GARDEN OF ENGLAND

Sinbad once posted 'english country garden', presumably to wind me up.

Jury's still out on that boy.

Pottering around San Luca today, Sam at my heels, the stinging slave memories rearing up from every bush and branch, I found myself humming the evocative Rafferty song.

Keeping the flame alive is the best revenge.

I haven't even met the blackguards who'll first partner my babies into matrimony, and explode

"Say whut! Yer old man was such a frogging wimp he couldn't even keep safe his most precious possessions six feet from his own bedside, under his own roof?"      

BACK TO BOOKS

I seem to be taking the first tentative steps back to the printed page.

The last book i took on was a Salley Vickers back in April 2007 but my mother espied it and did her usual thing of whisking it away to her room to read itself - a trick to which I was yet to get used and assumed i had misplaced it - until she suddenly mentioned this marvelous book she was reading and proceeded to discuss ad murderous nauseam. 

Everything disappeared that way, including magazines and newspapers, all to be droned on about, read aloud from and generally ruined for me.

It was the month of the theft of my jewels so the folio filching joined the general theme of thievery that ran thru and defined my time under the yoke.

Theft of possesions, of time, of self-esteem and confidence.

Theft of basic courtesy and consideration.

I like to get stuck into a book and lose myself, not possible with a book when my most practical role was reduced to sitting around waiting to be summoned to chauffeur or slave au jardin or type some letter or article.

Also, with my disintegration, I found myself less and less able to concentrate for long - but, as i say, the greatest discouragement was having some riveting read disappear and then have it chewed over in a dilettante vocabulary to which i could not relate in any way.

I once espied a Leigh Fermor in the book case and could not understand the warm feeling that came over me - then i remembered that Anna had read it after me and we had had the most wonderful discussion in a drive down to Boukari.

It's a slow recovery and i give myself full permission to stop even in the first paragraph and return it to the shelf.

The usual infuriation was to 'lose' a latest read and then over dinner be told that maman had just discovered a most marvelous read (that i really must dip into) and then hear precious passages mangled in the repeat or miscomprehension. 

It was better not to take it on in the first place, be interrupted, and lose heart and interest.

Gardenry books were the worst: "You dont even have to be interested in gardening to enjoy the style."

I would grizzle that if the subject matter was of no interest, they were just words on the page and any 'style' was impossible to spot: spelling and grammar, perhaps, but past that, just ashes in the mouth.

A vile and lonely time.  

   

WATCH THE STARS

I really mean 'watch the fingers'.

Watch Skip James make it look easy.

Now watch John Renbourn really make it look easy.

I liked this so much I bought the music and i tried and i tried to play it. 

i could not imagine the tangle of fingers JR must have got into playing this. 

then youtube came along and i pounced on the chance to watch le maitre in action.

the bugger, the absolute bounder.

i knew what it took to reach those chords and notes, the stretches and agile right-hand fingering.

he just seems to be brushing the strings.

OK, while we're talking technique, how about this very cheeky handling of Sultans of Swing.

Long time since i'd stopped to admire and gnash enviously - and this came out of the blue at me. Just when you think you've heard it, that's when you hear it. 

TRAVELIN' MAN

Right from the first hearing, I loved the opening bass chorus 'bo bo bo bo' ~ plus I could play the tune on my uke.

When Jimmie Burton came in with his tight middle eight solo, i knew I was home.

Check out this charmingly self-conscious clip of Burton and Nelson on Trambone.

I didn't learn that one until Duane Eddy recorded it on his 'Twang's the Thang' album ... poh poh poh, all that hammered bass and echo'd Bigsby work ... So fake, but we fell for all that stuff back then, didn't we?

I tell you what we didnt have to fall for - the funky groove of the Rebel Rousers when Duane hit the beat.

When people shriek choque horror about gayness and the effect on les jeunes, I think back to my innocent prep' school youth when we hadnt the faintest about it, even under our noses.

We had a master, Timothy Ozanne, who'd always supervise after-games showers and lost no opportunity to brush the pretty boys' shoulders  or towel down those hard-2-reach back bits - he'd come into Eagle House common room and fondle the Rick Nelson LP covers with a murmured 'charming, quite charming'. We just thought he was soft and rather spaz.

Funnily enough, he ended up running away with Guy Bagnall's dad who was a brutal figure of a man, broken nose from university rugby, drove a Humber. Rather sexy mum, as I recall, except she wore too much powder and never quite stood up straight.

I'd left before the bolt with Bagnall père otherwise I would have ragged Guy rotten. Gay Bagnall and all that, know what I mean?

