KAVOS 2002
August 30th, 2002 Posted in Classics, Holidays, RantsDAY 1 - Friday 23rd August
Ours was the first flight of the day, 05:20 from Gatwick. So, after turning up at the airport 6 hours before our scheduled departure time, we decided to waste away the hours with frequent visits to the fruit machines and a sly beer in the bar.
The flight was pleasant, only a mere 2 hours 40 minutes and there was enough time after the in-flight meal for a half decent kip. Our approach to landing, however, caused a few nerves to tingle. We descended towards the island, with its inlets and bays galore and gradually got lower and lower until we were practically skidding along the water.
I sensed that this was not quite normal aeronautic behaviour and that, seeing as we weren’t in a sea plane, surely a strip of land or a random field was necessary for our touch-down. We flew closer and closer to the water, you could just about see the smiles on the faces of the fish swimming calmly above the coral of the seabed. Seconds before I planned to stand up and advise the captain to steer for land, the plane touched its wheels down on the reassuring durability of the runway tarmac. I got the feeling that he wasn’t the only one to breathe a rather large sigh of relief.
Moments after we came to a halt, the captain announced that one of his electronic, automated systems had decided to shut itself dwon and that this was the cause of the power-cut we had just witnessed. I thanked his lucky stars that it hadn’t happened ten minutes earlier when we were staring out the fishes.
Typically, our bags were among the last ones to be tossed carelessly onto the conveyor belt and we stumbled aimlessly in the vague direction of the Kavos coaches. Sleep was a priority, the few minutes of shut-eye we managed on the plane was interrupted by the incessant vibrations of the window clattering relentlessly on our tired skulls.
We weren’t expecting a luxurious palace in terms of our accommodation, but we did hope for more than the dark and dirty shit pit that we ended up in. The light didn’t work, there was no loo roll, mosquito carcasses littered the once white walls and the balcony table was missing a leg. However, buoyed by our arrival on the island of Corfu, as well as a trip to the supermarket to stock up on cheap Amstel, we spent the remainder of the afternoon resting and ogling all the totty that walked past our balcony.
We did, though, save up enough energy to talk a long walk on the beach, being only a mere number of feet away from our apartment. Unimpressed by the quality of the sand and the volume of sea-weed, we ambled aimlessly towards the end of the beach. We noticed numerous bars and taverns offering sunloungers, pool and table tennis, we were also excited by the discovery of a beach five-a-side pitch, although nobody was playing. Beach vendors wheeled their creaking carts past the non-conforming Brits sprawled all over their union jack towels, and topless women relaxed care-free in the blazing summer sun.
“I know him” I suddenly blurted out, “I don’t believe it” I continued, surprised by my discovery. There, lazing on a sunlounger in the 32 degree heat on a random beach in Kavos, Corfu and having not seen him since parting company in the depths of New York City over a year ago, was Chris Fuller - mastermind of several alcohol-related incidents during the drinking frenzy of the USA tour 2001 and comic genius. Pleasantries were exchanged, then we cut out the bull-shit and decided on a venue at which to meet for an evening’s foolish behaviour. I was stunned, it’s a small world, we all know that, but we didn’t realize quite how small it really is.
Eventually the time came to start drinking. After I had an argument with the warm fridge, slagging it off for not doing its job properly and forcing us to consume warm lager, we proceeded to play drinking games over a few games of cards. It was Alex’s suggestion and we just adapted it to include excessive Amstel intake. I was plain awful at this game, bloody useless, although he didn’t mind losing at all because he got to drink and drink and drink.
The public relations staff at resorts like Kavos are a right pain in the arse, every single one of them flirts, persuades and wrestles you into the bar or restaurant they work for with the hope that you might part company with a few Euros so they can get a pay packet at the end of the day. The worst ones are those that hand out flyers to passers-by. Well, when I say flyers, I mean wonky, naff computer print-outs with uninventive logos and worse spelling than a group of dyslexics at a scrabble convention. There are very few litter bins in Kavos and a wander through the bustling main streets can result in handfuls of paper and nowhere to discard them.
