HALKIDIKI 2003
September 30th, 2003 Posted in Classics, HolidaysDAY 1 - Monday 15th September
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP SLAM went the alarm clock as it woke me from my deep sleep at an ungodly 4am. Three hours kip was never going to be enough, but I resisted the temptation to turn over, and instead looked forward to sunning myself for two weeks in Halkidiki, Greece.
Mark was already up and lift-giver Alex was soon in the car, engine running. Before long, Luton airport loomed and Mark and I were officially off. After devouring a bacon roll and noting the abundance of blazers in the vicinity, we went to our gate.
Scything our way through the plethora of grey hair and glasses littering the departure lounge, we located some seats and sat down to monitor precisely who we would be sharing our flight with. Sadly, there were no stunning women to drool over, but we comforted ourselves with the observatiojn that there were only a couple of gold-chained, tattoed, skin-headed, white-trainered oiks that so often marr otherwise pleasurable experiences.
The flight passed without event and we both took the chance to grab a power-nap. We did get the chance to stare at the snow-covered Alps and remind ourselves of Andorra’s snowboarding trip back in February, and we did turn round to see the fat man in the next row once again staring at the chocolates page of the in-flight magazine, but otherwise it was free from event.
Baggage re-claim was a different story. Having laughed at the man who, as some sort of twitch, raised his eyebrows every three seconds, we were distracted by frantic movements just along the conveyor belt.
The suitcases were slowly passing us by and most people were waiting patiently, as British people traditionally do. Not the masculine, short-haired lesbianic monstrosity stood by the flaps. She insisted upon rushing about, grabbing case after case and letting her frustration be known to all nearby. What’s the rush? Why the mad panic? You’ll only have to sit on the transfer coach and wait for everybody else…..
Anyway, it wasn’t boiling, but the sun was out and doing its very best to evaporate the ‘torrential downpours’ of early morning. Once again a power-nap beckoned and the two hour trip to Hanioti passed without amusement. We were pleased to see only one solitary passenger in a football shirt, amidst the sea of pensioners…..
Our hotel was really clean and our room had a balcony that looked out over the Aegean sea, with the central peninsula of Sithonia clearly visible over the crystal blue waters. Apart from the occasional delivery lorry, the hotel was extremely quiet, with only the background noise of the distant main road to be heard. We had a look around town and a wander along the beach before deciding that some sun-worshipping was in order.
It was quite clear now that the hotel we were staying in was aimed at a more mature market, particularly at this time of year when the pensioners come out to warm themselves under the sun like lizards. This was fine with us as we wanted to be as far away as possible from loutish behaviour by simple-minded yobs - even if this meant sacrificing the eye candy that so often allures them to such resorts as Kavos, Faliraki and Ayia Napa in the first place.
Alas, it seems such an ideal cannot be obtained, but it is not just Mark and I that seek it. “I was in the supermarket earlier” (syoopermarket) a woman said to her husband while sitting by the pool, “and these two English people with HORRIBLE ACCENTS pushed in front of me”. Wanting to see for ourselves, we showered, changed and made our way to the hotel bar for an early evening aperatif. Mark sipped his gin and tonic and listened in on other people’s conversations, while I sat pensively on my bar stool, giggling at my pint glass for having VERGINA LAGER BEER printed on it.
We wandered Hanioti’s streets and looked at the many pottery shops, also noting any bars or restaurants that might be good for some entertainment a bit later on. Mark was on the look out for any ‘eligible females’ and we eventually chose a restaurant and sat at a table next to three girls. Once we realised the girls were far younger than we thought, we concentrated on the local cuisine and watched the world go by.
A few post-Goulash/post-steak beers were in order, with Mark hot on the scent of any women that looked remotely available. After visiting several bars, we were both knackered and far from chatty. “And it’s only ten to ten” Mark added as we yawned and wondered whether to retire early or move on for “one more”.
We chose the latter and ended up in what seemed to be the resort’s liveliest bar - the Blue Cafe. We were quite surprised, from looking like a quiet-ish bar from the outside, we found lots of people drinking away and some live music. The music was so good, in fact, that I had assumed it to be a cd when I walked in, and was shocked when I found out. And that was it, we stayed.
Tired of Amstel, we went for draught Stella and it soon took effect. Mark introduced himself to a pair of girls and immediately began chatting up the better looking one. Taking Simon H’s advice of ‘don’t go for anything heavier than you’, I retreated and somehow got talking to two middle-aged women who were thoroughly enjoying the impressive guitar playing.
“My daughter would like you” one said about an hour later. “Oh?” I replied, hoping for an introduction. “Yes, she’s got long blonde hair and she’s a dancer”. My eyes must have lit up, or I must have begun to salivate because then she added “but she’s not here”. My disappointment was clearly visible.
