Eulogy for the funeral of John Frazier

Wow, how many people? Well, welcome to Rock church, I am sorry you couldn’t all find a seat.

That in itself, purely by the number of you here, it is a fantastic compliment to this man that I will be inevitably unable to surpass in words.

But – please – let me try.

John Frazier.

What a man.

Perhaps the last of his kind.

As the Pastor said, today is not a day of sadness, but a day of celebration. Celebration of the life of a man who made the most of his.

A man born and bred in the parish of Rock - The second biggest parish in England - he was always proud to say that. I am not sure if its true, but it sounds pretty good.

Nearly the last of the elders of this parish too - when it comes to farmers and custodians of the land anyway.

His compatriots, John Whiteman, Bernard Birch, Aubrey Booton, John Nott Bullockhurst ------ they’re all gone too.

Back in the days when Coningswick had yards full of cattle being fattened for market, we heard one morning that his school chum, John Whiteman, had died –

That day Bernard Birch commented, ‘Jack, it looks like they are pulling out of our pen, now!’

Well That pen is pretty much empty today, as the next generation fill it’s stalls..

John Waldron Frazier.

Born at Fernhalls farm in 1925, the youngest of 3 - known as Jack to a select few -  John’s life was set on course to be a farmer from the outset.

Schooled at Rock School – for those who don’t remember it, it stood next to Timberdine house, on the site of – bungalow now – and later at Far Forest.  He had a meagre education, although he often commended the way they taught him maths, something he was always particularly good at. His mother, my granny Kate, recalled with pride how he won the school prize for arithmetic and she was called in to be told of it.

By his teens, a war had started, and he did his bit for this in two ways.

Firstly, he was issued with a standard Fordson and a two furrow plough, which he then proceeded to drive for the next 4 years, ploughing up pastures, some of which had never been turned over in thousands of years, in order to feed the nation. There are not many acres around here that he didn’t pull a furrow through during that time. Perhaps there may have been a few high hedgerows from where a fair maiden might have applauded the excellence of his cops and reams.

And then there was Dad’s army – the Bewdley Home Guard. The tales he told about those days could fill a book in itself. As a young private, he would spend days and nights defending Bewdley from invasion by the hun who might, at any time, approach up the Severn. A platoon full of boys in uniform, too young to make real soldiers, but too old to ignore a world war.

And, of course, he fought - in the battle of Bewdley.

Maybe there are a few here who are unaware of this infamous event?

In 1941, whilst on the lookout for raids by air, one local spotted what he assumed were parchutists falling from the sky over Wyre hill, and sounded the alarm by ringing the church bells.

With bayonets affixed, John and his platoon were despatched to capture the dastardly German paratroopers – shoot to kill if they had to. It was at least half an hour later when it was discovered that what was falling from the sky was not in fact soldiers at all, but straw that had been collected by a small whirlwind and then deposited from a great height. Oh how the shame must have shown in their red faces!

Farming – he enjoyed farming.

As he moved more into the roll of farmer, John was always a man of vision. Events were progressing and consumer demands dictated new methods of production.

You must remember that this was a fast changing period in agriculture. A time that accelerated farming from being a simple way of life, through a family dependant livelihood, to becoming a business that required brains, discipline, rules – and profit.

Chicken farming at fernhalls gave way to fruit growing, as the steeper fields provided gooseberries, blackcurrants, damsons and plums to a starving nation. This in turn, especially during picking time, offered employment to many from the local area, when Dad would drive the cattle lorry each morning to pick up housewives in their dozens from Stourport and Bewdley to reap the harvest.

New Buildings sprung up to house ventures into pork and beef production, with the barley-beef unit at the newly acquired Coningswick farm being far ahead of its time. Innovative crops were grown too, such as peas, beans and even lupins - as he not only embraced, but experimented with new ideas – all the time recording the results, learning, and moving forward.

Tractors – he liked tractors.

I am sure he would have approved of his final journey behind that magnificent Massey Ferguson 135 – courtesy of Dave Bradley.

All his days, right up until recently, he would be out at daylight on his tractor, tilling the soil with tender care. As machines progressed from simplicity to highly complicated, so he would evolve, adapt and learn.

Nick would like it known, that he is missing his tractor driver now – and a lot more advice besides.

John married Val, a vibrant but tolerant person, in 1954, and they remained happily married for some 59 years. A life sentence, some may say. But she never complained, when sometimes farmlife didn’t go according to plan.

