Dear Creationists, so much for intelligent design. So the complexity of the human eye amazes you and therefore must have been intelligently designed but what about all those phenomenon great and small that scream “design maybe but go back to the drawing board.” For everything beautiful there are too many opposites that simply deny intelligent design. For example the man embraced by the Pope whose entire body is covered in disfiguring weeping painful lumps, (neurofibromatosis) why, like The Elephant Man, Joseph Merrick, was he singled out for such a fate? What brought intelligent design to mind was reading on the news that 51 ponies in The New Forest have died agonising deaths by gorging themselves on a glut of windfall acorns which are evidently fatal to both horses and cattle. You would have thought an intelligent designer would have installed in the beasts a faculty for knowing what for their species is poisonous.

Creative Design has also produced the greatest stupidity. “When I’m not talking to God, I’m listening for His directions. I even moved to America to be closer to Him.” This had to be said jokingly surely, I mean we all know God is universal and you are closest to Him in a garden be it in New Zealand or America but no, it was said by Ray banana man Comfort, a believer in Genesis if ever there was one and, according to him, the banana having been intelligently designed to fit in the human mouth only goes to prove the existence of God.

‘The Creator of the universe went to great lengths to create the foreskin then insisted you cut it off”. - Makes sense – Richard Dawkins.

In 1993 Jawdat Ibrahim won $23 million in the Illinois state lottery and opened up a restaurant in Israel. He offers a massive 50% discount on the bill for all the customers who switch off their cell phones while dining in his restaurant.
Why?
Ibrahim is hoping to bring back the appreciation for food, conversation and good company.
In a 2010 survey, 67% of diners surveyed in Los Angeles, 64% in New York and 63% in San Francisco agreed that texting, checking e-mail or talking on a cell phone is rude while in company.
A Los Angeles restaurant, ‘Eva,’ offers a 5% discount to customers for leaving their phones with the host during their meal.

.A deli in Vermont actually charges people an extra $3 for using their cell phones.
For once just enjoy at least half an hour of food and good company with your friends or family and forget about technology.

By the same token I wish some restaurateurs would realize that loud music (not to everyone’s taste in the first place) kills conversation stone dead and it really is true that silence is golden

When a writer creates a character does he or she have a definite image in mind as to exactly what that fictional character looks like? I think so, in the same way as one imagines what a certain film location looks like only to find the locations manager invariably had a very different idea and has chosen somewhere not remotely like your imagining. So, whenever I watch television I look out for any actor who fits my mental image of what Thornton King looks like. Thornton King, for those not au fait with my writing, is my private eye in a series of comedy thrillers, the first of which is Dead On Time. I’ve seen half a dozen or so actors on screen who approximate to my imagining but now I have seen one who is without a doubt Thornton King exactly as I have always pictured him. He is an Irish actor by the name of Allen Leech and I came across him thanks to YouTube and a rather delightful Irish film, Cowboys and Angels. I believe he has been appearing in Downton Abbey but never having watched it I wouldn’t know what his performance there is like. I would certainly cast him on the strength of his performance in Cowboy and Angels. Tall, handsome, talented, just the right age (32) and oozing Irish charm.

So, if here is an astute producer out there who would recognize Dead on Time as a potentially terrific movie, (or television) and any of the other Thornton King adventures for that matter, look no further than Allen Leech for your leading man.

The Gravy Train

In these hard economic times when the arts are suffering cuts and redundancies there are still individuals who know how to milk the sacred cow, make hay while the sun shines or, rather, dig their greedy little piggy snouts in the trough (Three clichés in a row, whatever next?) There are bankers, industrialists, big business men, con-artists, politicians and, in this particular instance, I am referring to a lady who has herself been a part of the Arts Council and has in consequence reaped a rich reward. Who cares what is happening elsewhere and who’s to say she shouldn’t ride the gravy train? (Another cliché for you.)

The lady’s name is Andrea Stark who left her job with the Arts Council on a Friday, picking up a six figure redundancy cheque and on the Monday started a £95000 a year post as chief executive of High House Production Park, a workshop for the performing arts! Do I hear someone mention the glass ceiling here? As I read it for six months she had been on a fully paid sabbatical from the Arts Council while at the same time doing the High House job.  She knew she was in line for that magnificent pay-off and, sabbatical or no sabbatical, remained a member of the Arts Council long enough to ensure she got it.

