Tuesday, September 11, 2018
It’s fair to say that it has been a interesting first few days here in Zante. Returning to the same resort every year has both its pros and cons, and knowing lots of people you’ve met over previous years will be here is probably both...
Anyway, let’s start at the beginning...
There is apparently a leak from the plane, delaying take off for an hour as we have missed our slot. Might as well break out our sarnies then. Of course, no sooner has the wrapper been removed from our WH Smith meal deal BLTs than the pilot announces we’ve been given someone else’s spot and we are taking off immediately. I’ve never eaten a sandwich at a 45 degree angle before whilst simultaneously holding the hand of the nervous flier next door and gripping my decaf soya latte between my knees. I don’t want to repeat the experience anytime soon...
Still, we arrive in Tsilivi only a few minutes later than intended to be greeted by the gang - Scott proudly wearing his #scottheretoo t-shirt we so selflessly produced for his last big birthday - only to be held up by a duck. There are many things you are worry about when staying at a new place (We’re giving the Contessina, our holiday home for the last three years a miss this time) but a psychotic duck being in residence isn’t one of them. I think he’s called Drake...
We’re soon all checked in to our apartment at the Piscina Pool Bar (a name that has already produce hours of schoolboy humour) and three large beers down in the process when Scott makes an announcement: “Right kids, I want you all ready TO GO and 6.30 sharp tonight, no messing you tardy fuckers...”
Sarah, looking slightly aggrieved, states, quite firmly “I was ready in half an hour last night I’ll have you know..”
Scott nails her with a gimlet stare and replies “Looked like 15...”
Along with a new place to stay, we decided to try a new restaurant out for dinner, The Botanic Gardens situated down the other end of town where we’ve previously stayed. So it was a good opportunity for a few bevvies at the Contessina before a heavily anticipated meal (Trip Advisor reviews being excellent).
Well, on entering the restaurant there was immediately a “vibe”. No friendly welcome, bright operating theatre type ambiance, and an extremely snotty clientele. I instantly fucking hate the place. I’m sure once we’ve sat down and ordered the carafes of local brake fluid all will be well. Er...no. They don’t do carafes of local hooch, just an extremely expensive list wines you simply don’t want starting with the cheapest at €20. Fuck that. I just know this is going to be an expensive, and shit night, especially as the waiter now appeared to be ignoring us. An executive decision needs to be made by somebody and it needs to be made now. I raise my hand and ask the rest of the gang “Right, does anyone actually want to stat and eat in this shithole?” No hands are raised and quicker than Hermione getting damp at the brandishing of Harry’s wand we’re all out the back exit. Except for Lisa who made the rookie error of going out the front and therefore having to explain to the restaurant manager why we’re doing a runner.
Thursday, May 31, 2018
Florida 2018 - Part 5
A few additional thoughts picked up on this, and previous trips to the US:
Americans have no concept of size, be it portions of food, cars, their waistlines or indeed the utter scale of their own country. We were constantly asked where we were from and as soon as we said “London” we got bombarded with bollocks such as:
“You must know my niece, she’s at RADA.” Apparently “And?” wasn’t the answer he was expecting.
“Oh my aunt lives in Cambridge!!” Apparently “And?” wasn’t the correct answer to that one either.
“My friends live in Scotland!!” Apparently “FFS!! It’s a different fucking country love!” wasn’t right for that one either…
I get it - to an extent. Florida itself is 30% bigger than England, and it’s road network is so good a couple of hundred miles is pretty much next door, there and back in a day territory. But show me one person in England who has sent their kids off to Uni who thinks 200 miles is “just down the road.” One girls even told me her mum being a 3 hour flight away was “not too bad.” That’s about 1,500 miles in old money. She just didn’t seem to comprehend that for us that got us to a different continent. I did have to explain the concept of continents to her of course, as she had never left the States before…
I should point out that most of the people were genuinely lovely, just trying to make conversation and hear our “fabulous accents.” (WTF? Dartford Loop anyone?) I said most of course, because RADA guy for one thing was a right cunt.