Not just a man of vision, John will always be remembered for his eye for quality, in everything that he produced. Pigs and cattle were the mainstay of the farm for many years, every one of them of the highest quality and confirmation - regularly recording the top price of the day at Kidderminster Market. Up to 10 steers per week and a hundred pigs - all bore the Frazier calibre of excellence that had butchers clambering to sell them in their stores.

In order to extend the reputation of quality - steers were exhibited at local shows – something which soon became a passion. During the 70s & 80s, the name of HS Frazier & Son was engraved on dozens of trophies, which annually adorned the mantelpiece at Coningswick. I believe he won the coveted champion of Kidderminster Fatstock show, a commendable  9 times in 10 years.

Sheep – he loved sheep

In fact, It is probably with sheep that many of you will associate John Frazier.

Again, among this species, he was a pioneer. Initially experimenting with breeding Welsh Mules, a cross between a Beulah ewe from the welsh mountains, and an often short-lived Blue Faced Leicester, he would supply breeding stock to many other farmers throughout the Midlands.

Incidentally, For those of you unaware of a Blue Faced Leicester, they are a rather gangly looking creature, with a penchant for dropping dead for no apparent reason. On buying these rams from Builth ram sale, when asked if the vendor would be offering a luck-penny with the sale, one breeder replied, ‘yes, we give a spade away, with every one!’

And so it was, he turned to the Blue du maine, a new breed which was just imported from France. Within a short time, John soon became an expert breeder of these, exhibiting sheep at shows far and wide and retrieving a haul of cups, rosettes and championships.

As you may be aware, the welsh nation is very fond of its sheep, so it will be of no surprise that the Royal welsh show is the biggest sheep show in the world. To win a breed championship there is the pinnacle of any breeder’s career. John Frazier did that, on no less than 5 occasions.

In order to find the very best, the ultimate top sheep, -– a finale is held on the last day of this event, where all the champions get to fight it out for one trophy – the best in show, if you will. The holy grail of sheep breeding.

In 1992, John was a very proud man when the name of HS Frazier & Son was immortalised on that very trophy – a feat that only a few have ever achieved.

His prowess with this breed brought him invitations to judge shows, far and wide, from Bristol to Belfast - Carlisle to Cardiff – Edinburgh to Essex. In fact he has judged at shows in just about every county in England, again an accolade that few can boast. He was also the first - and I believe ONLY - breeder to ever sell a blue du maine sheep back to France. A deal that was done – bizarrely - in a Parisian nightclub. That is to say, he was in the nightclub, not the sheep.

Still on the lookout for yet more quality, the arrival of a new breed took his eye, that of the Beltex - a hybrid sheep from Belgian. Instantly taken with the carcase capabilities of this breed, a nucleus flock was set up at Coningswick - which was soon to set the breed alight. Yet more trophies poured in, as well as top priced animals being sold to breeders far and wide. To this very day, the name of Coningswick lives on in hundreds of pedigrees throughout the land. A testament to a man with a clear vision for quality.

He was once interviewed about his sheep breeding success, and asked what he looked for in an animal.

His reply was simply this: ‘If I can breed a sheep with an arse as big as my missus, that will do for me!’

I think Val might have been out of earshot on that occasion!

Whisky. He liked whisky.

To all of you here, that is no secret. Many of you will have shared a dram with him over the years, be it at livestock shows or in the Bliss Gate or Rock Cross, listening to his stories.

Macallan, that was his tipple.

He was also an avid collector of things. Guns, tractors, walking sticks and books, but primarily whiskies. In fact his unique collection runs into literally hundreds of miniature bottles from extreme areas and unobtainable eras.

That is why, directly after this service, you are all invited back to the Rock Cross, for some light refreshments and to raise a glass to the old bugger.

This was a man who, after all, coined the phrase.

WIN OR LOSE, WE’LL HAVE SOME BOOZE.

Thank you

Tea for one

As a child one considers all sorts of careers that may lie in one’s future. I’m not sure when my youngest son, Jack, decided on his chosen path but I congratulate him on securing his first job, as a graduate quantity surveyor – whatever one of those is – after getting a 1^st class honours degree. Well done, fella.