Nevertheless, our rendez-vous with Fuller and Greg went according to plan and soon the vodka redbulls were sinking nicely. We decided to adopt a more liberal approach to the pesterings of the PR people and we found ourselves taking full advantage of the 5 for 1 offers, until, that is, Fuller decided to take it one step further and managed to haggle up our entry bribes to include a free bottle of champagne. Despite the fact that the contents tasted more like the over acidic rejects from a Sarsons factory, the bottle was soon empty and we staggered off in the direction of a nightclub.
Our cries of ‘there’s no alcohol in these free shots’ were shot down in flames when I succumbed to the provocations of shutdown mode in the club. The focus of entertainment for most clubbers, a helpless I could offer no resistance to the pokes and prods of passing dancers. After deciding enough was enough, Alex attempted to revive the now sleep-dancing me and get me back to the apartment. This was fair enough and should have been a fantastically simple task given our apartment’s proximity to the club, but Alex couldn’t for the life of him remember where we were staying. He questioned passers by and even quizzed Kavos reps about its location, but even they did not know, meanwhile I lay completely knock-out in the middle of the road.
Eventually, Alex stumbled randomly upon the apartment and threw me inside, before spinning round and heading back out again. Kavos had livened up, and although not the busiest night of the week, there was plenty to look at, massive amounts of alcohol and enough women to satisfy even the most demanding labedo. This was the moment when the undesirable influence of alcohol took its toll. Having noted the eight Cornish girls staying opposite us, Alex spotted them dancing the night away and took the opportunity to introduce himself, again. He met Beth, who, at the time, was a stunning, attractive, tanned, slimlined brunette with a gorgeous smile and eyes you could get lost in, but who turned out to be a pastey white beached whale with yellow teeth and an evil witches cackle. Not realizing the error of his ways, Alex indulged himself in a spot of light conversation, followed by a bout of tonsil tennis and ending up in three rounds of horizontal jogging on the beach where Beth obviously felt more at home.
DAY 2 - Saturday 24th August
I woke up fully clothed and wondered how the bloody hell I got home. It began to dawn on me in all too familiar circumstances that I must have passed out in the club and been taken home, not for the first time in my life. Struggling to think of excuses and ways out of admitting such temporary light-weightness, I noticed the number of red blotches on my hands and began to count the mosquitoes on the ceiling. Alex murmured and started to groan. “I went with a fat bird” he repeated over and over again, the regret all too clear in the tremble of his voice. Repercussions were inevitable, particularly as our balcony was directly opposite the girls rooms. There was sand everywhere, scattered randomly through the apartment. Alex thrust his hand in his trousers and declared “I’ve got sand in my pocket”.
After a tidy up, shower and a greasy fried breakfast in an empty restaurant, we headed for the swimming pool where we spent the afternoon trying to rid ourselves of the unattractive white colouring we long to shed.
Before we knew it, West Ham versus Arsenal came on the television and we sat slurping Slush Puppies until it was time to start drinking again.
We met up with Fuller and Greg and joined the bar crawl that they had signed up for. Expensive beer ensued, as did battle of the sexes competitions that ended up with some Scouse lad taking off his g-string underwear in front of the whole bar. Deciding that this wasn’t really our scene, given that we were the only southerners in the bar, and indeed the whole of Kavos by the sounds of it, and that we don’t usually go in for male stripper shows, we buggered off back to the apartment for some cheap drinks and a break from trying to decipher the northern accent.
Eventually, though, we found ourselves taking advantage of more 5 for 1 offers and the vodka redbulls were again beginning to taste better and better. Alex got a couple of tellings off from passing women for staring and sneering, whilst the others began to dance the night away.
As luck would have it, or not in this case, we bumped into the Cornish girls in the nightclub. The fear on Alex’s face was easily sensable and he just froze when she confronted him, trying to eat his face off. I chose to continue dancing and ignore my endangered friend, which was kind. After she manhandled him one more time, Alex gave up and opted for the only remaining option - home. Alone. I stayed at the club, with the dimming hope that maybe some drunken, foolish female might find me attractive. It wasn’t to be, and I ended up passed out on the beach with a frozen bottle of water, random Greek locals enquiring about the state of my health. So, bottle in hand, off I went back to the apartment to discover a totally naked Alex and a trail of vomit…..