A few years later, at public school, a hot hot tease of a maid from the village suggested we meet in her dad's greenhouse after chapel and why didnt I bring Duane's The Lonely One to play 'because it has that great guitar sound.'

I have friends who swear they were so stoned when it first came out, they never properly heard Pink's 'Dark Side' until years later. I never heard a clear version of The Lonely One until some years after school, thanks to Sylvia clamping her legs round my ears and not letting go until it was all over. I mean the tune as well as all the rumpy-pumpy. 


Lord have merceh! Now I'm on an Eddy roll. An Eddy eddy, forsooth.

Oh man! Just looking at those album covers, they were my youth - staring out at a rainy Sussex landscape, only pasty-faced Cliff and horn-rimmed Hank to choose from ... but whoa!

Duane Eddy. 

Even the fronking name was cool and exotic and he looked tough and 'American' and he had this once-piece hairstyle to die for that the English can't get and Mr Alban wouldn't let us have - OK, Barry Greensted had it but he didn't play geetar ... altho' if I looked like him I'd borrow one and stand outside the Common Room with a 1,000-yard stare, twiddling 'n' a twirling that axe and pretending not to notice the pretty sisters as they pretended not to notice me as they giggling passed by.


Lawdy lawdy lawdy - these strums down Memory Lane are bad for my Pacemaker. I'm surprised I didn't ending up calling my gals Gretschene and Guilda. Fine names for a brace of fillies. Git me a manly son - Bigsby, yo'

Yeh right, thanks Dad.

Good times. I'll dance to that. [Oh baby, that dampered down bass ... gets my low-down butter runnin' ever' time.]

Because they're Jung ~ I strain for wordplay, the excruciatinger the better.

Ever since I heard there was a distinguished analyst geezer working his charms on the island, I've been trying to match plectrum to pun.

Thanks to a Commentaire Irregulière, now I can ~ but I'm only playing this track because DE actually mentions Johnny Walker. I hate these oldie clips where everyone loves them just because they're ancient and they flub the tune and the sound's wrong and you can see the other musicians bending and swaying obeisance because someone has told them "He's really famous, like he's a legend in his own legato" and the sessions guys are going like "OK, big deal, on with the respectful legend smile ... but why the fuchsia doesnt the old goat play like a legend?"

The Twerp and the Twang - final note, then this correspondence closed. So many comments and ideas coming in, I thought I'd
run a sublime-2-ridicule clip showing the magnificent Gretsch in the hands of a right wally.

Won't even wear my class ring - I still say that the Best of this Blog is the commentaria. I'm just a vehicle.

I sent this to my Spitfire for her aghast approval: "Dad! That is like soo gay!" Out of the mouths of.

Anna's at Evergreen, Washington state, nailing the good grades and still refusing to date.

I was chauffering her pals around and, from the back seat:

"Omigod, you were like so cool. Like he turned up on his bike and was like getting it go all vroom 'n' stuff and trying to be cool and you didn't even look round!"

• I'll rev to that.  

STRAT

In three hours I collect a 'Fender' for €150.

The seller didnt specify so i am praying it is a 'steal' of a Telecaster.

Candles are lit, St Spiridion has been groveled to.

Commentaria ~ kindly Anon asks if the 'caster was all i'd hoped for.

It was not. Money back, so ive got €150 with which to woo Denise over dinner at Xaris'.

Disappointment.

Took comfort in my comfort tune.

You guys wont get this arrangement of the Petty classic, but it's a joy to play on a decent fretboard.

TOUCHÊ - I'm so touched by Anon's fret-savvy timely concern, let me add a tune close to my heart.

When Larry Carlton's 'On Solid Ground' came out, I was captivated. The production values alone were stunning.

I'd hang out at Kontinental Studios and use Barry Chiu's range of top guitars to play along.

Alors, suddenly it was announced that Larry was stopping off in Hong Kong en route back from a Japan tour.

The radio ads started appearing -

"His parents called him 'Larry'. Larry Carlton."

 I phoned my editor ~ "FFS! Have you heard the ignorant ads for this major major guitarist?"

'Never heard of him, Chris. Want to do an interview? I've got nothing for that week."

You bet I wanted. I'd moved on to trying to ape his style on his acoustic work.

Loipon, the day came and so did Typhoon Maureen (they named them by wimmin, a bit sexist) and Nippon-Honkers flights were said to be off.

• LC and the boys caught the last flight out, to arrive to already feeble sales.

• I felt terrible for him and phoned the Mandarin, no answer. Phoned City Hall in case and was told yes, he's setting up his gear. Talk about a conscientious pro. 