Royal wedding. G’zuz Christ on a fucking bike. I honestly lost track of the number of people who were so excited about the wedding and how wonderful it all was, now the Royal Family will be American. Worst of it all though, was it was ME they kept wanting to share their exhuberism with. Of course I’m more excited about the wedding than…than…than EXACTLY NO ONE!! When I told one mixed race lady that I honestly didn’t give a flying fuck about it, she looked shocked and said “But look, there’s now a woman like me in the Royal Family, they’re so much more inclusive now than they used to be!” When I pointed out that they have never been inclusive, and that that won’t change anytime soon, she gave me a look liked I’d pissed on her chips and went away in a huff. Job done, I believe.
The Letter E. You may never have noticed but the Yanks have a rather odd relationship with the letter E. On the one hand, they seem to think that adding one to the end of certain words gives them additional cachet of some sort. It’s never shops, but shoppes. It’s never grill but grille. And it’s never old but olde. I simply cant help it, but I have to pronounce the extra ‘e’, so when I saw a sign that read ‘Ye Olde Shoppes and Grille’ my head almost exploded.
On the other hand, they seem to hate words ending in E. Theater not Theatre, Fiber not Fibre, Center not Centre. Meter, liter, luster, manoeuver, oh, you get my drift… I wish they’d make their fucking minds up - wankres.
Lobster (and other seafood). Ah Lobster, that rare expensive delicacy you’ve probably only ordered when you’ve one the lottery, or someone else is paying. The tail meat is so pricey here that most lobster dishes you eat are probably made with claw meat (still very good, but can be chopped up and therefore go further, unlike the tail, which you want served whole, on the shell, drenched in lemon a garlic butter.) For just $10 you can have a whole lobster tail in a Po’boy roll and chips, as your fucking lunch. Ten bucks…hell, they have so much lobster here they even use it to stuff other shit. I had Flounder stuffed with crab and lobster for $20. A popular starter is shrimp (more of that later…) stuffed with lobster and crab. FFS! Lobster - the Coley of Florida.
Shrimp is possibly even more ridiculous. Show an American what we call shrimp in England and he’ll laugh and say “How cute, baby shrimp! Now where’s the real fucking deal?” See, in the US Shrimp is the generic term for anything we’d call prawns, scampi, king prawns, langoustine etc etc, but is pretty much always what we’d call a king prawn, but bigger. They’re huge, and unlike here, cheap. I had the shrimp dinner in one restaurant and it was ten shrimp, all the size of a baby’s fist, with fries, salad and sauce of choice for $18. Where in the UK would you even get them as a main course?
And don’t get me started on crab. UK crabs, those sad little things served dressed in the shell from the fish man outside the pub - fuck that. These are Snow crab, Stone crab, King crab, Blue crab. You buy them by the pound and they bring up a fucking alien. Perhaps it should just show you the picture below…
And finally Oysters. SKOB do 12 for $7 in happy hour, anyway you want them. 12. A dozen. For $7 dollars. That’s £5. Five fucking quid. Words fail me.
Monday, May 28, 2018
Florida 2018 - part 4
Now we have finally left the airport, I feel a few observations to make about Florida/Americans in general:
Driving: Americans do driving. The whole country is set up to drive places, with big wide roads, arrow straight, with a left or right turn every 1/4 - 1/2 a mile to keep things easy. Simple as, no worries. Of course the Yanks found a way to complicate it - and here’s a few of the ways they fuck with the English language and your mind...
It can be quite daunting as an overseas driver here, where you’re not sure of the local road conventions, but signs saying “Do Not Pass” (no overtaking, WTF?), Yield (Give Way, OK fair enoughish ), Stop (Give Way but actually Stop or get buggered by the Rozzers. Usually so far from a junction you end up stopping, then moving forward to be able to see what you’ve been asked to stop for, and then blues and twos appear in your rearview...). Many other variations of what we may expect also exist, some of which seem designed purely to confuse as much as inform, and fuck with the English language as much as possible, such as these you will see painted on the road:
England & ROTW: Bus
Stop
‘Merica: Stop
Bus
England & ROTW: Pedestrian
Crossing
‘Merica: Xing
Pedo
England & ROTW: Children doing SATs
‘Merica: High School Shooting
...sorry, I may have digressed...obviously that wasn’t painted on the road...other than in blood
Two other things are odd: 3) Now, the rules of the road here are very similar to here on the motorway/Freeway. Inside lane (Right hand one here) for driving and two lanes for overtaking. So far, so vanilla. Except...Americans completely ignore this. Overtake, Undertake, tailgate, don’t signal, across all three lanes. Expect any of these actions at anytime, along with the speed limit being a target to be beaten, rather than a maximum to be adhered to...although to be fair on that last one, much like at home. This behaviour is completely apposite to how they drive in town. A 20MPH speed limit might help, but generally Cyclists and Pedestrians have right of way, and if you’re standing at the kerb, even not on an ‘official crossing’, drivers will stop and wave you across. Please note I am not recommending you just step out, coz that would be moronic, but so far we’ve only been hit once...