The band finished and it was time to leave. Mark wandered off towards the beach with his prey, I said my goodbyes, fended off the fat girl once more and staggered back to the hotel.
DAY 2 - Tuesday 16th September
Sniff. Sniff. HACK. My worst fears were confirmed. Despite vitamin C tablets, vitamin drinks, lots of water, rest and several other pills and potions, I awoke with a cold. Just as happened on day one in Andorra, the holiday fairies have decided that I should be stricken with runny nose, sore throat and blocked sinuses. Brilliant. To add to that, I have at least half a dozen mosquito bites and only one revengeful killing to account for them.
“We’ve got that welcome meeting in ten minutes” Mark announced as the clock bore down on eleven, signalling that he was firstly back (it turns out that due to his inebriation, they never found the beach, got trapped in a hotel complex, and then the fat girl turned up), and secondly that he was on the ball. Ten minutes later we were downstairs in the front row of the rep’s audience, listening to the various wonderful activities available to us and marvelling at the shape of her legs.
The weather, however, was not good. A very cloudy sky obscured the sun and ray-catching was out of the question, particularly when an Aegean storm appeared, bucketing down a torrential downpour and jabbing a few rumbles of thunder at us. The rain eventually let up, but the sun never poked its yellow head through the resistant clouds, so we spent the majority of the afternoon either reading or asleep.
“Shall we think about dinner?” Mark enquired, waking me from a deep sleep and bringing me back to life at 7pm. We took the courtesy bus into town and ate at a pizzeria where Mark announced he was on ‘totty watch’. With barely anything to keep an eye on, we concentrated on food, then wandered about the main square before settling in the bar we had been in the previous night, to watch three simultaneous games of football.
Forty minutes was all we could manage before sidling back off to the hotel for a glass of port. We then both read until midnight and turned in, praying for sunnier weather.
DAY 3 - Wednesday 17th September
Splendid! We woke up to glorious sunshine and hastened downstairs for our first experiences of a Greek breakfast. After a fried egg on something-or-other and another indistinguishable dish, plus several of the driest biscuits ever imaginable, we grabbed a couple of sunbeds and basked in the mid morning rays.
We were glad that the sun was finally out. Although never mentioned, there had been niggling thoughts in our minds that we’d left the holiday too late in the year and missed all the good weather. However, the sun was shining, it was getting hot and we were making the most of it.
“AAAARGGGH!” came a cry from across the way. “There’s a frog in the swimming pool!” as two women frantically navigated their way around the little amphibian and hastily made for the stairs out. We looked up from our books, laughed, and continued to sizzle in the heat. “Bloody French” Mark added, as the women dripped by…..
Thunderflies were beginning to become a problem. Tiny little millimetre-long flying things that don’t bother you until they land on you, and then they touch a hair which triggers a nerve and the area must be scratched. Mark had a lot more patience with them than I did, for I didn’t appreciate the interruptions, particularly when my book was getting good, and soon enough I was back on our hotel room balcony, grabbing the last of the day’s sun, with my head firmly in Tolkien’s ‘The Hobbit’.
BZZZZzzz.
BZZZZzzzzzzzzzz.
Wasps.
Although irritating, I could tolerate their buzzing by as a brief wave of the hand was usually enough to ward them off.
BZZZZZZZZzzzzzzummmmmmm. A proper buzz-by and right past my ear, close enough to make me get up in a split-second, lose my page and pursue the little blighter to teach it a lesson. Not panicking, I watched it buzz around on the ground and slowly hovered my foot over one of the balcony tiles, waiting. It had to be right, as poor timing would anger the wasp and perhaps result in a sting.
STAMP! Crunch! WOO HOO! Serves the wretched thing right for ruining my read.
Satisfied that revenge had been justly exacted, I grabbed the chair, found my page, dusted off a couple of thunderflies and settled down once more.
BZZZZZZummmmmmmm. For goodness sake.
BZZZZZZ at one ear, BZZZZZZ at another and despite my wayward flailings, the pesky little thing wouldn’t buzz off. Determined not to lose my page once more, I grabbed my bookmark, only to find myself face to face with the stinging insect. In an instant reaction, I snapped the bookmark at the wasp, like a wrung up tea towel at bare flesh, and, I’m proud to say, sent the bastard flying into the patio window and down onto the balcony tiles, its arms, legs, wings, antennae, everything flapping wildly in a stunned, concussed state. I was up, the foot was down and the second wasp of that evening lost its life to a rather pleased me.
Once more I picked up my book, found the page, brushed off some thunderflies and carried on reading. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that the carcass of the first wasp was being devoured by a group of ants. This was fine, but it was attracting more wasps. I was wary, but the remains were almost gone and the entertainment soon disappeared.
