you can offer me only 1.75% interest but that bankrupt lot you bought to get Gordon Brown off the hook are able to offer 3%.

Bank – er yes. That’s about it.

Me – thanks. Now can we transfer this money.

Call to Bank 2 (again)

Ring, ring, ring, ring.

Hello this is Sanjeev can I help you?

Me – yes – I live in France and therefore cannot get into a branch so can you send me some paying in slips please.

Sanjeev – ah no Mr Cupples. You have to go into a branch to get those.

Me – I’ll repeat. There are no branches in my country. Can you get someone to send some paying in slips please.

Sanjeev – sorry Mr Cupples, you’ll have to visit a branch for that.

Me – Grrrrrrrrr!

The Wacky World Of The French

80% of France’s electricity is produced by nuclear power. Well that was the figure in 2004 and I’ve not heard of any new nuclear generating stations being built since so let’s assume the percentage is still about the same.

This means, in theory, that our electricity should be cheap and at 25% less than the typical UK charge, I suppose we should be grateful, but at around €2,500 per annum, we (sorry, I) look for every means possible to reduce our energy consumption.

The new house we’re in was installed with a sort of smart meter which has a little light which flashes in line with how much energy the house is consuming at any point in time and it’s quite noticeable that since J and the kids have been on holiday, the light probably flashes about once per minute. Now they’re home, you open the cupboard door and the inside is all lit up with the light flashing faster than a strobe on a disco’s ceiling!

Anyway – two things. With all the sunshine we get down here you’d have thought that France would be awash with solar panels, but no, the ever-dictatorial local mayors have virtually vetoed any solar energy being produced by hard-strapped pensioners like myself. Apparently, they don’t like the roman-roof tiled houses being blighted with row upon row of glass panels, and to a certain extent I can understand this view, but where we are, many of the roofs cannot be seen, by anyone, except Easyjet passengers flying at approximately 25,000 feet above us. But it seems like there is a blanket ban on solar panels being fitted. Our neighbours recently applied to have it installed and the scheme looked brilliant. The total cost was about €20,000, 40% of which could be reclaimed on your behalf by the solar company as a grant. Therafter, once installed, EDF (the national utility company) would contract to buy the electricity you produced for approx €2,000 per year which meant that after 6 years, you had paid nothing and were now getting, in effect, €2,000 per annum of free electricity. Taking my earlier figure of €2,500 per annum, you can see that my bill, for an outlay of zero, would be reduced by 80%. It’s a no-brainer as they say but my neighbour’s planning application was turned down and there we remain – solar powerless!

The second and related point and generally in line with France’s agreement to cut greenhouse emissions is that a French company developed another sort of smart meter. This device actually worked out (from the grid I suppose) when national/regional consumption was at its peak and then gradually shut down devices in the home. This had the effect of reducing France’s need to import or generate ad-hoc electricity and at the same time, reduced the homeowner’s consumption. The problem was that the device was too clever by half and the supplying companies found they had too much electricity and had to sell it on the wholesale market (you cannot store electricity) thereby reducing their revenues and profits. So what did the French utility regulator do? They made the makers of the device pay the electricity companies the equivalent of their lost profits, thereby rendering the whole scheme a waste of time.

So, despite the fact that France needs to reduce its greenhouse gasses or it will receive a huge fine (mega hundreds of millions) and hence it’s incentives to install solar panels (the 40% grant), nobody seems to give a toss! And all this when Sarky is spending over £300 per day on flowers for a palace he never lives in – aaaagh – don’t start me on the French!

Bloody Nora

Well I’m back from Greece. J and the kids are still there enjoying themselves and drinking all the ‘happy-hour’ cocktail bars dry.

As you may have read from previous postings I was last in Agios Stefanos 17 years ago and though lots of things have changed, the overwhelming friendliness of the people still stands out. Within 15 minutes of arriving at our hotel I knew the owner’s background (Dunfermline), how she came to be in Greece (met her husband to be on the 2^nd day of a trip to the island), how she helped build the hotel and now runs it with her in-laws and generally everything about the place and her life. And all said with a genuine smile.

