09 October 2012

Project Maria


"So farewell, Jimmy 'Slow-spade' Potts!
Back to Blighty, are we? I'll miss your
Friendly smile and genial comments.
The anons aren't always that obvious
But Keith's mum says yes, they're definitely you.

ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER ~ I have the perfect vantage for repelling boarders - mum's old desk. I can see anyone arriving and duck before they've turned the corner and focused ahead on my window.One of the smarmy gang of mater's gardenry grovelers turned up just before nine - prolly hoping i was still in the seven sleapers or doing business in town.
With a friend, was her excuse, but my face showed the displeasure: she is one of the 'banished' simperers in the court of Marge who was happy to be waited on hand and foot and make no effort to contribute.
So many did help and speak out to make my life a little less servile - not to mention save my mother looking too much the high-handed self-referential gardenry gabbler - that I treat myself to closing the gate to the more egregious uriahs.
This lot wanted to look round the garden and so i took the opportunity to catch up on Fany de Bono's latest last-ditch effort to make his property saleable. He broke ground on this ill-fated condo three years ago and has endlessly modified it to no avail.
It was from Fany's father that my parents bought the land for San Luca and we've been vague friends ever since.

When the project was new, Fany came up to beg some plants and advice for the greening of his project. Mum was friendly and practical and said he could take what he wanted but Greeks didnt garden. Fany and scoffed and said 'maybe they dont garden like you' but maman was right and four months into construction there was a volte face and the spaces in the front for flowers were 'dozed up for more practical carports and whatever.The friend of the 'untouchable' was visiting from England and didn't know the background to my grim expression. The Corfu host made the mistake of referring to my servitude as a joke and the garden-loathery drummed into me as a passing phase.

"We all felt a bit sorry for poor Chris-"
"Actually, no you didn't," I butted in, turning to the visitor and explaining, "it was rather like the Jimmy Savile story - plenty of people knew but didnt bloody say anything. Now of course with my mother gone, out they come from the woodwork (meaningful look at the wankerene) but it's too late. The worm has turned."
The funny thing was that the local lady hadnt kept up with the news - they don't in the ghetto [in the ghettoo; good song cue. Notice how El pronounces the Ts. English imitators dont get it right, they try their pathetic American accent on 'ghe-e-ddo'] - and got increasingly worried as I brought her up to speed with Sir Jim's filly fondling low-down ways.(Not for long, they said, but hold! Death has a sting)

OK, back to plain *Mister* Savile. That means Dad is plain Mr Holmes (which he wont mind, he never used or abused it) BUT ... mum back to Mrs Holmes? Erm ...

St Peter: sir ... that new gardener? ... you dont have to keep calling her 'lady' ....

Le Bon Dieu: i *know* that, ffs, but you try dropping her title ... that withering 'pleb' look? Just LEAVE it, for My son's sake! Im already in the dog house letting Capability Brown transplant the Burning Bush away from the unicorn corral.
"Ooh, i dont think your mother would like to be talked about like that ..."
I gave her my gimlet Paddington 'look': "Really? Petunias ... paedos ... don't see much difference, m'self"
The guest looked suitably at sea.
JIM WILL FUCK IT ~ I have a Savile story: when i was handling PR for Fred. Muller in the late 1960s, i promoted 'Rufus - story of a fox', adorable creature that his keeper brought down from Pitlochry to take around the TV shows. Absolutely tame and i used to hold him as we walked along - I tell you, quite an ego trip sauntering down Oxford Street with a fox in ones arms. Never budged as dogs either side would totally freak. Don said it was his reynardine scent.
Anyway, we went to a hospital where we took R round the wards and let the children stroke him. Savile happened to be there and came round to see who was stealing his thunder and asked me to take Rufus into an empty room because he wanted to show him to a 'friend' - a pretty young blonde - and asked to be left alone with her. I said no way was i letting Rufus off his lead and Savile said he looked tame enough and made to stroke him. Rufus let out a growl and suddenly looked like a wild thing.
"It's the cigar smoke," quipped Savile but i had never seen him like that and when Don came back i mentioned this and he didnt believe me.
I never liked Savile, something distinctly not right about him - OK, something sinister and disgusting.
Loipon, the intruder asked "Shall i make us a cuppa?" to which i apologised, "Best not. Tasia is making me a briam today and i dont like to disturb her." Talk about rude.
So off they pissed and i did my favourite slight of waving once and immediately walking back inside.
I rolled my eyes at Tasia as walked thru the kitchen and she giggled. Mireille was here one day, speaks fluentish greek from the usual abusive marriage and being banished to the mountains. I'd seen off another ghetto grottie and was sniffing appreciatively the mousaká she'd prepared for our lunch. 'Not staying?' asked T as the car graunched down the drive.
"Tell her they stayed too long as it was" but Tasia caught my drift and giggled. Mireille said sternly something about me being soo rude; laughter all round.

Guitar - i've found the perfect acoustics, in the hall on the stairs where the sound echoes up. T very amused by my strumming and yet another axe. Her elder son plays but not well and she asked if he could come round and just hear, to which i said fisiká. He stood nervously so i handed him the Ovation and told him to stick on A. He looked nervously out to where his mum was sweeping. His english is good and i caid 'Cmahn! My house now.' He was not good so i handed him the Encore and told him to fool with it as i went off and pootled around. Tas' looked nervous so i got Nikos to translate that i smashed my axes every night, like all true bluesmen do.
Masses of mails so i'll end here.


Corfu Bluesman said...

Nice poem! Thank 'ee, Lanky

corfu bluesman said...

Incidentally, it's Kalo Himona, not Kali Himona!