Friday, September 30, 2016
Zante 2016 VIII
Zante VIII – The final days (Part I)
So, once again we find ourselves at the bar, south side of
course – we’re not fucking numpties you know – and the banter is thick and fast,
Sot demanding to be filled in on our day.
We’re telling him how earlier, whilst sitting in Sunset BOULEVARD having
lunch, we watched a small girl fall off a tour coach. Much laughing ensued until she picked herself
up and we realised it was our Nephew’s fiancée.
Poor lass is so small her little legs couldn’t reach the ground. Welcome to the blog Sarah & Dan J It’s good to have you
on board. Sot seems keen to meet them,
so we tell him what has happened since they arrived…
Within an hour of
their arrival we are three beers deep into lunch and the guys, who haven’t had
yet eaten, have the munchies coming on. When
the food arrives – Nephew has ordered a hot dog – Nine, our barman for the
afternoon sesh – mentions that it is nowhere as big as his cock – before
whipping it out and slapping it on the bar.
Luckily, the cock in question is made of wood, and forms part of his key
ring…
During our evening pre-prandial Sherries, while Sot is off
serving some people sitting north side who quite frankly don’t deserve his
attention, we are in full on nickname mode.
We have a man who looks so much like Rick Parfitt two people have asked
for his autograph. He looked completely
bemused, but fair play, he put his guitar down long enough to sign it for them.
We then spot a couple that must be new to the hotel who,
obviously knowing their place, sit in the North East corner of the bar. As you know of course, this is as close to
banishment as is possible here – with only the Northwest section (behind the
crisps) and the Eastern flank being more indecorous places to sit. Although she’s not a looker her hair and make
up are perfect - not a hair out of
place, or a nail unpolished to within an inch of its life. She notices me staring and so I give her that
non-committal nod of acknowledgement you give people you wish to have no
contact with. Surprisingly, perhaps
misinterpreting said nod, she beams back at me and oh dear sweet jesus god but
doesn’t she just have a mouth full of rancid black teeth – like a bagful of
spanners you might say – and the illusion is not just shattered but ground down
into a billion pieces under heel. I gag on my Aperol spritz, but fortunately
she soon leaves in a cloud of grey smoke and the woosh of her broomstick, a
barely heard cackle echoing through the ether.
She now goes by the name Hag-rid.
We then meet a seemingly innocuous looking chap called
Barry, or B.B. as he has been christened.
Nice enough bloke, but when you ask him a reasonably simple question,
such as, well, I don’t know, say “do you come here often?” the next thing you
know you’ve heard about every trip he’s been on since 1977, his divorce, his
wife being welsh and just about anything else you can imagine other than an
answer to your simple fucking question.
To be fair, we do find out that his brother has a villa in Spain –
Stiges to be exact – but he doesn’t go there because, between you and me, his
brother is “riding a different bus from us” and he “don’t like spending a week
with me back against the wall”. And
there I was thinking the first B stood for Boring… His wife, an ancient looking
sort in a lemon yellow dress, too much makeup and a bun you could break
coconuts on nods along sagely.
Apparently she’s 54 which makes me 15 if I’m a day.
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Zante 2016 VII
Zante 2016 VII
More pool time
There are few things that happen around an hotel
pool that make you nod sagely to yourself as you realise a lot of people leave
their brains at home before boarding the plane for two weeks of sunny
bliss. Then there's behaviour that is
just plain annoying. And then there's
things that just make you shake your head at the absurdity of it all. Pool life can be like that.
Take, for instance, the aforementioned
Werthers. Here's someone who surely
wouldn't stand outside his Blackpool terrace singing at the top of his voice,
but here in Zante booming out O Sole Mio from the middle of the pool seems
perfectly reasonable. Fortunately, he’s
much more likely to be playing with Billy's balls. If I had a penny for every time he told Billy
not to punch the ball because it could go anywhere, only for his return throw
to smack some poor poolside punter straight in the moosh, I'd have 17p.
And then there's those women who if they even
glimpse so much as a bra strap on a girl back home think them a floozie, but
get them here and they're are quite happy to flop their baps out around a pool
full of strangers without a bye or leave.
Sorry, but if I want to see a load of squashed conference pears I'll
just nip out to the back garden thank you very much.
Oh, and who can resist the members of the older
generation, who wouldn't dare leave home unless dressed in shirt, tie, jumper
high-waisted trousers, Macintosh and above all else sensible shoes, suddenly
transformed from beige caterpillars to rainbow hued butterflies via sleeveless
tops, gaudy Bermuda shorts and life threatening crocs. They often seem as bemused as I do by what
they are attired in.
Funnily enough, the thing they are most likely
to forget to wear is sunscreen - their fried pink heads and upper bodies
glowing neon pink in the sun...the shade...and the downright dark. I'm pretty
sure if you touched some of these people with a wet finger you get a 'tsst'
sound.
Another thing I really struggle with is the
Fussing Mother, who insists on micro managing the whole pool/holiday experience
for her kids. If it's not the one
million different inflatable pool toys, creams, towels, and snacks provided for
the kids getting on your wick it's the constant running fucking commentary to
the them regarding what they can, cannot and shouldn't be doing delivered in a
piercing, constant stream that can be heard from every corner of the pool
area. Luckily Billy is too busy playing
horsey with Uncle Elvis (isn't the child usually on top?) and the little girl
too small to honestly give a fuck what her mother is drawlingly on about e.g. fussing mother tells girl not to get in pool. Girl gets in pool. Fussing mother tells
daughter to stay near edge. Girl goes to
middle of the pool. Fussing mother says
don't make me come in and get you. Girl
Rebecca Adlington's it towards the deep end.
This Fussing mother is also responsible for The
Worst Pool Toy Ever Made making it to our lido.
It's an extremely anatomically correct shark you're no doubt supposed
to be able to ride along on. For some
reason it is covered in a green and grey camouflage pattern and has handles on
its side for you to grip onto. Note
that; Sides, not top. On the top is the
obligatory dorsal fin standing proud, along with the expected curved top that a
shark would, naturally, have. All this
has obviously been designed to look very sharky, and, with the exception of it
being an army shark, have pretty well succeeded. What they have not produced, however, is a
useable pool toy. Basically, it works
like this:
Remember those handles yes? Well holding on to the causes the dorsal fin
to press into your solar plexus. Wriggle
about to stop this and it flicks up to hit you in the throat. From this position you try to grip the curved
sides of said shark with your knees, which are wet, slippery and therefore to
no avail. Add the fact that the shark
centre point is up under its massive, overinflated head and any human contact
with it and it tips over backwards tail first into the drink.
We watch Billy try to hold the shark at the edge
of the pool and mount it horse like. We
see him attempt to superman onto in the middle of the pool. We see Billy's dad try to hold it still while
he sneaks on unnoticed. And every time,
without fail, he is deposited backwards into the pool like a rodeo rider from a
bucking Bronco. Ten minutes after
purchase the camouflaged shark lays unloved and unnoticed in the undergrowth
(see what I did there?....ahem..)