6) And this is the kicker...A driver unused to the conditions could do what we did the first few times and stick to the right hand lane. Seems sensible and safe huh? Err, no, because every mile or so the right hand land becomes an exit and you are forced to move into the middle lane or sail off into pastures uncharted. Obviously, with every exit comes an entry, and the vehicles coming on come on on what has now become the inside lane, and you are in the middle, where you never wished to be, and party to all the malarkey mentioned in point 7) above. You can of course move back into the new inside lane (checking first that some fucker in a monster V8 isn’t already streaking up your inside) but before you know it the next exit is appearing and you move over and here the fuck we go again. So, we eventually have to adopt the American mindset to this conundrum which is this: Sit in the outside lane going at whatever speed you like and let any others road users undertake you if they’re in such a fucking hurry. If you need an exit all you have to remember is that you’re in a truck that weighs more than the planet itself and swing across all three lanes with naked abandon, middle finger raised in mock salute to the symphony of car horns and squealing brakes left in your midst.
Waiters/Waitresses/Servers: You get a lot of these when you go out for a meal. An hostess who walks you to to your table. A waiter or waitress who takes your order for drinks and food. Finally a small Mexican man who will bring the food to your table, and be completely foxed if you ask him to bring another bottle of wine over. They’re all lovely and always take the time to chat (except, of course, small Mexican man...) and ‘love your accent’, but suspicious old me, I wonder if this bonhomie is coming from a real place. Is all fakery to earn a bigger tip, the details of which are now helpfully included on your bill as suggestions of 20%, 22% and fuck me sideways 25% of your total bill. Fucking hell, for a group of four that’s like paying for a fifth person just to have someone carry something from the fucking kitchen for you!! My days...
(One of the reasons this gets my goat is that last time we were here the suggestions on the bills (which aren’t necessary anyway, I can chose my own sodding tip thank you very much 😡) were 15% and 18% which were ridiculous enough as it was.)
Or is it a genuine plea to get you to like them as they’re on minimum wage and without your generous gratuity their rent won’t get paid, their car will be repossessed, and their will boyfriend run off with their sister? I don’t think I can tell anymore, so here are three guys we’ve met so far who have made a lasting impression, perhaps you can decide for me?
G) Anthony (Hub Baja Grill). Pronounced Anthony in proper American style, our man is slicked- backed-hair-in-a-pony-tail, dark bearded, bronzed surfer Dood. Only smaller. He is extremely genial, (high fives all round) sells us on the steak special for the day, and is everything you want in a waiter. Except, he keeps slapping me on the back. Often for no apparent reason, and once so hard my dentures flew out and sailed right across the table...Everyone else loved him though... (Tipped 15%)
L) Serenity (Pierside Grill and Blowfish Bar) A tiny, beach blonde, Irish Catholic girl, who looks like butter wouldn’t melt, and sounds like a hitman from Brooklyn. The wrong side of Brooklyn. She endears herself to us completely when, after a screaming child constantly interrupts taking our order she turns round, and in that broad Brooklyn brogue suggests menacingly “It’s time to take that little fucker out...” only a heartbeat later suggesting she “didn’t mean it like that...” (Tip 20%)
4) Samantha (You can call me Samantha...) (Hub Baja Grill) Another little‘un. Built like a ballerina with long dark hair, dark complexion, pierced nose and bags of New Yoik attitude, this one is spot on. She offers us the pitcher of Margaritas (the best in the village, no arguments) but we decline as we all have Margarita hangovers from the night before. $2 Yuengling pints all round it is then. “You know what goes well with that to clear a hangover?” She asks. “No?” we reply. “A shot of Jameson’s on the side!” Howls of laughter ensue. KM asks if that has ever worked for anyone and she replies “Fucked if I know, but it sounds worth a try doesn’t it?” (Tip 18%, should have been 100%)
xii) Honourable mention Joe (S.K.O.B.) - Just a fucking lunatic. Shaven headed Puerto Rican who seems to match his customers shot for shot, judging by the state he was in when he served us, which was Super Genial. He’s so high everything arrives twice as quick, and even if a glass has one sip out of, it he offers you another. At first I though he was serving with a broken arm but it turns out the sling around his body (think bandolier...) is for holding his pencil and order pad. And probable his stash of coke to get him through the night. And maybe others too... (Tip 18%, coz we love the S.K.O.B.)
