29 November 2009


Ooh I do like that Wide latin font, looks like how I feel about bicyclists.

  • First off, I know that biking has changed since my days on the Palm Beach Tourist along the lanes of Crofton; certainly from the gentle freewheeling on the BSA down around the Peak School.
  • Suddenly, during my Seattle days I was aware they dressed different and whizzed around at what I secretly hoped would be break(their)neck speed.
  • Fuuck - come up behind one on the sidewalk - me who drifts anyway but am always gliding over to check out a store window. Amazed I was never knocked down
  • I'm sure they're perfectly nice people once they've shed the lycra and those helmets and shades, but what I see is the demons.
  • As I say, fantasise them coming a real cropper but only once did I get satisfaction: walking south from Colman Dock towards Safeco, it's a narrow pedestrian path that cyclists also terrorise.

    Once, just once out of all the times they whipped by me - and I have no idea how it happened or what sort of props it took - a cyclist shot by, knocking my dangly bag but also seeming to catch the strap in the right-hand bar and gear and carrying it off. Except they didn't because some protruding bar or fencing caught it a few feet on and literally upended the cyclist, whipping him/her off the bike and around by the right arm like some Bladerunner highland reel, ending blam! against the same post responsible for the cunningly placed protuberance.

    I don't think I was surprised because I had dreamed and prayed and imagined such a come-downance, but I didn't say anything as I picked my bag up and moved diagonally away from the stunned moaning figure. I rather hoped that, on recovering, he/she would think it had been planned timed and deliberate.

    Anyway, very cheering to read this Times piece about those assholes wearing iPods as they bike.

    And lovely numbers for those who like precison: according to DfT figures, "820 cyclists killed or seriously injured in the three months to June, a 19% rise on the same period in 2008. It is not known how many of these cases were caused by people listening to music ..." I mean like who cares? I'll tell myself that those 820 were the bad guys and had it coming to them, and that chaps like Sinbad will glide unharmed.

    Oh boy - how stoopid and arrogant can you be to listen as you bike? It's dangerous enough in a car to drive with those booming basses - anything, in fact, that might muffle the sound of someone approaching or a call of warning or whatever.

    I love the idea of some idiot cyclist bopping away to deafening sounds in their head, a klaxon of warning from some juggernaut melds with the metallica down the cans and Sproinngg! and Bwap! Kdunngg! (that's meant to be them ricocheting off the metal barrier). Tossed high into the air like some ragdoll marionette in the corrida.

    Oh to be a witness of that sort of come-uppance and assure the fuzz that the camion driver gave every warning, made every effort, but what can you do when these be-wheeled buffoons behave as no one else existed.

    What a good image of "heated exchanges between indignant cyclists and seething motorists, railing against the “erratic behaviour” and “breathtaking stupidity” of riders who career through the traffic."

    Bus Biff: Fashionista nixed by #98.

    Cyclist Crunch Prang - To gladden ones heart, save that it doesn't show blood everywhere and the villain-on-wheels coughing teeth. Or some following juggernaut squashing him/her under wheel.

  • 27 November 2009

    That's right: Corfucios Enterprises of Harlech, London and Lefkimmi.

    Moved in on the Headliopoulos mob, didn't I?

    Made the Big Leek an offer Kosta's Kokkini kai Deckeros hovering over his knee caps made difficile  to refuse ...

    And now his empire (and woman) is mine.

    Muah ha ha!

    No, you fools! That was to lure imbeciles like me to read on.

    Youse don't mess with Dai Kahuna Grande.

  • AaRON'S TIME MACHINE ~ Free. Gratuit.

  • Neil Smith, former tech guru at fotoLibra, in cahoots with Warlord Headley of fotoStan, have been working on a set of iPhone apps.
  • First one released yesterday.

    Aaron’s Time Machine: London Lyte!


    How many times got to say it?

    Check it out, dudes.

    (Mistress Yvonne ~ That come out right?

    Get my peck on t'cheek now?)


    There is a toff of the old school who visits Pagoda Corfuciosa and whose numéro I have bang to rights.

    He is an ancien copain de Maman so it behoves moi to behaves, but I have been waiting my chance to pounce.

    His trick is to accept a drink and then sit on t'patio, creased of stride and Hushed of Puppie, holding forth on the ways of the world.

    A smarm here, a smørm there, an aristo flick of the forelock, a navvie's tug at the cav twill'd foreskin.

    Sam is pathetically friendly which infuriates me and Old School knows it and pets Sambo more.