Now she has obviously done nothing illegal but pardon me if I can’t help wondering whether our modern society is going stark staring mad and just where does the morality lie in her type of behaviour? If what I have read is true the facts speak for themselves. If I am in error perhaps Ms Stark would like to put me right and I will apologise.

In the meantime I will continue to think of her as a not very nice human being. That’s the mildest way of putting it. I could think of more explicit adjectives. Fortunately there are still those for whom money, more than they need, more than they can possibly use, is not the be all and end all in life. (More cliché?) I think of those who give large chunks of their fortunes to charity and on a smaller but equally praiseworthy scale someone like David Headly, owner of Goldsboro Books who has turned down the chance of making £100,000. He bought 250 signed copies of JK Rowling’s book before she was revealed as the author. They are signed “Robert Galbraith” and, once the cat was let out of the bag, (cliché’ again – you’re getting bored with this aren’t you?) They’ve been selling on e-Bay for over £1000. The shop had sold 130 signed books before Rowling was unmasked but the remaining 120 were sold at the cover price despite being worth about £120000.

Headly kept four copies, one for himself, the others for his staff. Now I have no doubt there will be those who consider him to be a total klutz for not grabbing this opportunity but I for one, in comparison to the lady above, have nothing but admiration for him and it’s a great pity there aren’t more like him.

Christopher Beeching has criticised my Blogs. He says I just sound like a querulous old man so my books must be the same and no one will want to buy them. Well no one’s buying them anyway but I’m sure it’s not because I’m a querulous old man but because there is no incentive. Rowling’s thriller sells like hot cakes (cliché) riding on the back of Harry Potter. Would it have done the same signed Robert Galbraith? Somehow I doubt it no matter how good it might be.

Well I am here to tell you my books make no pretension of being literature but they are (well the Thornton King series anyway – comedy thrillers) light, witty, entertaining, pacey, and fun; ideal summer beach reading and those who have bought them and found reading them on trains and planes, buses and trams, have been considered slightly mad laughing out loud. What more do you want?  Comedy thrillers are hardly likely to be intellectually demanding.

Unfortunately my website is well out of date. I have just looked up books by Glyn Jones on Amazon to discover there are ten thousand four hundred and sixty eight Welshmen of the same name, all scribbling away and the only book of mine found among that lot is my autobiography NO OFFICIAL UMBRELLA. I have recently started to use my middle name, Idris, as I haven’t discovered another Glyn Idris Jones though more than likely one is lurking somewhere. I should have changed my name years ago – too late now.

Well, if anyone’s interest has been piqued (second definition) these are the Thornton King Private Eye titles:-

DEAD ON TIME, JUST IN CASE, DEAD ON TARGET, THE CINELLI VASES, CELLULOID & TINSEL and the latest, written but not yet published, MEN AND THEIR TOYS.

Maybe Mister Headly would like to stock them at Goldsboro Books?

It is hot. It is so hot, a large tin of ham in the pantry exploded and, of course the meat was off. Such a waste. What cans of meat were still in the pantry have been transferred to the fridge just in case. That, by the way, “Just In Case” is the title of the Thornton King book, sequel to “Dead On Time” which hopefully will be published this year, “Just In Case” that is. “Dead On Time” came out last year. Strange thing about titles, the fact that they are not copyright but which are, according to all the experts, so important, I had no sooner decided “Just In Case” was to be my title when I read a review in the DAILY MAIL on a Friday that some lady had just had her first novel published and what was its title? You’ve guessed it, but I was buggered if I was going to change a title that so obviously suited the story just written. As for “Dead On Time”, there are at least five books with that title. If titles are SO important and give off so much information, often being the difference between success and failure, what does “Glengarry Glenross” tell you? I still haven’t a clue on that one.

