Twenty odd years ago in Virginia I was having a conversation with a student friend when he informed me seriously that a kiss on the lips was sexual. No doubt about it, it was always sexual. Strange people these Americans. I don’t remember how this popped up in the conversation but he wasn’t going to have it otherwise. In that case, I said to him, I must have wanted to have sex with both my mother and my sister as I kiss both on the mouth. Here in Crete, if the conversation were to be continued and needed more examples, I must lust after ladies in their eighties and nineties as they purse their lips the minute they see you coming. I do remember in London when I shared a flat for a while with our friend Tom, his amazement when he saw me kiss my sister goodnight. “You KISS your SISTER???” He had never kissed his in his life. Strange people these English, but it has not always been this way. I read in a Dickens Christmas Story of a young girl pursing her lips in readiness for her father’s kiss and in “Anna Karenina” the adjutant pursing his lips in readiness for his general’s kiss. And think of Hamlet brooding over the skull of poor Yorick and the lips he had kissed a thousand times. Did this make Hamlet a horny little bugger and Yorick a paedophile? It is so nice to live in a country where people are still not afraid to be tactile. The way adults behave with children here and the natural way children respond would raise suspicious eyebrows in England with its terror of paedophilia where teachers are not allowed under any circumstances to touch a pupil for example. Even a friendly pat on the shoulder can be open to misinterpretation. Sad really that it should come to this. More and more regulations and laws are passed to try and stop child abuse, some totally absurd, like a mother who drives her children to school, if she should take anyone else’s kids, she has to be vetted. I know child pornography and child abuse is horrible and certain measures have to be taken to try and stop it, there have recently been two cases of women in positions of trust over children who have been found to be totally perverted, but Canute didn’t have much success trying to hold back the sea and punishment and the threat of punishment has never stopped human beings from all the other nasty activities they get up to. It would in fact seem an intractable problem. Even when I was a kid all those years ago, “Never take sweets from a stranger” was a maxim in the mouths of anxious parents but the pendulum has swung far too far. Children now must grow up afraid of their own shadows. Childhood hardly exists anymore though I suppose. By the age of three you are already being groomed for talent shows.
But on to Tolstoy and “Anna Karenina”, two thirds of the way through and I’m afraid I have grown distinctly bored with it. It’s no wonder I’ve never taken to the Russian classics. The greatest novel ever written is the heavy burden it might carry but Tolstoy is no stylist. Dickens beats him hands down when it comes to that. Of course it may be the translation that’s bland but I don’t see how this could be. It has been interesting to read after the Sofia diaries and to note how autobiographical some of it is, particularly in the character of Levin who I have no doubt is the man himself. But more of Tolstoy another time though, talking of style, think of Coward’s aforementioned “Brittle people, these Oliviers”. He could have chosen to use any of half a dozen synonyms; fragile, breakable, weak, frail, delicate, but he chose brittle which is just perfect.

“Toot Toot Pom Pom! Jim bring the medals.” So my sainted mother used to say. “Stop blowing your own trumpet.” I think one of the problems I have faced all my life is that I have never really been able to blow my own trumpet, certainly not as an actor, not with any conviction anyway and for an actor that is definitely a no-no. Yesterday I received a quite charming (and somewhat flattering) fan letter from a couple in Lancashire for DOCTOR WHO – THE SONTARON EXPERMENT and goodness knows how long it is since I was in that. It isn’t the first fan letter received for that particular show but this is what it says, ‘…we would like to tell you how much we enjoyed your work both as a writer and as an actor. Your work both on and off screen throughout the classic scenes was outstanding, the role of Krans in the Tom Baker story THE SONTARON EXPERIMENT was very well portrayed and brought added strength to the storyline.’ With the letter were two photographs for signing and it feels strange to look at myself as I was then, quite handsome really (trumpets!) with a week or mores growth of red beard and a full head of hair.
