WONDROUS WEDDING

First off, I was absolutely entranced. Transported.

Some good friends invited us to watch it with select friends on their new HDTV. As always, sweetmeats of the succulentest and bubbly of the finest and delightful companions, all of whom seemed to know every aristo worth my deepest curtsey.

The inner-crowd gossip - my dear!

Everyone was so beautiful and of course the Duchesse de Camb ... calm, in control, wondrous fair ... boy did Guillaume land on his feet.

And Cate mère ~ phwoar! Manipulate my gate any time, except how dare I befoul the occasion with such crass remarks?

Li'l Darling ~ there was a young lady there of such poise and charm that it'll be some time before I retrieve my heart. In fact, I hesitate to even mention her because such is the danger of the bloggery villainy I practise that I fear to goof. But her charm wins through and you will adore her and be delighted that I share these pics.

In contrast was an 'exuberant' young man who so hampered my enjoyment of the chocolate gâteau that I had to take my plate and sit next to his mother so that she could see his behaviour.

[That's torn it. So much for an anonymous posting: the 'spirited' scamp is from Corfiot aristocracy and his parents will despatch one of the staff to break my legs for such lèse majesté over their gem]

Gone seem to be the days when one could administer someone else's child a discreet cuff and settle the matter there and then. But I digress.

Let us call her 'Naomi'. I recognised at once a child after my own heart: her modest mien and constant glances at her parents to check that she was 'behaving'. I joined her in her games with Her Little Pony and modestly garbed Barbie and used her Little Mermaid to recreate our favourite scenes from the movie.

Chapeau! - did you see the grotesquerie perched atop the heads of Fergie's brood? I mean, DID you? [Note to Sub-editor, try to find a pic, there's a good chap]

Naomi and I shared a guffaw over such Non-U millinery whereupon, sans prompting, she grabbed one of those dome baskets for keeping wasps away from the marmaladed toast et voilà!, the most perfect summer hat.

And her instinctive right-hand raising of the skirt. Style.

Philippa ~ I felt guilt over paying more attention to the younger (27) sister of the bride but tiens! every red-blooded man in the universe was doing the same.

Tina Brown's Daily Beast:

"She may not have been wearing the Alexander McQueen gown, but her impact was extraordinary.

Twitter went into overdrive, crackling with observations as lewd as they were flattering, as a billion TV viewers took in Prince William’s shapely new sister in law.

'This wedding has mainly been about Pippa Middleton’s amazing arse, hasn’t it?' tweeted British journalist Caitlin Moran."

Totally, and I fear for her privacy now that the reptiles have caught her scent. Dost have a chap? That one'll bite the dust once they trace him and apply the 4th Degree.

Grace van Cutsem

Speaking of cute little gals, that chunk-faced bridesmaid who covered her ears at the flypast - is she OK? I'm sure she's a delightful little thing but she rather stood out from the rest of the picture-perfect toddlers and didn't seem to be taking it all in with the same savoir faire of the others. Just wondering aloud.

A propos de rien, isn't it cool that everyone refers to Wills and Cate as having lived together and nary a tut or sniff? In fact, a thoroughly modern wedding: 2 kisses; Aston Martin with L plates (ho ho); Queen banned from the après knees-up; trees in the Abbey (shades of Burnham) ... oh, everything.

Congrats, too, to the police for running such a tight show. Mind you, such was the joy and enthusiasm that any fools who attempted disruption would have been torn limb from limb and by the time the Fuzz would have elbowed through to rap their knuckles there wouldna been much left to tip into the Black Maria.

Maman had been there the week before to collect her Maundy coins, so she was able to rattle on, and such was the politesse of the guests that they feigned convincing interest in the souvenirs she'd brought along.

After thoughts:

• I was so pleased that Team Beckham got such short shrift from the cameras. I suspect that orders went out to give the slebs a big miss.
• Did you see the funereal disaster she was toting? And her glum expression? Mourning her fashion disaster and the lack of attention. PoshFail!
• As for little David, pinning his medals on the wrong side - what can one do with these Non-U spazzes? Not let them out, of course, but fat chance.
• Elton - puffy of face and just looking awful. Lucky he hooked hisself a cute toyboy when he could.
• Jimmy Middleton - Speaking of cute BoyToy (23), bit of a spray-tan there, methinks.
• Her Maj - all those unsmiling beady looks all around, as if checking everyone was there who should be and behaving comme il faut.

  That slab of a hat didnt do favours, neither, but what the heck.

  Maman exchanged a few words with her on Maundy Pembti and says she is tiny tiny but with amazing blue eyes.

