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Tuesday, 2 March 2010

Terry and Mo...

Imagine, if you will, Rutger Hauer crossed with Jimmy Savile.  Got that?  The white hair, the crow like features and the enthusiastic Yorkshire grit all wrapped up in beautifully tanned chamois leather-esque skin.  This sums up Terrance Evans.


Terry and Mo

I encountered this veritable deity when I went on holiday to the Cretan town of Chania with my family in the summer of 2000.  When we arrived, the Sheffield bred adonis greeted us in the car park of the villa complex that he ran with his wife Mo (who claimed to be good friends with Sean Bean), and their daughter and Greek son in law.

"Hello folks, the name's Terry Evans, and this is me wife, Mo.  Welcome to New Kydonia".

Over the course of the two weeks that we spent there, Terry and Mo were the perfect hosts.  Parties were held for guests, local dancers came to perform, and my brother and I played football against some lads from the area.  The weather was stunning and the location was perfect.  All in all this was one of the best holidays I have ever had.

But one thing stood out from the time I spent in Crete, something that my brother and I howl with laughter at every time we think of Terry and Mo.

I was having a croque monsieur with Sean at the poolside bar/restaurant, soaking in the NK ambiance and listening to Terry burbling on about some adventure he had when he was in the navy.  It was a beautifully fresh day up in the Chania hills.  Suddenly the phone rang and Tel picked up.  He began to have a convoluted conversation with someone who was obviously calling from England.

"Yes, that's right, this is New Kydonia."

"Yes, we are listed in that directory".

etc. etc...

Then, a puzzled expression emerged on his face and he began to scratch his head.  "Who? Maureen!?  Let me think.  There's no-one by that name here, sorry."  An odd thing to say for obvious reasons.  Mo must have been short for Mowgli, or maybe Motown.  She had mentioned her love of soul music before.  The caller persisted and Terry grew increasingly flustered.  "Vangelis!  Do you know a Maureen.  This guy on the phone says he wants to speak with a Maureeeeen."  Vangelis shook his head - he didn't speak much English - and carried on mopping the floor.

My brother and I began to lose it at this point.

Finally, Terry twigged.  "Oh, Maureen.  Yeah, that would be Mo, my wife (of 35 years).  I'll just get her for you," and off he strode as if he had just has the most normal conversation of his life.

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