‘The Hobbit’ was really getting good. An enchanting story about a small being called, strangely, a hobbit, and a group of dwarves who set out on a long, dangerous quest for treasure. Written by Tolkien, it is a prelude to Lord Of The Rings and, by this stage, the hobbit and the dwarves were in an inescapable position stuck up in burning trees with the Wargs (packs of wolves) hungrily growling below, ready for their prey to fall.
BZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzz. BZZZZZZZZZ. BZZZZZZZzzzzzummmmmm. THREE of the bastards.
I got up like a shot but was being attacked at both sides, with the other wasp buzzing past my ears. I closed my book, and as I was topless, I felt exposed, under threat and vulnerable.
BZZZZZZZZZ - one came at me again. I swung the book in its direction, but missed, angering the flying sting machines and further endangering myself. Another buzz-by happened and I randomly wielded my book but made no hits. I waved my hand and caught one side on. This was my cue to dash for the door, push it and close it in one motion, do a somersault on my bed and land standing up, facing the window with legs poised and fists clenched. A wasp looked through the window but knew the game was up.
I took the opportunity to jump in the shower and made damned sure that I was wearing insect repellant before going out that evening. After all, just as had happened during the USA tour of 2001, it appeared that we were at war with the insects. It seemed that all was about even at this stage - six mosquito bites in return for three wasp and two mozzie deaths, but the insects are resourceful, and you never know where the next bite will come from…..
Dinner was interesting - we had decided to try the hotel restaurant because it was a mere 6 Euros (£4) for a five course meal. The only questionable part was the dessert, a pale, gelatinous concoction with some sort of powdered topping. There was no taste. Mark pinched his nose and took large mouthfuls, stopping halfway and throwing in the spoon “only cos I’ve paid for it” he added, while I coated mine in sugar and thought of England.
In the evening we went to the Video Bar which was as empty as it usually is, but not long later two eligible females swanned in, which alerted our senses but made the barman’s labedo go haywire. We then overheard a conversation between the girls and the barman, during which he was informed that one girl had just got back with her boyfriend before arriving here, and that she was 19 with an eight month old baby.
So we left and watched Arsenal get trounced. Snigger.
DAY 4 - Thursday 18th September
For some reason, both Mark and I woke up at 6am, then again at 9am just in time for breakfast. Another bland, indistinguishable meal later, interspersed with a few incredibly dry biscuits, and we made our way out to the sunbeds.
There we sat for an hour or so, deeply engrossed in our novels and basking in the morning sun, hoping to balance our reddened chests with an equally beetroot-coloured back.
“AAAARGGH!” shrieked the woman who talked about the “awful accents” a few days before. She flapped her arms and cursed repeatedly before finally settling back down on her sunbed.
It appeared we were not the only ones at war with the insects.
“OooooOOOH OH OH!” she exclaimed, her arms slapping out in front of her like she was fighting another woman, in the way that only women do. “Wasps EVERYWHERE” she added, as if we didn’t know already.
Amusingly her husband was sat right next to her, perched in a chair, reading a large book. Unfortunately it seems that he had a spinal condition that arched his back over. Consequently he would have been no use when fighting the wasps and chose instead to completely ignore them, in stark contrast to his wife.
“There’s one on your foot” he said matter-of-factly, barley lifting his eyes off the page and sending his wife into a mad, flapping, frenzied panic. She kicked her feet, waved her arms and shrieked some more. “I’m going to complain” she said, and stomped off inside to the reception area where she was told it was under control. It clearly wasn’t under control, but the receptionist was obviously enjoying the entertainment as much as we were.
This couple had, by now, been nicknamed ‘Yoda and the Mouth’ because he, rather cruelly, resembled Star Wars’ Yoda when he walked (aided by a stick) and she just wouldn’t shut up. She also knew everybody, except us, and had one of those penetrating, hear-it-from-anywhere voices.
The wasps kept attacking, she kept shrieking and we kept laughing. Her husband glanced up “there are three of them around you now” he said, before carrying on with his book whilst she panicked and flapped some more. You couldn’t help but think he was enjoying it.
“Brian…!” (flap, wave)
“BRIAN…!” (flail, swipe)
“BRIAN…..!” (stand up, shriek, rapid exit)
This went on for some time before eventually settling down.
Then it was the turn of the birds. Swallows in fact.
With a tremendous cawing coming from the trees beyond, gradually more and more swallows flocked together before dive-bombing the swimming pool. Honestly, it was like somethin out of a Hitchcock film. One by one they gathered up speed and aimed themselves at the pool, presumably picking off surface insects or cooling in surface spray, but nonetheless scaring the shit out of the swimmers.
I looked up, tutted, rubbed off some thunderflies and wished to God the wasps would return and shut the Mouth up, who had gone into hiding by the pool bar but could still be heard across the other side of the pool.