    Then at some point he looks at his glass and notices that he could do with a 'tad more ice'.

    "No, don't get up - I know where it is."

    What he does is also chug a 'tad' more malt into his glass.

    I've sometimes felt like observing,

    "Eύρηκα! A mere three chunks of ice and the level risethed so ..."

    But I am too impeccably raised and, besides, Mater would look askance at such unhostly rudeness.

    Alors - M'sieur swanned up t'other soir and I did the honours with drinks and nibbles and we listened to the Sage of Sgombou solve the dilemmas of the world.

    Come the time when the ice had melted, up he got and trotted inside but came back with a strained look and curiously modest goblet of the amber.

    When *I* got up to tilt the bottle - tiens! No bottle.

    I hunted around and thought OK, Sam must've nicked it and when I turned, there it was down with the Apelia flagons down on the floor. Tee hee. Forgetful me.

    No one can eke out a glass of Pouilly like mum and she leaves it to me to do refills, so I let chummie suffer as I checked email and ripped the new Mitropanos before finally taking the bottle out and offering a refill - of which I poured a lot less than he himself would have snaffled.

    His look as I pulled back after an 'economic' measure ...

    "A steady hand, I see, Christoforos."

    I nodded, my features a Jeevesian mask of inscrutability.

    War. I love such games and play them well most of the time. Eagerness is my downfall, rushing it, thinking I can initiate.

    But if I bide it and wait for the cards to fall, I can spot the moment in an instant and my move is instinctive and spot-on.

    "Free? ...But what about my prison blog...?"


    ~ updated edition, 2009 ~

    Splendid gift in the post from Corfu's national treasure, Major J.K Forte, M.B.E. (name drop name drop): the new updated edition of his riveting and nail-biting drama in Corfu's history when we came in real danger of that vicious cult the 'Church' of Scientology sinking its vile claws into our fair isle.

    The Colonels were almost taken in by L Ron Hubbard: John never for a moment.

    This is the story, accept no other and sprint don't jog to add this update to your original copy.

    * A big big bouquet to Olympia Publishers for grabbing John and such a handsome production, and I'm not linking you to the Forte section until you've looked hard at OP's own home page and really  made an effort to see something to order for Christmas.

    * If I catch anyone walking down Alexandros Ave with a Dan Brown or Stephenie [sic] Meyer and thou hast not also under your arm at least one  copy of Major Forte's new book ... big scenes and bigger trouble.

    * Exception to Rule, because gardeny types are a law unto themselves (where I wish they'd keep their botany babble), it is permitted to be carrying any booksy recommendation from The Corfiot's knowledgable 'Anthemis' column. Glad I cleared the air on *that* one.

    Loipon, to business. You have gazed in wonder on Olympia and Ashwell Publishing's goodies and you know all  about them and are ordering all your Xmas fillers and brainy prezzies accordingly. A gruff 'bravo'.

    Those duties done, *now* you may check out Olympia's #1 Readers' Choice (sage readers), The Forte

    • Note that this "new edition comes with a new chapter with material culled from Hubbard Flag Orders that Forte acquired during his time helping Scientologists who had jumped ship." That is big.
    • Read Jonathan Jacobsen's review
    • From my frivolous and foul-mouthed blog that shouldn't even be mentioned in the same breath as Major Forte:

    Seriously, grab this one and also make it a Christmas bonus for discerning friends. You know you won't go broke sticking to that criterion.

    Haiti - worries over! The Scientologists are coming!


    I have no idea if this advocacy of sideways hugs is satirical but it could easily be sincere, knowing

  • (a) Americans' potential for any sort of silliness in the name of fame
  • (b) Religiosi in general.

    So ...

    Gimme Dat Christian Side Hug is

    "by a band of rappers apparently linked to a Californian ministry called The Father’s House which advocates standing side-by-side when hugging, to avoid the uncontrollable temptation that hugging face-to-face – and therefore crotch-to-crotch – would lead to.

    “This ain’t no front hug zone,” proclaims one of the rappers, who goes on to warn listeners that front hugs should only be permitted after marriage, adding: “Jesus never hugged nobody like that”.
    Unfortunately for Bible scholars, the performer fails to give scriptural chapter and verse to back up his claim."

    "There is some debate over whether the video is satirical: a site called Stuff Christians Like, an avowed satire, does mention the Side Hug (although it carefully points out it is nothing to do with the video), and commenters on various blogs claim it is an elaborate joke."

