La Isla Bonita
If ONE more arsing garlic-whiffing, onion-selling Claude shakes his greasy, stunted little tete at me and says 'C'est ne pas possible', I'm going to have him.
Yes kiddies, The Boy Christie has become a victim of the legendary obstinancy of French bureacracy! Zut alors!
Having eight, yes EIGHT cents to my name in a town where it's £4.50 a pint is not the best of ideas, so I managed to organise a Western Union transfer of funds (in French, get me). However, I've only managed to get it after three trips to La Poste and the filling in of fifty-six forms. I suspect the French government want to know all about me as no doubt that shifty bugger Jacques Chirac is up to some kind of nefarious invasion plan and wants to hoist the tricolore over Chateau Christie and have us all singing 'La Marseilles', the bugger.
Remember, we are dealing with the nation that blew up the Rainbow Warrior.
I realise it has been ages and ages since my last burst of innane chat, but the days just merge into one another and I can't remember anything I've been up to.
The season is all but over, the place is empty and I've realised that's time to say au revoir to Antibes and move on. The crew house I'm staying in has gradually emptied so know it's just me and Australian Camilla and a well fit Kiwi girl with an unpronouncable Maori name left. All the serious yachties got jobs and sailed off into the sunset and the place is now devoid of laughter, music and gange smoke, and if I don't get out soon I think I'm going to come over all 'The Shining' and start chasing people about with axes and the like.
I was sharing a caravan with blonde Jenni (FYI former poledancer, cousin gets her tits out in The Sport) who I was attempting to have my wicked way with, but bless as she was easily the STUPIDEST person I've ever met and was prone to spout Jade BB3 comments of complete stupidity. My favourites have been:
1. Do Camel cigarettes have camel meat in them?
2. Iain: 'I'm like Rip Van Winkle, I could sleep for a hundred years' Jenni:'Did he? What about going to the toilet?' And my personal favourite, uttered pissed at 4.30 in the morning after a particularly messy evening in Cannes: 'Don't open the window, the racoons will get in'.
Great breasts, shame about the brain.
But she's gone and everybody else has gone too so on Sunday I'm throwing my stuff over the hedge and doing a runner without paying the rent and buggering off to Nice to get the ferry to Corsica to top up the tan. After that who knows, but it'll depend on the funds.
Got a few days work last week on MY (that's motor yacht kiddies) Boadicea, a yacht the size of a cross channel ferry that costs $50 thousand to charter for a week.
I got the job in the middle of a torrential rainstorm (the weather has gotten worse and worse, another reason to move on), and was on the boat for all of ten minutes when I managed to fall down the stairs, bang my head on the deck and lose conciousness for a bit, then throw a vital piece of machinery over the side so we had to get a boat out to fish it out of the water. The first mate was very nice about it and said it happens all the time, but I couldn't keep a straight face all day.
After Corsica, God knows where I'm going to go, but there's no work in Antibes at all so I'm going to have to think about where my next move will be. At the moment, my first concern is a haircut, as I have a Beyonce-esque blonde affro that looks like a mushroom cloud over an atoll.
Thanks for all the chat, wish I could reply to everybody singly but the funds are somewht tight for internet time, but when I see y'all I'll bore the tits off you with my endless chat about schooners and the shipping forecast and the time I had sailing single-handed round the Cape of Good Hope in a Force 10 gale.
Take care mes amies!
Le Garcon Christie (a.k.a. Jean-Jacques Smoothie) x