Randomly, the gardener then appeared, pushing a squeaky wheelbarrow. He wheeled it all the way to the low fence, whistling, stopped and tipped it all into next door’s garden. He started up whistling his merry tune again and disappeared around the side of the hotel.
I had chosen the Pork Chop Special for dinner, which I later came to regret and washing that down with an Amstel or two, we once more headed to the main square of Hanioti. Having wandered around looking for anywhere with even the remotest signs of nocturnal activity, we returned disappointed to the Blue Cafe where the live music of our first night had been. We sat quietly at the bar, hoping that some eligible females might turn up or even walk past, but there were none. Clearly Hanioti is a paradise for couples intent on spending some quality time together, it is not a place for singles, which left Mark and I a tad disheartened.
Something to look at would be nice, if nothing else, but endless streams of couples, broken up by the odd cluster of pensioners is no good for our evening entertainment. Dear Lord, hear our prayer…..
DAY 5 - Friday 19th September
I am not a fish, I am not built like a fish (for I have neither fins nor gills), nor do I want to be a fish.
Today we went scuba diving. It was something Mark really wanted to do, as he loves swimming and the sea, and I was happy to go along, knowing that I’m not the strongest swimmer, but willing to give it a go and wanting to be able to say I’ve done it.
If I had been meant to glide along the bottom of the Aegean, I would have scales for skin. If I had been meant to breathe underwater, I would have gills rather than asthmatic lungs. If I had meant to survive the pressure of water 6 metres deep, I would not be in the pain I am when writing this.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
We grabbed our packed breakfast after rising early (the pork chop the previous night had given me nightmares so I was all too pleased to get up) and headed for the coach stop.
Upon arrival, we had a brief lesson about how to ‘equalize’ the air in your head (hold nose and blow hard) and the various forms of sealife that we may or may not see. Also, if we were to spot a seahorse, we would win a t-shirt. Woo hoo! It appeared that we were to go last.
Barely five minutes into the first pair’s dive and a seahorse had been spotted (which we later found out was because one of the divers sat on it) and a t-shirt had been won. Oh the lucky devil. There was all sorts of commotion on the shore. “That’s only the fourth one this SUMMER” shrieked the ginger bird with the unplaceable accent. Ecstatic we were, no really.
“OCTOPUS” came the cry from the water and this had them jumping up and down. “FIVE OF THEM” he added, before disappearing below the surface once more. The kit girl whinged about not being able to go and have a look and the guy in charge of the air cylinders who was kneeling in the shallows KEPT ON saying “what a day, what a day”.
Eventually everybody else had done their dive and it was our turn. Putting on the equipment was easy enough and we turned to put our masks on. “Spit in it” the instructor said, so upon instruction we duly spat in them and rubbed the saliva around, to de-mist apparently. Only I had a cold and what I had coughed up was a semi-solid, marble-sized putrid green ball of illness and germs. With a shrug of the shoulders I pasted it around and let what remained (the majority) float off on the Aegean… “the greener, the cleaner” the instructor said, laughing.
The consent to dive form enquired, amongst numerous other things, as to whether or not you are currently suffering from a cold/congestion or sinusitis. I had lied and put no, such was my intent to participate. Now I wish I’d put yes. The form also asked if you had any history of asthma. Again I had lied and thought of the almost empty inhaler lying on my bedside cabinet.
We knelt down, submerged ourselves and kicked off into the realms of, for me, was ‘the unknown’. We ‘equalised’ a few times (once per metre of depth) and, under the guidance and direction of our instructor who was keeping us together and playing with our equipment, we ventured further out and further under.
Now I know why not having a cold is important. As the ears, nose and throat are all closely connected, when one is partially blocked, it will affect the efficiency of the others. If you combine the difficulty I was having inhaling the air from my oxygen tank, with the increased pressure of the water and my deeper-depth inability to equalize, you will know why I now have ear ache.
Still deeper we went, occassionally being jerked sideways or upwards by our instructor. A finger would appear from above, from time to time, and I would pretend to know what to look at. To me it all seemed like a load of rocks and seaplants, with the odd fish here and there. We headed back, our twenty minutes was apparently up.
“Bloody hell” exclaimed the instructor as we broke the surface and removed our masks. “I’ve never had so much trouble as I did with you two”. We laughed. “One wanted to go left, the other right, I was trying to point things out to you but you wouldn’t look the right way. I wanted to show you the octopus and the seahorse, but you were so quick with your fins”.
‘You would be too if you couldn’t breathe properly and just wanted to get the hell out of there’ I thought, innocently smiling at him, in a knowing jest.