My own decisiveness never quite came to me so young, other than that of being a farmer, and I sort of stumbled through one career into another for most of my working life, each one slightly more bizarre than the last. Cattle hair-dresser, computer programmer, fiction writer, they all happened as if by accident and none were a real surprise; but in all my wildest dreams I never considered that I would be negotiating with the Ukrainian Mafia. Yet, today it seems that is my very task. Having been gazumped on a property deal right at its closing stage, I then get a phone call from Don Mishkof Corleone making me an offer that I cannot refuse, no questions asked. ‘Consider it that I am doing you a favour,’ he said, in the voice of a Bond villain. I will admit that I was somewhat disturbed by the call, and thankfully the lump under the duvet when I crawled into bed last night was not a horses head, just my beloved, snoring quietly. Should I accept this man’s offer? I have checked out his credentials and he is definitely a cosha baddie, complete with Limmo and facial scars, and what he wants with a small beachside apartment in Bulgaria is probably something highly dodgy. But business is business, so I suppose I most go ahead, particularly as he didn’t seem keen to take no for an answer. If this column never appears again, you will know that I have been sent swimming in the Black Sea in a concrete waistcoat during the sinking season!

Maybe it is just good fortune – or luck, as some people refer to it – swinging my way for a change. Lord knows, we could do with a touch of that. I must be the only person in the world who chose to take 5 days holiday by the Bay of Biscay last month to endure constant rain. 6 inches in one day, no less! Meanwhile, back home at Chauffour, less than 3 hours away, the sun blazed away continually, frying the sheep in their woolly jackets. We did get a few nice days, eventually, when we could run the dogs on one of France’s few dog-friendly beaches. This in itself was a tad traumatic as the local authority had also designated it as ‘playa naturism’, although, in my mind, these two hardly go together. So we did get into a few scrapes as Pooper, our unkempt terrier, has a habit of surprising sunbathers by licking their ear as the sleep. This in itself would be alarming enough but when said sleepers are totally naked, it tends to freak them out a little. The screams from one poor chap are still echoing around the hills of the Pyrenees as we speak, as he ran towards the ocean in a dangly fashion. Needless to say, we will not be allowed back.

When we did return home, however, the rain followed us up the autoroute and hasn’t stopped since. Week after week it pounds the petals off the roses, encouraging the grass to grow like bamboo which requires mowing 3 times per week. The poor lawnmower will need at least a couple of pit-stops if it is to make it to the end of this season. We do have a great crop of tatties though, if only I could wade through the swamp to get to them. And yet, it seems, that we are the only ones to be enduring such torrents. This week I spoke to a few colleagues in Scotland who claimed to have had a month of dry weather and could do with a little rain to dampen the dust! Well, be careful what you wish for, as I set sail for Edinburgh next week and may just bring some with me.

I am actually in UK for a couple of weeks, and then a further one in Ireland, so the law of sod will dictate that the sun will beam on SW France while I tramp around the Grande Britannia in my Kagool. Those in the know say that ‘timing is everything’, and it appears mine is a little out of sync this summer.

Having built it up over the last couple of months, I have to report that our annual party was not quite such a blistering success this year. Guest numbers were well down, due to other commitments or general lack of interest, and this was just as well, as we were all ensconced indoors while the skies rained down and the cold east wind chiselled its way in from Siberia. Our only saving grace was the large open fire roaring away in the garage as we stoked it up with expired Ikea furniture in order to keep warm. They did manage to much their way through a 4.5kgs shoulder of mutton though, which had slowly sizzled away on the bbq for 12 hours. And delicious it was too, although I say it myself.

During the event we had a giggle when Wendy’s phone rang. On answering it, an old lady’s voice asked if we could bring her a cup of tea! Initially considering it was a wind-up from one of our friends, she soon ignored and ended the call. The problem is, however, that it was genuine. Somehow, a dear old lady has got Wendy’s mobile number programmed into her phone and continues to call, every day at 3pm, demanding her tea and a biscuit. We have no idea who she is, or from where she is calling, but we do feel a tad responsible for her daily disappointment when her afternoon sustenance fails to arrive. Recently I have gone to great lengths to try and track the call so that, if only once, we can obey her wishes and send a bob-a-job boy-scout round with a cuppa. But there is the problem. Although the world and his dog can manage to obtain my mobile number and constantly call me trying to sell me things, when we want to do a little good in the world, the information is more classified than the president’s nuclear launch codes. On the off-chance that someone reading this has their granny secured in the attic with a new cell-phone, please oblige us by firstly taking her a daily brew and digestive, and then deleting our number. Thank you so much.

A load of crap?

Wow, what a month that was. Technically, there is no such thing as half a hole although you can, of course, have half a whole hole. Well I have to say that the one which was dug in our garden to contain all our effluent is more like a hole and a half. 6000 litres? That’s a whole lot of crap, especially from just two people! You see, this is French bureaucracy once again evolving from the Middle Ages into total ridicule in just one single round of administration.