    Chortle, but seriously - anything that'll put the boot in to that appalling 'Sign of Peace' smoochathon is a good thing. Even this flu thing has had a silver lining by cutting out all that kissy huggy nonsense that went on at Corfu's Holy Trinity.

    Lawdy that was terrifying.

    If the two schools I rotted in hadn't squelched any churchy leanings, the Mavili Maulers would have clinched it.

    I love the phrase 'front hug zone'. Front anything, in fact, since that divine interview by Dame Edna with Doug Fairbanks Jr during which he talked of Joan Crawford and with that Edna 'look' delicately worked the topic round from La C's pert rump to her ... 'front bottom.'

    How the audience howled and Fairbanks parried with aplomb.

    I can't *wait* to see the Youtube spoofs to come on this.

  • 26 November 2009


    Hefty competent looking male crasheur, hot chick. Cinch.

    Meeting the Prez: I think they sound rather smooth and with-it and very much the sort I'd want at a party.

    All this talk of criminal charges is just sour grape sulks because of the major security cockup.

    Boy, if they got past all those checks, they deserve to stay and then be paid a large sum of money to reveal how they did it and a further large sum to inspect the rest of the safeguards.

    Video: "Michaele Salahi, wearing a gold-accented red sari, clasping her hands around Obama's right hand as her smiling husband, Tareq, looks on."

    Faux Queer: Well, you can't say this blog doesn't have a nose.

    "The Virginia couple accused of crashing President Obama's first White House state dinner on Tuesday are named in at least 16 different civil suits in Fauquier County, sometimes as plaintiffs, sometimes as defendants."

    Fauquier? Don't ask me to even pronounce that.

    Not touchin' it.


    "Hats off to crashers" - Nick Shakespeare tell it how it is.

    Togging and fibbing no laffing matter. Pols push for prosecution.

    25 November 2009

    Calling All Expats

    Quick, I know what xenophobia is - good Grik word - but what's it when you shun yer own countrymen? Very English trait.

    "Calling all expats. Is there somewhere you like that's local to you - a bar, restaurant, or club - that has a British flavour? Tell us about it."

    Not mulching likely.

    You think I want a midian horde of vulgar Brits barging in and buggering up the ambiance of my treasured hideaways I've worked so hard to keep secret?

    OK, lads, fair's fair - perhaps I spoke hastily. Going native often works that way.

    OK - but promise not to tell:

  • The Pioneer Arms just round t'corner from the Kondokali Kamp Kemist
  • The Nellie Dean en route to the Marina (from where come most of the Nellie's clilentèle, wonderful bunch, laff a minute)
  • Stelio's - fantastic Μουσακάς joost like mum makes. Ask for extra chips and Roland's personal bottle of Daddies sauce
  • Friday nights at the 'Feta 'n' Frolic'? A must. Hamish on karaoke? Magic.

    Some of them lassies who dance on the tables? Eee, make the preacher lay the Good Book down.

  • Tankard of Tub: Never been in there but me mate Simon says it's bloody marvelous.

    Greaat big HDTV screen, always on loud, always on sport.

    Any Greeks come in, Sandra doesn't half give them a bad time - imitates them something rotten.

    "What's that, luv? An ouzipan? Want that in a tall glass wi' Fanta?"

    Yerss - good one, Telegraph ... point them our way and we'll gie 'em a reet good time. (Nuther 16 pints over here, Doris, when you've time, darling)

  • Σπίτι Mαριχουάνα

    Back in the mists of time when our 'help' rode up on a donkey and the road to our house *stopped* at the gates because my parents effing built it for the workmen to reach the land to construct Pagoda Corfuciosa - back then when everyone told my parents they were crazy to live in the sticks, catch malaria, burgled blind by any footpads who managed to negotiate the unlit mule track and creatures that went sqwark and hiss in the night ... my bro and I thought it'd be a super idea to fulfill a dream and put some of the surrounding land to good use.

    Dammit, work and 3-wk hols got in the way and then P went orf to France and I got respectable and pompous.

    But seeing this trailer reminds me of those crazy plans. If only!


    Only coz I love y'all and the sun's shining and she is sneaking out to meet me and ... ca suffit.

    Play all the Youtube clips and just enjoy.

    This movie and album has been in my DNA since '64. Can't get enough of it.


    Humiliation Alert: Fellow chaps out there, deliver on your promises to the ladies.

