Unviewable

Who remembers the Hancock sketch where he's taken a who-dunnit out of the library only to find that someone has removed the last page? An increasingly demented Hancock visits each previous borrower, grabbing them and shouting "Who did it? Who did it??".

I'm in a similar situation, having rented the intriguing Untraceable from the local DVD store which - aarrghh!! - went on the blink at the moment when dishy Diane Lane's wimpo sidekick (played by Tom Hanks' son) gets kidnapped by the murderer and taken down to the acid bath.

I took it back to the shop and expressed my frustration as well as urgent need for a replacement to put myself out of my misery.

No, they didn't have a second copy, but if I rented one from elsewhere and let the owner know the how and where and when of the crucial dastardly deed, he'd let the others know.

Aargh!

The NYT gives it a scathing review but I was rather riveted to the Lazee-boy recliner - until Hanks fils got grabbed which is when I starting kicking the canine and eyeing the bourbon.

Clever Times, it also gives the link to the killwithme website featured in the movie where the more ghouls log in, the quicker the hapless victim dies.

Our heroine - 'Jennie Marsh' works for the FBI's cyber crimes division and churns out geeky argot that I totally fell for but which won't for nano-second fool the likes of apond or edgeworth.

Whatever the ultra-sexy Ms Lane is, she's not a 'Jenny'.

Check out the skilfully spliced trailer which, par for the course, made me wonder if I'd seen the same movie.

CRAZY JUMBLED PHOTO

No idea where this came from.

I pressed a key combination, there was a burp and the screen went blank.

When I'd returned via Safe Boot, this mix of select photos was there ...

If you click on the mélange, it enlarges for a clearer view.

From top left:

• My favourite Xmas cards sitting on 'God's Guitar'; the table cloth is from the Philippines; yellow plate was what I ate a delicious bangers 'n' mash off.
• "God's Guitar": the rays of the sun streaming through onto the Ovation (see a previous post and Mr Wells' stern caution about turning into Barry Manilow)
• I went to ground for a whole day to avoid a synod of religiosi. Actually, it was less to ground than up in the air because I chose the shell of a magnificent hotel that had been abandoned - ran out of cash; family couldn't agree on final format, whatever - and sat all day reading a Chandler that a recent house guest had left behind.
• One of the many shots I took at my favourite musical taverna 'To Pouli Tsi Kotas'
• Overlaid on God's guitar is a pic of some of the contestants at the annual Pelekas grafiti competion.
• Finally, bottom left, one of the many photos I take of a nearby construction of a 2-storey maisonette that we long-time Gouvia/Kondokali residents *know* will sooner or later flout a major building byelaw and allow us to halt the developer in his tracks.
  • He's already in big enough trouble.
  • Not local.
  • From Potamos, all of 5 mins drive away.
  • One more slipup of that magnitude and his dreams of property mogulity are toast.

EPIPHANE

Epiphane Poem

courtesy of Mr Wells

La M x 2

How weird. My two favourite songs are both La Ms.

Mer - 1955, Hong Kong: I used to play this non-stop on the juggernaut Grundig, carefully changing those 78rpm needles.

Montagne - 1967, Tours, France: I was meant to be learning French at L'Institut de Touraine but I actually spent my time strumming au Bar Havas, hobnobbing with pals at Poitiers Uni, and relentlessly pursuing the beautiful Miss Wendy Fursman (who will almost certainly have her attention drawn and lose no time firing off an irate mail for me to remove this indiscreet tribute sans delay).

Everything I learned about life, art, songs and cinema of la belle France, I learned from the wondrous WF. Ferrat is one of the artistes she opened my ears to.

Bless you, Wendy, wherever you are; no doubt a perfect wife and mother.

Consular Christmas

I am a huge fan of our new Vice Consul, Mrs Sarah Ticherou, and her well-behaved blog.

No grey hairs there for the Ambassador, although I bet they monitor these cosy fireside chats for any sign of anyone going 'troppo'.