More pool fun, that had us enjoying an extreme
amount of schadenfreude, occured on the Saturday, when hotel staff bring their
kids in to enjoy the pool. I've no
problem with this per se, but when these kids yell and scream and don't respect
the boundaries of the hotel guests, who let face it have paid to be there, then
I feel I have the right to be thoroughly peeved.
Two young boys, perhaps seven or eight, were the
worst culprits, running about reckless between sunbeds, bombing into the pool
and generally making too much fucking noise.
This was irksome in the extreme and at one point Lisa was forced to pin
one of them down with her Paddington Bear stare. Imagine the hilarity ensuing then when, after
the two boys got into a ruck at the side of the pool and one of them gave the
other the full two handed shove in the back into the water – he was immediately
stung on his head by a wasp for the trouble.
Oh how we wept with glee, instant karma indeed!
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Zante 2016 VI - A Handy Guide
Zante 2016 VI
The Four Sides of the Bar - a public information announcement
The centrepiece of the hotel, the fabulous bar, run by the even more fabulous Sot, is the place where many guests spend a considerable amount of their Holiday time, and indeed their hard earned holiday moolah. It is a truly excellent place to spend an afternoon, evening or both, but there is a certain hierarchy that is to be adhered to.
The bar at the Contessina is square, and its hierarchy is best explained by points of the compass. Noting such, let us begin:
The south side of the bar is the only part that is fully outside and is where all the best action is. Only the cool kids sit here on the tall wicker effect bar stools, and you sit uninvited at your peril. Rookies may make this mistake on the first night, but you WILL be crowded out to the point where you suddenly find yourself sitting by the pool. You will know quite quickly if you are one of the cool kids. If the barmen neglect to serve you within a couple of minutes best tuck your tail between your legs and seek libation elsewhere. Good for us we are part of the cool kids gang - myself holding the lofty title of Sot's 'very, very best friend' - it's not unknown for him to hoof some unbearable oik out of their seat so we can sit at our allocated spaces at the CK table.
Special notice should go the the SW corner of the bar, specifically the two seats immediately past the corner. They are still outside and therefore these too are legitimate cool kids seats and there is no shame in plonking yourself down here, you may just have been a bit tardy.
Western terrace. You are a complete an utter wannabe. You think you're with the CKs but we are just mocking you. Take your small Mythos and medium white wine and just fuck off out the way.
There is, however, an exception to this. If you are nice looking and have great tattoos you will be welcomed round the cool side for an audition, but only if you are drinking cocktails and not wearing anything from McKenzie. And no, gin and tonic doesn't count as a cocktail.
North side. Oh god, you really have to just be completely desperate to park your arse here. Sit here, and even westerners will mock you. This is where midgets and fatties go, anyone who can't get themselves up onto a proper rocking barstool. From the cool kids southern aspect you all look like primary school children who can't quite see over the counter, but fatter. You are on holiday and you are sitting inside. You've probably moaned about the heat and food since you got here. Honestly get yourself some cold ones from the offy and piss off back to your balcony.
North West Corner. Oh for fuck's sake you nob end. You're behind the Lays and Pringles display, who the fuck is even go to see you there? This is definitely where thirsty, stupid people go to die.
Eastern terrace. You've given up completely haven't you? You're a complete Nobby No Mates and don't even have a proper barstool to sit on. Instead there's some tall leather covered chairs with arms so high you sit with your elbows up by your ears. You can see all the party people through the glass, but the bouncer won't let you in. You probably ordered a tea or coffee didn't you?
I do hope this handy guide has been some help to you.
The Four Sides of the Bar - a public information announcement
The centrepiece of the hotel, the fabulous bar, run by the even more fabulous Sot, is the place where many guests spend a considerable amount of their Holiday time, and indeed their hard earned holiday moolah. It is a truly excellent place to spend an afternoon, evening or both, but there is a certain hierarchy that is to be adhered to.
The bar at the Contessina is square, and its hierarchy is best explained by points of the compass. Noting such, let us begin:
The south side of the bar is the only part that is fully outside and is where all the best action is. Only the cool kids sit here on the tall wicker effect bar stools, and you sit uninvited at your peril. Rookies may make this mistake on the first night, but you WILL be crowded out to the point where you suddenly find yourself sitting by the pool. You will know quite quickly if you are one of the cool kids. If the barmen neglect to serve you within a couple of minutes best tuck your tail between your legs and seek libation elsewhere. Good for us we are part of the cool kids gang - myself holding the lofty title of Sot's 'very, very best friend' - it's not unknown for him to hoof some unbearable oik out of their seat so we can sit at our allocated spaces at the CK table.
Special notice should go the the SW corner of the bar, specifically the two seats immediately past the corner. They are still outside and therefore these too are legitimate cool kids seats and there is no shame in plonking yourself down here, you may just have been a bit tardy.
Western terrace. You are a complete an utter wannabe. You think you're with the CKs but we are just mocking you. Take your small Mythos and medium white wine and just fuck off out the way.
There is, however, an exception to this. If you are nice looking and have great tattoos you will be welcomed round the cool side for an audition, but only if you are drinking cocktails and not wearing anything from McKenzie. And no, gin and tonic doesn't count as a cocktail.
North side. Oh god, you really have to just be completely desperate to park your arse here. Sit here, and even westerners will mock you. This is where midgets and fatties go, anyone who can't get themselves up onto a proper rocking barstool. From the cool kids southern aspect you all look like primary school children who can't quite see over the counter, but fatter. You are on holiday and you are sitting inside. You've probably moaned about the heat and food since you got here. Honestly get yourself some cold ones from the offy and piss off back to your balcony.
North West Corner. Oh for fuck's sake you nob end. You're behind the Lays and Pringles display, who the fuck is even go to see you there? This is definitely where thirsty, stupid people go to die.
Eastern terrace. You've given up completely haven't you? You're a complete Nobby No Mates and don't even have a proper barstool to sit on. Instead there's some tall leather covered chairs with arms so high you sit with your elbows up by your ears. You can see all the party people through the glass, but the bouncer won't let you in. You probably ordered a tea or coffee didn't you?
I do hope this handy guide has been some help to you.
Monday, September 19, 2016
Zante V interlude - top ten holiday hates
Things I hate about holiday
Putting on suncream. Oh god, this is such a ball ache. Trying to turn yourself into a contortionist to get the damn stuff, always reticent to come out of the bottle I might add, into every nook and cranny that may have the slightest amount of sunlight fall upon it - probably all whilst having to look at your own pale, slug like body in a mirror - is a good enough reason alone for never leaving your house in the first place.