P1) LATE ENTRY! Last night at the S.K.O.B. turns up a late winner - Ladies and Gentlemen may I introduce the biggest, blackest, coolest man on the entire planet, an individual so awesome he has a country named after him - or more accurately is named after a country. His name? Er, Country...I say to him I’ve never met someone called Country and he replies “Me neither Dood, my old man has a wicked sense of humour!” He’s brilliant. When Lisa orders a glass of Pinot Grigio he offers his recommendation, North Coast All Stars 2016. Lisa locks him with her Paddington stare and replies “I want the cheapest one.” A glint in his eye, Country replies “No fucking problem! America is the land of the free after all! I don’t make the fucking rules, I jus’ follow ‘em!” I’m not sure if I’ve actually stop laughing at this yet...(Tip 300%)
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
Florida 2018 - Part 3
And so the question on all of your lips now is “Well, how did K Morris esquire lose his cowboy hat?” And the only answer I can give to that my friends is this: Through complete stupidity...
We need to rewind a little first through, and recall the minor inconvenience we had with Sixt when picking up our car. It went a little like this:
KM: We’re here to pick up our car (hands over papers)
Sixt: Marvellous (taps on computer) We’d like to offer you an upgrade. For just $10 extra a day we can sit you in a 30ft long battle-tank with 2,000bhp.
KM & LR: Let’s go and see...
30 mins later...
KM & LR return: No way, that’s too fucking big, we’ll stick with our Merc GLC please.
Sixt: Let me get that sorted for you...
20 mins later...
Sixt: There’s a small problem here. Your Merc GLC has been returned, but it’s come back needing a service...
And that’s how we ended up getting a free upgrade to The Beast...
“Alright Bucko, but when’s the stupidity going to happen?” You ask, obviously now on tenterhooks. Now, my friends, right now...
So, car sorted, we all drag our luggage and duty free down to the parking garage to load up The Beast for our journey to Clearwater. Now, there are a group of people in this world, who we shall refer to as fucking numpties, who insist on reverse parking into any space they see, presumably because they are too stupid to reverse back out. This causes a couple of problems for normal people some of which are: 5) It makes getting back into your correctly parked car extremely difficult unless you are a limbo dancer and 3) The boot is always jammed up against the front (or boot, if someone shares your numpty tendencies...) of another vehicle, making loading your shopping, or mahoosive holiday suitcases, rucksacks, hand luggage, kitchen sink etc etc that you may wish to load in a fucking pain in the bellend.
With the trunk lid up, I bang my head trying to load my suitcases. This is because I’m quite tall. Moz also bangs his head. This is because his hat is quite tall, so he removes it and puts it to one side. Loaded up, we climb into the car (literally, Lisa needs an orange box to get in...) and we’re on our way. As we exit the car park, we notice the Merc GLC we had originally hired, parked, front first, as, indeed is the correct way into a parking space. From here, it looks like nothing is wrong with it, and perhaps all that is required is actually a service. However, the fact that the whole front end is in the space next to it is rather a giveaway that it’s going to take more than some T-Cut and elbow grease to sort that fucker out...
“For fuck’s sake Bucko, has the stupidity happened yet? Geez you haven’t even left the airport yet!” It has, but bear with me, coz we don’t know yet...
We drive a lovely 40 minutes to Clearwater, one of our favourite spots on the Gulf. As we are unloading the car, Moz says “Shit, has anybody seen my hat?”...
And that folks, is the story of how my good friend Mr Morris succeeded in transporting his prized cowboy hat 4,500 miles from Swanley to Tampa, before failing miserably by placing it on a post behind our car, and driving 60 miles into the sunset. Conor Morris, king of losing shit, would indeed be proud...
