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.
# posted by Bucko! @ 3:30 AM 