Shaving. With a mere 20KG of luggage available, every ounce saved when packing is vital. And so rather than my expensive Gillette turbo seven 12 blade GTI with extra moisturiser strips, go faster stripes and bulky case, I appear to have inherited, for holiday purposes, a pack of Bic single blade, single use disposable razors from the 1970s. They are, by any sense of the word, complete agony to use. Dragging a broken Mythos bottle across my face would be smoother, more effective and less likely to leave me with rivers of blood running down my face and into my wine - those little pieces of bog roll used to staunch the flow of blood having long since sweated off in the heat. Complete and utter ball ache.
The toasters at breakfast. You know the ones. With the little conveyor belt that disappears the bread one end and spits it out the other ever so slightly warmer than when it went in. Unless you repeat this three times you're having bread, not toast. This is a real traffic jam and leads to something that shouldn't happen at breakfast. People talk to you. Really, you've got a mother of all hangovers following a night of Mythos, wine and cocktails more colourful than Dame Kiri Te Kanawa's holiday wardrobe and folk want to talk to you about how slow the machine is. Please don't do that, there are knives nearby.
Those little packets of butter - it's as if of someone said how much butter shall we put in these? And the answer was 'too much for one slice of toast, but not enough for two.' And whatever you do, don't try buttering anything but red hot toast with them, those frozen little fuckers will make mighty quicker work of ripping to pieces a slice of bread or seed topped roll than you can say 'how's your father?'
And don't get me started on those little milk cartons...are they made by the same people as the butter? One leaves your coffee almost identically black and two render more milky that a wallet-breakingly expensive super size from some poncy high street coffee vendor. JUST GIVE US A BOTTLE ALREADY!
Trying to get a decent cup of tea. Look- PG + Hot Water + plus milk not from the aforementioned little cartons, OK? You can do it, the supermarkets even sell real milk not three metres from your own front door!! Really, come the fuck on...
Noisy trees - what the actual fuck? No really. How can trees make so make fucking noise? FFS.
Sunbed Grand Prix - for fuck's sake you numbskulls - it's 7.45 in the morning and you're prowling round the beds like a prizefighter waiting for sharp ding of the bell.
Coach transfers - so having breezed through what passes for passport control and know for a fact that you hotel is just 3 miles away, your holiday company thinks that the best way for your trip to commence is to heard all passengers going vaguely in the same direction on to a musty old coach, that is hot as hell, and send you on the way. You will, of course be with an ancient old duffer behind the wheel who speaks no English, and a bright and breezy tour rep whose only knowledge of the local language is how to order the morning after pill following a night in the company of some local lothario she has amazingly got drunk enough to slip her the D. They then circle passed your hotel while dropping other people miles from where their holiday stay is. Then, despite having driven passed the front door to your hotel 7 times, they drop you at the bottom of a hill leaving you to drag your all the way back to the top. Arse biscuits...
The welcome meeting. No honestly, you are welcome. Please steal an hour and a half of my holiday to try and sell me overpriced trips, give me 'secret' local knowledge any barman will tell you is bollocks, and pretend we're going to get on like best mates for the duration of our stay, then not show your face again for two weeks. To balance this out you offer us all a free drink for attending. Thanks, but I can get a glass of powdered orange at the bar anytime I fucking want you complete and utter wankers.
Putting on suncream. Oh god, this is such a ball ache. Trying to turn yourself into a contortionist to get the damn stuff, always reticent to come out of the bottle I might add, into every nook and cranny that may have the slightest amount of sunlight fall upon it - probably all whilst having to look at your own pale, slug like body in a mirror - is a good enough reason alone for never leaving your house in the first place.
Shaving. With a mere 20KG of luggage available, every ounce saved when packing is vital. And so rather than my expensive Gillette turbo seven 12 blade GTI with extra moisturiser strips, go faster stripes and bulky case, I appear to have inherited, for holiday purposes, a pack of Bic single blade, single use disposable razors from the 1970s. They are, by any sense of the word, complete agony to use. Dragging a broken Mythos bottle across my face would be smoother, more effective and less likely to leave me with rivers of blood running down my face and into my wine - those little pieces of bog roll used to staunch the flow of blood having long since sweated off in the heat. Complete and utter ball ache.
The toasters at breakfast. You know the ones. With the little conveyor belt that disappears the bread one end and spits it out the other ever so slightly warmer than when it went in. Unless you repeat this three times you're having bread, not toast. This is a real traffic jam and leads to something that shouldn't happen at breakfast. People talk to you. Really, you've got a mother of all hangovers following a night of Mythos, wine and cocktails more colourful than Dame Kiri Te Kanawa's holiday wardrobe and folk want to talk to you about how slow the machine is. Please don't do that, there are knives nearby.
Those little packets of butter - it's as if of someone said how much butter shall we put in these? And the answer was 'too much for one slice of toast, but not enough for two.' And whatever you do, don't try buttering anything but red hot toast with them, those frozen little fuckers will make mighty quicker work of ripping to pieces a slice of bread or seed topped roll than you can say 'how's your father?'
And don't get me started on those little milk cartons...are they made by the same people as the butter? One leaves your coffee almost identically black and two render more milky that a wallet-breakingly expensive super size from some poncy high street coffee vendor. JUST GIVE US A BOTTLE ALREADY!
Trying to get a decent cup of tea. Look- PG + Hot Water + plus milk not from the aforementioned little cartons, OK? You can do it, the supermarkets even sell real milk not three metres from your own front door!! Really, come the fuck on...
Noisy trees - what the actual fuck? No really. How can trees make so make fucking noise? FFS.
Sunbed Grand Prix - for fuck's sake you numbskulls - it's 7.45 in the morning and you're prowling round the beds like a prizefighter waiting for sharp ding of the bell.
Coach transfers - so having breezed through what passes for passport control and know for a fact that you hotel is just 3 miles away, your holiday company thinks that the best way for your trip to commence is to heard all passengers going vaguely in the same direction on to a musty old coach, that is hot as hell, and send you on the way. You will, of course be with an ancient old duffer behind the wheel who speaks no English, and a bright and breezy tour rep whose only knowledge of the local language is how to order the morning after pill following a night in the company of some local lothario she has amazingly got drunk enough to slip her the D. They then circle passed your hotel while dropping other people miles from where their holiday stay is. Then, despite having driven passed the front door to your hotel 7 times, they drop you at the bottom of a hill leaving you to drag your all the way back to the top. Arse biscuits...
The welcome meeting. No honestly, you are welcome. Please steal an hour and a half of my holiday to try and sell me overpriced trips, give me 'secret' local knowledge any barman will tell you is bollocks, and pretend we're going to get on like best mates for the duration of our stay, then not show your face again for two weeks. To balance this out you offer us all a free drink for attending. Thanks, but I can get a glass of powdered orange at the bar anytime I fucking want you complete and utter wankers.
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Zante 2016 IV
It's a strange thing about breakfast here that you find yourself barely on nodding terms with people
who only last night you were hugging and telling 'you're my best fucking mate, I love you man, I cried at Bambi too..' For me, of course, this is partly because I have a raging hangover but mainly because if you try talking to me before 12PM I'm liable to have your eyes out with a spoon.