Back to the heat. Could it really be global warming? I’m not in the least surprised. It’s not just factories and fossil fuels causing too much carbon emission, it’s another problem caused by this little old world fast becoming so overcrowded. Just over ten years ago, when we decided to move to this beautiful island, estate agents hardly existed. There was Jannis in Rethymno and a company called Contract in Xania, hidden away in a little office on the fourth floor of a building on a little side street. Advertising for property was there none. Suddenly in the small seaside town of Kalyves there were no fewer than fourteen; land was being flogged off everywhere on the Apokoronas, the roads saw a constant stream of builders lorries and concrete mixer trucks, builders and builders merchants have been having a field day with houses and shops going up as though there were no tomorrow. I wonder how many olive trees have been uprooted to make way for this excess of building, and these are not just holiday homes, many are for permanent residencies. The Cretans, who had never seen so much money in their lives, were selling off their heritage at the rate of knots. When asked why, the answer went something like, “My children will no longer have to pick olives and farm for a living but can go to university and become doctors and lawyers.” The first few thousand immediately went on a top of the range BMW or Mercedes.
Much of the problem was created by the fact that the price of British property had become totally ridiculous and gone through the stratosphere so that people could sell expensive there, buy here cheap, and have money left over to last them the rest of their lives. “Your dream home in the sun” was the slogan, fostered by cheapo television programmes but in some instances they, the estate agents, and the builders were selling false dreams. People bought without doing their homework, without thinking. They came out in the summer when the weather was hot and dry and they could laze away their days on the beach. They didn’t think that Crete also has a winter which, although short, can be wet cold and windy. They were in cheap houses with no heating (that’s extra), no insulation, damp, cold, and miserable. There was nothing to do but get pissed in the local taverna and regret their move. Bored and miserable because they had never thought out what to do with time on their hands, now it was time to sell up and go back home but, alas, for one reason or another, nobody wants to buy their dream home in the sun and they are well and truly struck. They don’t want to learn a foreign language. They expect the locals to all speak English and they don’t want to participate in any of the local customs. There interests lie in booze, karaoke and curry nights. One woman I knew actually said, “I can’t stand church bells, I hate sheep, I don’t like the Greeks.” In which case the question is, why on earth did you come out there and why on earth are you staying?
This scenario does not apply to everyone of course. There are those who have just been unfortunate and suffered because of developments and the passing of time. For example, some friends bought the most charming old house in the small and very quiet village of Drapanos. They are both ex-school teachers, intelligent, funny, and generous, and obviously adored both their new home and living in Crete. They no longer live in Drapanos but have rented an apartment in a different village because their beautiful house, which appears to be unsaleable despite enormous reductions in price, is now surrounded by actual housing estates. There is no doubt that with everyone trying to jump on the bandwagon, the whole thing has come off its wheels and one cannot help but ask, when is the bubble going to burst? Is it going to burst before more of the countryside is spoiled? There is no doubt the Crete we came to just over ten years ago is not the same and not for the better. The horrid increase in crime is an indication. Our dear old friend Anna just a couple of doors down the road who died some years back aged 93 used to say, “Why is all of Europe coming to Crete? Soon there will be no more trees, only houses, only houses.” Dear Anna, she should have lived to see this. It’s true the Greeks have a love affair with money and concrete.

Nice post today. I always look forward to the post here in Crete, whereas in England I used to dread its arrival as it usually consisted of enormous bills and demands usually without the wherewithal to settle them. That’s not to say utility bills etcetera don’t land on the mat here but they’re not as enormous as the British ones and one is usually in a position to pay although, as with everywhere else, the cost of living rises by the day. When there was one of the inevitable bank strikes that went on longer than expected leaving us with about six euro to last and we had to take one of the animals to the vet, “What are you worried about?” he asked. “What do you need money for?” (Well to pay him for a start though that obviously would have to wait and again to put things in perceptive or rather make comparisons even if odious, a visit to the vet in the UK is likely to set one back about £40 or more. Here the cost is 12 euro, roughly £9.50) “You live in a village,” he said, “you grow your own tomatoes, you grow potatoes, what do you need money for?” The Cretans are a wonderful people. When we ran out of heating oil with more’n a month of winter to go and had no money to pay for a refill, “Then berazi” says our friendly Haralambos at the garage, “No matter. Pay me when you’ve got it.” We told him it would more’n likely be a couple’ of months, possibly even more but it didn’t seem to matter. The next day the oil was delivered and indeed it did take a couple of months to pay him. The same thing happened with the local chemist when I was taken badly and desperately needed medicines we had no money for. “Take them.” Was the response. “It’s an emergency. Pay when you can.” Could you imagine for one moment that happening in England? Somehow I really doubt it. But back to the post. Order from Amazon arrived: two copies of DEAD ON TIME that a lady here asked us to get for her and two Kurasawa films, RAN and THRONE OF BLOOD, also contract from the BBC to turn DOCTOR WHO THE SPACE MUSEUM into an audiobook. Great!