Bucko's World

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.