Christian Yorke

Most sensible social commentators recognise Jeremy Clarkson as one of the UK’s leading broadcasters. His TopGear show (that’s cars not fashion) regularly attracts up to 18 million viewers every Sunday, and is watched by a staggering 600 million “petrol heads” around the world. Some say that he is The Stig, and can smoke two packs of Marlboro Red an hour in his sleep chamber. All we know is that he is a musical maverick and that, for a white guy, he sure knows how to beatbox. Click the link below and prepare to be impressed. Very impressed. The most impressed you’ve ever been, in the world.

Jeremy Clarkson Beatbox – Swede Mason

Lord Byron was on to something when he wrote, “Adversity is the first path to truth…” (Don Juan (canto X11, st. 50)). I recently put this statement to the test when the all powerful Dreamhost unilaterally disabled my charming blog. As I wrestled with this unexpected crisis I soon realised that the second path to truth is determination, and that ultimately all paths can only be navigated with a good knowledge of inspirational nouns and adjectives. I also realised that Dreamhost’s path is strewn with twisted jargon. 

Many of you will be familiar with Dreamhost. It is a mainstream web hosting outfit that sells itself as follows:

“…we do things a little differently around here…”

“…We’re a tight knit family…”

“…we love it here and we’re all focused on hosting…we’re not faceless robots…we’re looking forward to welcoming you to our family.”

So you get their drift. They are a self-styled loving entity with dazzling skills, a non-corporate structure and powerful arms to scoop you up when things get tough. They sounded genuinely friendly, and made the process of starting a blog seem easy and cool. Before I signed up with them somebody explained that Dreamhost had a dark side, and that maybe the Dreamhost nerds were trying to do irony with their soothing promises. But I knew better, and reminded my advisor (many times) that Dreamhost is a FAMILY, and families are sincere.

How wrong I was.

I am, in web-speak, a newbie. I have been running this website for a few months, using a Dreamhost shared server and Wordpress. And when I say ”running” the site I actually mean stumbling along like a simpleton. Getting to grips with the cyber-world has been one hell of a trip. That famous picture of a troubled parrot had never before summed me up so completely. Adversity was never far away as I gradually learnt my widgets from my Googlebots, added some exciting plugins and started generating some content. After much frustration I had the site linked to Twitter, Flickr, Digg and Facebook and was attracting some hits. I felt at one with the hip Dreamhost gang.

And then, one dark day last week (after a brutal day at work, with all the usual introspection and mental pain) my blog was no more. It had been removed from the cyber matrix by an unseen force. I immediately nose dived into a depressed state. I had no idea what was happening; had my site been vapourised? After much confusion I discovered an e-mail, sent earlier that day from one of Dreamhost’s non-robots. It read thus:

“I am working on the load on your hosting machine and found your user eating up a lot of CPU…so I checked the access.log and found the problem…”

As I read this I wondered what a” hosting machine” was and whether it was the same as my “user” (or whether my “user” was a different, more specific piece of jargon). I also wondered what a “CPU” was and how much of it had been “eaten” by my “user”. I was encouraged, however, by the promise of a solution, and read the following:

“4 195.210.57.83
    15 115.88.240.91
    36 66.249.68.102
  3552 67.205.56.9″

So there it was. Four lines of meaningless numbers. The e-mail continued by explaining something about an apache server, an access.log (again), code loops and something called .htaccess. The upshot was that my blog had been re-named (to something that Dreamhost was keeping secret), I had to fix my “user”, get the load down and finally enable the blog once more. No doubt this should have been a doddle, but I still didn’t understand my blog’s crime and felt that the “we love you, we love your blogs, it’s what we do” team at Dreamhost was tormenting me with the mirage of a solution amid a haze of impenetrable jargon; that hybrid, pretentious, ultra-technical nonsense that renders the English language incomprehensible. 

I wrote a slightly unpleasant reply to Dreamhost (that I’d rather not share at this point) demanding a clear explanation of the problem, and (to be fair) soon received the following clarification:

“I am sorry that you’re not happy with my message but I tried to explain
as best I could – if you would like it in the simplest terms here was the
server load with your site enabled:

 10:34:44 up 26 days, 17:23, 12 users,  load average: 131.47, 149.02,
122.45

Here is the server load with your site disabled:

