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...
# posted by Bucko! @ 10:49 AM 