  As per my PR background, when Church House asked for brief details on Mum, I sent such good stuff that a palace PR called up to chat and I gave her what she wanted incl dad's bio. As a result, they mentioned Mum's Linnean medals as well as Dad.

  Mum: they really are remarkable, they knew about my Linnean Gold Medal and even Dad's track record.

  Biogs - as Her Majesty progresses down the line to dole out the coins, one courtier carries a cushion on which is placed the two pouches. Another courtier is briefing the Queen, "Now we come to Lady Holmes, you met her in Hong Kong in 19??. Lady Holmes is blah blah and her husband Sir Ronald served in the Hong Kong government and escorted the Duke of Edinburgh around the New Territories.

  How he does this for each pensioner, apparently without notes, is that high in the control tower is someone talking down to an ear-piece reading from notes garnered from info' from the likes of moi. Think Broadcast News.

  I emailed the palace PR to congratulate her team and she mailed back 'No, thank YOU. Your notes were the best.' I told her that if ever she came to Corfu she must let me know and we will have tea. Guess what? She plans a honeymoon here. Toady pander - my new best friend in the Palace.

  I mentioned to her the damfool rumour that the gilded couple might look in on Corfu for their Lune de Miel. ['Good try, Chris!']

  In fact, I see from today's dawn news that the honeymoon has been called off until a later more secure date. End of rumouring.

END OF THE OFFICE BOSS

Talk about good riddance.

In a disastrous copycat failure to ride on the success of the Gervais 'Office', an appalling series came out while I was in Seattle that flubbed at every level.

I'm sure Carell is a nice enough chap but he ain't no actor and he dragged the yank version down into the swamp.

He also appeared a movie, something about a 40-year-old virgin [if I've punctuated right] but the studio illiterates got it so that it read like 40 x year-old virgins, or along those lines.

Then the other night I was at someone's place and she put on something atrocity called dinner for schmucks that had Carell doing the Jerry Lewis role and he was ... well.

So I'm delightedly relieved that SC's at least quitting one of his ventures.

Just to rub it in: Seems like the Daily Beast finds him as spaz as I do. They gathered together samples of his work. Talk about hitting the man when he was down.

ALIBI

The talented Jason Whitton, track 1 from his first (and only, as far as I can make out) Thriftstore Cowboy album.

I used to be sent many many review albums when I was in the States and this came out the blue and I gave it full marks.

Whitton himself posted appreciation on my blog and we became e-pals.

I'd never tried matching music from my 'puter to fotos but one night - at the height of my happiness with a lady who booted and then re-recruited me - I snapped my route home, added some random snaps, and matched this to 'Alibi'.

Never made a better one than this.

I hardly credit it as my own.

Admire the skilful 'editing' which is pure chance.

A real winner.

HELL HATH ... 'n' all that

~ Κόλαση δεν έχει καμία μανία ~

Oh boy, I just bet the Mirror legal team did their homework on this one: never have I seen a gagging order so flouted and flaunted. Talk about Shallow Throat.

"Premier League footballer who cheated on wife with model Imogen Thomas last night petrified he will be named."

Won gagging order banning details of seven-month sexual relationship with the stunning former Big Brother contestant becoming public." [Dude, beeg mistake ].

The 'star' – revered by the ­public and sponsors because of his wholesome family-man image [that's a giveaway for a start] – reassured his mistress, promising: “I’ll look after you.”

But they were the last words he ever said to her.

[But not the last words SHE had on the matter, tee hee].

Within hours Imogen was served with a draconian High Court gagging order threatening jail if she revealed her lover’s identity.

[Cue Jaws theme. Say what? A mere Y-chrom mega footie superstar revered for family man image ... diss out a babe? He has not long to live. Just look at those eyes.]

Oh but what fun the Mirror must have had sailing this close to the Gaggers Wind:

Can we say this? OK, can we say that? What if we have her saying that? Who's our Purple Prosodist on Punk'd Pussy? No, not that old dyke, we need a man's byline.

I want pact distraught tearful hurt 'n' betrayed, you know the drill.

"Chief? We were thinking of kicking off with "Devastated Imogen Thomas broke down yesterday as the strain of her fling with a love cheat soccer star took its toll."

There you go, a newsman after my own heart. "Love cheat soccer star" - sez it in one.

SOBBING in the street, Imogen Thomas struggles to cope after being exposed as the mistress of a married footballer hiding behind a court gagging order.

She was spotted near her London home yesterday weeping before holding her head in her hands and crumpling to the pavement. [That's good. I like head in hands n crumpling]

"The agony showed as she made a phone call just hours before a meeting with publicist Max Clifford".