    Otherwise they'll go embarrassingly public about

  • Nights of passion
  • Your playing "sultan" to a "harem" of gorgeous young women.
  • Glam starlets and showgirls at your beck and buck
  • Their amazement at your stamina in the sack.

    Imagine having to face the lads dahn t'pub when it's common knowledge that a sexy hot blonde is dissing you in terms of:

    • "He took my breath away. I took him inside me, he suffocated me with kisses."
    • A performance for which "he could get into the Guinness Book of Records".
    • Struggling to enjoy the moment ... Berlusconi "took it like a challenge", keeping her up until 8am."
    • "I am much younger than him, and quite an expert ... But there were moments when I feared I would not stand up to his assaults. Does he take something? I have asked myself many times."

    Reminds me of a 'scandal' many years ago when the mistress of some business tycoon revealed that he wanted it 5 times a night. Boss of GEC, I think it was.

    Impressed and jealous that the oldster could guide the destinies of his business empire *and* have it off in one night as many times as most of them were getting in 10, the punters sent the stock soaring.

    Nativity figures

    Silvio's Babes

    Silvio - Siete arrivati!

    Cosa? Anatomicamente corretta figurine dei tuoi amici signora pettoruta a disposizione posto intorno al mio presepe albero di Natale?

    Il saggio re #1: "Ooh, certamente la lussuria dopo quella bionda. Ma io non la tua fantasia."

    Il saggio re #2: "Aspettate fino a quando vede le dimensioni del mio incenso"

    Il saggio re #3: "furia per le bambole. Sto aspettando il colpo-up bambola di Noemi"

  • Mimicking Trev'

    There's grog of his choice and hot n cold bed mates awaiting the excellent Rod Liddle if he comes Corfuciosa way.

    He's my kinda columnist and bravo the Spectator for fielding him - write on, Mr Liddle!

    But I wasn't going to make any deal over his 'outrage' piece until I read the idiocy over Mimickgate and some news reader called McDonald.

    That's McD's mug shot there: as you see, our boy was born under sunnier skies so we know where this  cockamamie crock of curry-n-rice is headed.

    Rod had written that,

    "Pretty much every day in your morning newspapers you will find somebody, somewhere, calling for a public apology and a sacking and preferably a prosecution for the crime of having said something which the complainant did not agree with, or failed to find funny (there are a lot of people who find nothing whatsoever funny), or which hit some sort of nerve which made him or her take offence. The ability to shrug off stuff we find offensive and move on has apparently deserted us; we have become preternaturally sensitive to almost everything. And it diminishes the freedom of speech and thought."

    Spot on but what's new?

    Then I read about one 'Lisa Aziz' - "the first Asian news presenter to appear on national terrestrial television", moaning that a Steve Scott

    “regularly mimicked” the famous Afro-Caribbean newsreader’s accent during rehearsals."

    "Terrestrial"? New one on me - sounds ominously trekky.

    But So?

    The man has the dullest voice going and anyone taking him off is attempting a Peter Sellers. He's a marmalade wannabe Dimbleby without the convincing gravitas.

    Golli - wha' the frink's wrong with sending the cove up. He's never likely to deliver such levity himself.

    "Scott, a former ITN Africa correspondent and a regular presenter of ITV’s lunchtime and weekend news bulletins, is also alleged, in papers prepared for an employment tribunal, to have imitated Pakistani and Irish accents and the accent of Alex Beresford, the black ITV weatherman."

    Oirish, you say, begorrah? Now you're treading on thin ice.

    I can wheel out a passable *Indian* when the occasion calls - thanks to Afsar at my first school, but Paki eludes me on the subtler vowel curves.

    But they're talking "internal investigation into allegations of racism."

    Do grow up. Accentism, maybe - unless you get it spot on it's a flop. at ITV West Country in Bristol where Aziz and Scott co-presented the nightly news programme until she was suspended over alleged expenses irregularities in June.

    "Scott declined to comment on the claims." Quite right, too. Best not be dragged down to such farcical depths.

    "But he has told friends that he has never imitated McDonald and his imitations of other colleagues are in good humour and “definitely not racist”.

    See what I mean about nailing that tricky Paki patina of pinched patter?

    Of course it's not racist - Rod gets it - most card-carrying racists I know haven't the faintest talent for mimickry. If you can do it, it's like playing an instrument, the sheer pleasure of getting your gottals round another mode de parler is what you're after.

    I wish I could do hieland: Dougal Haston gave me endless classes but I just couldn't hack it.