And so ended our scuba dive. Mark, of course, enjoyed it and is interested in the further courses that were offered. I, on the other hand, am concerned that my ears will never recover and am of the opinion that what’s in the sea can stay in the sea.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent lying next to the pool, although I’d seen enough water for one day and chose not to swim. Things are looking up - two eligible females have been spotted and, although Liverpudlians, they want to “go dancing - on tables, on bars, on balconies, we don’t care”. Watch this space.
After the evening meal, we caught the courtesy bus to town with the Liverpudlians. When the bus came to a stop, they bolted for it and trotted off at a hell of a pace. Our only conclusion was that they, without a shadow of doubt, absolutely 100% HAD to be lesbians.
We had a few beers in the usual places and ended up in the Blue Cafe once more, discussing our jobs. Mark then somehow struck up conversation with two girls at the bar. Serbians - Svetlana and something else completely incomprehensible. With the noise of the music in the bar, combined with the post-diving inability to hear, I caught very little of the conversation, but the gist of it seemed to be that Mark was asking question after question and the responses he got were less than detailed. “Spies” Mark whispered, as the Serbians admitted they had been refused a VISA for the UK. “Pies?” I said.
DAY 6 - Saturday 20th September
“I’ve got your cold, hayfever and a hangover” Mark said in between sniffs when we finally got up this morning. It had been a far heavier night than we had anticipated, not so much through the quantity drunk, more through the strength of the lager we were throwing down our necks - Amstel, Mythos and Stella all at 5%, the only let-up being Fosters at 4% alcohol, but only served in one bar…..
Eventually we headed for the pool. It was quite cloudy, but the sun was peering through and another day poolside beckoned. “You look like you just got up” joked the attendant at the pool bar where we ordered lunch.
In the late afternoon, I showered and made my way down to the lounge area to watch the football scores coming in. I had to take the initiative and ask everyone if they minded me changing the channel, and no sooner had I done so, the pundits switched to their reporter watching the Spurs game who then announced that Southampton had gone one up, inside three minutes.
“Brilliant” I said, and threatened to change the channel back when others suddenly came to life and exclaimed “NO NO NO, we’ll watch this now” and I endured a long afternoon. Before long a 63 year-old Geordie man had sat next to me and whittled on about football for a long while, then saying something I couldn’t understand and tottering off.
We went to a Chinese restaurant for dinner, which was ok but expensive. We then sat in a bar and tried to sniff out some eligible females, but to no avail. This front was proving unproductive but hey, at least we’re getting tanned.
DAY 7 - Sunday 20th September
Having got used to our daily routine by now, we were on the sunbeds by 10am. I, however, was suffering from stomach troubles that I attributed to the dubiousness of the Chinese chicken of the previous evening.
The majority of the day was spent lying in the sun. It was perhaps the best day so far in terms of clear blue sky and heat. So good, in fact, that we stayed with the die-hards until just after 6pm. Dinner was later that night, as we had booked ourselves in for the fortnightly Greek night.
It would appear that our perceived war with The Insects was nothing more than a one-off battle, but with a few minor skirmishes continuing. Thunderflies, wasps, flying ants and mosquitoes were still bugging (!) us, but their presence was nothing more than an irritation. The Flying Ants and The Mosquitoes were barley noticeable, first evening aside, and we always had the use of Plug-In Bug Zapper Battalion, if the need be. However, Thunderflies and The Wasps were still launching counter-attacks and often needed fending off with sharp swipes of the hands. Losses were relatively low, with Bites & Stings at 6 and Insect Deaths (Thunderflies excluded) at 7. But the war was far from over.
Greek Night was an experience to say the least. We positioned ourselves between a Welsh couple and another couple and sat down to ‘enjoy’ the Greek music and dancing.
After half an hour of what seemd like the same tune over and over again, the starter was served - pasts dishes of various content. An hour or so passed, the Amstel was sinking nicely, the ‘band’ were still on repeat and the main course was served - four indistinguishable slabs of meat, one on a skewer (wooo….) and half a ton of rice.
Conversation with the Welsh couple started, and they told us of their trip to Meteora (a monastery on the top of a huge rock) the previous day. “It was bloody AWful, butt” he started, “we left at six am, it took us five and a half hours to get there, we had an hour and a half AT Meteora and then five and a half hours back again. And the WORst thing was that it was with forty-five bloody GERMANS!” We couldn’t help but laugh.
We looked up - not far away from us were four Russians, or Serbs, or something equally Eastern European and it took around ten minutes to decide which were the female ones. However, one of the husbands was sporting some most resplendant golfer trousers and I decided my mission for the evening was to photograph his wife’s moustache. Which I did, to the amusement of everybody in the vicinity.
Having taken the picture, I zoomed in using the camera’s display and said “who is this?” to neighbouring couples. All they could see was an ageing face with glasses, half a smile and a thin moustache. I slowly zoomed out frame by frame until her entirity was revelaed and the couples were shocked, yet distinctly amused to discover she was female.