 12:08:52 up 26 days, 18:57, 10 users,  load average: 7.60, 10.57, 11.02

…I simply re-named the folder you store the site
data in (that results in the site being down until you can  name it back
and fix it). I also directed you to investigate your plugins which are
actually not at all standard:

akismet                           fidgetr
slidepress           wp-greet-box
all-in-one-seo-pack               flickr-slideshow-wrapper
stats                wp-hashcash
bookx                             google-sitemap-generator
streampad            wp-shortstat2
comenta-wp                        hello.php
tweetable            wp-stats-dashboard
commentcontrol.php                index.php
wp-addpub            wp-super-cache
disable-wordpress-core-update     page-flip-image-gallery
wp-db-backup         wp-twitterbadge
disable-wordpress-plugin-updates  podpress
wp-flashtime-widget
dm-albums                         post-rich-videos-and-photos-galleries
wp-flv.php

That all-in-one-seo-pack for esample is actually a terrible resource hog
and can take down a server all on its own…If you can’t or won’t find and remove whatever is
causing the loop I identified you’re welcome to run your site on a
Private Server where it will not effect other customers…but I am afraid that it is beyond the scope of support to troubleshoot
your custom installation for you…”

So, the Dreamhost non-robot, who I had (until then) thought of as a brother had set it out in the simplest of terms; which worried me because I still had no idea where I would find the renamed folder that now held my blog hostage, or what I should do if I found it. There was to be no help “troubleshooting” this calamity. I was on my own. It was Byron’s whole adversity and truth thing.

It was a few days before I got back to fixing this problem because sometimes I have to sleep, and when not sleeping I have a demanding day job. But when I finally found the time I went after adversity with a vengeance, trawling the net to learn about CPUs and disabled Dreamhost sites. I discovered that I was not alone. The forums were full of bitter complaints about how Dreamhost shut sites down without warning. It appears that although Dreamhost offers unlimited bandwidth and storage, there is a CPU limit hidden in the small print. That might be reasonable, but if a CPU limit is so critical then Dreamhost should TELL its customers.

Nevertheless, I was determined to find a solution and I started down a twisted cyber path to truth. By now I knew that all the disruption had been caused when Dreamhost disabled my website by renaming it. The solution was to delete certain plugins and then return the site to its original name. I know that sounds easy, which it is if you know what you are doing. I would now like to share with you, in PLAIN ENGLISH, how I fixed the “problem” and got this lovely blog up and running again. Here goes.

1) Access your Dreamhost web panel. That means going to www.dreamhost.com and clicking on “web panel” and then typing in your user name and password. (I told you this was in plain English!)

2) In the sidebar (the list of things on the left of the screen), click on “manage domains”

3) The screen will then list your domain name, or names if you have more than one. Select the domain that has been renamed/disabled and click on “WebFTP”.

4) Enter your username and password again and then click “wp-content” in the column headed “name”

5) In the next screen click on “plugins” in the column headed “name”

6) In the next screen click the box (in the left hand column headed “add”) next to the plugins that you are willing to delete. Try to select the plugins that seemed like a good idea at the time, but that you don’t really use or need. Then click “delete”, which is towards the top right of the screen.

7) Click Directory Tree “root” which will take you to a screen that includes your renamed site. It is likely to be called something like “yourblog.com.renamedbydreamhost”. Select your renamed site by clicking the “add” column, amend it to the original name of your blog, and then click “rename”, which is towards the top right of your screen. And then you are done! Your old blog will work and you will be a hero.

Discovering that your cherished blog has disappeared is a nasty business. In my opinion Dreamhost’s support-bots are too wrapped up in jargon to really help us newbies. In fact the help they gave me was shit. However, adversity (and some determination) set me on a Byronic path to truth and I feel better for the experience. I have learnt a lot about the machinery behind the (seemingly) user friendly blogs and next time (and I’m sure that there will be a next time) I will be better able to get my site up and running.

I certainly hope that some of you find this helpful. Happy blogging!

Next time a yellow box flashes you for doing 36mph, or a bored constable aims a speed gun at you from his Mondeo because he doesn’t like your moustache, remember this story from the home of the brave.

On 7th January 2009 Philip Odegard, a 23 year old self-styled media mogul was caught speeding in California in a vehicle described as a Bugatti Veyron. For those not in the know, the Veyron is the ultimate road-legal hypercar. Its 8 litre W16 engine has 16 cylinders, 64 valves, four camshafts, four turbochargers and pumps out a mighty 1001 bhp. That is enough to launch the beast to 62 mph (100 kmh) in 2.5 seconds, or to 99 mph (160 kmh) in 5.5 seconds before topping out at a face warping 253 mph. The downside is the wallet warping price (£899,000/$1,550,000) and the inevitable police interest.

Which brings me to Mr Odegard. Apart from probably being an utter c**k s****r for having a Veyron in the first place, the mogul (which I always thought had something to do with s**t skiing) was busted for breaking the speed limit of 65 mph. In fact, according to his ticket, he was clocked at 210 mph+. That’s miles per hour. Which is very, very fast.