Since we have been in this house, I have extended it and modified it, this way and that, until we have now ended up with 6 bedrooms to accommodate our deluge of guests who descend on us from time to time. So, says the French government, if you have 6 bedrooms, each one of them will create a thousand litres of effluent and thus you need a septic tank which could viably cope with an entire commune. 1000 litres each, I hear you ask? How much food and drink do they consume in a few weeks? Even with my liberal servings, that doesn’t equate to the output of any normal human being.

Despite my protestations that, were the numbers living on our house spread out equally through the year, we would technically be only 2.35 head, this cut no ice with the local authorities, who have been here three times now, measuring and checking that we have installed our full capacity. Along with the vast underground tank comes 250 metres of 4 inch tubing, a grease-trap, inspection hatches and ventilation shafts, together with a rather hefty bill approaching five figures. The irony of this is, after all this cost, every Frenchman who visits for dinner will still pop round the corner and pee on the lawn!

But then during this installation, another problem arises: that of public holidays. In UK these are generally confined to Mondays, but this is France so ours are on Wednesdays instead - and possibly Thursdays - just to be awkward, and the month of May seems to be chock full of them. Exempt of the National status, I toil away with my shovel and barrow through these significant events - which include carnivals, village fetes, kick-the-beggar and various other general frivolities to celebrate pre-historic French victories – and when they are over, on Friday, I make a desperate trip to the builders merchants, only to find that they have taken a PONT. For those with a smattering of school French, you will recognise this word from the rhyme ‘sur la pont, d’Avignon’. Yes, a bloody bridging-day from holiday to weekend to extend their drinking frenzy. Hence, everything is closed, making it impossible to buy so much as a u-bend!

Hampered by this significant inconvenience, I am now under pressure to complete a bathroom that I can then connect up to our yet-to-be-completed hole in the ground, prior to more guests descending on us in time for Whitsun and our annual bash. It could get messy, in more ways than one!

On the subject of the aforementioned gathering, I am quite startled to discover that this is our seventh one in this house. Yes, for seven years, I have been masquerading as a DIY, plumber, builder, roofer and general labourer as each year more money gets poured into the pit that is our renovation project. The fact that the original plan was to complete it in five years can only partly be blamed on myself, with constant bank holidays, spiralling prices, ridiculous red-tape, my increased writing commitments and human procrastination all sharing the remainder of the excuses.

Once again we will welcome back my sister Sarah, who has made a remarkable recovery from her head injury a couple of years ago. Other guests - which include one friend who has just starred in a Bollywood film and will be on her way back from seeing it featured at the Cannes Film festival - will hopefully be able to enjoy a bit of home-reared lamb and fresh garden produce in the May sunshine.

Except, we haven’t had any! For some reason summer this year has, as yet, failed to get its sandals on, as grey skies prevail, much as they have done in UK. This damp climate not only brings the problem of keeping the lawn maintained, with twice weekly mowing between the showers, but also confines us to indoor TV evenings to shelter from the chilly northerly winds. So, a cunning plan has since been tagged on to the end of the already over-saturated renovation project, to add a fourth terrace to the property – completing the circle, as it were. Utilising the machinery that arrived to dig the cavernous hole mentioned previously, I have now managed to excavate on the more sheltered east side of the house, removing brushwood and trees that were once occupying that space. Hopefully, within a few weeks, even if this weather does persist, we should be able to christen it with Pimms on the East Lawn in casual summer dress - with maybe a quick game of croquet thrown in. What, ho, Chaps!

I must admit, I can’t wait to get back outdoors, to avoid me destroying the TV set with a machine-gun on Wednesday evenings. I am, of course, referring to the return of that programme run by Mr Smug himself, Lord Alan Sugar-lips. Each year an even more self-righteous bunch of imbeciles line up to become his Apprentice, and this year surely takes the biscuit. Why anyone would possibly employ any of these slimy individuals is beyond comprehension, as they bicker and snide with each other with absolutely no sense of business acumen whatsoever? In one episode, team ‘Intolerance’ went to sell kegs of beer at a wine festival! That’s like popping up with a pork curry at a Bah Mitzvar? On another occasion, they are not even able to assemble IKEA furniture. Er. Well, come to think of it, perhaps that is a slightly more challenging task. Anyone seen my Allen Key?

Angerportia

Having recently written about discovering new words, I would now like to make one up - angerportia - the hatred of airports, and I suffer from an extremely acute dose of it! So how delighted I am today on arrival at one of Britain’s most miserable hotspots in the airline world, Bristol airport, to hear those immortal words ‘your plane is delayed’! For two fucking hours!