Speaking of going native, I notice that a thinly nom-de-plumaged 'Ian' lost no time planting a smoochy 'Comment' across the Ticherou blog:

"Great to hear that you are helping the expats," purrs 'Ion'. "As a small consulate you do a great job."

Then the Hoplite goes in:

"Besides the replacement of passports etc, why is it necessary for us to fund a massive embassy in an EU capital like Athens?

Our palatial embassy in Paris is a terrible anachronism. Why is there major diplomatic representation in any EU nation?

Once the Irish no-vote is mangled into a 'yes' vote and we have a de facto European constitution, how can any diplomatic representation within the EU be justifiable?"

By the Sirens of Titan! If that isn't hitting on our fragrant vice consul, I don't know what is.

Honestly! I thought *I* was the only unreconstructed sexist still stalking the land. I hope the plenipotentiary powers-that-be can turn a blind eye long enough for Mrs T to respond in suitably miffed and robust fashion.

As soon I read the 'Ian' comment, I sped to the Temple of our Merciful Panayia ton Xenon and set blaze to the very largest candle. Pray the gods I was in time.

But I digress.

The pic I originally put up there showed Mrs Ticherou flanked by colleagues. A lovely Flickr pic but they took it down - no doubt to thwart nuisance-makers like me.

Sarah's Embassy link: Time-saving tip.  Don't click too hopefully on the link to the British Embassy website itself.

To enter this Aladdinopoulos' cave, Apache Roller wants you to 'sign up'. Alas, one of my 2009 vows is to cut down on just such bandying about of my online details.

Monday Morn

Only problem with the clean life is that one wakes at sparrow fart feeling eeerily clear of eye and compos of mens, dangles leg over side of bed without wanting to flop right back - and positively bounds out to the patio to collect Sambo and Koutsi's food bowls.

Which is where and when this sort of view hits one in the eyeballs prompting enquiries of the beasts,

"Yo! When did they start churning this out on the assembly line?"

I should be a bit frail because I spent most of last night/early morn watching Apocalypse Now Redux on the biggish screen with the Sennheisers clapped to my ears - actually the best way to hear this movie because so much is Sheen's gravely voice-over and the soundtrack itself is suitably shrieky and dante-esque. I kept whipping off the cans to check for weirdos slithering around outside.

Redux: I was once walking with John Updike into a lecture and Q&A on his latest oeuvre when the dour scribbler gave me a sharp look: "These people do know what 'redux' stands for?"

I gave a confident Marxist wiggle of the eyebrows even 'tho I myself had not yet looked it up.

Close shave and, once I'd got it right, much fun watching the literary types squirm as I hissed, "By the way, he'll ask - you do know what 'redux' means?"

One bright spark who must remain nameless because Selina hates being caught out:

"Of course! But just remind me how the Americans are defining it these days ...."

Masterly! ... 'these days' ... clever girl.

I Wanna Sing that Rock 'n' Roll

I *do* wanna sing that rock n roll, as it happens, but I want more that you enter 2009 with the sound of Gillian Welch (hard G as in God) and David Rawlings in your lug 'oles.

To be truthful, I just want you to hear David's unbeatable solo that always gets a cheer.

All my cool music, I ripped or turned onto thanks to my buddies at Amazon.

Except one whose name I'd possibly overheard in a drunken reverie during my London chemical days.

I'd been joshing with my fellow 'Zonian QA-sars and mentioned Kraftwerk as suitable background muzak for whatever I was droning on about. (Do listen to the hilariously posh Beeb voice 'explaining' K'werk to us hignorami).

My dears - nothing usually distracted Lord of the Night Krue from his alchemical PERL rummagings but at this he actually turned from his console and 'made comment'.

Turns out, the horrid man wasn't agog at my spot-on choice of band but that I'd actually heard of them in the first place.

I've never forgot that and wherever I go, the cooler the rave or rendez-vous, I have my unsmiling line ready:

"Yes, marvelous, I adore [INSERT NAME], but why don't we warm up with a little Kraftwerk, hmm?"