But now I am going to blow my trumpet, quite loudly in fact, though I doubt Jim will bring the medals. If I were to die tomorrow I would do so knowing with satisfaction that I had written two quite remarkable pieces; one a play, the other a novel. The play is THE 88 which, despite its severe mauling by the London critics is, I do believe, still my best work for the theatre. Having been brought to my attention yet again by an enquiry I have just reread it. There are other plays of mine of which I am particularly fond but none as powerful as this. The other work is the novel ANGEL which again I have just reread, this time for proofing, but again I was struck at how remarkable the writing is and sometimes found it hard to believe it was actually I who wrote it, particularly as I originally penned it many many years ago when very young and, as a writer, still figuratively wet behind the ears. I hope both the play and the book will be published this year. Despite my pride in achievement I doubt they will be runaway bestsellers and, being published in Greece, they certainly won’t be eligible to win any prizes, but I know of all my work I will get the deepest satisfaction out of seeing them out there. The Thornton King books are maybe fun and clever and there are other plays of which I am fond but ANGEL and THE 88 are in a class of their own. Now I will put away the trumpet and get on with what looks like what is going to be a lovely day.

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The advanced ideas inherent in Ingrid Jonker’s poems have made her a recognized literary figure internationally, with her poems being studied, translated and published in many languages including English, German, French, Dutch, Polish, Hindi and Zulu. The collected works of Jonker, including several short stories and a play, were published in 1975 and re-issued in 1983 and 1994.
Former President Nelson Mandela, in commenting on Jonker’s poem Die Kind (The Child), which he read out in full in his inaugural State of the Nation address to Parliament in May 1994, said, “… in this glorious vision, she instructs that our endeavours must be about the liberation of the woman, the emancipation of the man and the liberty of the child”. Of Jonker herself, Mandela said that: “She was both a poet and a South African. She was both an Afrikaner and an African. She was both an artist and a human being. In the midst of despair, she celebrated hope. Confronted by death, she asserted the beauty of life.”
Ingrid Jonker’s sensitive, humane and forward-looking perspectives have made her a literary icon of a whole new generation of Afrikaners and South Africans, who have re-discovered her relevance in a free and democratic South Africa.
Why, suddenly, to I talk about Ingrid Jonkers? Quite simply because up to now I had never heard of her and probably would go on that way were it not for the fact that my sister, Ceri, who has been an extra in a film about her life, told me about her and made me realise how ignorant I am of my home country’s artistic heritage. The playwright Athol Fugard I know because his plays have been produced extensively in the UK and I played in two productions of “A Lesson From Aloes”; firstly in Edinburgh and then in Liverpool. Was in fact asked to do it a third time, in Sheffield, but decided then that I wouldn’t do it. It was a wonderful experience but an emotionally draining play, particularly in Liverpool where I had the good fortune to work with a director I would have worked for any time any place (a rare phenomenon) and a wonderful actress. At one point during rehearsals, as I think I mention in my autobiography, Bill said, ‘For God’s sake, will you two stop being so generous with each other! But honestly we couldn’t help it. It is that kind of play and there was that rapport. Also in Leeds I took part in “Statements Under An Arrest Under The Immorality Act”, in which I took the small part of the policeman, but the sop to Cerberus was the first half of the evening when I read from Fugard’s diaries. I also directed “People Are Living There” at RADA. I know Mark Behr because I have read both his novels (maybe he’s written something since that I know not of) “Embrace” and “A Scent of Apples” but it is not surprising that I am so ignorant about South Africa having left in 1953 and only been back twice both for a short time and, meanwhile, there has been a lot of living to do elsewhere.
And, so annoying this Blog won’t go out right now because, for some reason, we’re off line! Hey-ho, how reliant we are on modern technology

Now I know I swore I would not return to “That” subject but, like an Edgar Allan Poe story it keeps battering its wings against my window pane. It would appear, if this weren’t so serious it would be funny, that while old Popey is fulminating against a proposed English law that will make life a little more equitable for gays, a homosexual vice ring has been discovered in the Vatican! Heavens to Betsy! Whatever next? Not exactly in old Popey boy’s bedchamber but pretty darn close. Isn’t life just full of surprises? No sooner has he had to cope with Irish and German priests misbehaving very badly indeed when this lands on his mat. Well, let’s not get all philosophical about it. People will just never learn, in particular infallible Popes, but that really goes without saying.
Reading “The Baron of Piccadilly” the life of Albert Smith 1816-1860 by Raymund Fitzsimons I read this, if I may quote (the book is in copywrite for a few years yet) – “In Brussels the English tourists were everywhere: loudmouthed and ignorant in the museums and galleries; noisy and irreverent in the churches. They spoke no language but their own and expected immediately to be understood. They were arrogant and rude to those who served them, and they were tolerated only for the money they spent.”