Yoda was there and Darryl (one of the couple) remarked that if Yoda did have a spinal condition and was hunched over, then surely his face would be in his dinner. We debated this for a while, also discussing The Mouth and The Sour-Faced Mullet who had turned up, her face miserably drooping downwards like some sort of wrinkly fish. We told our newly-found friends about these nicknames and the history behind them, and then pointed out the lesbians that we had spotted a day or two before (the ones we had shared the minibus with). “Well? Are they or aren’t they?” I enquired, questioning their sexuality. The general consensus was that they were lesbians, yes, the evidence being the way they rubbed suncream into each other, the tom-boy look of the slimmer one and the fact that they had clearly not been interested in Mark and me when we all met on the minibus. “They’ve also got matching friendship bracelets on their ankles” I added, settling the whole affair once and for all. There was some whispering between two girls two our left which then erupted into laughter and suggestive looks in our direction.
“What? What is it?” I asked. “Have I got dinner round my face?” They giggled some more, before taking a breath and asking “have you two got matching friendship bracelets too?”, then bursting into laughter once more.
I was quite shocked. They thought we were gay. I set them straight, but before long there was a lot of nodding and laughing all the way up the table. Everybody else then admitted that they thought we were gay and asked why we had ‘come to a place like this’. We explained about the oiks and the lads holiday culture and evntually they all began to accept that we were not, in fact, a couple like everybody else there. Right there and then our determination was fuelled to find some eligible females and put the debate, amongst other things, to bed…
The Greek dancing (hopping around in circles kicking legs whilst in an arm-in-arm circular chain) was pretty dire, although I did get an excellent picture of The Sour-Faced Mullet and the disco came and went. Before long it was midnight and there were only a few of us left.
Darryl wanted a kebab, so did Ian, and we could have managed one too. “I wonder if Spiros over there will drive down and get some, if we give him the money” Darryl said, but we were sidetracked by the hotel staff turning off all the lights. We discussed the hotel and a few holiday things, and the Mancunian couple we seemed to have befriended, who must have been younger than us and had a three year old kid - Liberty - asleep in the push chair, joined in. “There’s lots to do here, but not so much when you’re ‘with child’” the girlfriend said, motioning towards Liberty, but backing it up with a gesticulatory circular loop from her stomach and puffing out her cheeks. “What? Are you pregnant AGAIN?” Darryl blurted, as silence descended like a huge lead blanket. ‘Oh no’ we all thought, and cringed through our smiles, knowing that although a really nice looking girl, she could do with shedding a pound or ten.
And that seemed like a good point at which to end Greek Night, and also our first week.
DAY 8 - Monday 22nd September
The weather was glorious once more, and we spent the entire day on the sunbeds. Monday was the main change-over day, so out went Yoda and The Mouth, and the Sour-Faced Mullet and in came “ancient or Japanese” according to Mark, “or both”. However, there were two eligible females also noted, but the general conclusion from everybody was that they were lesbians.
We dined in town for a change and ended up having a beer in the Blue Cafe (surprise). “Eyes right” I said, followed by “drink up and we’ll stalk them!” Two brunettes had ambled by, unaware of our watching eyes. They must have known something was up, as it were, because by the time we had got out the bar, they had vanished.
Not disheartened, we went into a different bar and before long Mark was off chatting to a couple of eligibles, so we stayed a while with them. Things were just getting interesting when two guys they had met earlier very kindly invited themselves over and, without introducing themselves, took over by talking about themselves. Not to be outdone, Mark and I spoke in French a while, remarking that one of them looked like a cross between Phil Tufnell and the one from Hollyoaks that got butt-f*cked by the footballer. We then didn’t give them the satisfaction of having to get rid of us, we upped and left.
Back to the hotel bar we went, after unsuccessfully trying to get a kebab, and a conversation with Ian (who refused to wear suncream and who comes on holiday to get ‘drunk and burnt’) ensued.
DAY 9 - Tuesday 23rd September
Today was the hottest so far, so we made the most of it and lazed by the pool, reading and sleeping. Darryl and Emma turned up and we messed around in the pool with a frizbee and a flat volleyball before meeting the two girls that may be lesbians.
Chat followed, we made sure that we happened to mention the fact that we are not a couple, although we are still not sure about them.
Everybody piled into the 8pm courtesy bus, but there was no room for Laura and Laura (for those were their names) who pitched up two minutes too late. “That’s your evening ruined then lads” Darryl offered, as if we didn’t already have a contingency plan.
We had a beer with Darryl and Emma, then arranged to meet up later, perhaps for Karaoke which was advertised on one of the lamp-posts in the main square. We trudged on to the Italian restaurant and proceeded to order two meals of gigantic proportions, as well as noting Laura and Laura a few tables away.