And here’s the best bit. Rather than being locked up in San Quentin, or beaten to death by pious hypocrites with low self esteem, the penalty (according to section 22348 of some (extremely long) Californian law) for this crime is “…a fine not exceeding $500.” And for a man who can afford a Veyron that really is loose change.

So there it is, you can forget those track days at some over populated rain lashed circuit near Milton Keynes. Get yourself on a sky bus to California, which is now officially the world’s biggest, and cheapest, lawless race track. See you there!

Here is the concluding part of Summery Judgement. Welcome to a twisted vision of the near future where the men ride horses  and motorists pack the cells.

“I was driving carefully, I know the rules, there was nothing I could do,” pleaded the driver pre-emptively.

At this a diminutive lady burst from the masses, fell to her knees and introduced herself as Bernadette. “I was the first on the scene,” she lied, as somewhere in the distance a screaming siren heralded a vehicle approaching at speed. “This so-called man has blood on his hands today officer. It was like he deliberately wanted to take a life such was his wild driving style. Rarely have I seen such disregard for human life.”

For the first time the sergeant seemed unconvinced and, realising this, Bernadette stood to her full height taking the sergeant by the hand. The crowd fell silent as she lead him to the back of the car. I followed as best I could so that I would be on hand in case anybody became interested in establishing the truth.

Over the heads that bobbed and snarled an ambulance could now be seen. It was approaching at moderate speed, flanked by an unofficial escort of scooters; the little Vespas and Piaggios were racing the ambulance down the empty avenue, weaving this way and that, ignoring traffic lights with a vengeance. In addition, one or two young men on horseback were keeping pace admirably, their fine galloping stallions more than a match for the scooters.

In the meantime Bernadette had removed her enormous black hat and was pointing at the rear of the car, staring at the sergeant. He did not immediately understand. Bernadette shook with frustration, as though willing him to notice the exhaust pipes. She composed herself, and then in a voice designed to reach even those at the back said, “Officer, dear sir, see…it runs on petrol…”

The pressure was immense as the onlookers fought to witness this latest twist.

By now Bernadette was once more on her knees crying into her hands. “What about the children!” she moaned, “The little baby children. Oh sweet baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph. For the love of all that is good, for the sake of humanity protect us, protect us all from this evil.”

The sergeant, clearly moved (as was the crowd which now stood silent) signalled for the paramedic who had arrived moments earlier. The crowd, swollen by dozens of scooter riders and horsemen, looked on as the sergeant ordered the paramedic to apply oxygen to Bernadette.

Gradually, poor Bernadette’s suffering was eased. She clasped the oxygen mask tightly to her face, still pleading for the sake of the children. Once she was in a satisfactory condition, the sergeant knelt beside her. In order to reassure her that he understood, he placed his cheek against hers. People in the crowd embraced, assuming that the sergeant had finally grasped the implications of what had occurred today; that he understood the full weight of the driver’s crime.

After some moments the sergeant removed the mask so he could hold Bernadette’s face. Then he nodded, to say, “I understand your pain, I feel it too. For all that is good, for the good of our children, and for the good of their children’s children, for the good of all the children of the world, I will do the right thing. I will right this wrong.”

Somewhere above a bird sang, and the sergeant’s face darkened. “Now my dear Bernadette, if you will excuse me, this I must to do personally,” he said, looking across at the girl sobbing in Bessie’s protective grip.

With his colleague at his elbow the sergeant surged towards the front of the car where the driver still stood, trembling. At his signal, the younger officer clamped the driver in his heavy handcuffs. Then, in accordance with standard practice he drew his knife and lead the driver to his horse where he shackled him to the thick leather strapping across its rear haunches.

Avoiding the dung, that now seemed to be everywhere, the sergeant approached the driver with a solemn, even morbid, look in his eyes. “I do this for the sake of humanity, so that we might all have a world to share, to marvel at, for all eternity. You will be taken to the cells where your punishment will be administered. And I warn you to expect no mercy.”

This proclamation was despatched in a way that was almost boastful. And the crowd loved it. The thought of the driver’s suffering sated their bloodlust because, however brutal, there had to be justice.

Each officer mounted his horse and, as the people parted to let them through, the driver, who had long since abandoned his earlier protests of innocence, ran behind to avoid being dragged by his chains.

By now the sun was a little lower in the bright blue sky. Some people shuffled off, ready to recount all they had witnessed to their families and friends. I noticed the victim stir, pushing the paramedic away. He shook and rubbed his head and then stood up on the spot where he had passed out some time earlier. Nancy had broken loose in the ensuing celebration and was nowhere to be seen. In the circumstances I decided against offering any further argument. As I made my way back to my office I refused to watch as what remained of the crowd, lead by the tall gentleman, started dismantling the abandoned car.