It was a great craic in the bar last night. We made some lovely new acquaintances who it transpires share my naughty habit of giving nicknames to other guests around the pool. So we find out about "Shorts", a woman with an arse so big her shorts have their own postcode. Then there is Peado Elvis AKA Werthers AKA Pervers Originals, a fat bloke who splits his time between singing loudly in the pool and playing with any child therein not related to him. To my chagrin the best I'd come up with for him was Noisy Shithead. This pathetic attempt is rendered even more shit by the fact he is the spit of Ted Robbins off the telly. Come on Bucko, surely you can do better than that?
Talking of spitting image let us not forget Glam Rock, a woman so startlingly like Dave Hill from Slade you feel like spontaneously bursting into cries of "BABY BABY BAAABBBIIIEE" every time she walks passed. Of course we have to have a nickname for my newest best friends ever, so, without further ado welcome to the blog A Lovely Pair Of Bristols...(copyright Benny Hill, 1973)
It should also be noted that during all the drinking and banter, that Sot gets a yellow card and is temporarily relegated to only third best barman in Tsilivi after a rookie error. Two wines were forgotten and Lisa and me almost died of thirst, luckily to be rescued by Andy's swift intervention. He moves up to second on the list, just below Stratos from Sunset BOULEVARD a top mixologist if ever there was one. Just to keep things on point, he too has acquired a nickname, which considering his god like status behind the bar is rather aptly Zeus.
For balance I should say that Sot regained number one status later that night. Not for any particular barman expertise but because he moaned constantly for half an hour about how unfair it was and that I was his very very best friend. He might have sulked a bit too. I fucking love Sot😂😂😂
As may have been hinted at by the above, we've canned the beach for today and for the first time ever in our three visits here are chillin' by the pool. Hopefully this will avoid us being involved in any mass punch ups or being teabagged by random Russian pensioners. It doesn't prevented me being offered a massage by one of the identikit Chinese masseuses who pop Mr Ben shopkeeper like out of thin air, but I'm still keeping my privates to myself thank you very much.
One off putting aspect of sitting round the pool was a particularly terrible smell. It was so gross Lisa and me moved sunbeds to get away from a large woman - who I shall now christen Hey Fatty Bum Bum - from whom we assumed the eye-watering smell was coming. No dice, the smell was just as bad on the next set of beds, there must have been a blocked drain or something. It was only after Lisa had gone off for a wee and I was manoeuvring to get a comfortable reading position that it dawned on me where the foul stench was coming from. It was me...
Having woken up in an hypoglycaemic fug I had neither showered, brushed my teeth or put on deodorant. With the help of the blazing sun and a belly full of beer and garlic I had basically turned ripe...
One more thing worth noting from the day were three instances proving exactly why women live longer than men:
Firstly, while sitting on our balcony - and being urged by Sot to - in layman's terms - get our arses to the bar, there appears leaning against the guttering above our heads the top of a ladder. Looking down, we see veteran maintenance man Ronnie half way up said ladder, mastic in hand. Below him, Andy is steadying the ladder. Andy. Andy the currently one-armed barman. Steadying the ladder with the arm that (currently) doesn't work. Ronnie, on coming level with our balcony offers us a cheery wave with his free hand. His free hand. Had I mentioned the mastic gun in the other hand? He's hands free, on a ladder being steadied by a (currently) one armed man. Except by now it isn't. Andy has wandered off...
Secondly, due to the storms last week the tarpaulins covering the glass roof of the bar became waterlogged and tangled, preventing the roof being opened up. The return of regular weather has dried them out, but they need removing. Ronnie, still somehow alive, slaps up the ladder once more and scoots to the top, stepping on to the roof moment before the ladder slips over. He then proceeds to walk across the glass roof to remove the covers. Glass roof. Ronnie. You know, not exactly small Ronnie? On a glass roof. Oh, my days.
And finally there's a light out above the facade over the entrance to the hotel. It's 11PM and here's Ronnie ladder in hand, seemingly unharmed by the inevitable crash he must have had through the glass roof earlier. Health and safety have cut in now and he is being ably assisted by Niki, the lovely receptionist, who we assume must be fully abreast vis à vis correct ladder operations. So it's a surprise when, with Ronnie halfway up, she abandons her position to and wanders off for a fag and a phone call.
So dear reader, we end today's tales, but in the cyclical nature of these things I feel I should mention one further nickname. It turns out that our lovely, ladder savvy receptionist Niki is actually a French teacher. In much the same way as our Latin school books at home featured Caecilius and Matella, Greek French books featured Nikos and Pauline. Sot made the huge leap this provided to nickname Niki as Pauline. And to tell everyone. Oh, and to tell everyone she just loves it if you call her that. And speak French to her. He's right though, you can see it in her smiley little face every time we do it...
who only last night you were hugging and telling 'you're my best fucking mate, I love you man, I cried at Bambi too..' For me, of course, this is partly because I have a raging hangover but mainly because if you try talking to me before 12PM I'm liable to have your eyes out with a spoon.
It was a great craic in the bar last night. We made some lovely new acquaintances who it transpires share my naughty habit of giving nicknames to other guests around the pool. So we find out about "Shorts", a woman with an arse so big her shorts have their own postcode. Then there is Peado Elvis AKA Werthers AKA Pervers Originals, a fat bloke who splits his time between singing loudly in the pool and playing with any child therein not related to him. To my chagrin the best I'd come up with for him was Noisy Shithead. This pathetic attempt is rendered even more shit by the fact he is the spit of Ted Robbins off the telly. Come on Bucko, surely you can do better than that?
Talking of spitting image let us not forget Glam Rock, a woman so startlingly like Dave Hill from Slade you feel like spontaneously bursting into cries of "BABY BABY BAAABBBIIIEE" every time she walks passed. Of course we have to have a nickname for my newest best friends ever, so, without further ado welcome to the blog A Lovely Pair Of Bristols...(copyright Benny Hill, 1973)
It should also be noted that during all the drinking and banter, that Sot gets a yellow card and is temporarily relegated to only third best barman in Tsilivi after a rookie error. Two wines were forgotten and Lisa and me almost died of thirst, luckily to be rescued by Andy's swift intervention. He moves up to second on the list, just below Stratos from Sunset BOULEVARD a top mixologist if ever there was one. Just to keep things on point, he too has acquired a nickname, which considering his god like status behind the bar is rather aptly Zeus.
For balance I should say that Sot regained number one status later that night. Not for any particular barman expertise but because he moaned constantly for half an hour about how unfair it was and that I was his very very best friend. He might have sulked a bit too. I fucking love Sot😂😂😂
As may have been hinted at by the above, we've canned the beach for today and for the first time ever in our three visits here are chillin' by the pool. Hopefully this will avoid us being involved in any mass punch ups or being teabagged by random Russian pensioners. It doesn't prevented me being offered a massage by one of the identikit Chinese masseuses who pop Mr Ben shopkeeper like out of thin air, but I'm still keeping my privates to myself thank you very much.