[Dash it, chaps - not blessèd Clifford again - who let him into the story?]

Wasted money - whoo hoo! Do I love the internet.

Even as M'lud is huffing and puffing about his all-powerful be-wigged 'gagging' order, the likes of the talented wired 'Tallulah' are 'commenting' just below the gagged story that:

"Well they wasted their money, didn't they?

Anybody on Twitter would have known yesterday who these two 'men' are!

I'm glad. It's disgusting that the rich can buy the law of this country whilst people like Imogen are left to face the press alone.

If you want to know their names, check Twitter or any gossip website.

Thank goodness for the internet: makes it much harder for the rich and powerful to cover up from the public!"

Ronaldo

Stripped of rights

Thrown to the lions - or it thrown to the wolves?

Anyway, this is a pitiful piece that should have raised hackles in all good red-blooded men's wotsits but when I took the vote about Imogen being to blame or not, to my astonishment it's evenlyish split 57%-43% that Imo brought it on herself.

Forsooth the country has turned bitchy in my absence, no mistake abaht it.

IMHO, this 'famous' berk baller should be quivering in his treacherous pantaloons about what will happen to him when his name comes out.

Anyway, God bless her and God bless you and here's a snap of leggy Aisleyne Horgan-Wallace, as unlikely a name as you'll come across - well not YOU, you're too busy scoping out Aileen's other unlikely attributes.

Exploited and angry - this has the feel of a pressure cooker building up to a splattering of names under public exasperation with the sheer moneyed unfairness. The way things are going I would be very worried if i was hiding behind one of these gags. The tumbrils are creaking and nothing M'lud can do will stop the floodgates once the people have spoken.

WIKIPEDIA bags the Gags - that's much more like it.

Now fer Gawd's sake can we get our finger out and nail the ven'able Bulger bashers?

Struth! I'm almost ashamed to admit I use the web ...

Totally useless in the case of outing Venables et bludgeon buddy. Actually, they used a choo-choo, if memory recalls. Talk about It Takes a Train to Cry. The Bobster right there as usual.

PrattSearch, if you ask me. Slipper of the Net, where are you now?

Τι κάνει νιάου-νιάου στα κεραμίδια

Dude! Where's my view?

I've been watching this slither thru the gossiparium and 4th Estate reptile houses and, if I'm not mistaken, Ms Kaplinsky [right] is not the only one with legs.

< - Before

David Baker, 76, has lived with his wife on the island for more than 20 years.

Along comes Dominic Skinner and sells the trusting Kaplinsky-Bowers a property which, according to the Bakers, has ruined the view they used to cherish.

Quoth Baker, "We are by no means well off, but somehow we have to fight this – and through the courts if necessary."

Also according to DB, documents lodged at the local authority confirm the Bowery hut should be no more than a single storey.

< - After

Crusading Mail on Sunday: Interesting slant the Mail takes on this brouhaha and I'll be watching how the rest of the meedja jump on this tasty little bandwagon of a story.

Loipon, an opportune cause and moment to declare open the 2011 season of our glorious national blood-sport ~ forked-tongue innuendo and two-faced back stabbing.

έτοιμοι, σταθερά, πάμε!

Poh poh - Greece can be soo Greek.

Cassio-pique ~ Ut oh, the delinquent deadline syndrome. Hope they don't think I had a hand in this embarrassing timing.

Even as Bakergate crawls thru the process, out comes the Speccie's 'style' supplement and who do we find on page 40 than the foster child's créations heading a 'luxury' villas ad feature. Ouch! Talk about cassio-peevish.

Usual advertorial template de luxe stuff doing the rounds

Cass' House

Chateau Atolikos

But as I say, unfortunate timing for this sort of spotlight.

Daily Telegraph

hilarious Grauniad fluff puff

Scroll down to the silky CV of Dominic 'Rou' Skinner who's

"been coming to Corfu since childhood

While he was working as an architect for Norman Foster ... he found an abandoned 200-year-old village called Rou.

It seems he has an architect’s controlling eye:

“I said I wouldn’t do the project unless I could buy the whole village; otherwise you couldn’t get the pure finish.”

Interesting use of 'pure'.

Pay no attention whatsoever to my shoving in pics of the fragrant danseuse: no-one suggests that she and her husband acquired the love-nest in anything but best faith and scrupulous dotting of all crimson be-ribboned parchmentry

Oh but don't you love DS's comment on BakerGate, that

"The estate is one of the most successful restoration projects on Corfu and it would be a great shame if the complaints made by Mr and Mrs Baker muddied the sparkling waters of success."

