At the End of the Day

The Slog

by John Ward

The Buddhist meditators were out in force in Eleftherias Park this morning. I’m not taking the piss here: without meditation in the CBT form I use, I would be considerably more angry as a person than I am. It’s nice to see people making peace with themselves, but I’ve never seen quite so many in one place before. I imagine that the numbers have gone up since the Troika started their antics, but I must confess that I don’t know one way or the other.

I went there to think, which is pretty much the antithesis of proper meditation, where one focuses on primary senses in Now, and tries to clear the brain of sh*t. What I mainly wanted to do this morning was (as the Americans say) get my sh*t together.

Today has been a history day for me…a fact that should be apparent from an earlier post. It started with a visit to the Greek War Museum, proceeded from there to some wandering around the less salubrious suburbs of Athens, and then ended up back at my hotel in an attempt to discuss the MerkeSchäuble austerity plan without evoking an immediate Stuka attack from Austro-German Anschluss trolls.

During my fairly aimless wandering about, I was able to confirm an initial impression that either every Greek bloke wants to be Anthony Quinn, or Anthony Quinn being cast as first the resistance leader in The Guns of Navarone and then Zorba the Greek was inspired. Perhaps both are true, but as you mooch about the varietal alleyways, markets, cafes and bars of Athens, it really is hard to shake off the feeling that Quinn’s gravelly, guttural and yet molasses-toned voice is everywhere.

I have tried in vain to copy it, but the attempt only results in my larynx colliding with my knees. You are either born with that effortlessly sexy voice, or you aren’t. I wasn’t, and the twisted bitterness I retain about this is impossible to describe.

But back here in my room, there is always CNN – the only news station on Earth keen to tell you that it’s raining in Adelaide, and pulsatingly hot in Tangiers. CNN is, however, a Mammonite palace of amusement, for only there can you find the complete range of insouciantly insincere globalised bank advertising.

I have to confess right here and now that I don’t know why these bankers bother. As a former adman, I can only tell you that had they come to me, I’d have recommended they maintain a low profile and give every employee an increased level of personal security. But no, these guys just keep on pumping out the hi-we’re-here-to-help sh*t on a 24/7 loop.

“Only Lakrimose Bank truly looks into the soul of your aspirations to deliver that unique level of outcome support day in day out” promises the rasping voice-over. “At Hong Wingapore, we go that extra mile to see you through the jungle of never-ending growth connections” says another. “Norodny Skunk: with you all the way to where you’re going and where you might go next because if you’re ahead of the game then we’ll be out there in front of the saps and by your side for the long run or the short haul and Goddamnit if only the f**king communication strategy wasn’t so inclusively unfocused”.

I’ve never been involved in assessing the effectiveness of corporate bogglebigglebagglebull advertising like this stuff, so I’m not really qualified to comment. But I’d be willing to bet the farm that the entire exercise is a very expensive wank in the Executive key-only washroom. And although the executives get to wash their hands afterwards, the shareholders get to pay for it.

Predictably, I’ve received some emails suggesting that I made up the comment about gigantic terra-cotta windiow boxes hanging on the smoked-glass exterior of a hotel here in Athens. Well folks, sorry to disappoint but the hotel is called the Royal Olympia, and you can Google it any time to see the reality for yourselves.

Things didn’t entirely pan out here as I’d hoped. But before departing, I’d like to thank everyone who made my stay more journalistically fruitful than I could’ve hoped. It is impossible to thank everyone, but I must single out a few for special mention.

I thank above all Eleni Gigantes for her tireless tours and cultural guidance in difficult circumstances. Nick Markakis and Antonis Kouimitzis are to be especially noted for their support of The Slog over time, and a fabulous fish dinner on Athens’ southern coast. And I cannot stress how useful veteran Slog threader Dimitris Kammenos was in filling in the up-to-the-minute political background. All gave generously of their time to an extent no reasonable human being could expect: and all confirmed my faith in the infinite nature of Greek hospitality.