What follows is the first part of a thought provoking short story. We live in a crazy world, manipulated by self serving politics and mass media aimed at people with a fifteen second attention span. Think about how quickly we fall for the latest fad, or accept the latest regime based on minimal, or carefully selected, evidence. Summery Judgement looks into the near future where the evolution of current thinking has had an unexpected impact on our lifestyles and morality.

Sunshine soothed the city and I almost smiled as I gazed through my office window to the river beyond. A broad avenue, bordered by attractive plane trees, was quietly baking several stories below. Although until recently this grand thoroughfare had teemed purposefully, now it was deserted except for the occasional clatter of hooves.

Even though it was Sunday, and even though my children were not yet old enough to understand, I was now a little less at odds with the stricter energy rationing that had forced my working practices to change. I had explained this in detail to my dear wife on many occasions, but she found adapting to the currently fashionable political ideas almost impossible. Naturally, I did not enjoy having to work seven days each week to accommodate the latest rules. However, I knew that in time some new entity would rise to prominence and declare those rules as false; the only true source of concern, therefore, was how long that wait would be and whether, when change inevitably arrived, the new rules would be even harsher. In the meantime, on a practical level, my problem was that, perhaps more than most, an architect needs light. By this I mean a steady clear illumination such as on a day like today, rather than the unreliable flicker of a candle. Like many I had experimented in the early days, hoping to preserve my old routines and work outside the hours of daylight; but even a room filled with candles had proven to be unsuitable for my professional requirements. In fact, notwithstanding the growing body of expert opinion to the contrary, a flame’s constant motion always left me feeling nauseous and ill-tempered.

As I took a moment to reflect on the fact that my boys now stayed in bed, rather than wave me off with a kiss each morning, I was distracted by the sound of a car. I immediately hopped from my seat, throwing open the great sash window for a better view. After a minute or two I spotted it. A black car, carrying only the driver, was crawling along the smooth tarmac. Its pace was so slow that I had time to make a fresh glass of water to sip and by the time I returned to the window the car was virtually beneath me; so close in fact that I could almost make out the driver’s moustache.

I glanced away from the car only because I heard some shouting. On the pavement below, a male and female seemed to be wrestling each other. The man was dressed in the undyed fabrics that were now the standard attire of people of modest status. From  my vantage point the female appeared to be much younger, at least judging by her infantile physique. She referred to herself as Nancy and was making her point most forcefully, bringing herself close to tears. Some coins flew from the man’s hand and Nancy (who he now addressed in crude animalistic terms) fell to her knees to collect them as though claiming a debt. Once free of her grip the man almost collapsed in a heap and staggered in a circle kicking his feet and waving his fists and shouting in a foreign language that might have been German. Perhaps embarrassed by the fuss, and having scooped up all the cash, Nancy clambered to her feet. As she tried to deposit the money into her very tight trousers the man rushed at her. Displaying good reflexes Nancy neatly side stepped her attacker and, as he staggered past, she shoved him in the back thereby hurling him across the road.

I leant out of the window as far as I dared but the point of impact was hidden by the branches of a tree. Nancy’s screams and the yelping brakes left me fearing the worst and instinct took hold of me. I buttoned my shirt and ran from my office in such a hurry that I forgot to lock it. By the time I arrived on the pavement both man and car lay motionless in the road. A crowd had already gathered. At its centre Nancy appeared distraught, pushing the people away and hissing for all she was worth.

“She’s in shock! Look how she fights us. Come now dear, let us comfort you,” said a tall gentlemen who seemed to be the leader. He tried again to put his arms round Nancy, but she misinterpreted this kindness and clawed at this face.

“Have you sent the boy?” shouted someone from the road. “We need to get the police here now, I don’t know how long I can restrain him!”

I skirted the crowd and ran into the road to help the injured man. In front of me was the driver with his head forced against the bonnet of his car and his arm pulled high up his back by a man called Simon. Some feet away from the car the injured man lay in a pile of bones and rags. He was clearly still breathing, but the crowd had chosen not to touch him, presumably for fear of worsening the damage.

Simon’s grip must have been strong because the driver began crying. “I couldn’t avoid him, he came from nowhere! I wasn’t going fast, he came from nowhere!”

“Not going fast! It was like you had murder on your mind,” shrieked a new voice as Simon again called for the boy to bring the police. “I saw the whole thing and as the Lord is my witness you sir were going well over twenty.”

The crowd roared with horror.

“For the love of God what were you thinking!”