One off putting aspect of sitting round the pool was a particularly terrible smell. It was so gross Lisa and me moved sunbeds to get away from a large woman - who I shall now christen Hey Fatty Bum Bum - from whom we assumed the eye-watering smell was coming. No dice, the smell was just as bad on the next set of beds, there must have been a blocked drain or something. It was only after Lisa had gone off for a wee and I was manoeuvring to get a comfortable reading position that it dawned on me where the foul stench was coming from. It was me...
Having woken up in an hypoglycaemic fug I had neither showered, brushed my teeth or put on deodorant. With the help of the blazing sun and a belly full of beer and garlic I had basically turned ripe...
One more thing worth noting from the day were three instances proving exactly why women live longer than men:
Firstly, while sitting on our balcony - and being urged by Sot to - in layman's terms - get our arses to the bar, there appears leaning against the guttering above our heads the top of a ladder. Looking down, we see veteran maintenance man Ronnie half way up said ladder, mastic in hand. Below him, Andy is steadying the ladder. Andy. Andy the currently one-armed barman. Steadying the ladder with the arm that (currently) doesn't work. Ronnie, on coming level with our balcony offers us a cheery wave with his free hand. His free hand. Had I mentioned the mastic gun in the other hand? He's hands free, on a ladder being steadied by a (currently) one armed man. Except by now it isn't. Andy has wandered off...
Secondly, due to the storms last week the tarpaulins covering the glass roof of the bar became waterlogged and tangled, preventing the roof being opened up. The return of regular weather has dried them out, but they need removing. Ronnie, still somehow alive, slaps up the ladder once more and scoots to the top, stepping on to the roof moment before the ladder slips over. He then proceeds to walk across the glass roof to remove the covers. Glass roof. Ronnie. You know, not exactly small Ronnie? On a glass roof. Oh, my days.
And finally there's a light out above the facade over the entrance to the hotel. It's 11PM and here's Ronnie ladder in hand, seemingly unharmed by the inevitable crash he must have had through the glass roof earlier. Health and safety have cut in now and he is being ably assisted by Niki, the lovely receptionist, who we assume must be fully abreast vis à vis correct ladder operations. So it's a surprise when, with Ronnie halfway up, she abandons her position to and wanders off for a fag and a phone call.
So dear reader, we end today's tales, but in the cyclical nature of these things I feel I should mention one further nickname. It turns out that our lovely, ladder savvy receptionist Niki is actually a French teacher. In much the same way as our Latin school books at home featured Caecilius and Matella, Greek French books featured Nikos and Pauline. Sot made the huge leap this provided to nickname Niki as Pauline. And to tell everyone. Oh, and to tell everyone she just loves it if you call her that. And speak French to her. He's right though, you can see it in her smiley little face every time we do it...
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Zante 2016 III
Tsilivi 2016 III
Our second day dawns to glorious blue skies, blazing yellow sun and a massively pounding hangover. We drag ourselves down to breakfast just in time to see Mr & Mrs Watford off, both of whom are looking disgustingly well. It must be an age thing. Guys, it may have been brief but it was no less fun or funny. Until our pub crawl Mes Amis...👋🏻👋🏻👋🏻👋🏻
Two pints of orange juice and our weight in fried food later we're off to the beach where the level of entertainment prove to be as follows:
Dennis the Menace level - quiet(er - marginally). Gone is the call of old that echoed across the golden sands of Tsilivi for the last 25 years to be replaced by a small megaphone around his neck which constantly plays Olay! Olay! Olay! This is actually more annoying than his continuous bellowing about his rancid doughnuts and fruit salad especiale best on island. I can only assume especiale because they've been boiling in the sun all day and have started to ferment. A cheap way to get pissed or an easy way to get dysentery? You decide.
More interesting is his ongoing battle with newer, younger, faster fruit man, an interloper causing deep division in the beach based fruit distribution business. With his lack of yelling, nicer looking produce and absence of an annoying fucking megaphone he's attracting a younger crowd of punters put off by his rival's boorish approach to retail. Watching the old dog run down the beach to try and steal a march on his younger competition is both sad and extremely entertaining at the same time.
Nippleage level - Poor - only one old boiler with her baps out. If I wanted to see that I'd have invested in a copy of Senior Butt 'n' Bush in the offy last week. To be entirely fair, I'm the last one who should be body shaming. I attempted to take a picture of my feet in the sea to show how clear the water is, but had to lean so far forward to keep my gut out of the picture I fell over. Instant Karma...
Cameltoe level - Spectacular. One young blonde has just turned up in a thong so tight you can tell her religion. So much better than the old boiler earlier when my only thought was 'Christ you could park your bike there' and not even a push bike, a Honda Gold Wing would be happy there.
Fair play though to YBCT (young blonde with cameltoe) she has just tried pulling her bikini bottoms out of her chuff prompting Lisa to say 'no point trying that love, if you wanted to cover your arse you should have bought a bigger pair'. As Jim Royle would say "these pants cost £1 and there's 99 pence worth stuck up me crack".
Talking of cracks:
Mind the crack level - Zero. Europe's self proclaimed funniest man and comedy legend is thankfully noticeable in his absence. Which is lucky as I'm pretty sure I'd be driven to shove his fake turds and loud hailer where the sun doesn't shine, even if his sycophantic coterie think it shines out of it. Mind the gap? Not if you ever get in range of my size nines you complete and utter bellend.
Massage level - moderate. Only 5 so far, but one woman has asked three times. Correction - three more requests in just two minutes - one girl even indicating the area of my body she felt needed attention. To be honest I've no real interest in her pinging me off on the beach but who am I to argue with a professional?
Fake Beats watch. None! Apparently the Indian factory making them burnt down in mysterious circumstances following a recent visit from Tim Cook. To make up for this lost revenue stream the de rigueur accessory now being touted is the selfie stick. And judging by the quality of the items Mr Good Price Very Good Price has on offer I think the local hospital must have a severe shortage of crutches to hand out to the needy. I'd certainly put off a hip replacement till the season's over just to be on the safe side.
Sunbed Level - fucking outrageous! €7 for two sunbeds and a sunshade the size of a ten pence piece? You're having a fucking giraffe mate! The same sunbeds are two for £5.99 in our local B.P. you cheeky sod so you can right go and do one. Seriously, if you're here for two weeks that's €98 - you can have three meals out here for that. I'd say I'm lost for words but anyone who's had the misfortune to spend a night round the bar with me here will know that is complete bollocks.
