Now, post it somewhere I can find it again and listen and be inspired. Let the rallying call be "A recording by Christmas" 
Just traced this clip after umpteen years. Been looking everywhere for this inspiration to get playing and recording again.
Brave letter. During our three-year relationship, I have learned how corrupt the law is here and how the police abuse their power and, more specifically, how the authorities on the islands get away with everything and ignore all formal procedures and policies. I have witnessed firsthand fake reports against Albanians and misuse of power and authority. I am disgusted at how those sworn to protect this country and its citizens are mistreating civilians and getting away with it, sometimes even without a slap on the wrist. My coastguard husband (whom I will soon divorce) has one of the worst records but still continues to possess a gun and serve this country. The truth is the public doesn’t need his protection. Instead, they need to be protected from him and all those like him. He is irresponsible, abusive and violent. He sells steroids, works multiple jobs, flashes his gun to frighten civilians, but yet no action has yet been taken to remove this kind of individuals from the force. I have currently filled a report to the citizen protection ministry on his crimes and behaviour and I’m waiting for its response. However, I’m doubtful that they will take the proper action to discipline one of their own. The punishment needs to fit the crime, and this should apply to all people. I am sure there are many others who have experienced something similar, but there seems to be no organisation that I can find that helps protect civilians when the police are involved. Name and address withheld" I just bet it was.
"I am a Canadian, who moved to Greece to live with my husband, a member of the Hellenic Coastguard.
Bravo the Literary Review!
It's that time of year again ~ The Bad Sex in Fiction award.
"In a year in which literary awards have come under fire for parochialism and dumbing down ... proud to uphold and recognise literary excellence from around the world ... The purpose of the prize is to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel and to discourage it."
Now that's what I call product 'placement'
And do look out for "Lovely long louche manhood" ~ if memory serves, 'louche' is the last state in which to have your proud manhood when tendril titties seek the sunlight.
"It takes a lot of bad sex to win the Bad Sex in Fiction Award, and we await the imminent announcement of this year's winner with pulsating anticipation.
My only regret is that this award is restricted to the narrow field of novels ...In particular, the field of sexual text messages - sexting - is crying out for its own award. Begging for it. The power of sexting is real, immediate, often alcohol-fuelled, sometimes bolstered by lurid photographs"
She's hot as hell but a disaster as a living moving walking talking TV front person. But that gorgeous nose and sensuous features ... Next in the chat chair ~ albeit with that bland bore Eamonn Holmes (no connection whatsoever) ~ is rumoured to be Tassia "Rue my view" Kaplinksky, better known in the parish of Corfu for the little débâcle over her generous hubby building every which way and up. I must follow up what happened ... I thought there was a suicide in the offing by the bloke whose view they ruined but nowt new has reached my ears. Ah, there it is ~ scroll down to the bit about topping himself. But the gem of the whole building saga was 'Domus' Skinner coming out with that wonderful Pseuds Corner corker about That little Miss 'Bubba' Dominique ... it's howlers like that that make him all worth while the giggles.
I'm sorry Chris Bleakley has finally been dumped with her equally abysmal co-host. 
Rather nice to be able to adorn a hum-drum story with fotos of two hotties. “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 of course: Sparkling waters, indeed.]
DIMITRIS KYRIAKISWhat greater pleasure than to introduce others to artistry and beauty? Myself, I love taking a camera out and stalking subjects that catch my eye. And I fuss and I faff and try to be too clever by half. Very clever.
Alas, there it ends: the result never approaches the joy of the hunt. I lack the eye to frame and have no technical skill when it comes to understanding what's going on in the camera itself.
Look at Kyriakis' understanding of what he's actually seeing - across there and below - and then the painstaking trouble to perfect what actually hits and fits the lens.
Masterly ~ reminds me of one of the Pink Floyd album covers.
And those footsteps - if it'd been me, I'd've been haring up and down the beach trying to salvage some sort of shot before the tide washed over.