“Over twenty!”

“Murderer!”

Just as I was about to make myself heard over the din Nancy made a run for it.

“Grab her, she’s grief stricken. For her own sake, she needs help, the poor woman. The police will comfort her, give her a hot meal,” declared the tall gentleman.

Three obliging men gave chase and soon returned with Nancy who was now red faced and crying uncontrollably. They left her in the care of a burly woman called Bessie who tried hard to quieten her. In the meantime the three men stood guard in case Nancy tried to flee again.

After almost an hour the crowd, which was now over forty strong (as word had got out), grew impatient. The rowdy debate as to how the driver should be punished became louder and some fists flew amongst those on the fringes. Although, surprisingly, they had the strongest and most extreme opinions about the driver’s fate, they were also complaining bitterly that they were denied a better position from which to observe, or influence, the developments. In the circumstances I doubt that I was the only one to feel relieved when, at long last, there was a shout from one of the lookouts followed by a great cheer as two policemen cantered down the broad roadway.

“The boy got through, the boy did it!” they all sang and clapped. Simon was so relieved that he loosened his grip allowing the driver to stand upright and rub the swelling around his left eye.

The tall gentleman strode into the road and flagged the policemen down. The oldest officer, who held the rank of sergeant, reigned in his panting mare and jumped off.

“Officer, there he is, by the car. My friend has detained him pending your arrival.”

“What is all this?” asked the sergeant, pushing people off him because he needed room to pull on his high visibility jacket. “What’s occurring?”

“That man has driven his mechanical transportation at such a speed as to make it nothing short of a weapon. No less dangerous sir than the bullets in your rifle or the knife in your sheath.”

“He was doing more that twenty, we witnessed it, we saw it first hand!”

“More that twenty?” queried the officer, now struck by the gravity of the crime. He signalled to his colleague, who dismounted his horse and (after successfully donning his high visibility jacket) ran towards the driver brandishing his cuffs.

At this moment I fought through the throng so that I was close enough to make myself heard. “Sergeant, I must speak with you. My name is Mr Verity and I work in that office,” I began, pointing to my window that was still open. “I saw the entire incident. I can tell you this much, that car was going no more than ten. At the most! That woman,” I said, now pointing at the wretch in Bessie’s loving arms, “pushed the victim into the road. The driver had no chance.”

“A victim you say? What is all this?” asked the sergeant who was being overpowered by the weight of people closing in to listen.

“There sir,” I shouted, forcing myself through with an enormous shove, using my shoulder and arms to clear a path.

“Ah, I see…has someone called for an ambulance?” asked the sergeant, wiping his sweaty brow with his silk riding glove.”

“We sent the boy for the ambulance as soon as he found you. I hear they are on their way.”

“They’re held up in the city centre,” called one of the lookouts, “by the buses. Apparently the buses have all stopped and nothing can get through.”

“So be it,” said the sergeant as we both bent down to inspect the victim.

The sergeant and I immediately recoiled in unison at the powerful scent of alcohol seeping from the injured man who, by this time, had started making a terrible moaning sound.

“What is all this?” asked the tall gentleman peevishly. “The driver’s over there. Come sir, let’s bring this to an end. And please make sure you tend to the victim’s daughter, she’s in a terrible condition being comforted by Bessie.”

“But she threw him into the road, I saw it,” said I, fighting off the arms that gripped and tugged.

“Liar! He’s a liar!” boomed the crowd. “Why does he accuse a poor girl, she can’t be much more than fifteen, look at how she grieves…”

I was taken aback by the stern look that the sergeant gave me, as though I was trampling on the feelings of a child. Without another word he stormed towards the driver and waved his colleague aside with a look of menace, and full authority to severely punish the driver on the spot.

Around the world millions are mourning the passing of the King of Pop. However, in a cruel twist it has been reported that not only is Bubbles the chimpanzee unlikely to be invited to Michael Jackson’s funeral, the one time muse has yet to be told of his death. 

Jackson’s interest in befriending animals began with his pet rat, immortalised in the sensitive 1972 hit ballad, Ben. He subsequently rescued Bubbles from a cancer research centre in 1985 and for years they lived together as companions at Neverland. But the bond between man and chimp was broken when Bubbles was alleged to have become prone to terrifying mood swings and bouts of physical violence. Some say that Jackson’s advisers were concerned for the safety of the many children that shared the ranch with their hero, and Bubbles was banished forever.

How times change. Bubbles, now 26, lives out his days alone in a Florida animal sanctuary. A spokesman for the chimp revealed that Bubbles would be listening to calming flute music on the day of the funeral. The spokesman went on to complain bitterly that, “It is sad for Bubbles, but it is better that he stays here.”