So far I have been here for two minutes, having got soaked on the way from the hire-car return depot, which is situated somewhere near Cornwall, and already I am a screaming psychopath whom every one gives a wide birth to. Why do airport security staff have to be so belligerently unfriendly? What is it about the job application that attracts the most unpleasant people in the land to apply? These failed traffic wardens seem not only out to make your airport experience as unbearable as possible with their barked orders and scowls that would curdle milk, but I am sure they go out of their way to make grown adults cry with fear or rise to the occasion with reactive aggression just to get their kicks. Oh how I would love to have delivered one of those!

In a bid to further inconvenience travelers, I note that this airport, along with a few more in England, have recently seen the need to charge for baggage trolleys. Now this I would understand, were it a returnable fee to encourage users to return them as they do in some supermarkets, but they don’t. This is a non-refundable fee of one pound or - get this - 2 euros! Yes, yet another wonderful display of discrimination against anyone non-British. No wonder the rest of the European economy is in such a mess with exchange rates like that? But then I got around to some smart thinking to brighten my otherwise miserable day. If I have paid for this trolley, that means they don’t want it back - SO I CAN TAKE IT HOME! Well I can’t today as I am flying to France and the old wobbly three wheeler wont fit in my hand luggage. But I will next time I am here. In fact I might buy quite a few. At a quid each I could get perhaps 50 if I save my pennies, and then fasten them all together and tow them home back up the M5. To research my cunning plan yet further I find that I could probably get a fiver each for them on ebay, which is an even bigger profit than the airport is making on exchanging one pound for 2 euros! Another idea would be to flog them to Tescos, or Lidls. Or perhaps other airports who don’t have enough. Watch the NASTAC index for trolleydeals.com to make it into the Footsie 100, very soon.

Anyway, back to the indoors of this godforsaken hellhole. I now need a seat for 2 hours, but there are none - save a few wooden church pews that would cause your coccyx to disintegrate were you to sit on them for more than 30 seconds. Not only that but there are no tables either; well, unless you want to sit amongst the debris that the last 8 fat families have troughed from, while their kids write graffiti in ketchup all over the Formica using words I am quite glad I don’t understand. At the bar I ask the bored 12 year old barman if they are short staffed, as his 3 colleagues watch me suspiciously. No, he says, looking round at his buddies. When I suggested that that may like to clear the tables he looked at me as though I had 3 heads, and then smirked. I must admit, I didn’t hold out much hope for a positive reply and was awaiting the excuse that he wasn’t qualified to do such highly skilled jobs, or maybe he hadn’t time as he had some homework to finish. However, it appears that someone was already allocated to the task, a lonely woman, but she was on her break. After an hour I did the job myself, just so that we could sit down. This got me a telling off from said lady, because I wasn’t qualified, obviously. ‘You trying to get me fired?’ she asked. ‘No Mamn, if I had anything to do with your employment, you wouldn’t have gotten the job in the first place, as I would have trained your bar-monkeys to do it in their spare time!’

Next I get chance to use their free internet wifi, except that, before I can get online, I now have to register all my details on their database so they can sell it to every marketing company in the world in exchange for a whopping 30 minutes free use of their service, after which I will be charged £75 per minute. So blessed am I with this free time so I can check my emails and post on Facebook to people I have never met about how much I hate Bristol, England, UK and possibly the whole of planet earth. This inevitably gets me into heated arguments with some bearded man from Temple Meads who swears at me using symbols and acronyms that I unable to decipher. Just when it is getting meaningful I have to log off, for fear of spending my life savings in this futility.

Ok, so only one and a half hours left. What to do? I wonder around the glitzy duty free shops which are more expensive than Fortnum and Masons, as smiley staff grin at me with perfect teeth, and call me sir. I can’t help thinking that maybe they should apply a little role exchange in this place, putting these glamorous supermodels in charge of the security where they could be pleasant to people who need it. Then the power-crazed hideous aggressive bastards from security could take their jobs in the shops and nobody would buy anything and be ripped off! A win-win all round, I say. Maybe I will write a letter to someone and suggest it. Or perhaps post it in Facebook and see what my bearded Bristolian friend thinks.

Finally I take to reading the newspaper which is filed with a thousand pages about how wonderful Maggie Thatcher was, and that we should all pin pictures of her on front doors as a mark of respect.  Except that when our doorbell went ding-dong we would all be arrested for taking the piss! The witch IS dead, long live the witch.