[My itals, but they shouldn't be]

Sparkling waters of success, indeed. I collect urbane brush-offs and this one goes into my top holster.

Speaking of sparkling waters, did you catch that fluting quote about

'The water and the swimming are more agreeable than anywhere else in the Mediterranean.'

Yes, yes, dear boy, but I always mis-time my dip for just before that septic tank chunders into Ναυσικάα's crystal waters.

Making like the Rot'childs: Gotta love that donnish 'agreeable', yah? Shades of Lord Clark of Civilisation.

Not that I know owt or am privy to ... well, I dunno, do I? I'm not privy ... but some folks think that Dom may 'rou' this particular bish and be in for a leetle tedium.

There's a groundswell of sympathy for the Bakers and of fingers crossing that the dosh comes from somewhere for a battle.

How did one reprobate put it?

"FFS, Chris, if we can fork out to save naffing donkeys, we should be able to dip into the ouzo fund for a Dun Skinnin' whip-round to help out Dave and Moy."

Hmm. If I can stay under a certain learnèd friend's radar, this may call for further sleuthing.

Sleuth alert: reassuring update and this is soo Corfu. Friendly tip comment that "Under which learned friend's radar? You do know they're the same? He's repping 2-handed. Trouble from one, complain to t'other."

Well I never, what could he mean?

'Stolen view'~ Daily Express

AGNI DEI ~ By the Sirens of Titan! Did you read those messages of support on the noble Agni Travel message boards? Pardon me for chuckling but some of those stalwarts really stuck it to The Man.

Unfortunately, some of them stuck it too effectively and I have been forced to 'moderate' Topic Baker/57431 towards a more respectful and deferential tone. (Actually, I just closed the whole discussion down and sent the boys round for an 'educational' word with the more articulate and vociferous trouble makers.)

I've said it before and I'll say it again en blogue, it will be a sad day for Mother Corfu when petty-fogging lip service to the Law [dread word!] is allowed to muddy the sparkling waters of entrepreneurial success.

Accordingly - and aware of the pressures on Team Agni not to rock the καΐκι - I have with my usual behind-the-scenes tact and decisiveness 'suggested' a veto on "Topic 57431" and no further references to KaplinskyGate.

This correspondence now closed.

Out of fairness and as a sop to all you bleeding-heart moaning minnies out there, I have retained the contribution from the Bakers themselves, namely that they:

"totally agree that the Rou Estate was tastefully and carefully renovated. Not exactly as a traditional Greek village but, nevertheless, all our fears about "Hooray Henry" parties were dissolved. We have met, and made friends with, many of the guests and they have sat on our terrace with a glass of "pink" and enjoyed our view with us.

It took a great deal of badgering on our part to obtain the adeia (building permit) number.

When it was eventually reluctantly supplied we went to the Town Hall and obtained a copy. The section below our terrace was quite clearly shown to be single storey. By this time two storeys had been erected. We asked our lawyer to draw up a formal complaint which was lodged at the Town Hall on March 16, 2010.

To this day, no action has been taken. We wonder why...?

We are very encouraged by Ms Kaplinsky's response in the article in the Mail on Sunday: She has clearly been misled by Mr Skinner that the problem has been resolved.

Sadly, the only solution is for the offending section of her building to be demolished. Meanwhile, we must suffer workmen totally ignoring the hours of silence and Sunday work - for some reason they are not working today. We wonder why?

We hope that this clarifies our situation."

By the adeia of Amphitrite! Clarifieth it certainly does and proof there was in the swelling postbag on the Agni site.

Hours of silence: Come to think of it, only the other day I was sharing a tincture with our local Παντόφλα του ναυπηγείου (whose pater was one of the builders who worked on our own house) to whinge about the racket from assorted swarthy artisans in the neighbouring property, plying their trade at all sorts of uncivilised days and hours.

The youthful policier gave a Greek shrug and jiggled the ice in his diminishing Chivas: 'What to do? Allah is the Lord of all men's ways'.

Well, Allah is clearly not the lord of fidgety 'St Vitus' Dom's ways and I shall point our chap to the mysterious cessation of work chez Kaplinsky and demand that we too benefit from the 'Skinner Effect'.

Pshaw! Who does one need to sleep with around here to enjoy an undisturbed Bloody Mary?

Rue the effect ~ I've just noticed it ... don't you love the 'style icon' dig? Very subtle. I bet that went over most readers' heads.