    Russian is another slippery one, you have to get it bang on or you sound like that jerk Robin Williams.

    I was born in Sydney but I had a mate from Port Phillip so my accent is better on Melbourne. I also do a spot-on Kiwi: you have to close your mouth even more - think S'th Efrik'n and give it a whisper more of air and you've got it.

    Ms Aziz says she was “set up” by senior ITV managers on a bogus expenses-fiddling charge.

    Don't talk to me about expenses fiddling: I lived off expenses, bedded my birds on stolen company dosh ... I *own* Bogus Funding.

    So back to 'Expenses' Lisa, the tanned and grey-toned, all-too terrestrial Trevopoulos ... and the farcial monkey-business of Mimickgate.

    They say Azi Macky Paki; I prefer the jungle rhythms of Eena Meena Deeka

    Scott a former Africa correspondent: Bloody hell, I've only just spotted the Daily Mail's clue that Scottie was a correspondent over there - I know, I know, McD is calypso rather than cauldron. So of course the raffish Steve would be able to mimic for his mango.

    The Mail also has a pic of Scott with a smashing young lady called Derham so they definitely get plugged in the form of a link.

    Silly billies, if only everyone had said so in the first place, all would have been understood: Scott wasn't being racioso to Trev' 'Dingolay' McD, he was just trying to get the entrancing Kate to laugh herself into his bed. Look at that hottie - I'd try some bad accents, too, if I thought it'd work.

    Oh man! Thank de lawd day light she come! All just a big storm in a cup o' mauby.


    To the Ionian Academy for a transporting evening of excellent jazz.

    Detailed report to follow:

    23 November 2009


    To the opening night of the Festival where I fall in love with everyone.

    First off, I fall in love with the wonderful catalogue booklet - in English - that I cannot believe is free and keep checking with the staff if I *really* can't make a contribution.

    Maman suggests we get 20 or so to give to our guests and I tell her that it is a wonderful production done for the benefit of patrons and not for filching by the likes of us: I know our guests, they would accept copy with an oozy smile and simply not open it.

    But I will nick 6 when I got to hear the 'cool' jazz with Ms Lia ce soir.

  • Loipon, I swoon over the lady who hands me the programme and asks me how I heard of the show, I tell her I am an avid patron and it could have been the Net, it could have been some cunning blog. She does not know blog.
  • I cheer all the pols and molls who welcome us
  • The pianist is diminutive but perfectly formed and with a wonderful chin.

    (Word to the wise, if you ain't got a chiseled profile to jut as you look soulfully up at the ceiling, don't give up that day job. Concert ivories ain't for you)

  • I glower at the impossibly handsome young man who sings too well for his own manly jaw.
  • I am entranced by the grace, self-possession and clear voice of the beautiful young lady singer.
  • But a cloud darkens the festive sky: Maman reads the booklet and notices it does not list any churches. I'm not too convinced it should but I'm not a churchy chap and the mag is free so the editors can omit whatever irrelevances they choose.

    Unfortunately, the cover title is 'destination CORFU 2010' so I am legless to suggest that it is not a tourist brochure.

    Nor is the address given in Lee Durrell's piece on page 14 of the Durrell School. Tsk.

  • But the opposite page is interesting on the Corfu-born Albert Cohen and the indefatigable Dr Spiro Giorgas has his email address at the bottom for anyone interested in further information on the forthcoming tribute to this hero. You read it here first ~ big celebration planned and Dr G is the man to pull it off.

    By the Diaper of Διώνυσος!

    Is November's third Thursday already upon us?

    (Actually, bin 'n' gorn: Last 19th as ever was, by my troth.)

    'Pon my soul, Chrissymass will be with us before we know it.

    Nay, lad - as my Yorkshire Gan Gan would preface every sentence; took me yonks to work out that she wasn't actually denying anything - I was oop t'market and Scondoula pointed out the display of Beauj' Nouv' so of course I had to add a trio of bottles to the sinking basket.

    She must think me a right boozer. I must put her right one day.

    "Ξέρεις, εγώ δεν πραγματικά ποτό. Είναι το χαμόγελό σας και σκούρα μάτια της υπόσχεσης που καθιστούν αδύνατο για μένα να σας παρακούσω. Λοιπόν, κάνει ο διαχειριστής ξέρει πώς να κάνετε τα κέρδη σε αυτό το μαγαζί για να πάει στους ουρανούς;"

    Do you remember the days when the posh restaurants competed to be first in with the juvenile muck?