Our trips to Agios back in the nineties saw us frequent a particular hotel/bar/restaurant. It was run by three brothers, Stefanos, Spiros and Stavros and over the years we became very friendly with them, and it wasn’t just that we spent a lot of money at their establishment, we genuinely felt that it was just good-natured friendliness on their part.

Stefanos in particular was always our favourite and as we walked down the main road in Agiois last week, past the biggest, loudest and best bar in the resort, a grey-haired Greek man ran down the steps of the bar, grabbed me by the hands and said, ‘Tom – Bloody Nora’.

It was Stefanos. After 17 years he’d recognised me walking past. Over a few drinks he told me that he and his brothers had sold the Golden Beach and he’d started the Condor Club and was now its proud owner. He also introduced his son and wife and pointed out the jewellery shop his wife owned. They’ve obviously done very well but as the Condor Club was packed out every night, I’m not surprised.

Needless to say, after we met, we frequented the Condor Club quite a lot but as it was significantly better than anything else in town and was also the best/cheapest place to eat and drink, it was a no-brainer. J is probably there every night this week, doing her Abba karaoke. Thank goodness I’m home and in no place to be embarrassed by her rendition of ‘Knowing You, Knowing Me – Aaaaaaa Haaaaaa’.

See picture above of the 1992 Stefanos and the 2009 version.

Is It Worth It ?

Eight hours after leaving home we’d still only reached London Gatwick Airport. This wasn’t the fault of the travel management company (aka my dear wife and by God she’s dear – sorry ‘dear’ is Scottish for expensive) who had organized it such that in order to get to the other side of the Med for our holiday in Greece , she’d booked two sets of low-cost airlines to get us there.

If ever there was a disaster waiting to happen this was it but amazingly Aer Lingus (Nice-Gatwick) was actually quite a pleasant experience. None of the scrimmage trying to get on the plane as there is with Sleazyjet and DanDare – you’re allocated a seat and the seat can accommodate fat gits like me – luxury! And they don’t scrutinize your luggage and call the Gestapo when you’re half a kilo overweight. It was virtually the perfect flying experience and who can say that nowadays? The only blot on this part of the trip was that I suspect they (Aer Lingus) pay a lower rate to Gatwick Airport because it took us a full half hour to walk to passport control! That’s my exercise for the week!

A four hour wait in Gatwick ensued which was filled with shopping (guess who?) and a long, delicious lunch and trying to find the gate we were being called to.

You know you’re in trouble when you keep seeing signs reminding travelers that ‘Gates 1-10 are 15 minutes walk’, whilst ‘Gates 11-20 are at least 30 minutes walk’ and then your gate comes up – Corfu – Flight 8535 – Gate 932 ! And then we rush like mad only to stand outside the plane doors for 30 minutes whilst the cabin crew draw lots to work out who will handle the loud, drunk, northern lot who always occupy the seats at the back of the plane – why the back seats? Because they get the booze trolley first – that’s why!

But, in fact, the trolleys, all three of them, hardly leave J’s seat. What with chocolate, Pringles, coffees, teas, Red Bulls, cokes and make-up, the crew have made their weekly sales target at seat 12C alone! And then 30 minutes later she pushes the ‘call the trolley-dolly button’. ‘Where do you think you are – BA?’, I ask. Gavin, the ever-so-nice trolley-dolly arrives and J asks for a bottle of champagne to be put on ice. Being a pretentious little bitch, she makes sure every seat within 10 rows hears her. A chorus of ‘oooooooohhhhhh’ goes round the plane, especially from the back where they are finishing their 15^th can of Newcastle Brown Ale ……. each!

And then 11 hours after leaving home we’re passing over our house again – yup – 11 hours after leaving home I can look down and see Steve, Debbie and family lying beside my pool and drinking my white wine! And there’s only 2 more hours to go and that’s just the flying. Then there will be the mass brawl to get a trolley at Corfu airport and then we’ll be looking for Costas or Stavros or Manthos or Moussaka, our supposed taxi driver who will take us on the 45 minute drive to our hotel.