Permits: Actually (and publish it not in Gath), our neighbour is not from these parts but a nouveau riche upstart from distant Potamos. He is distrusted and thwarted at each move. I suggested a fresh inspection of work permits followed by a refresher course scrutiny of his entire work force's Resident Permits and other red-tape frippery.

No hidden agenda ~ "David and Moira here again. [Not again! - Ed] All that we can say about the MoS is that they have printed the truth with regard to our situation and that there is, to the best of our knowledge, no hidden agenda.

Thank you so much to all you good people who have expressed support for us.

We will keep you informed as to developments.

Meanwhile, if you want to pop up and see us you will be very welcome ~ David and Moira."

David! Moira! Dudes! Don't say that!

Haven't you read about nice people like you TweetBooking a cosy invite to pop round for some sponge cake?

Next minute it's Chav Central, every thug in the county banging on the door. Best stock up on Stolly and Red Bull now.

No, listen - there'll be Moira passing round the Mr Kipling. Some tattoed bruiser will make polite conversation

"Nice place you've got here, Missus. Bet you got a decent discount for yon view being fooked up 'n' all."

Moira: "Oh that ... bane of our lives. Send Dave to an early grave, that will."

Next thing you know, it'll be a case of:

"Nay, missus, can't be doing wi' that. Ayup, lads ~ View Fail. Lose the plastic shack. Last Lego brick standing is a sissy."

Mark my words - start handing out blanket invites and the next thing you'll know, you'll have a view clear over to the Hot Lips foam bar.

USA Today, no less. If we are not careful, we're going to be nudging the Malcolm Gladwell famous 'tipping point', after which ... who let the dawgs out?

Agni Dei ~ But seriously, hats off to that Agni page for kicking some serious ass. Baad boys, giggle.

I get read here and there around town - Hong Kong, London, Boston-Seattle-San Antonio-Bainbridge Island - and I was getting bothersome queries from all over about the Nathanarium:

"Who are these guys?"

Well, never you mind any more. They've seen the light. Hrrmph.

Monstrous thoughts of suicide ~ I should embed the M.A.S.H. theme here - such a lovely song - but I'm too surprised by it being the International Business Times (no less) that ratchets up the drama on BakerGate.

It's a leetle early to be bending the truth but then I guess that's the Corfiot way.

• Kaplinsky Fail - cheap shot at the divine Natasha K, branding her as buyer of the culprit villa, particularly as they don't then play the money shot and include a pic.

  Those IBT subs clearly don't read my blog because I specifically instructed that NK be kept out of the firing line.

• But I do grudgingly approve of the note of hysteria with which the construction of the 'monstrosity' is purported to have driven the hapless Davy Baker to "thoughts of suicide".

I suppose Dun Viewin *is* a monster of sorts, blocking the entire view, but one's heard that tired description applied so long and so often to the enterprise as a whole that it's rather lost its edge.

Anyway, with the g-rou-some suggestion that Mr Baker has been driven to thoughts of topping himself, linguistic gloves are clearly off and I look forward to monitoring on your behalf the escalating lingo.

Τι κάνει νιάου-νιάου, indeed, and God bless the august Sinbad for passing me that catch-all gem of a phrase

Off-plan ~ 121move.co.uk isn't my source of choice for some of the construction details being glossed over by the others papers, but it does include a classic Domski quote at his most Basil faultless.

Loipon, let's clear one fact up: Spiti SpoilView was bought off-plan by Kaplinski-Bower after the couple "fell in love with its spectacular sea views and hilltop location in the north-east of Corfu" - a love affair, it must be pointed out, unwittingly consummated at the cost of fucking up the Baker's own and original 'spectacular sea views and hilltop location'.

The Bakers moved to the village in 1989 when it was largely derelict and they were the only residents.

The area was transformed from 2004 when Dominic Skinner, an architect and developer, began rebuilding existing properties.

David Baker:

"When we saw the building was progressing beyond one storey we contacted Mr Skinner and said surely there had been a mistake, but it soon became clear he did not believe he had made any mistake. He told us that we could still see the sea if we looked down the side of the new building, and even trimmed a couple of trees to prove the point.

But it’s not the same."

Damn'd right it's not.

But you have to laugh: can't you just see Dom Cleese in full irascible flow ...

"Look, look - there! You blind or something? Between the datura and the periwinkle.

There! That flash of sun on the watery stuff - it's called the sea.

What more do you want, fucking Poseidon waving a pitchfork?"

Squat Not Posh Nuff ~ add pool:

As soon as I read the story of Jason Ruddick [see berk, right], I thought of ViewFail and KaplinskyGate.

Look at that expression - isn't that the epitome of what's going on here with SkinnerGate?