DAY 3 - Sunday 25th August
Bastards. F*cking little mosquite bastards. I woke up scratching my arms off. Yesterday’s blotches have gone itch mad and have spread up to the elbows. I counted 46 bites. Revenge was obligatory and valid. What followed can only be described as a mosquito murder frenzy. Half an hour later, blood-stained mosquito carcasses littered the walls, an alarming number of which contained a considerable volume of blood.
Alex, however, woke up with a nasty headache and immediately started whining about a bite on his leg. When I showed him the state of my arms, the dead insects on the walls and his blood soaked sheets from excessive itching, Alex realized that he probably wan’t in the best position to complain. Nil desperandum was the mentality and we staggered off to the pool for another day’s sunbathing.
It was incredibly hot today, the local radio station claimed it to be just short of 100 degrees in the shade. We did nothing but sunbathe and swim, it was just what we needed.
What should be noted at this point, is the existence of ‘the chicken woman’. She sits by the pool all day, trying to tan, and she freaks the hell out of me. It would appear that she’s a tomato short of a salad and, not surprisingly, she has a distinctively northern accent. All in all, she looks like a cross between Worzel Gummage and a battery hen. Her head shakes. When she talks, her skull vibrates erratically and gives the impression that she’s got Parkinson’s. She has large sloping eyes covered by disproportionately fat eyelids. Her nose if big and hooked over at the end, shadowing the flatness of her mouth and her totally straight, yellowing teeth give off a smile that Medusa herself would have been proud of.
She fills me with fear. When she approaches the pool for her regular half-hourly swim, dread and serious concern grow increasingly visible on my face. It has got to the stage where I can’t even bare look at her, her aura just irriatates me, I doesn’t know why, it just does.
After a failed attempt to get some sleep, we wandered off to find somewhere to eat. Swamped by all the PR people, we gave in after only a few no’s and proceeded to consume a dodgy, quality-free mixed grill.
As we staggered through the high street, desperately trying to avoid contact with the dreaded PR people, trying to spot Fuller and Greg in a random bar somewhere and noting whatever talent was around, we succumbed to a few offers and took advantage.
The PR people were just too much tonight, they were really aggrevating our fraying tempers and enough was enough. Armed with a few beers, we toddled off to the jetty for a quiet, hassle-free drink in the silence of the beach. Our hopes were dashed when, after only a few minutes there, we were approached by Vicky, a young northern bowling ball with fewer attractive qualities than chicken woman’s ugly sister. She was, and I quote “on the jetty to find some blokes to shag”. Such a first line was so flattering. We hoped she would just get bored with our lack of interest and take a long walk off the end of the jetty, but it wasn’t to be.
We never previously realized how utterly annoying, vexing and downright irritating some people can be. We are both open-minded people and we see the good points in everybody, but when it comes to the type of scally that we have encountered here, we would both be happy to never venture anywhere like this again. It’s mostly the loud-mouthed, obnoxious, arrogant, aggressive young men, but even the women are rude, foul-mouthed and malevolent. They have no respect for local people, the upkeep of the resort or other holiday makers. All they want to do is shout loudly, abuse everything and everybody they see and basically make sure that they get noticed. Fair enough, everybody wants to enjoy their holidays but almost all the people here seem intent on being so loud and offensive that such enjoyability is limited.
It’s not big or clever to behave so badly and we’re sure the only girls that would be impressed by it (let’s face it, it all boils down to showing off) are the toothless crones from the same backgrounds.
But enough ranting about the gutter snipe of England, I suppose they can’t help giving the English the reputation they have, given their ill-educated, crime-filled upbringings.
DAY 4 - Monday 26th August
Awoken by the knock knockings of the assumed non-existent cleaner at the unearthly and unwelcome hour of 1pm, we sauntered down to the poolside to catch some rays. I got edgy when chicken woman turned up and clucked her way around the pool.
Most of what remained of the daylight hours were spent looking at breasts and watching the football scores come in, another victory sending Portsmouth to the top of division one for the first time in our living memories.
Another mosquito mass murder marathon was necessary upon return to the apartment and umpteen shouts of ‘got the little bastard’ later, we were ready for another night on the town, preferably away from the noise and offense of the scallies.