Animal rights commentators remain concerned about how Bubbles will react when he finds out that he was kept from the truth. Amidst accusations of discrimination, fears are growing that the chimp may self harm when he discovers that two tigers kept by Jackson have already been told of his death by their guardian, the former actress Tippi Hedren. However, it remains to be seen whether the tigers will be at the funeral.

What follows is a true account of a recent holiday, although certain names have been disguised to protect the culprits. A road trip to the south of France had seemed like a good idea at the time and one thing is for certain, those who were there will never forget it.

We pick up the action with me thrashing my weary (and now departed) M3 along the A7 and then down the twisting lanes to Port de Cassis. Over a concert of the Beemer’s straight six, eye watering wind, the Arctic Monkeys and terrified screams from my wife we had rumbled down Route des Calanques, past human quilt beaches, before I screeched into the cramped car park of Hotel Les Roches Blanches. Relieved, I remember grinning reassuringly at my wife. Unfortunately, her petrified features, and Bridget Jones hair, said that I was in trouble. Our peaceful holiday, a French grand tour, was seriously tits up.

Defensively, my mind had returned to the day, months earlier, when the lunacy was hatched. New Year’s Day had found the conspirators huddled over drinks, correcting hangovers. Those present included “The Cleaner” (cleaning business owner), “The Developer” (property developer), “the Lawyer” (that’s me) and their dear, long suffering wives. A summer road trip en Francais avec trois voitures was painfully unveiled. Those unsuspecting vehicles were to be a Porsche 911, BMW M3 and Mercedes sl55 AMG (hereafter “the Beast”) with almost 1200 bhp, and  500mph, combined.

The track would include Autoroute 6 to the Cote D’Azur, then Monaco, an about turn to St Tropez and a final stage through the Loire valley. However, although the Cleaner impressively breached the “it’s not a race” pact, proposing limiter deactivation, we knew the plan lacked largeness.

In a moment of inspiration, the Developer suggested that we should charter a boat. Aqua Sea Syndicate (charter company) could stun us for about £16k; four days, pro skipper, cook and bottomless booze.

The Cleaner vacillated.

“For God’s sake, you only live once,” urged the Developer accurately, shaking his goblet, speaking of “not being small” and “a different port each night.” Casino Square, Cap Ferrat and Club De Roy in St Tropez. Unarguable. To share the cost “the Gardner” (a landscaper) was also invited, and on that dirty winter’s day we thought that for some reason we deserved it. You could never have too much gearing and, let’s face it, we would be lucky to make forty anyway. With a convivial glass clink the scene was set.

Day one: The big mucky day arrived with a savage 4-30 am kick start and a short stage to Folkestone. Terror threats tightened security and, once I managed to open the bonnet, the M3 endured a mirrored strip search. Certified benign, we crept into Eurotunnel’s corrugated crates. No expense incurred; no Dixons, or Harrods or Costa concessions. Just lights out and a power nap.

We surfaced beneath a slate sky and lancing rain. With holiday smiles we weaved through snarled British plodders in Touaregs and Vectras; back windows obscured by potted plants and Shrek duvets. Canoe shaped containers decorated most roofs, like statements against nature; plastic coffins for tent pegs, emergency cornflakes and HP sauce.

After a two hour stint we pitted so the Cleaner could feed the Beast and the rest of us filled up with Croque Monsieurs. Later (fully forty five minutes), whilst powering through charcoal spray my wife started babbling tearfully about warp factor speed and vehicular incarceration, demanding a pool. Separated from the other teams, I had bigger fish to fry; 9 miles in the tank and no pumps in sight. My wife, renamed the Shrew, screamed unhelpfully. Sweat flowed until I saw the sign. At the “petrol station” two unmanned pumps, one working, cooked under perspex visors in a concrete field. Alarmingly, Mastercard, Visa and Maestro were casually spat back. Not French enough. Cash not good either. Zut Alors! 

The Shrew rocked, my fuel flat lined, then Sat Nav heroically forced me back north to a manned Esso. Awesome, but now I was miles behind.

Three hours later we enjoyed confused circuits of medieval Beaune before stumbling on our hotel, Hostellerie le Cedre. The Shrew hurled herself from the moving Beemer; it was time for some refreshment.

For joyous moments the weary teams downed Kronenburg and Rose beneath a small cloud hole allowing some summer in. Then the blackening sky sealed, and it pissed down. “Time for a long lunch,” offered the Cleaner through a Marlboro fog. The restaurant was a haze of red, white and sinuous Tripe sausage “of the region,” ordered in error. I allowed the Shrew a taste test, producing a vomit.