Without managing to finish the enormous quantities of food put before us, and wanting to leave room for beer, we headed to the Blue Cafe with the Lauras and met up with Darryl and Emma.
As we walked back to grab the minibus to the hotel, we walked past a group of youngsters who were sniggering and laughing away. All we caught from their conversation was a plea from a giggling teenage girl to “don’t make me laugh, I’m wearing white trousers”. Nice.
DAY 10 - Wednesday 24th September
We were mid-sandwich when we were greeted with a “good morning, may we join you?” at breakfast. Down sat Laura and Laura and Gianni, the perverted, greasy, slime-ball waiter sidled across to our table. Gianni, so the girls told us, had made several sleazy comments over the past couple of days and was clearly jealous that Mark and I had befriended them. “Morning” he said, in his rolled Albanian accent. He was responded to with a couple of grunts and a death stare of two, and continued with “aaaaah, tired?”. He didn’t wait for a response and carried on with his questioning. “Aaaaah, too much drink? Or too much umm-hmmm?” and with that made a forward and back motion with his fists, implying rampant sex.
Deathly silence. Stares of disbelief. Gianni cleared some plates and left, amongst much laughter.
The rest of the day was spent poolside, whilst the girls went on a day trip. I read almost 400 pages of my book and Mark slept under the hot sun.
We saw Darryl and Emma at the bar, arranged to meet for live music night in the Blue cafe and took the minibus into town, girls in tow. Lesse Steak House was our destination, but we won’t be going there again as Mark’s chicken had no sauce and my fillet steak was so leathery I might as well have eaten my shoes.
Darryl and Emma met us again and we headed to the Blue cafe for the live music, which we soon discovered wasn’t on, to my utter disgust. “Oh well” I thought, “at least I can keep one eye on the Spurs game”, and then found out that Newcastle were on instead.
So we left and played draughts in a bar we hadn’t been in before. Laura and Laura clearly got bored, Emma thrashed me (at draughts) and it got a bit cold so we caught the minibus back to the hotel.
The Lauras invited us to their room for tea and biscuits, so we went after a beer in the bar, and caught them about to turn the light out, thinking we weren’t coming. We then out-stayed our welcome and wandered back to our room.
DAY 11 - Thursday 25th September
I woke at 6.45am after a massive five hours sleep, my stomach still dicky from the Chinese meal on Saturday, and thought about our Sunshine Cruise scheduled for the day.
We met Darryl and Emma at the bus stop and journeyed to the dock where our galleon awaited us. The rep had talked up the event by repeatedly telling us that the captain was “absolutely crazy”, “a complete nutter” (nooter) and “will have you in stitches the whole day long”. I was somewhat dubious, Mark slightly sceptical and Darryl downright cynical!
However, we managed to settle ourselves in the best spot on the ship. A fairly secluded area directly in front of the wheel-house, a level up from where the others were milling around tables and chairs, and with a view of both sides. It was like an executive lounge, and we were the VIPs.
Two nights before, during one of our visits to the Blue Cafe, we had discussed the Sunshine Cruise and the table of events lined up for the day. “Apparently”, Darryl said, in between sips of his Mythos lager, “we have to swim to shore at the first stop”. “Brilliant”, I sarcastically replied, “I’m not the strongest of swimmers, surely there’s a boat to shore?”
“I think there is, but you’ve got to swim mate, you’ve just got to do it.”
“The only way I’d get to shore is with a pair of armbands” I joked, envisaging the scenario. They laughed, so I continued “you know, and not those poncy ones either, I mean proper armbands with Mickey Mouse on”. We chuckled and did some bad pirate impressions, me sounding more like a Devonian farmer.
It was hot today, but the wind on the upper deck where we were sitting was quite cold, as we rocked towards our first stop on the Sithonian peninsula.
The captain got on the microphone with an annoying trio of ‘bing bong’s and then ran around his ship molesting the women, stripping them (to get them ready for swimming) and threatening them with his pistole. Emma was molested - the captain lifting her t-shirt off before turning on Mark who feigned the same motion. The English guide announced that the diving board was ready; for those that wanted to swim but not dive, there were some steps into the water and that for those who wanted to take the boat, it was ready for boarding.
“I think I’ll get the boat then” I said, as I eyed up the 50 yard distance to shore.
“Remember the other night when you said you’d only swim ashore if you had some Mickey Mouse armbands?” Emma threw in.
“Yeeeees” “well…” and with that she slid a carrier bag across the table to me. Inside were some Mickey Mouse armbands. Chuffed, yet slightly apprehensive of the swim, we quickly blew them up, put them on and photographed it. Then, in front of 150 or so people, I jumped off the side of the boat and headed for shore, wondering if the fifty metre patch I had obtained years before would actually mean anything.
