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!
# posted by Bucko! @ 8:00 AM 