At least once we get there we’ll be greeted by a lovely Scottish lass who runs the place – she probably went there for a hen-night a few years ago, got legless (like most Scots girls on holiday), married a Greek guy who thought she was ‘sooooooooo beautiful – like the moon and the sun and the stars’ and all that crap they spout when they see a 15 stone ‘English’ woman who’s gagging for it, and the rest is history. I suppose now, she rolls Dolmades (stuffed vine leaves) on her thighs and peels potatoes from morning till night. She’ll be soooo thrilled when she sees one of her countrymen staying there.

But, in the end, after the rows, the constant raids on my wallet, the fights with other travelers cause they’re putting their seat backs in my face and J having to visit every toilet we pass - is it all worth it?

Off On Our Hols

Tomorrow the family are off to Corfu for a couple of weeks (I'm just going for a week) so there'll be no blog postings until I'm back and even then, as my friends will still be in residence at Le Brin d'Olivier (The Olive Branch) and I'll be catching up with them, there might not be any blogs until J and the kids get back which is around the 23rd.

So, in the meantime if you're having holidays of your own - enjoy them. If you're staying at home - enjoy yourselves even more.

Unbelievable I Know, But ……

….. I’m actually beginning to feel sorry for Gordon Brown. As I watched Prime Minister’s Questions (PMQs) on Wednesday (I’m sorry but it’s probably the most entertaining thing on telly right now apart from Andy Murray thrashing opponents), I felt a certain sympathy for the man. I know. I know. Me sympathetic to Brown – don’t spread it around.

Here was an academic who had socialism in his heart. Here was a man who was destined to lead his party after the death of John Smith, (the Labour Party leader who died in 1994), and who had ingrained principles of decency and fairness for all. Here was a ‘son of the manse’ who believed in eradicating poverty both at home and overseas. Here was a straightforward Scottish guy who was a brilliant scholar and whose father’s middle name of ‘Ebenezer’ probably meant that Brown junior was always destined to hold the country’s purse strings.

But we all know what went wrong. He went power mad. He was given unfettered access to control the nation’s finances by a scheming Tony Blair and the rest, they say, is history.

A control freak hurling abuse and staplers at his staff when they disappoint him. A surly, mood-prone boss, who befuzzled the rest of Parliament with his economic policies, which were so complex nobody else could understand them, which was probably just as well as it would have shown the man to be a serial manipulator of the facts, as well as the numbers.

Here was a man who had reached the pinnacle of power and who, apparently is very engaging company in private when you can get him off politics (he once dated a Princess to the British throne but she got fed up with his 24/7 politics). The problem is the public don’t see that side of him. All they see is an arch manipulator treating them with disdain (tax increases on the lowest paid, the world’s best pension system ruined) and incredibly as a ‘son of the manse’, a man who would lie as quickly as he would draw breath.

In all the twisted, confused spin he has spouted recently, nothing was quite so cringeworthy (and embarrassing) as his attempt to recover his position on the future outlook for Britain’s economy. Everybody knows Britain is broke. The country is essentially bankrupt. The UK will be struggling to pay off just the interest on its debt, equivalent to £20,000 for every man, woman and child in the country, for years to come. Even the most spendthrift person in the street knows the borrowing has to stop and the spending has to be curtailed. Taxes will rise and services will be cut although there is probably so much waste in Britain’s public services that you could probably make a 20% cut and nobody would notice – except the budget holders!

And so, Brown, lying to his back teeth (and not very nice teeth at that) has been spouting that the Labour Government would continue to spend, spend, spend and grow public services. Every economic think-tank and financial commentator could not believe what they were hearing. The country was broke – continuing to spend wasn’t the answer.

Eventually Brown got the message and so on Wednesday, in that pathetic, belligerent, lying way of his, he modified his position. Spending, or growth in public services, would increase at zero percent. Read that again. Spending and growth would increase at zero percent.

Look at Guido’s Blog where he has the relevant excerpt from PMQs and watch Brown’s front bench colleagues as they try to stifle sniggers at his latest gaffe. Alistair Darling successfully manages to keep his laughter in but his body, jumping about on the seat gives it away.

http://order-order.com/2009/07/01/gordons-zero-growth-gaffe/