Greek skype sex

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It’ll be a Skype interview, says the producer from Greek television, and not live.

In TV-speak that usually means not urgent and not important, but I’ve become vaguely interesting to Greeks because of the ‘Moscovici draft’ — a doomed attempt to resolve the crisis, leaked to me amid denials of its existence.

Instead of me, a panel of five bearded men in an expansive studio are conducting an earnest preview of my interview.

When it starts, my face is on a studio screen twice the size of a human being and it turns out that Greek Skype is good enough to reveal what flavour of dog food you have smeared on your glasses and whether you have combed your hair.

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The audience is a mix of Syriza activists and bourgeois philhellenes, many of whom have never been to this part of London, an alley in Soho that runs beneath what used to be the Raymond Revuebar. The source mentions a figure for that day’s withdrawals from the banking system, which makes my face go the colour of a Brussels sprout.

The owner of the space is a Greek entrepreneur who has turned a former sex shop into an art gallery. We are hours from the imposition of ATM withdrawal limits.

When I try to ask a question, he does his Mr Spock look: ‘I haven’t finished, be patient, it is a virtue.’ He goes on for another 40 minutes: a cadenza of philosophy, economics and realpolitik.

‘Your finance minister is a bit weird,’ he tells one Greek journalist.

Rather than heroic, I think we end up looking immature and ignorant/intolerant of other people’s views, and in my opinion, lazy.

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