We have come to the conclusion that the bars are just too noisy. Once you’ve been encouraged, ushered and shoved inside, all you can do is sit there and watch the people walking past because you haven’t got a hope in hell of being able to hear anything that’s said or even shouted in your direction. After two rounds of buy one get four free in the British Empire bar, we were so fed up of the doof doof shite music that has consistently and relentlessly been drilled into our heads, that we ambled back to the oven apartment to grab some beers before heading to the safe zone of the jetty.
A couple of philosophical conversations later and we found ourselves protecting a group of girls from the Greek blokes threatening to push them off the jetty into the sea. They did, however, turn out to be quite nice people, for a change. So off we all wandered to ‘The George’, coincidentally the nearest bar to both our sets of accommodation. Here we played drinking games such as whizz, bang, boing over what was known as a fruitbowl cocktail - a plastic bowl filled with five pints of alcohol and fruit juice, through straws.
This has a very limited effect on the state of our drunkenness and before we knew it, it was 4am. Alex and I suggested a visit to a nightclub, but there was no positive response from the girls who decided instead to retire to bed. No clubs were open so we had a McDonald’s burger each and enjoyed the relative silence of the reputedly quiet Monday night.
DAY 5 - Tuesday 27th August
We were out and about impressively early today, choosing to avoid chicken woman and the stench-ridden swimming pool in favour of the beach.
We spent most of the afternoon refusing approaches from passing beach vendors trying to sell cds, bracelets, boat trips and fruit, although we couldn’t resist the offer of a ’sexy doughnut’.
We splashed about in the sea, chucking a tennis ball around, watching the tuny fish meander through our toes, and avoiding the tonnes of squelchy seaweed littering the seabed. We worshipped the sun for the majority, yet we still found time for a couple of sneaky games of table tennis in a nearby bar.
We chose a random restaurant to eat in, selected a table and waited for the waitress to come over. It was then that we noticed we had inadvertantly positioned ourselves directly next to chicken woman. I became edgy and immediately lost my appetite.
The Man Utd game was on tele, so we went to a bar and mingled with all the fans, enjoying a 5-0 victory. Spurs also won and rose to second in the league so I was extremely content. The main street of Kavos was extremely bustling and there was no surprise when Alex walked right into a group of three girls, which so happened to be three of the group we had met the previous night. As neither group hand any concrete plans, we decided to head for Scorers Bar and listen to its Indie hour. Alex was happy, Maria the gorgeous German child-minder was looking particularly stunning and she was extremely drunk, conveniently.
The impressions British people make on their foreign counterparts are massively influential in cultivating the reputation we have as a nation. We both agreed tonight that we were embarrassed to be British. It wasn’t only the loud-mouthed obnoxious scallies with their total lack of respect for everything and their constant desire to ruin everybody’s holiday, but there was also an incident in Scorers Bar involving me, a Welshman and a lightbulb.
I wandered into the sole cubicle of the small toilets and was forced to wait behind a goatee-bearded man who was urinating on the floor. The man turned round and introduced himself and I recognized the familiar tones of a Welsh accent. “You’re not from Cardiff are you?” I enquired, thinking that the man might have attended the same university as him, “do I f*ckin’ look like I come from Cardiff?” came the reply. “That’ll be a no then” I peacefully responded, looking to avoid any offence I may have caused. The man zipped up and began to wash his hands, whilst I tip-toed past the urine puddles and aimed for the bowl. The Welshamn then decided to smash the small lighbulb above the basin mirror and mutter something about “knockin’ your f*uckin’ teeth out”. ‘What a pleasant man’ I thought, concreting the impression I now have that young British people are arrogant, aggressive w*nkers with nothing better to do than behave despicably and cause trouble. There is just no need to conduct yourself in such a manner.
After a few vodka redbulls, Alex and Maria began to get friendly and despite my silent protests for us to stay in the main street and hopefully off-load the girls, the decision was taken to walk to the jetty for a quiet beer.
Alex and Maria walked behind, holding hands and splashing in the shallows of the Meditarranean whilst I ambled along in front, sandwiched by the sumo physiques of Tranette and Betina, the Danish freak. In a moment of sheer terror, Tranette linked hands with me, I filled with dread and barely responded. ‘Must get to the jetty’, I thought, believing that there I could uncouple our hands without causing her offence. This was a successful manoeuvre and the three of us sat on the jetty, me in the middle, squashed between the two, and waiting for Alex and Maria to catch up. My misfortune was certainly apparent this evening. Five minutes after sitting on the jetty, contact-free from the two girls. Betina the Danish freak decided to start stroking my hand. Again the fear swelled up inside him. A pair of friends had both made advances on me within the space of ten minutes. The only thing on my mind was getting the hell out of there.