Day two: Alcoholically unstable, I slipped in the shower headbutting a forgotten shelf. Blood dribbled through breakfast, like Terry Butcher, or our ‘Enry. The Developer sacrificed croissants for a head start in the non-race. Finishing my cappuccino I heard the Beast powering away. Merde!

I doltishly announced that we must catch up. The Shrew, perhaps overtired, declared war and stormed off through pissing rain to do “some shopping”. Two cushions and a scented candle later we got going, and I struggled through nausea, dehydration and gut cramps, pondering the after life. I marvelled at the continental motorists’ misleading blinkers for miles after every blind lurch, the unpredictable lane straddling and chancy track drifting. Saxos and Twingos tailgated thrillingly before screwing themselves into pinprick gaps ahead of me. Crisis breaking at a ton kept me focused, with only the occasional word from the sexy sat nav for company; Shrew on silent.

Fortunately, Burgundy became Boulogne, became Lyon then St Etienne as we stumbled into summer.

Finally, we found Les Terraces d’Eze, cleaved into mountain and accessed by a helter skelter ramp. Each team had ploughed down oblivious to the traffic light control.  Management unimpressed but little harm done.

Day three: Time for the infinity pool and sultry reflection, looking forward to boarding the Sunseeker the following day. And then another setback in the pop-art bar. A.S.S had been on the blower exalting our six berth vessel.

We were seven with the Gardner.

ASS had a plan, but it was touch and go. 

The sun rose on day four and we drove the coast to Monaco, heading for Coulthard’s Columbus Hotel where parking was arranged. 

The wives joyously left the racers to sort the parking. “See you in a couple of minutes,” I said lovingly, but the Shrew was gone.

Then more surprises. No parking! Traffic snarled behind us whilst, stationary, the Developer called ASS who remorselessly directed us to a dark municipal half a mile away.

By the time our morning cognac was served ASS had found a replacement boat; but there was a sting. It was somewhere near Italy, had an electrical problem, needed an engineer and it was a bank holiday…they would do their best.

Gerhard’s Cafe in Monaco harbour became our  departure lounge. The Gardner arrived by chopper, cheerfully naive. We got the Rose in.

Five hours into our Rose-a-thon, ASS sent us Tabatha in a perfumed Z4. She frothed about having sorted everything and I wondered how she would give us our day back.

Our merry tribe finally staggered onto the Sunseeker Manhattan (River Gipsy) at 4 pm. And our spirits lifted. Lush carpets, cream suede walls (you had to be there), mahogany and a gleaming sun deck. I collapsed briefly in our 007 ensuite berth, complete with air con and plasma, before lift off!

Our skipper was a ragged shaved skull, called Onwhen, or Ahnwhyn or Inwahn; affectionately renamed Uncle Unwin, after the bankrupt off licence chain. Jemima, a frustrated violinist, supported him as cook, cleaner, sommelier and DJ.

Once out of the marina the Shrew vomited repeatedly, whilst we polished off the bottles of vino collapso. We then worked steadily through the Kronenburg whilst the Gardner grumbled about having to sleep on a shelf in an ironing cupboard.

 On returning to Monaco Mrs Cleaner and the Shrew struggled to walk, so a depleted band swayed towards the bright lights. After dinner (Le Grill at Hotel de Paris) Mrs Developer and the Gardner bailed out.

Minutes later the lads were in Casino Square, behind flagons of Kronenburg, watching the current of Lamborghinis, Astons, Ferraris and Bugattis. A hazy Casino followed, before walking the F1 track and running the Grand Hotel hairpin into the tunnel. The Cleaner revved, I hit the marbles and the Developer had gear box issues. What a sight. Three slightly intelligent, hammered, thirty somethings shamefully imitating racing cars. 

I swallowed some spew as we spotted our next pit stop at La Rascasse. The Cleaner mounted a parked Enzo, then bolted despite having no idea where the boat was. He returned sulkily to beer, sweat and a band belting out Creep. I cleared the dance floor with an air guitar, that I dropped more than once.  

Day five brought weeping brain matter and bacon butties. Uncle Unwin bashed about in the boat’s bowels whilst Jemima explained that Ronnie Wood and Keith Richards had recently chartered the boat, possibly explaining the broken cafetiere, lost toaster and red wine stains on the pristine carpets!

I opened the Zantac, whilst the Developer and the Gardner supped Sancerre. Then, right on cue, ASS was back on the dog with a mooring problem at Cap Ferrat. Instead we headed for Antibes and spent the day swimming, sunbathing and sipping cold beers. Were things on the up at last?

