In Nice...

If I was the Camp Tramp I think I'd take advantage of the UK's membership of the European Union and move to Nice, certainly for the summer months, but only if I could still rely upon my British benefits. Yesterday I took a walk along the Promenade des Anglais. It was a cool and crisp day and the palm trees swayed gently in the breeze. The sea was blue, but I'm guessing it was very cold.

My thoughts exactly...

As the day progressed so did the weather. It was certainly much warmer than it was in the UK, but that was only to be expected considering how much further south I found myself. That said, the South of France gets a little chilly during the winter months. On Thursday night, for example, it was rainy and blustery and wet and a colleague and I took shelter in, of all places, a McDonald's. I rarely eat in McDonald's, but having only had a small chicken and bacon roll and a Mocha Iced Bun for lunch on the plane, I was in need of sustenance. A Chicken McTasty sort of did the trick, but I regretted it the moment it arrived.

Yesterday morning I walked with the same colleague to the eastern end of the bay where old people braved the wintry seas to take a dip. Apparently it does you good and to be fair to one old geezer, who we saw towelling himself dry after a bracing swim, he looked in pretty good shape. The sea was in good form too. Despite the fact that it was January, it was still blue – not the tea-with-milk-colour that characterises Britain's south coastal waters.

Up among the rocks we spotted some kind of 'camp'. Nothing major (nothing like the Calais 'jungle' – just a sleeping bag and a few blankets) and that was when I thought of the Camp Tramp. Why sit on a freezing cold Brighton beach drinking Stellas when you can do the same thing on a slightly warmer beach in Nice? Perhaps when I next see him, I'll suggest it, although I don't think the Camp Tramp is sleeping rough. I don't even think he's a tramp, just a wayward individual with a drink problem and some mental health issues. Perhaps I ought to give him a wide berth.

Looking west from the eastern end of Promenade des Anglais

While away I heard that Alan Rickman had passed away. He died aged 69 of cancer. Rickman played Severin Snape in the Harry Potter movies and he was the third well-known person from the world of entertainment (I wouldn't describe any of them as 'celebrities') to die over the last fortnight, the other two being David Bowie, also 69, and Lemmy Kilmister, who had just turned 70. All three died of cancer.

Watching those old people braving the cold seas and trying, perhaps, to hold back the years – why else would they do it, certainly not for their own entertainment – I found myself wondering whether there's any point in such behaviour. When the Grim Reaper calls, he calls, and there's nothing anybody can do about it. And then I had a frightening thought: what if you could see the Grim Reaper, perhaps walking on the beach in your direction, possibly even coming for you. Imagine the horror if you dived into a café in an attempt at losing him, only to look up moments later and see him looking straight at you through the window.

View of Nice from the Meridien Hotel's terrace....

I had a day to kill in Nice and I spent most of it wandering the streets, enjoying the view (and a cappuccino) on the roof terrace of the Meridien hotel and then lunch in Le West-End hotel, where I had spent the night. A light linguini with asparagus and a glass of Bordeaux and then another walk along the sea front that was interrupted when I passed the Hard Rock Café and found a group of work colleagues enjoying the winter sunshine and some nachos. After a glass of red wine we headed towards the main shopping area and then, after a cappuccino, we walked back to the beach where some more colleagues, wrapped up warm against the cool weather, looked out to sea and sipped pints of beer served up at a beach bar.

Room 626, Le West-End Hotel, Nice...

It was soon time for me to head to the airport and a flight to Heathrow. I took the 98 bus for six Euros rather than spend 40 Euros on a taxi and soon I was at Terminal One awaiting the 2030hrs British Airways flight home. En route I enjoyed another chicken and bacon roll and another Mocha Iced Bun. The latter was wonderful and I was tempted to ask for another one, but it would have proved slightly awkward. The French woman sitting in the aisle seat next to me had ordered a salad and a roll and bun contained in a box, but while she had eaten the salad, the roll and bun remained untouched. I feared that by asking for one more – and possibly being told that there were no more left – that she would feel obliged to offer me hers. I would, of course, refuse, but I didn't want the awkwardness so I kept my mouth shut. Another roll and bun would have made the two mini bottles of red wine I had ordered just that little bit more enjoyable.

View from room 626, Le West-End Hotel, Nice...

Once on the ground, pleasantries were exchanged between myself and those of my colleagues who had opted for the BA flight to Heathrow – the rest returned to Gatwick. I took the tube to South Kensington. On the train were two people who made me smile. First a rather rotund, bald-headed gentleman with an iPad who might have stepped out of a Dickens novel. In a jovial manner he engaged in conversation with a foreigner, somebody, no doubt, who had just arrived in the UK. I couldn't hear the conversation over the clatter of the train as it raced through the dark tunnels, but they laughed and joked like old friends, catching the attention of other, equally intrigued passengers, and that made me smile.

Nice-looking crepes, but I resisted the temptation...

Next up was a younger man with a beard who jumped on board at Baron's Court with a small bottle of vodka in one hand and a similarly-sized plastic bottle of Coke in the other. I watched as he topped up the three quarters full bottle of Coke with vodka. "Don't judge me," he said, and we both laughed.