There’s nothing new under the sun and nothing ever changes. There are a number of expats here and holiday makers every season to whom that description is applicable. You would think Britain still ruled the waves. Mind you, German holiday makers have a pretty gruesome reputation, especially on the beach, and especially large pushy ladies with sharp elbows as I remember to my cost at Taormina. So let’s be fair, it’s not just the Brits.
Noel coward is reputed to have said, “How potent cheap music is!” He could just as well have said it about good music. Since watching “Sweeney Todd” again the music goes around and around in my head and not just two or three numbers but virtually the entire score: solo, chorus, instrumental. This week we also watched “A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum” so it has been a Sondheim week. That brought back happy memories of the summer season at The Wayside in Virginia. I see “Private Lives” is revived once again in London and getting good notices. That too was a wonderful play to be in, especially opposite a remarkably talented actress who it was a perfect delight to work with: a small town, a small, theatre, a small company and a big experience never to be forgotten.
Coward was rightly famous for his off the cuff quips. At a rehearsal for a Royal Variety performance at the London Palladium one year he was seated in the stalls and Laurence Olivier and his then wife, Vivien Leigh appeared on stage both having recently suffered an accident and were either bandaged up or on a crutch, I don’t remember which, and Coward was heard to say, “Brittle people, these Oliviers.” Can you not just hear that fruity voice in those four little words?

The heater is on in my study this morning. An icy wind (gale really) blowing down from Europe where the weather it seems has been absolutely terrible, though it seems to have abated somewhat at the moment. At least the cyprus trees I see from my window which give me an indication of the wind force are not exactly bending in half. I hope it hasn’t knocked all the blossom off the yellow plum. The tree looked absolutely magnificent a few days ago and I reckoned we’d have a great crop so I’ll take a look later and see what damage might have been done though why look? Ti na kanoume. What can one do? I guess another hundred oranges are on the floor as well though we are now coming to an end with them for the moment. In no time at all the trees will be flowering again.
“The 88” raises it head again. Had an e-mail from one Oliver Hawes, grandson of the mutineer Joseph Hawes. Oliver never saw the play though evidently relations of his did, but he is now more than ever interested in the happenings in Jullundur in 1920 when a section of The Connaught Rangers mutinied and for which one, James Daly, was shot. In my autobiography a whole chapter is devoted to The 88. It was produced at The Old Vic in 1979 and came off very fast after the London critics, with one exemption, had a field day tearing it to pieces; we believe not because of the play itself but because of its content, being put on shortly after the assassination of Louis Mountbatten. Judging from
Some of the reviews one would think a play is written on Monday, rehearsed on Tuesday and up on the stage Wednesday. In actual fact it took fourteen years for it to be produced and rereading it, after my correspondence with Oliver, I still think it is one of the best things I have ever written. He evidently would like to see it produced in Ireland although that is naturally where I first tried with no success; The Abbey of course and the great Tyrone Guthrie who, if I remember correctly, was quite snooty about it. What a furore the play created when it was put on, the television sponsors wanting their name taken off the posters for a start. Quite idiotic really. They had the script a goodly while before the play went into production. If they had any doubts about it they had plenty of time to make their objections. The basic fact I suppose is it is quite probable nobody at the TV company bothered to read it.
Oliver is the fourth person in the last year to contact me about the play. He now wants to write a book about his grandfather. A few years back Irish TV made a documentary about the mutiny, concentrating on Joseph Hawes which is why this has all come up, and Oliver sent me the DVD which was very interesting and moving. He asked if the buildings, which are still there to this day, are as I imagined them when writing the play to which the answer of course is not really. Unless you were to see photographs or visit the actual location you get a picture in your head nothing like the real thing, just an approximation, but close enough for stage presentation. Of course a designer could always go a step further and do his own research but naturalism wasn’t part of the brief anyway.