At sun set Uncle Unwin aimed at our Antibian mooring, whilst we planned dinner at L’Auberge Provencal. Then disaster. River Gipsy drifted and her propellor chewed up our neighbour’s mooring chain. And half their boat. 

Two vessels became one tragic union and panic ensued. Raised voices and frantic telephone calls brought a haplessrescue boat that left defeated. Uncle Unwin disappeared for a private breakdown. The Developer strutted the decks shouting,“Get me ASS on the phone!” Neighbouring decks watched in hysterics. I took the driving seat, pumping the thrusters to avoid further harm, beer in hand.

The Cleaner stubbed out a fag declaring that Jack Custard would investigate. His Fatface was off and he examined tangled chains disappearing into the water’s sickly skin, amongst cigarette butts, used jonnies and sewage, preparing to dive in.

Mrs Cleaner was rightly traumatised. The second engine was still running, the Cleaner had consumed two bottles of wine and he couldn’t swim. The Developer helpfully intervened shouting, “Get in there Custard. Sort it out, then we can go super large!”

Disappointingly a professional diver arrived, banged a hammer at the problem for a bit, then reported that we were well and truly fucked. All the way to dry dock.

Making do, we prepared to hit the medieval town. The Gardner emerged in a bath towel holding the bathroom door handle and a chrome banister. River Gipsy was falling apart!

Our banqueting table was set amongst fig trees and limes. Seven courses came slowly as knackered waiters brought us meals intended for other tables. Hours later, we trudged to the stricken craft, debating our curse.

Day six: We were due at Niki Beach for lunch. The diver returned with that useless hammer. ASS tracked Tabatha down and the vacant child suggested a coach to St Tropez. Only four rickety hours and a small extra charge.

Statesmanlike, the Developer reminded the drab femme that we were paying £4,000 per day to travel on a boat! Tabby agreed to arrange yet another boat, but it would take time.

The Cleaner refused to leave the boat in case Custard was needed. The rest of us wandered around Antibes before a long lunch at Dauberge. Back on River Gipsy Tabby paced pointlessly until boat three (Samui) arrived.  She then arranged a minibus to Samui so we could sit on it. Jack Custard jumped into the front seat through the only functioning door. There was talk of us climbing in through the sunroof, but it did not have one, and so the rest of us walked.

Day seven: Our last day “on the boat.” We packed, and plodded round to Samui. Making new friends, the Gardner pebbledashed the side of the boat seven or eight times as the new skipper opened her up.

By late afternoon we were back in Monaco. Au Revoir to the Gardner and back in the cars for the short stage to St Paul De Vence. A few wrong turns later we crunched up the drive to Le Mas De Pierre, our  home for a couple of days.

Day eight: Sunbeds and swimming before an excellent lunch at La Colombe d’Or. Beneath lilly pad umbrellas we tucked into immense Hors D’Oeuvres, Foie Gras, and Sole (not on the same plate) washed down with Vin de Provence. The Gardner called. His chopper had been delayed, like his flight, where they served him a most unexpected vegan meal before he landed at Heathrow, his baggage at Schipol. It became clear. The Gardner had been our albatross!

Later, back by the pool we hit the Rose. Then the spa. Then got locked in because it closed. Fortunately our blunders were overshadowed when a podgy Deutschlander, in bright Vilebrequins, flopped into the pool, triggering the deafening alarm. Swimming verboten after 6-30 pm.

Day nine: We were woken by the pool alarm. Don’t those Germans learn? After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and espresso we saddled up for a scorching run to Cassis.

And there we were, in the carpark at Hotel Les Roches Blanches, wondering where the Cleaner was. When the Beast finally arrived, after a maze of wrong turns, he bitterly regretted not spending a few quid on a Euro Sat Nav upgrade.

This was the last night with the full team. Dinner was fittingly at Le Grand Large. Then it was fond farewells.

Day ten: I was apprehensive as I prepared for the 509 mile drag up the Loire valley, but it proved to be a pleasure. The Shrew had calmed down; human limiter off, I pushed the M3 hard. Very hard.

By early afternoon we were enjoying drinks on the terrace of Chateau de Noizay. Admittedly my brake pads had just exploded, but that didn’t seem important anymore.

Day eleven brought a mere 318 mile stage to Calais. As we skirted Paris the northern latitudes brought clouds and dipping temperature.

Back in Blighty we stopped off at The Mermaid in Rye for a swift pint and watched the French tourists arriving on their grand vacances. As we sat and reflected I felt the first sting of autumn against the dying sunlight.

And there it all almost ended, but we were due in the Lake District for the traditional family get together. So it was a wallet crushing visit to BMW for new brakes and off up to the Lakes for the next installment; but then, that’s another story as is the staggering compensation claim that followed.