Shouty mannerless Russians level - unacceptable. When we arrived at the beach this morning we picked sunbeds in our favourite spot - just outside the Palm Beach Bar, where we can steal their excellent wifi and use their pristine toilets. Andy the barman is also a top bloke, greeting us like returning Olympians and he makes a fantastic gyros wrap too. Oh, and his draft beer is so cold it has ice floating in it, so what's not to like? Well, I'll tell you. Due to the above mentioned it's a popular spot to pick. Other than a few scattered sunbeds a bit nearer the sea all the prime one are taken. All that is left is two spare sunbeds by the wall behind us, which really have nowhere to go. This doesn't put off a bunch of old shouting Russians who for lack of finding six sunbeds together decide these are the ones for them. They rearrange them to the point they are practically touching ours and then stand around so close to us we can we can count their gold fillings and then proceed to have a massive shouting match with each other for 5, 10, 15 minutes. All the time with one woman's bits so close to me I can see what she had for breakfast. It's a truly horrible sight but it's about to get much, much worse...
Eventually Babushka and her grey pubes remove themselves from to the sunbed 1.5cms away. But too my horror her space in taken by her husband who has just been for a swim and is now dripping all over me. In a scene reminiscent of Alan Partridge his ancient speedos have given up the ghost - the elastic having long since gone to rubber heaven in the sky - so I being treated to a full on view of his wedding tackle. This is beyond gross. When he leans over me to get his I quite literally have his cock and balls in my face. I'm actually being teabagged by a Russian on the beach...
The Battle of Tsilivi Planos Level - Punchy. And so we get to the most entertaining part of the day. A group of foreigners have taken over a bunch of sunbeds further down the beach that have become free after lunch. When sunbed man asks them to pay, they refuse, saying he was rude to them, which leads to a commotion involving the bed stealers surrounding him and a shouting/pointing match ensuing. This does not go down well with the Greeks on the beach, and before you can shout 'BUNDLE!' the other sunbed men and various restaurant staff have arrived to bolster their man's position. Even our own mild mannered Andy has shot out from the kitchen to assist, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he is still holding the massive carving knife he was using to prepare gyros for somebody's lunch. Eventually, after a Mexican standoff involving what seems like half the population of the beach, the foreigners slink off, tails firmly between their legs, and normal service can be resumed.
Our second day dawns to glorious blue skies, blazing yellow sun and a massively pounding hangover. We drag ourselves down to breakfast just in time to see Mr & Mrs Watford off, both of whom are looking disgustingly well. It must be an age thing. Guys, it may have been brief but it was no less fun or funny. Until our pub crawl Mes Amis...👋🏻👋🏻👋🏻👋🏻
Two pints of orange juice and our weight in fried food later we're off to the beach where the level of entertainment prove to be as follows:
Dennis the Menace level - quiet(er - marginally). Gone is the call of old that echoed across the golden sands of Tsilivi for the last 25 years to be replaced by a small megaphone around his neck which constantly plays Olay! Olay! Olay! This is actually more annoying than his continuous bellowing about his rancid doughnuts and fruit salad especiale best on island. I can only assume especiale because they've been boiling in the sun all day and have started to ferment. A cheap way to get pissed or an easy way to get dysentery? You decide.
More interesting is his ongoing battle with newer, younger, faster fruit man, an interloper causing deep division in the beach based fruit distribution business. With his lack of yelling, nicer looking produce and absence of an annoying fucking megaphone he's attracting a younger crowd of punters put off by his rival's boorish approach to retail. Watching the old dog run down the beach to try and steal a march on his younger competition is both sad and extremely entertaining at the same time.
Nippleage level - Poor - only one old boiler with her baps out. If I wanted to see that I'd have invested in a copy of Senior Butt 'n' Bush in the offy last week. To be entirely fair, I'm the last one who should be body shaming. I attempted to take a picture of my feet in the sea to show how clear the water is, but had to lean so far forward to keep my gut out of the picture I fell over. Instant Karma...
Cameltoe level - Spectacular. One young blonde has just turned up in a thong so tight you can tell her religion. So much better than the old boiler earlier when my only thought was 'Christ you could park your bike there' and not even a push bike, a Honda Gold Wing would be happy there.
Fair play though to YBCT (young blonde with cameltoe) she has just tried pulling her bikini bottoms out of her chuff prompting Lisa to say 'no point trying that love, if you wanted to cover your arse you should have bought a bigger pair'. As Jim Royle would say "these pants cost £1 and there's 99 pence worth stuck up me crack".
Talking of cracks:
Mind the crack level - Zero. Europe's self proclaimed funniest man and comedy legend is thankfully noticeable in his absence. Which is lucky as I'm pretty sure I'd be driven to shove his fake turds and loud hailer where the sun doesn't shine, even if his sycophantic coterie think it shines out of it. Mind the gap? Not if you ever get in range of my size nines you complete and utter bellend.
Massage level - moderate. Only 5 so far, but one woman has asked three times. Correction - three more requests in just two minutes - one girl even indicating the area of my body she felt needed attention. To be honest I've no real interest in her pinging me off on the beach but who am I to argue with a professional?
Fake Beats watch. None! Apparently the Indian factory making them burnt down in mysterious circumstances following a recent visit from Tim Cook. To make up for this lost revenue stream the de rigueur accessory now being touted is the selfie stick. And judging by the quality of the items Mr Good Price Very Good Price has on offer I think the local hospital must have a severe shortage of crutches to hand out to the needy. I'd certainly put off a hip replacement till the season's over just to be on the safe side.
Sunbed Level - fucking outrageous! €7 for two sunbeds and a sunshade the size of a ten pence piece? You're having a fucking giraffe mate! The same sunbeds are two for £5.99 in our local B.P. you cheeky sod so you can right go and do one. Seriously, if you're here for two weeks that's €98 - you can have three meals out here for that. I'd say I'm lost for words but anyone who's had the misfortune to spend a night round the bar with me here will know that is complete bollocks.
Shouty mannerless Russians level - unacceptable. When we arrived at the beach this morning we picked sunbeds in our favourite spot - just outside the Palm Beach Bar, where we can steal their excellent wifi and use their pristine toilets. Andy the barman is also a top bloke, greeting us like returning Olympians and he makes a fantastic gyros wrap too. Oh, and his draft beer is so cold it has ice floating in it, so what's not to like? Well, I'll tell you. Due to the above mentioned it's a popular spot to pick. Other than a few scattered sunbeds a bit nearer the sea all the prime one are taken. All that is left is two spare sunbeds by the wall behind us, which really have nowhere to go. This doesn't put off a bunch of old shouting Russians who for lack of finding six sunbeds together decide these are the ones for them. They rearrange them to the point they are practically touching ours and then stand around so close to us we can we can count their gold fillings and then proceed to have a massive shouting match with each other for 5, 10, 15 minutes. All the time with one woman's bits so close to me I can see what she had for breakfast. It's a truly horrible sight but it's about to get much, much worse...
Eventually Babushka and her grey pubes remove themselves from to the sunbed 1.5cms away. But too my horror her space in taken by her husband who has just been for a swim and is now dripping all over me. In a scene reminiscent of Alan Partridge his ancient speedos have given up the ghost - the elastic having long since gone to rubber heaven in the sky - so I being treated to a full on view of his wedding tackle. This is beyond gross. When he leans over me to get his I quite literally have his cock and balls in my face. I'm actually being teabagged by a Russian on the beach...