Well, old iron knickers, although I will admit I was a fan of yours at the time and do have some respect for the way you stood up and stamped on socialism, I have to say that it is you I blame now, for allowing the masses to sell their Dad’s council houses and fritter the profits away on foreign holidays, thus cluttering up our airports with their screaming tattoed children and designer luggage - when all I want to do is sit in silence!

Nomophobia

I don’t know about you but I love that programme for anoraks on TV entitled QI. So much so that today I have downloaded a book of its 1200 most interesting facts, which has whiled away a couple of amusing hours, causing me to chuckle out loud (COL). I feel immediately obliged to share a few of these with you this month, in the name of factual entertainment - if only so that you can pass them on at dinner parties.

For example, did you know that in 1997, 39 people were admitted to hospital with tea-cosy related injuries? A little known fact, indeed. Or that, in 1915, Charlie Chaplin entered a Charlie Chaplin look-alike contest and came 11^th? Canned food was invented 48 years before the tin opener, Mark Roget, who invented the thesaurus, also invented the slide rule and that, if you so wish, you can rent Liechtenstein for 70,000 dollars per night, for a minimum of two nights. It sleeps 900!

Now these are not things that any human is deemed to be aware of, unless of course you are planning a massive lederhosen party, but none the less, fun to know.

My reason for discovering these facts and, indeed, for having the novelty of a few hours of spare time to digest them, is that I am currently on a Ryanair flight back to UK, to do some research. No I am not writing a new version of Johnson’s dictionary, just more of the cattle research that is currently occupying the majority of my working day. For the next 5 days I will be touring Aberdeenshire, visiting some rather clever people who have added their mark to the history of that magnificent beast, the Aberdeen Angus. Among these include a rather heraldic lady, whose titles include Lord Lieutenant of Banffshire, by the name of Lady Quiet-a-few-surnames, from Ballindalloch castle, whose great grandfather was one of the breed’s founders. I also have to see a 88 year old man who once sailed to Argentina with a boat load of cattle, to hear first hand the story of one particular bull which firstly fell ill and then fell over the side. The fact that he had cost upwards of 20, 000 guines, was subsequently discovered to be infertile, and was well insured, apparently had nothing to do with his coincidental midnight swim!

My only hope is that the April weather will not dump me in snow drifts higher than the Cairngorms, as UK continues its extensive winter.

Having said that, our pilot just announced that the weather in Edinburgh airport was 5 degrees warmer than the day we have just left behind in Bordeaux. Yes, France has suffered at the hands of mother nature too, although our odd frosty night and chilly day doesn’t quite stack up to the depths of weather seen in Rock over the first few weeks of April. Ok, I won’t rub it in, but I did get sunburned last week whilst trimming a hedge in my shorts!

Aha, moving on just in time, my rant this month is a little disjointed as the captain announced that he was about to land the plane and would I turn that bloody machine off as it was disturbing his concentration. So now I continue from the middle of a snow covered forest near Ballater, 200 miles and 24 hours later, where a large stag is eyeing me suspiciously through the trees. For the last few hours I have traversed the Cairngorms via single track roads as the satnag directs me the shortest route from here to there. Were there an override button that suggested we avoid snow drifts over 1 metre high I might have pressed it but, without the aid of a map, I have little or no choice but to follow her mundane commands. I have to admit that I was somewhat surprised to find myself on a ski-run, but evidently it was the shortest route and we did enjoy some majestic scenery. It was only a green run though, although I do have to apologise to those couple of beginners who fell over when I blew the horn for them to get out of the way as I slid down towards the drag-lift. Anyway, all is now calm again, although I have no idea where the hell I am. You see, satellite navigation is only really helpful when it can directly contact the metal transmitter that is orbiting the earth. In this instance, this would be nigh on impossible, judging by the depth of this forest, coupled with the thick black cloud looming over head, but hopefully they will all be reconnected soon enough for me to reach my destination. Otherwise, would someone kindly alert the mountain rescue services within the next few days and send me supplies, and possibly a rifle and a stove. At times like these it is nice to comfort myself with learning new words, such as ‘Nomophobia’ - the fear of being out of mobile phone contact. Strangely enough, I just went through a village called Dunniken, a few miles back. And there was I thinking that name was just a Scottish myth!

Assuming I do get out in one piece, on my return to France next week we have the builders in to install our new septic tank. I know it might appear a little strange to be excited about such an event but, due to a mountain of French bureaucracy, we have actually been waiting for this for over 3 years! Even now, a power-crazed little man in a white van will have to make no less than 4 visits to check we are doing it right, at the right depth, in the right place and woe betide us if we don’t. Then will follow 3 frantic weeks of jigsawesque pipe assembly in a hope to get it all connected so that our late April guests wont have to pee in the bushes.