Never fails to leave them speechless and blank of expression. So satisfying.

Weighty bonus track: This one cleaned up real good (and don't you adore DR's lush locks?)

Believing it's not beurre

Back on Bainbridge, I knew it weren't butter like our mum insisted on but I bought it all the same for good old fry-ups and spreading on toast.

By the way, I came across this review only because I was trying to find an explanation for that yukkiest of sensations, damp toast. OMG, you get the toast perfect, you spread your healthy Greek boutiro, you spread your Church fete orange & lemon marmalade as crafted by the Beautiful Widow's own soft hand ... then you crunch in except it ain't a crunch 'cause the underside has got all damp. What a way to start a day on the trail.

But back to the vitriolic assessment, and gosh I'm glad I didn't read this at the time.

(Actually, in cases like this, they always slightly remind me of sedition critics who, it appears, rant away in detail about all the closely-analysed points with which they disagree to the extent that they would never evAH read a filthy word)

In this case, it's as if the chap is saying

'Good god, I'd never go near the muck, wouldn't touch it with a barge pole, I mean if I even spot the label I throw up and if I spotted it in a friend's house it'd be onto the dumpster or I'd be driving home.

'Let me show you a list of all the ingredients and their effect ... sitting comfy, yeh?'

Good album

I subscribe to "Google News Alert", not just because it's a nice lazy way to ensure linkage to latest scandals or society chatter on the isle, but because it occasionally nets mirth-providing blogs of hilarious cosiness and gorblimey ineptness whose owners are usually to be found traipsing around the marina or not a million miles away from my own bent elbow in the Navigator bar and gossiparium.

This photo album is a cut above the usual and shows energy and imagination in framing some of the snaps.

Cranial-Rectal

I've suddenly gone pompous of late when mixing with the local 'Bright Things'.

At parties, I make a point of calling loudly for tonic water and lemon, squinting sourly at the 'Players' as they strut by with their treble wodkas and cheroots and giggly tottie under each arm.

"If you have to recover from having a good time," I intone mournfully, "it was not a good time."

(Emphasised by the colourful pic of the Sirens offering Ulysses just one more for the wave)

Everyone thinks that sounds terribly wise and mature and oh so boring but I find it rather inspiring in a way that I have not managed to squeeze from the raft of self-help books and wagging fingers over the years.

It's in fact a direct crib from the Master's "New Year tips for a successful cranial-rectal extraction" and I'm not saying any more by way of identification because I also see in his addictive blog that those who curse and revile him and ask who'd be idiot enough to read his ravings do so with the precision and familiar detail that comes only from long and apoplectic study of the culprit scribblings themselves. Apparently, their vilifications also display a familiarity with his work and home life (or something), so I'm giving no hostages to fortune.

But to come back to recovering from a good time - an essential element akin to my not being present for the Sixties - I've worked out that I have absolutely no idea what booze is and have behaved accordingly throughout my years of knocking it back.

Alcohol, on the other hand, has my number bang to rights: if there's a cartoon of assorted liquor bottles at a card table, I'm the twittering buffoon looking smugly round to identify the 'mark'.

Which for some obscure reason reminds me of another Sedition goodie - and what a glorious pic it is, perfect for every occasion and mea culpa

'Vole meets Hawk, Hawk eats vole'.

Apart from the characteristic magnificence of the bird of prey, note the bright-eyed expression of the vole as if it's being held in a tender parental grip ... until you notice the trailing entrails.

Magnificent shot and ugh.

LILIES OUT OF SWIMMING POND

I set myself the task of fitting the pool cover on to stop it leafing over.

First I needed to clean what was already in the pool which meant even firster getting those effing lilies out of the SSW corner.

I'm not an idiot. I don't deliberately chill or inconvenience myself unless there's a pretty girl to showoff to or loads of dosh at the end.

Do you know, I could not yank those pots out: just too heavy and watery, sooo ...