The Battle of Tsilivi Planos Level - Punchy. And so we get to the most entertaining part of the day. A group of foreigners have taken over a bunch of sunbeds further down the beach that have become free after lunch. When sunbed man asks them to pay, they refuse, saying he was rude to them, which leads to a commotion involving the bed stealers surrounding him and a shouting/pointing match ensuing. This does not go down well with the Greeks on the beach, and before you can shout 'BUNDLE!' the other sunbed men and various restaurant staff have arrived to bolster their man's position. Even our own mild mannered Andy has shot out from the kitchen to assist, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he is still holding the massive carving knife he was using to prepare gyros for somebody's lunch. Eventually, after a Mexican standoff involving what seems like half the population of the beach, the foreigners slink off, tails firmly between their legs, and normal service can be resumed.
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Zante 2016 II
Zante 2016 - highlights day one
It all starts at:
The premier inn lift. Once again Lisa starts talking to a random stranger and we find out they are going to Gran Canaria, three weeks, might hire a car, the grandchilden's names and their cat is on her last legs, poor thing. All in a 20 second lift ride. It's far too early for this...
Gate 45b - where things start to get slightly worrying before we've even set sight of the plane...
So, through the fog of a 3am wake up call we find ourselves on our way to a gate that seems to be an afterthought every other gate goes straight on via those lovely travelators that are slower than just walking, but our gate is down a flight of poorly lit steps and into a rather smelly basement. It turns out it's actually a bus stop sending you on a 30 minute magical mystery tour via Horley to some random part of south terminal where our plane had been previously abandoned. Not bad for a flight leaving from North...to be fair though, the flight crew aren't taking any shit, immediately dumping the whole of row nine to make sure we take off on time, only 25 minutes late...
The flight itself is unremarkable which, TBH, is what you want. Lisa strikes up a conversation with the 7'2" daddy-long-legs jammed into the seat next to us. Unfortunately, he's a bloke who loves the sound of his own voice and within minutes we know all about his sister's wedding, his work as a chocolate taster for cadbury's, his favourite power ranger and that one of his testicles is significantly bigger that the other. My days, it's far, far to early for this...
On arrival at the hotel, just 30 minutes after landing, we're greeted like the prodigal son returning - but without the fatted calf and tequila sunrises instead. I say to Lisa "I can see Mrs Watford at the pool!" Lisa checks and can only see a really pretty lady in a bikini, from the back. "How do you know that's Her she asks?" "Well", I say "I'll always recognise her from her from her magnificent bun"
As it's just a little bit cloudy, we decide, for the first time ever, to go for a walk and actually see some of Tsilivi. 10 minutes in we're bored as fuck and having reached Popeye's bar, the furthest we've been before, we decide to head back. Lisa said she'd have given up earlier which is no use to mouse or man when you've already schlepped that far.
We end up at the Boomerang bar where, who'da thunk it, we bump into who Mr & Mrs Watford, who are enjoying a well earned beer or two. Well, it would be rude not to join them. Bearing in mind it has been two years since we last saw them the full on insults start right away. Seriously, you've got to love 'em 😁 once that is out of the way, plans for the evening are made, although to be honest none of us could remember what they were two hours later...
Talking of two hours later, we end up at the hotel bar lashing it up with people we remember, and sometimes not, from two years ago. It's a bit strange and expected all in one. That's what this place does to you - it's a bit odd for someone like me who will happily shun all human contact forever, but it's definitely more fun this way. We get to meet the new barman who, due to a trapped nerve in his shoulder, is doing his best impression of Albert Riddle. Lucky there's plenty of thirsty punters who are, for the moment at least, able to unscrew their own bottle caps and remove the ring-pulls from tins of Mythos. Desperation is the mother of invention or somesuch...
Later, and already feeling a bit the worse for wear we end up in a restaurant with a truly terrible name - M-eatings. Please tell me when to stop laughing. Sot's cousin works here so we spent an hilarious night asking every waiter and waitress if they were sot's cousin. They all loved it and thought we were comedy gold. Their little smiling faces showed how much they loved this, even after an hour or two.
Paradise bar - so despite ourselves, and our below par efforts earlier, we actually make it all the way to the far end of Tsilivi, and the rather buzzing Paradise Bar. At first it seems like the clientele consists solely of 40 something Essex divorcees, all fresh from nails-are-us and far too painful Brazilian's, out to vajazzle the young barmen. On closer inspection, they turn out to be only 70% of the punters, the rest being old fuckers like us. The Greek dancing is great fun, the margueritas are served in what can only be described as a Cadillac hub cap and although big enough to support a standard beach umbrella instead you get an inverted bottle of corona, and the conga plus ouzo shower proves to be a highlight of the evening. Classy.
At 21 hours without any sleep we eventually decide it's time for home and make our way along the ankle-breaking pavements back to the hotel. We may have told Mr & Mrs Watford how much we love them once or twice, but at least we didn't manage to pick up any randomers on the way...
It all starts at:
The premier inn lift. Once again Lisa starts talking to a random stranger and we find out they are going to Gran Canaria, three weeks, might hire a car, the grandchilden's names and their cat is on her last legs, poor thing. All in a 20 second lift ride. It's far too early for this...
Gate 45b - where things start to get slightly worrying before we've even set sight of the plane...
So, through the fog of a 3am wake up call we find ourselves on our way to a gate that seems to be an afterthought every other gate goes straight on via those lovely travelators that are slower than just walking, but our gate is down a flight of poorly lit steps and into a rather smelly basement. It turns out it's actually a bus stop sending you on a 30 minute magical mystery tour via Horley to some random part of south terminal where our plane had been previously abandoned. Not bad for a flight leaving from North...to be fair though, the flight crew aren't taking any shit, immediately dumping the whole of row nine to make sure we take off on time, only 25 minutes late...
The flight itself is unremarkable which, TBH, is what you want. Lisa strikes up a conversation with the 7'2" daddy-long-legs jammed into the seat next to us. Unfortunately, he's a bloke who loves the sound of his own voice and within minutes we know all about his sister's wedding, his work as a chocolate taster for cadbury's, his favourite power ranger and that one of his testicles is significantly bigger that the other. My days, it's far, far to early for this...
On arrival at the hotel, just 30 minutes after landing, we're greeted like the prodigal son returning - but without the fatted calf and tequila sunrises instead. I say to Lisa "I can see Mrs Watford at the pool!" Lisa checks and can only see a really pretty lady in a bikini, from the back. "How do you know that's Her she asks?" "Well", I say "I'll always recognise her from her from her magnificent bun"
As it's just a little bit cloudy, we decide, for the first time ever, to go for a walk and actually see some of Tsilivi. 10 minutes in we're bored as fuck and having reached Popeye's bar, the furthest we've been before, we decide to head back. Lisa said she'd have given up earlier which is no use to mouse or man when you've already schlepped that far.