Meanwhile, the invites are out for our annual May bash, which this year will also encompass a 6 nations championship all of our very own, as we have arranged golf, table-tennis and pool to be undertaken in order to spice up the event and give folks something to occupy their time instead of drinking themselves into oblivion in the summer sunshine! By evening, this will culminate in a quiz - hence the swatting up on irrelevant facts - and prizes will be handed out to the soberest team. Judging by the current entrants, I don’t hold out great hopes for Scotland!

They say deaths come in three’s, a bit like busses and nuns, and this week has seen some of those. Firstly I learn of my Auntie Gina, my mother’s cousin, whom I barely knew, save for photos of her and Mum swanning around the French Riviera in their bikinis, glamourously wooing the local boys and posing for the cameras. Then, we hear about the Iron Lady herself, which signals the end of an era of unparalleled democracy. As notes of respect for Maggie come flooding in from world leaders, you have to marvel at the hypocrisy of most these people who at the time either couldn’t stand her or were terrified of the old dragon. Can’t say I saw one from Galtieri though, nor Mr Scargill for that matter, but maybe she has seen them off in more ways than one?

Finally I get sad news of the death of one our old sheep breeding adversaries, Big Gavin Shanks. Now Gavin was a gentle giant of a man who for many years excelled at the Highland Games and once tossed the caber for Scotland. He was a large as life character and extremely popular amongst sheep breeding circles for many years and will be sorely missed. I hope the Big Yin is up there handing round the drams and entertaining Gina and Mrs T in the same way he had always done when I was in his company.

Pope Argie the first

So, at last Argentina has something to shout about. After 150 years of trying to nick our Falkland Islands and nearly as many unsuccessfully attempting to beat us at rugby - although I admit, they have won the odd game of footie -  they have now secured a Pope.

Yes, when the white smoke finally arrived through the Vatican roof yesterday, the secret Cardinals had all agreed on the world’s first non European Pope.

All hail Pope Francis.

Francis!? What sort of a name is that for a Pope?

The one thing I enjoy about the papal election is the self-appointed names that the head of the Catholic world appoints themselves with. We have recently had Benedict, which sounds like a mouth-wash, and before him we had Beatle-loving Pope Jean-Paul – who was only lacking George and Ringo to make up a full set.

Over history we have had a dozen Gregorys, Augustines and Alexanders - mainly Italians, all from Europe. And now we eventually get a South American and he calls himself Francis!

Come on man, where’s you imagination? You might have well called yourself Barry? Or Dave?

Argentina has some wonderful Spanish names in its culture. Where is Garibaldi? Or what about Diego Maradonna? And then there was that brilliant rugby paring of Philipe Contepone and Augustus Pichot. Sounds like a pair of bank robbers, admittedly, but it is a bit more highbrow than bloody Francis?

This got me round to thinking that, were I elected as Pope, what would I call myself? Not just me in fact, but all of us.

Let’s play a game where we get elected to one day of religious fame – and have to come up with a name?

Well, I would dump Andrew for starters. For all its regal connotations, it makes me sound like a right dull bastard. My middle name – James – that would be out too. James the millionth? No ta.

How about Archibald? Nah, too old fashioned – I want to be a modern Pope.

It needs to sound upbeat as well, but not too chavvy. Kevin, Robbie, Darren, they’re not quite right for all that splendour are they – in fact Daz would have probably had it away with that gold tea-service by lunchtime and fenced it for 40 Marlboro and a zippo lighter!

Needs to be original, too – don’t want any numbers after my name. Gerald? Has there been a Pope Gerald? No? I can see why – the boring git!

Here we go – Silicontine. What do you think of that? Has a nice sort of cyber tone to it? No? Pope Packard? Maybe Pope Google? Then they could sponsor me – although you wouldn’t really need much sponsorship in the Vatican, it’s kinda cash-rich.

Pope Elevate? I quite like that. Stands on high ground, doesn’t it? A bit too pompous perhaps?

Christopher, Lawrence, Benjamin, Nathaniel – all a bit run-of-the-mill, really.

You know, actually, this game isn’t as easy as I thought. Maybe he should have just gone the obvious route and pre-empted what everyone will call him from now until his death.

Arise – Pope Argie!