At a friendly 44 fahrenheit outside and what looked like 40F when I dipped it in the pool, I went into the pool and grasped the water-logged deadweight and just yanked it onto each step til i could finally heave it onto the ledge and clamber out.

(Actually, it felt pretty good to be out and wonderfully warm, tho' I would have liked a shapely witness to be google-eyed at my devotion to duty and haul me under the warm shower and rub me down.)

I don't want to see those bloody plants again ...

Comment: Tally-ho! Mr Wells to the rescue! A witty poem for which I have the perfect Damsel/Samsel foto.

Look closely under the surface of the pool by the blue deckchairs and you'll see the accursèd lily pot that I dragged across and out on this brass monkey of a day.

"Gasp, went the google-eyed damsel with glee:
cojones pequenos - a shock for to see;

It's just the cold water
caused this slight loss,
a shower will fix it
and then a quick toss?

So the gardener and damsel
exit stage left,
leaving Sam much like Argos
alone and bereft."

Cosset Centre

I hardly dare show this. Indeed, how dare I *do* show it and risk resentful hordes descending and trashing the place like some Facebook parteh? (and hey, how long 'til folks learn NOT to post their feting on that site?)

Tassia just left, after cleaning and cosseting and prepping me another feast.

And you lot slaving away in the office and then home to Hoover and pan ... by the oven of Alcmena! How long can this slackery last?

I am lying low and reading Harold Acton and listening to early Pentangle (I'm not sure there ever was a 'late' version of that wondrous ensemble) and ignoring all calls and textings.

Perfect weather: drab day not quite raining; no movement outside; Sam lying by the fire, lucky fellah; Koutsi the cat prowling for foolhardy rodents.

I have a theory about the game-legged K: ever seen Drunken Master martial arty craft? The expert reels around like me on a Friday midnight, fooling the opponent into dissing him as sloshed and easy prey. But whoops! How come he can't lay a finger oh him, swaying out of reach at the last minute? Too late. The killer blow lands and it's over.

K weaves her way around the rat who thinks 'whoa, this is easy ... crippled kat? Let's have some teasing fun ... hey, she wasn't meant to go there, say what? I'm cornered ... aargh, I'm being clawed and toyed with ... heelp!" Crunch munch gnaw.

She has the vilest peasant voice, as if she'd crawled her way up from the street and under the car where ... oh yeh, that's what she did.

Elocution lessons for YOU, ma chere, I threatened.

Then I phoned my darling in Prague and in the background came the sound of her aristo Burmese showcats and they had exactly the same yeowl, so forget the elocution.

Honourable Exception

Thank gawd Bruce Forsyth wasn't given a gong.

Come to thank of it, thank god I didn't knw he was even in the running or it would have messed up my christmas and new year praying for some thunderbolt to avert such a calamity.

I can't bear to think of it: "More than 15,000 people signed an online petition demanding a knighthood for Forsyth ...". Wasn't there a cheeky headline in some Brit rag after Dubya had been elected asking how could X million voters be so thick? Cheeky! As was the Grauniad's plan to have readers phone merkan voters and plead with them to vote sensible. When the Brits get it wrong, they go whole hog.

But back to that awful man with the jutting menton, surely honours don't descend to prancing buffoons? Clearly they do.

Come to think of it, didn't he flounce off with some bimbo - Anthea someone? Giggly assistante on his show but I'm sure she was mahvelous to cuddle. I think his wife gave a suitably dry comment about him being such a baby, as well as a warning to Anthie about some of his older maid habits.

With luck, before 2010 rolls along, Brucie will have done a Wossy and blotted his copy book and ensured that the honour rolls retain a smidgeon of honour themselves.

villa thefti

WIND OF CHANGE

Also, rather good mini version - albeit somewhat longwinded intro' - with the singer doing his good whistle and the guitarist (on an Ovation) doing a v accomplished backing.

And while on the subject of change, Bob Dylan's Changing Times by Peter Paul and Mary.

My dad fancied big-boned Mary something rotten back in the '60s. Thank God he wasn't still around to see her in her current version.

Fanciable version

Now