I zipped down there and sure 'nuff he n the band were there.

• Introduced myself and apologised for the weather and he was so friendly and relaxed. 

• Part way thru the interview he said 'Hey, Chris, you've really done your homework, sounds like you're a fellow musician. Want to play something? All the gear's here'
• I only knew my own songs but I knew Larry's album off pat. I said, "Well, I'd love to try Solid Ground. 

"You got it!"

• With that, he took out his Valley Arts guitar, handed it to me and went over to check the amp. "Reckon youre good to go, buddy. Guys?"
• Listen really really closely, because I still tear up at the memory: he fronking handed me his guitar, didnt ask if I knew which way was north on a fretboard, just sat back and said 'Man! This is soo nice to be played for.'
• I knew it backwards but listen to the tune, to the backing Roland, the bass, the steady beat. Larry went over to the amp and fiddled the effects as I picked along. Yo! It's one thing to be fingering the notes; quite another to have all the pedal work coming out the other end. The sax player loved being interrupted after so few bars and gave a faux shrug of resignation. Listen to the hammer/claw re-entry (2.18 mark). 
• Oh for goodness sake, just Listen. Gorgeous melody. I didn't get it all right, but it felt so.

Finalement - and I know you can't handle the truth, but you're going to get a taste - Emotions Wound Us So.

Fronking 'live' ffs. Brilliant.

PALLI PERSECUTION

And the beat goes on - man the pali-sades!

I am trying to clean my pool, laborious sweeping and coolie work.

What do I find this morning? Sordid plastic bag with the wrong sort of loo paper - that useless soft stuff that hath no tread on  the upsweep. Fortunately, un-soilèd for the nones, altho' I'm not sure that 'fluid' in one of the plastic bottles is lighter stuff rather than Robbo fils'golden dawning urine.

Around the deep end of the pool floor - too distant for them to have tossed it from the fence - ominous plastiques a la Motolov cocktails with incompetent twiggery.

Honestly, for shop steward of the Golden Eye Corfu chapter, Robbo has much to learn in the bomb-making department.

My lawyer was shocked enough at the posters arrayed along the fence; as partner in the Dendias law firm, I trust she'll show these to her boss, the eponymous Nicolas.

The jeers and insults continue, of course.

Thank God my mother didnt live to see this desecration.

BORDERLINE BULLY BEHAVIOUR

My pesky neighbours, the sisters Maria and Sofia Palli and Sofia's son, Robbie, are being a right pest.

Not content with raining insults down on me day and night, they have now taken to pegging the dividing fence with offensive notices and, this morning, Robbie bellowed threats to my harmless Tasia, wife of the Albanian gardener Kostas, boasting his Golden Dawn credentials and implying that it were best if she stopped working for me.  

DOWNTOWN DIDDY

I like laughing out loud. 

P Diddy just did it for me.

THEIR GENERATION

You never actually own your most precious possessions.

You merely look after them until it suits a previous/present generation to filch.

Defti Thefti

LOULOUTHIA LIBERTY

I once wrote a short story where the techie central character invented an app for choosing your best-case date for topping yourself (or anyone else, for that matter, so long as you knew their key dates).

But let's deal with ones own suicide: you tap in all the dates that count - yours and others' birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, dates of meaning or memories - anything over which your bumping yourself off would cast an unfair gloom forever more.

I recall that you could also grade the dates in importance, i.e. everyone ticks Christmas as the one day over all that you dont want to mess up for your nearest and dearest.

Then you press the button and the app whirrs and wheezes and comes up with a suggested date equi-distant from everything significant and with baggage. It was a very neat device and you could choose the sportsman version that steered you clear of all the Big Game days (so you didnt screw up future Superbowls or Test Matches for your homies), or the artist version that warned you off key dates on the musical or artistic calendar, etc etc.

I can't remember how the story ended but I received a ton of mail asking for the most minute details of the 'Sukaidometer'.

Anyway, I was today reminded of my clever idea while looking round the property and realising that I was short-changed on the full euphoria when freedom finally came.

It's no use suddenly being spared in winter because you're indoors anyway, hiding from the weather. 

The time for the Angel of Mercy to strike is when spirits are lowest and hopelessness blossoming on every twig, when the prospect of vile gardenry is everywhere and no escape.

That's when to have the prison door open and a sour-faced screw announce, "All right get outta here ... no more gardening for you."

There's you gazing despairingly thru the cell bars at the blue sky and waving fronds and clank of spade and secateurs ... the day fucked ... but no! You're free. 