Eventually Alex and Maria stumbled along, the latter soaking from a fall in the water and we offered to walk them back to their hotel. We said our goodbyes and made false, half-hearted plans to see them at some point. I wasn’t happy and made my objections known to Alex, who was then forced to buy pints of ‘head-f*cker’ in a male-ridden nightclub before we drunkenly staggered home to bed.
DAY 6 - Wednesday 28th August
We set off after far fewer hours sleep than we really needed and headed for a pool by the beach. Tanning was a priority and we figured the reflections of the sea qould provide us with that extra tan. So we whiled away most of the afternoon poolside and beachside, hoping to profit from the beatings of the hot sun.
The time passed pretty quickly and before long, the hunger set in, so we showered, dressed and went off in search of The Steak House for a bite to eat. A pizza each later, yes we know - pizza in a steak house, we searched out a bar to watch more football. Confusing everybody in the bar with regards to which team we supported, we cheered whenever any team scored. Several glances and glares later, the game finished and we moved on in search of a quiet bar. When we never found it, we tottered off to the safe zone of the bar by the beach where we bumped into the Sheffield girls and chatted to them for an hour or so before fighting our way up the main street to the indie hour at the Rolling Stone. Here we discovered the wonders of the ‘Drop the Bomb’ drink, a large shot of After Shock in its own glass placed inside a bigger glass, topped up with vodka and red bull.
This alcohol intake began to set in and we went to look for a nightclub. Out of the three clubs we tried, one was charging extortionate amounts for entry to the promoted ‘Garage night’, featuring DJ Luck and MC Neat, who allegedly never turned up anyway; Atlantis was emptying rapidly, leaving The Venue as the only plausible destination. A wet t-shirt competition was advertised and although we knew the place would be 90% blokes, we figured we had no alternative. We caught the last ten minutes of the show, enough time to witness seven completely naked women in front of several hundred blokes, then we left before the crush. It was 4.30am when we got in, so all we could do was head to bed, after a beer on the jetty of course.
We have thoroughly enjoyed our quiet beers on the jetty, away from the humdrum of noise and pretense of which the main part of Kavos consists. The jetty has a tranquil, calm environment producing a relaxing sentiment among us. Water splashes softly against the defenceless wood, the cooling Mediterranean breeze gently ripples the sea under the distant supervision of the flickering moonlight. It is a stark contrast to the ever-persistent banging and thumping of the impersonal main street. There is nobody to grab you and thrust you into their bar, no foul-mouthed show-offs exist, and the ever-repeated five song hip hop repertoire blends undetectable into the background of the night.
It will be our last full day tomorrow, so we formulated a plan to retire early and spend it getting our money’s worth from the sun.
DAY 7 - Thursday 29th August
The Corfu heat usually rendered our apartment unbearably hot at night time, so we found ourselves having to sleep with the balcony doors open, allowing the pesky mosquitoes to replenish their starving bellies.
A mere three hours after returning, I was awakened by a thunderous crashing sound echoing around the room. There was a persistent pattering noise, the windows rattled with a distinct insecurity and the curtains flailed wildly. One eye opened and caught a glimpse of the weather outside. A Mediterranean storm. Thunder erupted and the sounds of strong wind filled the room. Our plans for a day’s sunbathing disappeared with the rain splattering against the windows.
Eventually the noise died down and we strolled off towards the beach, but were surprised by what we saw. It was empty. There was barely anybody laying on sunloungers, no beach vendors and no speedboats towing inflatable rings with screaming passengers. The sea was very choppy and the wind was almost gale force. There were a few die-hard sun-worshippers lazing by the pools, but nothing compared to previous days.
After a beachside full English breakfast and a stroll in the dirty sand, we headed for the local swimming pool. We checked the absence of chicken woman and spent our last sunny hours reading, swimming and wishing we’d gone on holiday somewhere else.