  • On the stroke of minuit, an RAF Harrier jet I(or some speedy 'plane) would zoom crates across the Channel to where John Surtees was gunning his Triumph to zap it up to Soho, police escort, sirens blaring.
  • Cheers as it arrived and we'd all settle down to getting majorly pissed.
  • Good times.

    Sapristi! Imagine it happening today? Pshaw!

    My dears, the angry letters about waste of government money, what?

    Chrissymas: family joke. In Hong Kong we had ancient amah who called me Chrissy Mass. My younger brother asked one day if Dad was Master Mass?

    With all the gravity and wisdom of my 8 years I solemnly announced that, no, dad was 'Lord and Mass'. Obviously.

    Our Father was always referred to the Lord and Master. QED.

    So ingrained was this as a family semi-joke that I gather I once called home from a pal's and asked my mother when The Lord and Master was expected back, so's I could time dinner.

    Mum was later asked,

    "Umm, what sort of upbringing has Christopher had?"

    "Oh, the usual."

    "Hmm, I think not."

    It was explained and then related to my father - the fairest modestest unassumingest man I've known - who, according to Maman, positively preened in his quiet shy Brooding Dane way. Bless you, Dad.

    Loipon, bottoms up, chaps, and santé!

    PS ~ When I returned to Hong Kong to actually work, we had a darling 'help' called Ah Yee who naturally called me 'Master'. Nae big deal.

    Our upstairs neighbour was a nouveau Brit who was appalled and challenged me on it, suggesting I was an unreconstructed colonialising pig.

    When she emerged with the next course, I told Ah Yee in Cantonese of his objection and asked her opinion. What would she be comfortable calling me?

    She gave David Lawson just the sweetest smile and said in Cantonese,

    "This gweilo  let his servant call him by his Name; also, she eat with family AT SAME TABLE."

    (If Madam Yee could have spat her contempt she would've, but I'd moved the spittoons out to the verandah as ashtrays).

    Me: "She says," I told David, "that she chafes under the insult.

    That, come the revolution, my kind will be strung up by our heels."

    Lawson nodded and gave Ah Yee a thumbs-up.

    Ah Yee: "Also, he doesn't make as much money as you."
    Moi: "How the devil do you know that, you cunning hag?"

    Yee: Giggle.


    To me, the word 'crap' in my headline is more offensive than my use of CAPS, but that's not what cost a New Zealandaise her job: she was fired after sending "confrontational" e-mails filled with block capitals.

    So why the big taboo about the screamin' KAPS KEY?


  • Does this annoy you?

    "The actual words may seem harmless enough, but their appearance ultimately contributed to the firing of ProCare Health worker Vicki Walker in Auckland.

    It was one of a number of e-mails that her employer claimed had spread disharmony at work."


    I wish I knew about these things - I had a listless free yesterday.

    I wish I knew about a whole lot of just such events and was even offered a large sum of money to plug this gap by setting up a timely subscription email alert to just such goings-on as this film fest.

    I'd have been ace at it and would have ferreted out all the cool events.

    But it can't be done: it's such a disparate community here and no one lets on so I'd miss all sortsa cool stuff and subscribers like me would moan and bitch and threaten cancellation,

    "For God's sake man, I pay you good money and you can't even frigging spot the frigging Corfu frigging Film Festival under yer nose.

    Fer chrissake, what sort of newsletter are you running?

    [Unsigned] Grumpy of Gouvia (and Pissed-off of Pelekas seconds my emotion)"

    22 November 2009


    I love winter and the close of the season.

    The bands come out to play and they jam.

    To boot, venues are opening up close to civilisation, so no more trekking out to Sidari and the siberiads of the south.

    The clubs are getting their sound systems together, paying attention to acoustics and doing sound checks.

    Smoking ~ no-one seems to give two-denarii cuss about it.


    Let the pols sort out paperwork, *then* the boys'll git it on.

    Right on, dudes!

    My season of toadying and worming my way in with my tinkly strumming and constant buying everyone drinks has paid off

    Mega ego trippin': walk in the place,

    'Hey, guys, wassup?'

    'Chris Chris Chris! Darling! Large ones all round, Pavlo. Hey, good to see you, man, and that table over there, Pav' - make it a bottle.'

    Hey, Lucy! You know Lucy, doncha Chris?

    Wotcha having, Luce? Chris' paying.

    And all 'em folks there, Pavvers.'

    Ulp. Price of popularity, I guess.