Hard to believe, huh? You think it's a trick, you'll be reaching for a celebratory tot on the patio, sticking your tongue out at some accursèd petal-y thing and wham! April Fuchsia Fool, sucker. 

It's got to be in the middle of the busiest most depressing time of the hobby season.

January doesn't offer the same 'bummer to bliss' extremes.

DEEMED INCOME

• Taxman
• Taxed un-income

NEVER HAVING TO SAY SORRY

Intriguing review in the NYT of Jonno Dee's    A Thousand Pardons.

Set me in mind of my own family's pieces of thefty works and inability refusal to come out with even a strangled S-word.

• Confession as a business strategy - love it! In our case up in Gouvia Heights, it was more like denial as home and social strategy
• Person A grants B forgiveness - which is redeemed?
• Ha ha - the idea of someone being subjected to a level of disgrace so epic as to leave ones 'casual acquaintances' unsure how to acknowledge it. 
• Ugh - a bit bone-close here: Dee being "interested less in emotional nuance than in the opportunities that crisis affords." 

It's either the sort of review you read or not. Just offerin'

CARER CRASH

I know because I'm Exhibit A and I've watched myself go down, but it's good to read what a pal sends me - this. Yes, indeed ~ big deal, as any caregiver will tell you.

• I used to ask if any research had been done into the long-term effects of what I was being put through. It was a trick question, I knew the answer: not a moment's thought had crossed their minds that research was even needed. 
• Quite apart from slaving on vile gardenry
• Quite apart from facing 60cms across a table the thief of one's most precious mementos
• 60cms from dementia repeatia  droning ad murderous nauseam.

  If I meet some fellow sop in danger of taking on care grovelry, I'll tell them outright:

"If I had a pistol I would drill you where you stand and happily go to the chair for saving you the hell that lies ahead.

FFS, find a brawny-armed bovine bully of a pro' - no truck with extra-mural gardenry shit, take it  straight to her manager ... and walk off the job."

Thievery? A smacking back-hander there and then while contempt and anger are still white hot. And keep whacking.

This article is too coy about the torture.

The comments at the time had it right about my own theft: 

"Can you imagine how far down the moral sewer you'd have swill to come up with a double-act like that? What a piece of work."

• Hire a hardened outsider who simply won't be buggered around. 
• Change shifts every six months to save sanity
• Count the silver
• Don't expect them at any funeral. Enough will have been enough and they'll have kicked the sand off and be miles away, knocking back a deservèd slug or five and not giving a damn about clanging bells. Enough toll taken. 
• Who cares about the carers?
• Breaking point ~ Long and arduous

If you're going to shove anyone's face down the bog bowl of your own hobby, when they're allowed up for air, don't expect too aesthetic an appreciation of the finer points of the porcelain.

.

VINTAGE GREEK SONGS

Interesting link.

She knows I search out this stuff so she sent me the link and said we might listen together some time.

We won't because she shies away from meeting. Once, it was every night but we icarus'd it too far and she pulled back so far that she seems unable to come back into the sunshine. Damn that hurt, but I've come to accept. In ghastly American, "I respect that."

I don't, of course, and it comes out in our phone calls she puts the phone down, not slamming it - however that sounds to the other end - but a soft click so sometimes I don't know she's gone. Except of course I do. The sound of her being there would be the surprise.

"absolute disaster"

Especially when smug guests of the gardenry persuasion were present, I would wonder aloud to my mother why on earth anyone would want to turn a pastime they themselves enjoyed into an innocent other's object of complete loathing?

"It's just a fucking hobby," I'd hiss, as I danced attendance on the same old simper-fi brigade ... "Like making jigsaws or knitting ... candle and soap making ... strumming the guitar, even."

Some ignorama once pointed over to a vase of plantiness and asked, "What? You don't find those a thing of beauty?"

"That," I hissed, "is not gardening. I'm talking about ramming someone's head down your hobby and when he's finally allowed to come up for air, expecting him to admire the curve of the porcelain, the choice of typeface for the Thos. Crapper maker's name."

Just a piddling frigging hobby - like origami or stamps - a pleasant way to pass time when the hours grow heavy - your time, not bend the ear and back of every non-believer unlucky enough to swim into ones ken.

I was reminded of those vile and ser-vile days on the treadmill by this story of the collapsed jigsaw: terrible story, tho' I gave a heartless guffaw on first reading.

40,000-piece jigsaw puzzle created for a world record attempt ... collapsed. Watch how it folds. "Absolute disaster."

That was the sort of thing I pictured as I went about the futile toil on my mother's hobby.