It was so cold when I changed trains at South Kensington that I opened up my suitcase, took out a woolly jumper and put it on. I was on a late train bound for East Grinstead, but I alighted at Sanderstead and then walked home along the alleys, dragging my suitcase on wheels behind me; it made such a noise I must have disturbed the neighbours who, at around 1130hrs, must have been settling down the for night.

Motorhead's Lemmy is dead...

I'm sure there are people out there who will remark, on learning today of Lemmy's death from an aggressive form of cancer, that he had it coming, bearing in mind his rock and roll lifestyle and the suggestion by the media that he drank a bottle of Jack Daniels every day. Well, perhaps he did, but either way he lived for three score years and 10 so he wasn't doing too badly for somebody who truly represented the world's rock gods.

Lemmy Kilmister, Motorhead's frontman

For me Lemmy first came to light as the front man of Hawkwind for the band's only top 10 hit, Silver Machine. What a song! What a track! It was a big hit back in the seventies, and it's still as potent today as it was back in the day.

When Lemmy was booted out of Hawkwind – you have to be rock 'n' roll to be booted out of Hawkwind – he set up Motorhead, probably the best example of metal music there is on the planet. You can't beat a band that looks like a group of vagabonds from a cross between a spaghetti western and an early Mad Max movie. They were, simply, the best, if you'll excuse the untimely Tina Turner/Mad Max reference. (Turner, in my opinion, put all the nails in the coffin of the Mad Max 'franchise'. The best ones, in my opinion, were the first two). In fact, why didn't they cast Lemmy in Mad Max? He would have been perfect, but then I guess it wasn't really his scene.

I find it rather funny that Lemmy – the man behind tracks such as Love Me Like a Reptile – was a keen reader of PG Wodehouse. This was revealed in a fantastic documentary by, I think, the BBC, who followed the great rocker on tour. Hopefully, bearing in mind Lemmy's recent demise, they might re-screen it on BBC Four.

Another great thing about Lemmy was the fact that he played bass. All the truly great rock musicians play bass: Sir Paul McCartney (well, he's not really a 'rock' musician, but you know what I mean); Sting from the Police, Burke Shelley from Budgie (yes, Budgie, a great metal (ish) bad with some great albums under their belts, including Never Turn Your Back on a Friend, which carried the excellent track Parents – their Stairway to Heaven moment – alongside encore classics like Breadfan, which a friend of a friend of mine used to think was Bread Van, and the equally excellent In the Grip of the Tyrefitter's Hand.

And listen, before anybody says that you can't include Sting in any kind of tribute to Lemmy, while I know where you're coming from, I was simply pointing out that some of the great front men from various major bands are bass players.

Ace of Spades is Lemmy's 'signature' tune. If he was a chef it would have been his signature dish. What an amazing song – although the word 'song' seems too tame a description. Brilliant lyrics and totally in tune with the sort of man Lemmy was – unpretentious and straight-to-the-point, like Motorhead.  In fact, Lemmy was also quite happy to send himself up, as he did brilliantly in many advertisements on television for big brands such as Kronenbourg and KitKat. In one advertisement for an insurance company, viewers were treated to the hard man of rock going backstage to call his insurance company and discuss the terms and conditions of his policy – most out of character for a whisky rock 'n' roller like Lemmy, but great fun to watch.

When I opened my email this morning I found a message from a good pal in the New Forest, David Mascord. Dave has uncovered 18 phrases of wisdom from Lemmy, all of which can be found simply by clicking here.

That said, here's four quotes from the 18 that seem a fitting way to end this brief but sincere tribute. Whether Motorhead can continue with a new frontman, I don't know, but I'd imagine that Lemmy is irreplaceable and sorely missed.

"As you go through life's rich tapestry, you realize that most people you meet aren't fit to shine your shoes. It's a sad fact, but it's true. A good friend is someone who'd hide you if you were on the run for murder. How many of them do you know?" - via The Independent

"I don't understand people who believe that if you ignore something, it'll go away. That's completely wrong — if it's ignored it gathers strength. Europe ignored Hitler for 20 years. As a result he slaughtered a quarter of the world!" - via White Line Fever

"I don't think it's fair to be waving your dick around when people are minding their own business and might not want to see it." - via White Line Fever

"If you didn't do anything that wasn't good for you it would be a very dull life. What are you gonna do? Everything that is pleasant in life is dangerous." - via The Independent

Further reading...
• There's a very good obituary in the Guardian newspaper – click here.
• Lemmy: a life in quotes, also from the Guardian newspaper – click here.
• BBC obituary – click here. 
• Interesting article I found on Lemmy – click here. 
• Scott Ian from Anthrax remembers Lemmy – click here.
• Essential tracks – from Rolling Stone magazine – click here. 
• Lemmy's last days – from Rolling Stone magazine – click here.
• Short film on Lemmy ending with a joke told by Lemmy – click here.
• Motorhead is finished, says Mikkey Dee in the Guardian newspaper – click here.
• Journalist Gary Lippman remembers a day spent with Lemmy – click here. 
• This could be Lemmy's last interview – click here. 
• Hollywood memorial service for Lemmy – click here.