Fireproof Pope

I have always been of the belief that whatever time of year I lambed the sheep, the weather would turn on me at that specific date. Be it November, Christmas or May, blizzards and tornadoes are always lying in wait to challenge the ovine newborn’s chance of survival to the very limit. And so it is that, on the day the first one hits the ground this year, we have that tornado, or hurricane, or whatever the French call the extremities of Le Vent, to contend with. Although I prefer the sheep to live and lamb outside, we do have the backstop of a 30x10 metre polytunnel for them to shelter out of the rain and snow, if required. Well, we did until last night. Now it is more like a climbing frame, as the entire ‘poly’ part of it departed north at 50 kph. At this moment, I have no idea where it has gone, and only hope it hasn’t reached the main road and gift-wrapped a lorry causing accidental deaths.

The irony of this freak 3 day storm is that we have just arrived back after a couple of months on the Scottish coast, where the wind off the North Sea would normally saw you in half faster that David Copperfield with a Husqvarna, but which was positively calm this year. Not only that, but this wind is coming from the South East which is very unusual for us down here – hence it made its way into the opening of the afore-mentioned polytunnel. The only thing it has in its favour is that it is quite warm, perhaps due to the fact it is arriving from the Sahara, and is very handy for drying the washing. Whoops, looks like that has gone north as well. Maybe my England rugby shirt will be in Paris for the weekend’s annual game, before me!

On the subject of sheep, I am happy to report that the famed Daisy-Deathwish is not only still alive – against some quite slim odds - but has this week produced a lamb of her very own. To begin with she was none too sure about it and kept running away from the poor thing every time it stood up, but now she has at least accepted responsibility for the gangly creature. Meanwhile, her mother has produced 2 lambs of which she is only able to rear one, the other one now relying on us with a milk-bottle. Hopefully we can someone locally to take pity on it and relieve us of the tiresome 4 times daily feeds.

In our few months absence we seem to have once again accumulated some more damn cats at Chauffour. Why two more grey stripy felines have rocked up here, I have no idea – maybe because it has been dog-free during that time - but I wish they would turn the noise down if they are going to stay around. One of them - definitely a tom – growls like a grisly-bear at all the others for hours, while another – I think female – sits in the rafters and swears profusely at the dogs. Occasionally, when they are done jibing at each other, they embark on a mass brawl in the attic, screaming blue murder while they hack lumps out of one-another with their scissor-hands. I am not sure if our own two get involved in this wrangle as well, or whether they just spectate from their seat in the stands. I would suggest it’s like a scene from Fight Club – except that the first rule of Fight Club is ‘you do not talk about Fight Club!’

Meanwhile, Louis (the pointless pointer) hasn’t quite worked out which ones to chase first. In fact a dog-with-two-cats is even more confused than the proverbial dog with two other appendages!  

I suppose at some stage these animals may all get around to living in harmony, and will diplomatically elect one of them as the top-cat in the conclave. Perhaps we should keep an eye out for white smoke appearing from the chimney in the next few months, before normal silence is resumed.

Coincidentally, isn’t it great to see that even the Pope isn’t above the laws of ridicule that are commonly referred to as Health and Safety. Yes, over the last few weeks, a little man with a hard-hat and highly important clipboard has instructed that, if Cardinals are to sit around playing with fire in the Sistine chapel, then they had better do it safely or they will damn well be reported to a higher authority. So it was that we saw a new chimney being fitted – by fire-fighters, according to the press -  to comply with the latest safety regulations. One assumes that, inside the highly secret conclave, they have all been kitted out with flame-retardant high-viz cassocks, fire-proof gloves and highly sensitive smoke detectors, as well as being rehearsed in fire-drills by him upstairs? There’s a thought? Who stands in as fire-monitor while there is no Pope in situ? Does he get secretly elected by 115 cardinals too?

This brings me neatly round to another absurd rule which is just about to be enforced here in France. Yes, with nothing better to do, our new leader has now instigated yet another law in order to protect ourselves from ourselves: that of having smoke detectors fitted in every household from 2015. The entirety of the new ruling is as yet unclear, with debates still raging about the number of devices required in each household. At present, it is thought that only one would be required, but the positioning of it will be determined by a fire-officer – in a hard-hat. A suggestion that it be fitted directly next to the open-fireplace has not been ruled out although other sources seem pretty sure it should be above the electric-toaster or over the barbeque. Inevitably, a further law prohibiting householders to smoke cigarettes in their own homes is just around the corner, for fear of it setting off the alarms. Apparently, 33 million of new ‘Joan-of-Arc’ devices will be supplied by French manufacturer – ‘Hollande & Hollande’ - over the next two years!

Yes, chivalry is a French word!