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...
# posted by Bucko! @ 4:13 AM 
