âThe King of Grungeâ. He has a certain style about him. Jock style, like it or lump it. And I like it. Jock and I enjoy all the same things. He adores this part of France and doesnât for one second regret retiring here, in spite of the fact that his grasp of the language is still limited after seven years.
âI keep thinking Iâve died and gone to heaven,â he exclaims as he proudly shows me around his patch of the woods.
I canât help but agree with him. We spend the first two weeks exploring the mediaeval villages and bastide (or fortified) towns that are the main feature of the Lot. We target villages where there are food markets or antique fairs, planning our evening meals (never less than four courses) and then buying the appropriate ingredients before repairing to a café or restaurant for beer followed by a long lunch. By three every afternoon I am ready to sleep off the food and drink for several hours before rising and starting againâI will need to detox if I keep this up. Jock is exceedingly generous both with his time and his walletâhe routinely insists on shouting me lunch and I regard his personalised insights into French life as a gift. I dub this high-spirited introduction to the region as âJockâs Tours of the Lotâ and canât think of a better way to get established.
Jock and I once worked in the same newspaper building in Sydney in the early 1970s and although I remember his name and reputation clearly from those days, I feel certain that he barely remembers me. At that time I was a young reporter, just out of my cadetship and working on a trashy television magazine while he was a top-ranking showbusiness columnist. We oftenrubbed shoulders at film premieres and television program launches, but never really mixed socially. Bumping along the leafy lanes on our sightseeing tours we reminisce nonstop and quickly discover a great many friends and colleagues in common. His anecdotes about his life and work are endless and hilarious, and I identify strongly with his attitude to life. Born in New Zealand in the wealthy country township of Wanganui, he started his career as a young newspaperman in the 1950s, then travelled to Sydney where he worked on various daily papers first as a reporter and sub editor, later as a showbusiness writer and columnist. The last sixteen years of his working life were in New York, where he was a columnist on a mass-circulation Murdoch magazine. He covered a wide range of topics, including health and medicine, and as a result is quite witty and knowledgeable on a vast array of subjects, from stomach ulcers to arthouse films. He loves good jazz music and poetry and antiquated televisionâI am forever catching him watching old reruns of ââAllo, âAlloâ and âDr Whoâ on his satellite television.
When Jock shouts me lunch and I make noises of protest he invariably says, âBut Iâve got money I havenât even spent yet.â He sometimes suggests it can be my turn next time round, and weâll go somewhere much more expensive. When I agree without hesitation to his proposal of a drink at the local bar or a meal at a nearby restaurant he declares, âYouâre easier to get than a packet of Rothmans.â Jock is generous to a fault and kind-heartedânothing ever seems to be too much trouble. He never fails to surprise and amuse at dinner parties. Iâve seen a pair of conservative ladies blanch when he suddenly bursts into verse:
âHooray, hooray, itâs the first of May,
Outdoor fucking starts today.â
Jock has developed an extensive network of English-speaking friends who are never surprised to see him turn up with a visitor in tow because his house has, quite understandably, become a regular holiday destination for a raft of ragged overseas colleaguesâboth men and womenâwho enjoy his unending hospitality, warmth and wit. We scoot around the
âI keep thinking Iâve died and gone to heaven,â he exclaims as he proudly shows me around his patch of the woods.
I canât help but agree with him. We spend the first two weeks exploring the mediaeval villages and bastide (or fortified) towns that are the main feature of the Lot. We target villages where there are food markets or antique fairs, planning our evening meals (never less than four courses) and then buying the appropriate ingredients before repairing to a café or restaurant for beer followed by a long lunch. By three every afternoon I am ready to sleep off the food and drink for several hours before rising and starting againâI will need to detox if I keep this up. Jock is exceedingly generous both with his time and his walletâhe routinely insists on shouting me lunch and I regard his personalised insights into French life as a gift. I dub this high-spirited introduction to the region as âJockâs Tours of the Lotâ and canât think of a better way to get established.
Jock and I once worked in the same newspaper building in Sydney in the early 1970s and although I remember his name and reputation clearly from those days, I feel certain that he barely remembers me. At that time I was a young reporter, just out of my cadetship and working on a trashy television magazine while he was a top-ranking showbusiness columnist. We oftenrubbed shoulders at film premieres and television program launches, but never really mixed socially. Bumping along the leafy lanes on our sightseeing tours we reminisce nonstop and quickly discover a great many friends and colleagues in common. His anecdotes about his life and work are endless and hilarious, and I identify strongly with his attitude to life. Born in New Zealand in the wealthy country township of Wanganui, he started his career as a young newspaperman in the 1950s, then travelled to Sydney where he worked on various daily papers first as a reporter and sub editor, later as a showbusiness writer and columnist. The last sixteen years of his working life were in New York, where he was a columnist on a mass-circulation Murdoch magazine. He covered a wide range of topics, including health and medicine, and as a result is quite witty and knowledgeable on a vast array of subjects, from stomach ulcers to arthouse films. He loves good jazz music and poetry and antiquated televisionâI am forever catching him watching old reruns of ââAllo, âAlloâ and âDr Whoâ on his satellite television.
When Jock shouts me lunch and I make noises of protest he invariably says, âBut Iâve got money I havenât even spent yet.â He sometimes suggests it can be my turn next time round, and weâll go somewhere much more expensive. When I agree without hesitation to his proposal of a drink at the local bar or a meal at a nearby restaurant he declares, âYouâre easier to get than a packet of Rothmans.â Jock is generous to a fault and kind-heartedânothing ever seems to be too much trouble. He never fails to surprise and amuse at dinner parties. Iâve seen a pair of conservative ladies blanch when he suddenly bursts into verse:
âHooray, hooray, itâs the first of May,
Outdoor fucking starts today.â
Jock has developed an extensive network of English-speaking friends who are never surprised to see him turn up with a visitor in tow because his house has, quite understandably, become a regular holiday destination for a raft of ragged overseas colleaguesâboth men and womenâwho enjoy his unending hospitality, warmth and wit. We scoot around the
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