Absolutely perfect.

If this was a movie - Immoveable Squatter versus Manic Mobile - Ruddick would play the elusive squatter king, cramming in our swarthy friends from Black Cat village to Lego Crescent, moaning all the while about geriatric neighbours, BeautyFail, and excessive posturing by Management.

It has that certain in-DOM-itable tang about it - ingenuity, truculence, impatience with small red tape print.

Actually, I can see the Perignon coming to 'negotiate' to have Ruddick thrown in clinky but ending up hiring him, if only for his feel for the more transient phrasings of the "law"?

AGNI PROP - relieved to see the Agni fori message boards back on the beat with Baker buzz and letting the populace speak.

Welcome back robust convenor control and monitoring of 'inappropriate' communications to DaMoy themselves such as off-message innuendo concerning 'vendre de valeur' and timed 'provenance bills of agreement'.

Now that we've re-instated Vox Agni with a suitable 'pipe-down' policy, let us hear no more bakerian flim-flannel.

How many times must I repeat the Eternal Verity that it is not the Corfiot way to allow the muddy welligogs of short-sighted nitpickers to sully our broader-banked crystalline waters of wealth enhancement and entrepreneurial élan.

"Monstrosity" - In the interests of law-abiding accuracy, I took myself and assorted informed legislature up to Kaplinsky Heights to see (and sound) for ourselves what this whole kerfuffle is about.

Tall it may be, and conforming to the famed if derided rou-some 'purity' of materials and blend of 'spirit of the venture'. But to describe ViewSpoil as actually monstrous is to flatter.

A slab is not 'monstrous', however sore it leaves the eye.

No offence to the Bowlinskies, but let's for heaven's sake stick to facts, if only to avoid being dismissed as crying wolf over better-known, more widespread grousome horreurs on display.

COMMERCIAL BREAK

~ rouowners@gmail.com ~

LEUKEMIA ~ As media attention remains fixed on KaplinkskyGate, I am resolutely bemused by the reptile press's obsession with David Baker's health and the fact that he is going down slow with leukemia.

If mention is to be made, let's have details:

Lymphoblastic or lymphocytic

Myeloid or myelogenous?

Subtype B-cell prolymphocytic or acute myelogenous (AML)?

Do the press know something we don't? Are we going to open our tabloids one day to read that preying on DB's acute megakaryoblastica has pushed him to transferring ownership and/or quitting?

And how about the health of other key players, including the honest artisans forced to work the anti-social hours that so irked the Bakers?

I'm suspicious of this emphasis on Dave's health and refuse to see Team Monstrous dubbed as the bad guys hounding Leukaemic Dave to an early grave ... or has some miracle cure been discovered and the topic is being kept on the back burner so as to be topical for some TV special when the MC hollers, "Move that van!" and lo and behold! Down will tumble the 2nd-storey 'monstrosity' to a blast from 'Scat Kat' Skinner and his Sparkling Saxes of Success and forward will step a stethoscoped Eamonn Andrews in the livery of some leukaemia-battling lab to declare "David Baker ... begorrah ... this is indeed yer loife."

SUIVEZ LE FRIC - Yes yes, thank you, grassers, all.

Blimey, if some of your sources are to be believed, I'm amazed you're still employed where you say you are. Do be careful and don't believe what they say about hard-drive 'erasure'. It doesn't exist and the smartie-pants they'll bring in to run you to ground are 2 steps ahead of your best tracks coverage.

Embarrasse de Stool Pigeonry:

The money trail is sub judice, so there. Even I lose track of where the pocket money goes, so don't sweat the small stuff.

Registered under names: Oh come on ... Greek registereds? Über judice, if you ask me ... sly sleuthing among many of you and picking up fag ends from the rest - and not a little rancid grape pips souring the mix.

Darlings, I want the imbalance sheet reportage, not tittle tattle rumblings. That I can invent moi-même in spades [see skinnerio scenarios passim]

Emotionally nekkid ... at the improv

Excellent excellent thought-provoking interview by Adam Bryant of Mark Fuller.

First-rate.

Made me think of the impossible 'discussions' with my mother over their jewel filchery:

"If you think about it, if you have an argument with your wife or husband, most of the time people are just waiting for the other person to finish so they can say what they’re waiting to say.

So usually they’re these serial machine-gun monologues, and very little listening."

^5

GOOGLE EXODUS

Everyone who befriends me on Facebook, avert yr eyes coz you've seen the version Ljiljana sent me.

You've prolly seen this anyway from the first time it did the rounds ... too bad. Here it is again and jolly funny still.