We end up at the Boomerang bar where, who'da thunk it, we bump into who Mr & Mrs Watford, who are enjoying a well earned beer or two. Well, it would be rude not to join them. Bearing in mind it has been two years since we last saw them the full on insults start right away. Seriously, you've got to love 'em 😁 once that is out of the way, plans for the evening are made, although to be honest none of us could remember what they were two hours later...
Talking of two hours later, we end up at the hotel bar lashing it up with people we remember, and sometimes not, from two years ago. It's a bit strange and expected all in one. That's what this place does to you - it's a bit odd for someone like me who will happily shun all human contact forever, but it's definitely more fun this way. We get to meet the new barman who, due to a trapped nerve in his shoulder, is doing his best impression of Albert Riddle. Lucky there's plenty of thirsty punters who are, for the moment at least, able to unscrew their own bottle caps and remove the ring-pulls from tins of Mythos. Desperation is the mother of invention or somesuch...
Later, and already feeling a bit the worse for wear we end up in a restaurant with a truly terrible name - M-eatings. Please tell me when to stop laughing. Sot's cousin works here so we spent an hilarious night asking every waiter and waitress if they were sot's cousin. They all loved it and thought we were comedy gold. Their little smiling faces showed how much they loved this, even after an hour or two.
Paradise bar - so despite ourselves, and our below par efforts earlier, we actually make it all the way to the far end of Tsilivi, and the rather buzzing Paradise Bar. At first it seems like the clientele consists solely of 40 something Essex divorcees, all fresh from nails-are-us and far too painful Brazilian's, out to vajazzle the young barmen. On closer inspection, they turn out to be only 70% of the punters, the rest being old fuckers like us. The Greek dancing is great fun, the margueritas are served in what can only be described as a Cadillac hub cap and although big enough to support a standard beach umbrella instead you get an inverted bottle of corona, and the conga plus ouzo shower proves to be a highlight of the evening. Classy.
At 21 hours without any sleep we eventually decide it's time for home and make our way along the ankle-breaking pavements back to the hotel. We may have told Mr & Mrs Watford how much we love them once or twice, but at least we didn't manage to pick up any randomers on the way...
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Zante 2016
Zante 2016
Two years ago, almost to the day, our last trip to the wonderful island of Zante ended with the worst taxi journey I've ever encountered. To say that the driver could put Ken Block to shame with his ability to squeeze a car sideways, at speed, through a gap no sane person would believe it could fit through, was a staggering thing to witness. Well, it would have been if I hadn't had my head in my hands having assumed the brace position whilst making my peace with God*.
It only seems natural then that on our return to Zante the first thing we experience is a teeth pulling, hair tearing, lip biting nightmare of a cab journey to the airport. No car drifting stunts, maniacally fast undertaking or red light jumping was required to make this ride hell, simply one taxi driver who simply didn't STFU.
Now, we've all had cabbies over the years who have had verbal diarrhoea - be it rants about the government, who they've had in their cab, how shit Chelsea are this year, you know the sort - but this guy's answer to a simple question asked by Lisa regarding whether he still visited Greece on holiday (information he had volunteered after asking us where we were off too) beggard belief. In answer we were treated to an hour long diatribe covering all bases from(deep breath):
...his dad's prostate cancer (and missing boxer shorts) hearts attacks, his wife's false hips, delay rage and punching Turks, casually racist comments regarding a "coloured fella" who plays for Bromley and Gianfranco Zola's wife's bouncing cheque.
Pausing briefly for breath we were further treated to tales of Zola himself being a miserable cunt, Mick McCarthy's actual address, Millwall in general, and people saying he talks a lot, leading to him spending time at the football with only a pasty and coffee for company, and playing golf on his own.
Another breath and we're further regaled with a story about hoping to purchase a Ford Fiesta, two to three years old, for £6,500 or less, where his daughter lives, tight-fisted relatives from Yorkshire and not visiting St Michael's Mount due to dodgy knees. What the fuck any of this had to do with whether he still goes to Crete or not is beyond my comprehension that's for sure. He did also say something about poor man's holidays with Hoseasons, damp rooms and expecting more for his £230 a week but by then I'd put my iPod on Motörhead full blast save me tearing my own ears off.
The only good news appears to be that he's retiring in November (it's all in the Prudential...hence purchase of said Fiesta...) so with any luck we won't have him taking us to the airport again. He did try to get us to book a return fare but I think I'd rather crawl all the way home, through broken glass, suitcase tied to my back than suffer through that again...
*please feel free to insert the deity of your choice as I don't really give a fuck...
Two years ago, almost to the day, our last trip to the wonderful island of Zante ended with the worst taxi journey I've ever encountered. To say that the driver could put Ken Block to shame with his ability to squeeze a car sideways, at speed, through a gap no sane person would believe it could fit through, was a staggering thing to witness. Well, it would have been if I hadn't had my head in my hands having assumed the brace position whilst making my peace with God*.
It only seems natural then that on our return to Zante the first thing we experience is a teeth pulling, hair tearing, lip biting nightmare of a cab journey to the airport. No car drifting stunts, maniacally fast undertaking or red light jumping was required to make this ride hell, simply one taxi driver who simply didn't STFU.
Now, we've all had cabbies over the years who have had verbal diarrhoea - be it rants about the government, who they've had in their cab, how shit Chelsea are this year, you know the sort - but this guy's answer to a simple question asked by Lisa regarding whether he still visited Greece on holiday (information he had volunteered after asking us where we were off too) beggard belief. In answer we were treated to an hour long diatribe covering all bases from(deep breath):
...his dad's prostate cancer (and missing boxer shorts) hearts attacks, his wife's false hips, delay rage and punching Turks, casually racist comments regarding a "coloured fella" who plays for Bromley and Gianfranco Zola's wife's bouncing cheque.
Pausing briefly for breath we were further treated to tales of Zola himself being a miserable cunt, Mick McCarthy's actual address, Millwall in general, and people saying he talks a lot, leading to him spending time at the football with only a pasty and coffee for company, and playing golf on his own.
Another breath and we're further regaled with a story about hoping to purchase a Ford Fiesta, two to three years old, for £6,500 or less, where his daughter lives, tight-fisted relatives from Yorkshire and not visiting St Michael's Mount due to dodgy knees. What the fuck any of this had to do with whether he still goes to Crete or not is beyond my comprehension that's for sure. He did also say something about poor man's holidays with Hoseasons, damp rooms and expecting more for his £230 a week but by then I'd put my iPod on Motörhead full blast save me tearing my own ears off.
The only good news appears to be that he's retiring in November (it's all in the Prudential...hence purchase of said Fiesta...) so with any luck we won't have him taking us to the airport again. He did try to get us to book a return fare but I think I'd rather crawl all the way home, through broken glass, suitcase tied to my back than suffer through that again...
*please feel free to insert the deity of your choice as I don't really give a fuck...