Monday, May 21, 2018
Florida 2018 - Part 2
Florida 2018 - Part 2
So, I think I should perhaps apologise for my first entry this year which, due to three reasons, missed out some additional pertinent facts about our flight. These reasons are, in no particular order:
3) Very Drunk
1) Drinking Heavily
2) Over Tired
1) Drinking Heavily
2) Over Tired
Alright, I have already mentioned that as we are too poor to ever turn left getting on a plane, for us legroom seats are the best option for us on long flights. And on a 777 it’s proved to be a brilliant option providing acres of space in front of us (and a spare seat next to us as it turns out) with the only - minor - downside being near the bogs. And, of course, near the seats all the parents of young kids pick to have the space for all the shit a small person apparently needs on a transatlantic trip.
Which for young George next to us seems to consist of a carry-on case full of stuff that makes noise, or is soft and cuddly, or can be chewed on, or is a blanket smelling vaguely of sick. I think the bottle of bourbon secreted in there might be for his massively stressed out dad sitting in the row behind him (two of the “baby row” seats are out of commission due to ‘non-functioning’ seat belts...) but wouldn’t put my mortgage on it judging by the glint in G’s eye.
So, we have two things here to attract the plane nutters. 2) A space they think is like Times Square for them to wander about in with abandon and 5) A charming little man, too young himself to tell the nutters to fuck off. We’ve already mentioned the entitled nob who though he could stand in my paid for space like some big time Charlie nobody would dare challenge (boy did he get that wrong...) so now we should introduce our plane’s equivalent to Pontyberry’s Aunty Brenda - who, to protect the guilty, we should call Fat Old Stinky Bitch. This individual is a pink rinsed old biddy with wooden teeth, an original 80’s Sam tracksuit, and a vague smell of lavender, urine and follow- through accompanying her every move. She seems to think her seniority gives her Carte Blanche to approach any child unbidden and accost their cheeks and general personage while muttering inane gibberish whether the parents approve or not.
I happen to make eye contact with George’s mum while this extraordinary performance is going on, and her eyes read “Kill me now..!” but in capital letters. Her patience snaps, however, when FOSB, amongst the gibbering, mutters “who’s a good boy then?” Forcing George’s Mum to shout “He’s not a bloody dog you know!”
This causes two things to happen: 3) FOSB to step back in shock and 7) plant her fat arse in my face. Time often slows down at moments like this. I’ve have enough time to realise FOSB is wearing a pair of M&S’s finest size 18 bellywarmers beneath her vintage tracksuit, and they are in a shade known as 1,000,000 wash grey. Thank God I can’t see the gusset...
As her sweat-soaked tracksuit brushes my lips I shout out an involuntary “Oi!”of terror. She turns round, maniacal wooden grin on her face, and reaches out to squeeze my cheeks as if I’m a child primed for assault. The words “A gagagagaga” freeze on her lips and she recovers to ask “And what is the problem young man?” Fuck me, she must have been a primary school teacher, or Borstal prison guard, by the tone of her voice. “Get your fat arse out of my face!” I shout, resisting the urge to shove it away as I may never get the smell off my hands. “Well I never!” She sniffs, “There’s no need to be so rude, I’m just standing here to stretch my legs!”
“What?” I bark back. “So far, you have assaulted a stranger’s child and stuck your fat arse in my face. How much ruder can I be than that?” She is about to retort when I say “And that area you are apparently stretching in cost me an extra 50 quid so I could stretch my legs, so unless you’re willing to cough some dosh I suggest you piss off!” A look of complete horror on her face she does indeed piss off, shame she didn’t think to use the bathroom first...perhaps it wasn’t sweat at all...
George gurgles something to me which I’m sure was “Fat Old Cow” and we high-five for a job well done.
While here, you may have noticed me says how due to being 6’2” and 17 stone, I like, indeed on a long flight need extra legroom over standard economy class. I’ve mentioned above being unable to afford turning left when boarding a plane, therefore I take the option of paying a few quid extra for an emergency exit or front row economy seat, where the is much more space for my legs, and no tosse in front to recline their seat back into my face. Win-win. It’s just a shame that the 6’4” American footballer behind me didn’t get the memo and seem to think jamming his knees into the back of my chair is the route to a comfortable flight for all. Guess what it isn’t. So, every time he does it, I sit forward, and with the recline button pressed in, sit back smartly. It only took one beer in his lap for him to cease and desist his actions, and a comfortable flight was had by all. Well, me at least. Fuck knows what happened to him, but on a flight with 80 empty seats I assume he moved elsewhere and made someone else’s flight a misery. If he’d just not been such a tight bastard.