A Case of Internet Addiction

~ Virginia Heffernan ~

She then described a typical surfing session:

“I’ll be on Facebook and see a status update of song lyrics, and I’ll Google them and find the band name, that I will subsequently Wikipedia and discover that the lead singer is interesting and briefly look at his Twitter and try his music on Grooveshark” — a music search engine and streaming service — “while looking at pictures of him on Tumblr” — the multimedia microblogging platform — “that will lead me to a meme I’ve never heard of that I’ll explore until I find hilarious photos I will subsequently share with friends of mine on Facebook.”

Gabriela, who sometimes dresses in the futuristic Victoriana known as steampunk, also loves Webcomics, a site for graphic novels and comic books, and Neopets, a game that lets players care for virtual pets."

... As Binx Bolling puts it in The Movie goer:

“What is the nature of the search? you ask. Really it is very simple; at least for a fellow like me. So simple that it is often overlooked. The search is what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life.”

Lights, camera - action!

Doesn't that look exactly like the set for 'Alt-Shift-Del - the blogger strikes back'?

Product placement - and see that half-moon glass design above the door? Perfect for selling to Microsoft for its logo.

Life is very good these days, albeit full of thwumps and krumps. The other day it was the swallow's nest crashing down on the patio and this morning, went to turn on the chandelier and brump! - every bulb fused and it isnt just throwing the fuse back on or changing each n every bulb (which I did, groan, fag bore). So I dragged out my extension lights wot I use in the store room to repair garden tools and hung them on the chanders - poh poh, let not maman see that foto.

Actually gives a better light for my eyes than the chandelier but my mother doesnt like 'extraneous' stuff that spoils the decor so I can't use a fat desk light. Actually jolly decent of mum to let me use the desk for puter work but it saves her yelling up to the spare room "You up there?"

Saturday April 16 - bliss. Woke un-hungover and leapt to the shower, except agua cameth there not. Normally this would tap a surge of cusses and lethargy and send me back to bed but, clear-headed and oaken of thigh from my workouts since mater left, I jogged down to the bottom-garden pump [cats and dog in tow, muttering to each other 'Blimey, what's come over him? must have a woman cept I didnt see no one did you me neither 'ullo he's swerving off to the bottom pool dont do it guv it's not true what they say about all your life swimming before you - opah, he's going for the electrics in the waterworks dont do it guv, it sets yr hair on fire 'ullo he's hit a switch and now he's jogging back up again. Gotta be a woman]

I wish.

It's a wonderful grey rainy day. I raise my face to the rain and jog twice round the house to give Sam his chance to bound and snort and pee where he will; the cats gather by the kitchen door for when I return to my sense and prep their breakfast.

Basie for Breakfast Loud, as I feed the animals and unpeel a yoghurt and pour honey over it and boil for the camomile. Go over the shopping list and add loo paper and kitchen towels without even checking. Re-read instructions for answering machine on how to enter names n numbers. Re-think answering message, ask the boys for the Greek equivalent of

"Yeh well, thanks for calling but we're prolly in the frigging garden, tell you what, buzz me on my cell if this is for me and if it's for mama ... I dunno, maybe forget it."

έχετε το πιο όμορφο χαμόγελο there is a serveuse in the Scovto past Zavros with THE most radiant smile. A lady of a certain age but dapper and, as I say, with this this wonderful sourire. I looked up the Greek and tried it on her next time she was at my checkout line ... oh poh poh x 4! She burst out laughing and told everyone else and I looked stony-faced, like so? Is true.

Now they call her from stacking the shelves - 'Your boyfriend's here, come look after him.'

Once she did come and took my order and then returned to her stacking, telling the bloke after me that, sorry, but she was only serving her bf.

Mother ~ well, she's in London and exhausting herself walking to Waitrose and cleaning the apartment. The energy of the woman.

Hiccups to date:

Misplaced her keys first day [found 'em, natch]

Lost track of days, thinking she'd missed dates or wondered why her escort didn't turn up

Her Greek Companion for the Maundy gig called off: ex-wife died and he - at 97 - felt a bit tottery. I phoned the efficient Church House office and rearranged things. Memo to self - email Bishop Geoffrey to tell him what a shit hot team he has (not that precise lingo). He will see it: all emails go thru the SH team and further ensure mama's care by Church House

Gas installation in the flat leaking - leave it to her to tell the porter. I really don't care in my delirium of liberty.

Do you know? It's like being free of a yoke of time and attention. I keep wondering why I feel so energetic and cornered.

