23 July 2011

donkey gif


~ country singer ~

Just when I was wondering where Corfu's premier country crooner had disappeared to, up he crops on ever-reliable WhatsUp-Corfu with a whole slew of dates.

Note them now:

  • 24 July ~ 2130 hours ~ Kerkyra Golf Hotel ~ Pool Bar

  • 25 July ~ 2100 hours ~ St George's Bay Country Club ~ Pool Lounge

  • 28 July ~ 2130 hours ~ Corcyra Beach Hotel, Gouvia.

    Kerkyra Golf - I was going to catch Ricardo's last gig at the Kerky' Goff - and he had even spelled out the venue when I last saw him and yummy Danielle - but then the trophy blonde I invited along proved true to her Clairol cuteness and persuaded me it was the Kondokali Bay joint where Richard was playing.

    All we got was the usual Greek stage act with many a gesture and opahs! and shy-making haulings of geriatrics on stage.

    Since I fit that profile exactly, I told Blondie we were skedaddling before she caused any more ruckus.

    Danielle ~ speaking of la belle D, I think it was they themselves who told me that she occasionally sat in on the act, plunking a keyboard chord or two and trilling along in country-style harmony.

    If that is so, they should jolly well mention it ... zut et rezut, who wants to look at his craggy mug? Whereas chaps will sit for hours swaying to the most unconvincing cod balladry Hank-ery pankery, if there's a babe involved.

    Loipon, cowboy up and do your bank balances a favour by dolling up some posters to include a glimpse and promise of thet thar Danielle Délicieuse.

    Rose by any other name ~ speaking of monickers, Corfu's own Glenn Mulcaire tells me that Ricardo Lane also trades under the less catchy handle of Steve Whitty. So if you see announcements of a 'strummer' Whitty, that'll be our boy. Or not. It may be the name our Ricky goes under to elude those country groupies up north in Acharavi.

    St George's Bay Country Club - Fried Aumann runs the swankiest, luxuriousest, efficientest, relaxingest club in the Ionian, and the brochure is right ~ don't call it a hotel; it's a club. A wonderful friendly portal to Paradise, plus a gorgeous spa you can spoil yourselves in.

    If Richard's clinched a gig there, that should tell you enough about how good he is.

    Oh, and if you think I'm piling on the compliments to wangle myself a freebie, you're too late: the generous Herr Aumann has already lavished a gift certificate on maman, so I can be as fawning and favouritising as I like.

    Corcyra Beach Hotel - this should be an easy evening for me, just on my doorstep, but the 28th happens to be maman's 91st birthday, an intime dinner is planned by my chef-sommelier brother (all the way over from Italy), and my presence as smarming waiter would be missed - even as the assembled company keels over with suppressed rage at having to sit through the 700th re-telling of the same old boring snoring sagas, not to mention the family joke about my brother's security-challenged palazzo, Villa Thefti, nor omitting the San Luca mantra that, while Italians take the prize for thieving, Corfiots are merely liars.

    Très drole, I must say.

    I also give a little shudder when I pass by, remembering my rubber-necking days around the Louis Corcyra Beach hotel ['carbon monoxide to the gentry'].

    They pretended that it closed but I was there hanging around chatting up the red-top vultures and feeding misleading tips to the hacks [dread word!] and its gates were open every day. OK, a token show was made whenever foreign press showed up but I had a fierce German lady friend who did business with the Corcyra B and she was busing them in sans problème or delai.

    But it's maman's venerable birthday so I'd better be there, which doesnt mean that you should deny yourself the chance to yodel along.

    Yodel and ogle ...

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