To dinner yesterday evening at our famous local pizzeria: famous around here that is and known to all and sundry but not exactly local, situated about four kilometres away in the village of Litsarda; the village where every year we attend the panagyrie that seems to attract more and more people each year. There used to be a pizzeria in Vamos but it gave up the unequal competition. Everyone would drive passed on their way to Litsarda. There isn’t a great variety of pizzas there. In fact I’m not too sure they would know how to produce any varieties but the ones they do consisting of a straightforward and a vegetarian; that is tomato topping instead of meat. However they are delicious and Elleni makes the best chips in the whole world. That, together with a Greek salad and wine makes up our meal every time. No, Douglas doesn’t drink wine so usually has something like a gozaza, a fizzy drink rather like cream soda used to be. Good grief, Charlie Brown! When last did I taste cream soda? When last did I have ginger beer? Unheard of things these days more’s the pity.
The restaurant itself is nothing to look at, more of a large open space with tables and chairs and in summer there are tables outside. You can arrange the tables according your party. Last night we were no sooner tucking in when who should appear but Brian Smithakis and Marie so we attached the next table to ours to make room for four and were in for a delightful evening as Brian is a fund of Irish stories which he tells with relish and like poor Yoric is wont to set the table on a roar. The lovely thing also is that no matter how many times he tells his stories he obviously relishes them and laughs ass much as any of his listeners. Marie says she’s been hearing them for twenty-seven years and still finds them funny and I can quite believe it. Mind you she can be a bit Irish herself or more. She tells of when she had a phone call from someone who said, “I have this phone number but no name, who am I talking to?” And she said, “Hold on a minute, I’ll go check.” And if that’s not Irish I would like to know what is.
Soon the pizzeria will be moving. Unlike some of our favourite eating places that alas with the passing of time are no more, it is just moving across the way to where they are building a new one. Evidently the lease is up on the current premises and anyway they feel they are now paying too much rent. They’re not the first business on Crete to pull out because of greedy excessive demands. It will feel strange no doubt not going to the one we’re used to. Well, can’t be helped, sometimes it’s called progress and what a lot of progress we’ve seen since we moved here all those years ago.

Blog day comes around again with unfailing regularity – fatuous observation - and I sometimes wonder if I won’t run out of ideas or topics of conversation. This is number 78 of the current series (doesn’t that sound grand?) Goodness knows how many there were before the computer crashed and virtually everything on the hard drive was lost. Fortunately Spiros, our marvellous computer man in Xania, no, he was in Xania, he has now moved to Souda, managed to save most of the Thornton King book “The Cinelli Vases”, number 4 in that series. Because of the writing that was lost for a while I really didn’t feel like picking it up again but in some ways the loss was beneficial as the new writing exceeded the old and ideas were formed that previously didn’t exist. I wish I could say the same for “The Museum Mysteries”. I seem to have come to a full stop on that one. Writer’s block? And I am only a quarter of the way into it. Oh, well, there are plenty of other things waiting in line so I may go back to it before the year is out. Who knows?
Here we are two weeks into the seven weeks of lent, not that that means anything to me, all starting off with Carnival preceding Kathari Theftera, Shrove or Clean Monday, one of the most important dates in the Orthodox calendar being the start of that fasting period leading up to the most important festival of all – Easter.
Carnival is very big in Greece, major cities having a parade of floats that goes on for ever and even smaller towns, like our neighbour Kalyves, having a parade of sorts. The silly wigs come out and the costumes, shops do a roaring trade with costume hire for carnival, the men have an excuse to get into drag; French maid or nurse’s uniform seem to be the favourites and some are truly grotesque. It seems the uglier the man the more he is into the transvestite bit. It’s like women with the ugliest breasts are the first ones to go topless on the beach. The children are all in fancy dress, with the boys Zorro is the particular favourite. The little girls seem to have much more imagination.
Clean Monday itself, following hard on carnival, is considered the first day of Spring and is celebrated in various ways. A special bread is baked called lagana. In our neck of the woods it is kite flying time and the beaches make ideal launch pads. If it’s not kite flying then possibly it’s excursions into the mountains and picnics. In Galaxidi the good citizens indulge in a battle in the streets with coloured flour which leaves the streets anything but clean, and inTymanos they evidently celebrate Dirty Monday drinking wine from phallic shaped cups and telling sexy jokes. This surely must go way way back to Dionysian revels. At least no one gets torn apart by bloodthirsty religious crazed Bacchae. Not that I’ve heard of anyway.