My brother calls to say that he's just realised that mum's return flight on April 26 is at 0555hrs and can I change it? I tell him to fuck it, that he's known the time for 2 weeks and that if I'd been able to find a decenter houred flight, would I not have gone for that?

Instead, I suggest that during the drive up to Scotland on April 22 that he and our mother settle on an agreed word for my treasures - stolen, borrowed, commandeered, filched, appropriated, whatever. One agreed word.

We're coming into party season and we'll be sitting round the table listening to dismissive profundities such as that Corfiots lie but Italians steal, leading onto the conundrum that Villa Thefti is the family joke for laughing-stock security in the same breath as it's to where my girls' most treasured mementos of their dad were 'relocated' for safer keeping from the thieving Corfiots. Fuck you, I tell him. Think about it: what do you want my sons-in-law to know about the filchery?

He ends the call in the usual sulk.

Sun out and I want to walk les animaux and survey what next to tidy.

CHURCH JAM

Time for the prodigal plunker to Bible up and head back to the fold.

The June gig at Holy Trinity Corfu won't amount to a hill of beans without my version of Sunday/Friday and Jimmy 'n' Raul backin' up.

But will you look at the gear that kid's singing thru - where did croaking into that little CD recorder go, eh? Like how we started. I tell you, all this Youtube stuff is going the way of junior beauty pageants - and we'll have our JonBenét Ramseys before we're through, mark my words, hack spit grunt.

Back to this wonderful Sunday song [and dont listen too long, it's catching], Rev'd Gulland in the driving seat of a nasty big Buick, of course, and assorted faithful as Good Book totin' extras.

And we know who'll be hinting loudest for a place up front.

Might even get my teeth fixed, goldarn it ... be ready for my close-up ...

DOES YOUR DØERG BITE?

That's the closest I can get to Peter Sellers' inimitable accent in that inimitable line - tho' too many try.

This is my kind of story and I love it that the judge herself is kinda sinister sexy hot - as is her lingo.

So, her Alsatian goes round biting people but she's too high and mighty to own up or tolerate the Little People daring to diss her.

"Judge Beatrice Bolton vowed never to sit in a court of law again after she was found guilty, branding the verdict a ‘****ing travesty’."

Hilarity Fail: I thought Judge Bolton was denying the mutt was hers but all she's doing is a shylock number disputing the exact poundage of flesh munched out of the hapless postie.

"Referring to December’s court case, she added: ‘Will you kindly stop publishing that my dog took a chunk out of Frederick Becker, because he didn’t. Everybody agrees that the injury was a scratch.

‘I am warning you that if there is any inference at all that I was involved or that it was my dog, then you are going to be in trouble.’"

Ah, right - she does deny it was her dog - first it was just a little chunk, then it was not her dog that did the chomping.

For a legal beagle judge, Beatrice does not have the firmest handle on good defence lines.

Shudder - I wouldnt like to come up in front of her: know who she looks like?: Every nightmare's Wicked Stepmother.

"After being found guilty of the offence, Judge Bolton – branded ‘a neighbour from hell’ during the court case – stormed out of the hearing and screamed: ‘I’m going. It’s a ****ing travesty.’"

Hmm, there's something not quite right about someone branding their own business a 'fucking travesty'. I'll have to think about that further ...

"Outside she continued: ‘Do you want a statement? I’ll give you a statement. I have no faith in the justice system whatsoever. I will never sit in a court of law again.’"

Further food for thought. There must be some internal knuckle rapping that goes with badmouthing your own trade, specially when it's the actual 'justice system', fer chrissake.

"The magistrates made no order in relation to the dog, which was sent for specialist behavioural training, but ordered Judge Bolton to pay a £2,500 fine."

Wrong way round, shurely? Fido's behaviour is a result of living with a nutter and won't improve 'til he's removed from the company of that banshee. It's Judge Beatrice who needs the 'specialist behavioural training'.

FRIDAY

Haven't laughed so much for a long time

First off, Rebecca Black's much-mocked Friday [all the way to the top of the Youtube charts] is not that bad.

C'mahn, people, what's so different from the gazillion other chiclet uploads?

I've consulted The Spitfire and, apart from scorn that I've even watched it, she scores it a mere 'duhh' on the radar.

But such was the dissing that it attracted the witty and ingenious Jimmy Fallon's attention who got none other than Steve Colbert to render his take.

Check out this hilarity.

OMFG, Colbert with his dead-pan blue-steel expression, the spade wheeled on ... just when you think you've seen it, the dancers (oh mon dieu, be still, my faltering pace-maker)

Brilliant choreography.

Am still dancing with the kitchen stool ... can't lose that backbeat.