Finally I need to mention Mr K Morris esquire and his impressive cowboy hat. It made it all 4,500 miles with us from Swanley, to a night at the Premier Inn, and all the 9hrs 05mins to America on a big aeroplane. So how quickly once we got to had he lost his hat? About 35 minutes by my calculation. I’m pretty sure even Conor Morris would be proud of that...
Thursday, May 17, 2018
Florida 2018 - Part 1
Florida 2018
It amazes me how many people are able these days to log on to the internet, navigate the maze of hotel and flight sites, get passports, ESTAs, wrestle their young people to an airport and successfully through security without little junior’s game of thrones battle axe setting off the detectors, and yet when faced with a folding toilet door on an aircraft can’t manage the reasonably simple task of opening the fucking thing. Eight people have tried so far, everyone single fucking numb-nutted one of them failing, having apparently ignored the the four foot square sign on the left half of the door proclaiming “push”, the added clue of a hand pictured on it obviously a waste of the artist’s time - as everyone of the fuckers has so far tried to open the door by pulling on a small ashtray on the outside of it (a relic of Soviet times no doubt...) and failing miserably. One woman failed so badly she started to have a little grizzle to herself and started heading back towards her seat before our lovely stewardess, Georgina, took pity on her, placing her hand on the picture of the hand painted on the door, and, as indicated, pushing gently, opening the door for her. Patience of a Saint that girl. And fuck knows how said woman is going to cope driving on the other side of the road, I think her head will explode...
Other than that, our extra legroom seats are wonderful. Eight foot of clear space in front of us, and the generous arse width a 777s seats provide more than make up for being next to the bogs. Until, of course, when mid-flight ennui sets in and everyone, and of course their babes-in-arms, decide that this is a good spot to come and stand to relieve their arse-ache. I keep my legs fully extended, and when one bloke complains that I’m “blocking the standing area” I quietly point out to him that I’ve paid an extra fifty quid for this privilege and he can fuck right off back to his seat if he doesn’t like it. He does...
I must mention George, a great little bloke we met on the flight, with a rather natty dress sense in shark leggings and transformers tops. George in 7 months old and obviously a seasoned traveller. He is also a Gorgeous George as one other small child, a little girl about 14 months old, keeps walking past and giving him the eye. The thing about George is that the for the entire 9hrs 05mins of our flight, he does not sleep a wink. He makes almost no noise, except when his parents nod off, but is almost completely silent, and completely wide awake, for the whole flight. They try a sky cot, they try his own sproingy chair, they try passing him between mum and dad - even I have a go - but the little fucker won’t sleep. His poor mum takes a look at my noise cancelling headphones and says, a tear of remembrance in her eye, “I used to have those, back before...before...”. She then has a quiet cry to herself while I play snap with George.
Tampa, as an airport, has won all sorts of awards including best in the U.S. I have been to a few, including JFK (awful, just god awful), Miami (just no, please no...), Orlando (Kill me now..), and Las Vegas (Fruit Machines in the queue for passport control) and this is rather good. Friendly staff, quickly through immigration, bags already on carousel, car upgrade to a tank, what’s not to love?
We must take a moment to mention The Beast aka a 2018 Ford Expedition XLT (Extra Large Tank), all 5,600lbs and 375bhp of All American Massiveness. I’m 6’2” and need to step on the running boards and use the hand grip to get in. My missus, all 5’ and a fag paper literally has to be helped in. As for getting out, it’s a lottery. We generally try to park near something soft for her to land on, but it’s been a bit touch and go...
It should be pointed out that this car has the same engine as the current Ford GT, which is of course the closest any of us will ever get to that halo car, even though despite the beast’s twin turbos it’s 300bhp shy of that piece of automotive excellence. Despite this, and it’s massive weight, it don’t half shift when you hit the loud pedal. It’s so good through the huge puddles the biblical storms we’ve been having are leaving all over Ft Myers that we now have a new favourite game...
Saturday, September 23, 2017
Zante 2017 - Not part 4
Zante 2017 - FFS NOT PART 4
Note: lack of promised CIA funds to protect the guilty has lead to code names being used throughout this article.
Venue: Halfway House
Date: lunchtime, probably Thursday
Attendees: SK, DT, ST, MW, SG, Me, LR, TK
Security Level: Mild Gossip
Me: they made you dress as what?