Excellent piece by Matthew Parris in The Spectator for 29 October asking what is the point of the storytelling bore? I am the expert on repetitive bores and I'm forwarding this link to my fellow caregiver contacts in case it gives them any inspiration on how to cope with those endlessly burbling Groundhog-Day droners. I've lived with my 91-year-old mother for five and a half years and lost most of my brain cells just sitting captive thru endless observations/reminiscences - all worn threadbare to the bone like a busted brake pad, all repeated word perfect. I once made contact with various caregiver groups with one question: Parris absolutely nails it over what exactly is going on when the droners spew. Precisely zilch is going on, it's just senile turning over of the musty grey matter, what's left. Just tongue-jerk trotting out of whatever happens to be on the slab. I mean, the damage they cause to those within range - and there isn't even a fucking light on upstairs. Mewl mewl mewl. Every suggestion depended on A.N.Other being around; none dealt with my situation of a carer trapped alone, 1:1 with the blather; nowhere to run. Useless, and I let them know it. The closest I've come to a remedy and protection - and I've had reports of success from others - is to keep a notebook and meticulously record those repeats that threaten sanity. This will distract you from listening and will sooner or later catch the eye of the Burbler. The initial effect is wonderful, like a punch to the face because of course they have no idea they are such a literal pain. Just as funny is how irritated they get at your note taking. Two years ago when I was getting worried about my sanity under this barrage of repetition, I asked around my mother's pals how they themselves coped with her Repetition Dementia. Most of them said they simply shuffled away. Not an option for me, trapped at the dinner table, 3 x daily, seven days x week. What amused me was one devout church member who sees my mother perhaps twice a month and even then doesnt have to sit next to her. He suddenly rounded on me with a, "Change the record, Marjorie! Change the fucking record!!" I told him, "Blimey - and I thought it was me asking you lot for sympathy and advice." I once bought a spanking little revolver downtown for seeing off cats and strange dogs. Natty little thing that'd fit into the kitchen drawer. Someone once described me as, And it's true, including the gardening bit. The times I have sulked and pleaded and argued and shouted that, surely, by way of reward or small thanks for the times I have spent in the garden, surely - surely - I might be spared the chatter? I've tried every permutation of reminders - zilch. I've even tried walking from the table at the first mention of gardendry. I have one last resort which I run through my head as my mother gurgles on. But it does require playing by the rules and observing a legit segue cue. For instance, if my mother veered into garden gab and used a phrase such as " ... but once planted they never give you a moment's rest", I would then be allowed for me to jump in with a After five years', how else are we going to tackle it? I know, let me try a different tack. How about this way? Maybe this will clarify my situation ..." I remove the pistolet from the drawer and place merciful barrel en bouche. It feels like all my trials soon be over. The ultimate slap in the face for all the dronings on and trudging the treadmill of futility. Pull trigger. The only drawback is that there are so many other occasions when this gesture would also fit that I'd be loth to waste it on a dud. Also, I'd want my girls there, to see the vileness and mirror dementia to which repetition also reduces the 'carer'. The sheer rock-bottomness of our fate. I'd want them to feel the anger and contempt for the damage wreaked by that selfish fuckwit gardenry hobby - oh and pray pray pray they carry the message on through their own lives. I suppose the trick is to set the camera up on a tripod with a good view out of range of the blood splatter and have a stamped addressed envelope for the camera card and precise guidelines on how to Youtube it. If just one person could be inspired to concrete over just one hectare of green, burn one row of plantery, my blissful cup of escape would run over. But I'd need to get the phrasing right on the 'let me put it another way' nonsense because that could be fun and even get into some book of quotations. There'd be cartoons of burly non gardeners, Magnum tucked behind their back, smiling sweetly at nongenarian maternal crones ... lemme put it anuvver way, mum. But i digress ~ I've marked the Spectator cover with the page number of the Parris piece and run a big red splash down the page itself. Now to make umpteen copies and scatter them through house, church and glove pocket as well as nailed to utility poles next to those fiches de mort.How do I stop myself going crazy with this endless garbage?
Results: worse than useless. All these experts could come up with was"Will you stop that infernal scribbling!"
(Work it out, chuckle) 
My mother can tell the same story twice in six minutes, five in the same hour ~ and the content and wording will never change, so it's vital I note the exact minute in order to capture the true agony of the occasion. It also makes for better Excel charts that you can hang on the wall and track against newcomer topics. Hall of Fame stuff. "You know what? I sometimes want to grab yer mother and bellow into her ear,
"Dear dear Chris ~ a life of endless repetition ad murderous nauseam ... and the rest is gardening.""Speaking of never a moment's rest, that reminds me of how never any success ramming home the message that this unceasing talk of gardenry is completely - sickeningly - lost on me.
Boom! Flash! Splosh splatter. Have Cee-lo Green thunder from the speakers and a slide show of the more miserable corners of the garden I've trudged thru ...
If Lady Mary keeps rebuffing my advances, it's Anna I'm hitting on next.