SK: Leprechauns, it was very funny!
Me: it sounds like staff abuse to me, and vaguely racist.
SK: no, no, it wasn't racist, they made the Irish girl do it to! *mimes handing out leaflets* it was very, very funny (less conviction this time) I had a big head…
SG: I don't get it, how do you dress as a lesbian?
SK: *less sure now* no, not lesbian, leprechaun *mimes Irish jig, potcheen drinking and falling over*
DT: well short hair and DMs for a start…
SK: no, not les…
ST: …and dungarees, probably oil stained from their job in a garage…
SK: …bian *seeming rather unsure where conversation has gone*
SG: it just seems strange making you dress as lesbians, is it a gay bar?
SK: leprechaun, you know…*weak smile*
MW: fucking lesbians, what's wrong with just liking a bit of cock?
LR: why did you have a big head?
SK: *long, long pause, then quietly, pleading* you know Leprechaun…
TK: look at this video of SK teaching a mate to ski! *cue video of man falling arse over tit down ski slope*
SK: leprechaun…
And you're all moaning that I'm not doing a blog…
But look, you're here now, and we hit a bit of pregnant pause last time, so…
The Pikey Viking AKA Rag ‘n’ Bone Man, part two, and what a cunt he proves to be…
So, we’re all meeting at 19.00 sharp at the Contessina bar, as per. But boy, is it packed tonight, and we’re restricted to sitting in the NW corner of the bar, only just avoiding the ignominy of the pondy Pringles and Doritos display.
Luckily, there is an large gap on the west side so I go plonk myself down - right next to R’n’B man. Now, being a happy-go-lucky fella and generally, as I know you'll all agree, geniality personified, I say “hi” to the bloke and “how’s it going?”. I simply get grunted at, and have some beer drunkenly slopped over me. Fine, no bother. SG has summoned me away to the other side of the bar with the promise of a comfy chair and a good time, and I leave the troglodyte to his own musings…
So, now to the fun bit. Our seating plan ends up thus: I'm at the undesirable NW corner of the bar, with SG to my left, and DT to my right. Then running down the W side away from me are LR and MW, with a gap to our Viking god. So far, so meh. Unluckily for ST, she is last to arrive,and we all joke that as last down she has to take one for the team and suffer the wrath of our new friend. However, it soon becomes clear that this approach is not going to work…
Initially we’re all laughing at ST’s discomfort, but it soon becomes clear that there is a nasty edge to what's happening a few stools down. You know, ST is a strong girl doing and fantastic job for a major UK organisation, so she can most certainly handle herself, but she seems most uncomfortable. As do MW and LR. Where I'm sitting I can't quite hear what is going on, but all the girls look pretty pissed off.
As it's a fair list of misdemeanours I'll summarise:
He made sexual references to all three girls, regarding both looks and body shape.
He offered to show at least one of them his cock, while rubbing his groin suggestively.
He decided, without being asked, to join in our little “chink before drink” game, but being so drunk he ended up throwing his beer all over the bar and Sot.
A couple of minutes after the beer incident he decided it would be hilarious to whack ST on her arm as she was about to take a drink, covering her in wine. He just laughed and said “That's what I do when I'm out with me mates.”
Out with your mates? You're a 32 year old bloke on holiday with your mum and dad. Undoubtedly you don't have any mates and if you did I'm pretty certain stunts like that would have you sitting on your own again in quite short order, you complete and utter waste on DNA.
Of course we complained about his behaviour and weren't surprised to find out we weren't the first. As the week went on he got worse, causing an unfortunate older lady to spill her tea all over herself, being exceedingly rude to the bar staff and eventually earning himself a ban from the bar. Oh how we laughed when we found out he had already been barred from several other bar including Two Brothers and Drunk Moon, but most surprisingly Jolly Roger! He was actually banned from Jolly Roger 😳😳😳. I cannot even comprehend how awful his behaviour must have been for that to happen.
Fortunately his appearances during our stay were rather limited and didn't prevent the usual shenanigans of Raki, Ouzo and Baby Guinness shots from the lovely Sot, stories of derring-do in Austria and whether it was a wet or dry summer for all our favourite Greek boys (😂😂😂) being discussed in far too much detail but that, of course would all appear in a blog, which of course I'm not doing. And so, till next time…