I made it, amongst some funny looks, but I was back on dry land. We retrieved our bags from the speedboat ferrying people ashore and lay on the beach.
“Where’s all the stupid men?” the captain yelled, ambling along the beach. “And all the sexy ladies?” We all rose, split into teams by gender and prepared ourselves, banter and all, for the volleyball match. The captain was on the ladies team and had a well-deserved reputation for cheating and always winning. Again he cheated, and again they won, but there was retribution.
We had endured the doubling of women’s team points, we had been through the dodgy decisions behind “it was out” and we had let go the clear carrying of the ball. Now it was our turn.
The big lad at the front shouted “NOW!” as the women’s team hit the match-winning shot, and half-a-dozen members of our side grabbed the captain, dumped him in the sea and removed his shorts.
People ran to get cameras, others simply stared, the rest laughed and wondered what he would do. For about ten minutes the captain pleaded with the men who had his shorts, he asked the women for something to cover himself up with, to no avail, and he was then rescued. Lesson taught methinks.
Back aboard the boat, we took our executive positions again and soaked up the sun. A questionable lunch ensued, followed by a lot of people watching. The Drunk - a guy with badly sunburned legs, an Indiana Jones style hat strapped to his back and an obvious drinking problem, went to the bar for the umpteenth time and staggered back to his chair, before passing out towards the end of the trip and allowing an excellent photographic opportunity…..
There was also the Assassin. This guy didn’t move from the same position all day, the same expression on his face (accentuated by his shiny dark glasses) and a look of ‘I’ve been watching you’ as he stared in our direction once more.
Boris was also there. A young kid of around 14 with a distinct resemblance to Boris Johnson from Have I Got News For You with larger than average build, rosy cheeks and foppish hair.
And, of course, there was the Viking. We had first noticed the Viking when he strode along the beach, his long plaited beard dangling down to his navel, swinging as he paced along the sand. He had long dark hair too, flailing behind him in the sea breeze. Standing at over six feet, he was quite a sight and you could well imagine him wearing a spikey helmet, wielding a curved sabre, raping and pillaging before hoisting the skull and cross-bones and sleeping it off in the crow’s nest. He was incredibly difficult to photograph and very wary of people staring at him, so when I waved my digital camera in his direction, I was met with a piercing stare and felt that I might soon get garotted. Eventually, though, while we headed home-bound, I snapped him. Hair everywhere.
We stopped at Turtle Island - an animal sanctuary or something, off the Sithonian Peninsula and not far from Pethkahori. The diving board come plank was again set up, and most people dived into the sea only to discover that there were more than two dozen jellyfish floating around a few yards away. I, however, resisted the temptation to don the Mickey Mouse armbands once more, and decided instead to stay on board with Darryl and watch the jellyfish get closer and closer.
“It’s Turtle Island, not Dirty Island” the increasingly irritating captain announced over the microphone for the 947th time that afternoon.
So back we headed, which was good because we’d all had enough of the sea and our ‘nutter’ captain was become annoying, tiresome and more and more unfunny.
There was still time, though, for Mark and Emma to have their photos taken at the helm.
Back to the coaches we trudged, looking forward to a beer and a good evening out - all except the Drunk who was nowhere to be found and assumed to be bobbing around the Aegean somewhere.
When we got back to the hotel, we saw the Lauras who told us of the Gianni events of the day - he had sung ‘Who Let The Dogs Out’ when they appeared in the morning, and stared at Laura K’s ample naked breasts from close range, claiming he was reading her book. Our conclusion was that he is a perverted tosser who shall regret his persistent leachery.
The evening arrived and we met the Lauras at the bar before heading townwards. ‘The Garden’ was our chosen restaurant and very good it was too, although Laura K’s fear of the stray cats and kittens distracted her from her meal.
We drank cocktails in the Sunshine Lounge - mine being the ‘Sunshine Surprise’ and having secret ingredients (in stark contrast to the ‘Top Secret’ whose ingredients were given in ironic full detail), and headed to Love Street for some good old Amstels.
After telling a few stories, the Lauras insisted we grab the night bus back to the hotel where I was accosted at the bar and Mark went to the Lauras room to drink some more. Eventually I managed to break away and join them, the highlight being the proposed balcony dash (jumping across the barriers between all the room’s balconies) but this was shelved when Laura K announced she was going to do it, rather too loudly.
When we left the Lauras, we walked through the bar, were given pulling tips by Bill the barman and told about the sexual practices of Ian and Ginny.
DAY 12 - Friday 26th September
Today was the day we had planned to go with the Lauras to the beach at Kallithea, a fairly quiet and remote beach 15km from Hanioti. Today was a day we envisaged away from the heat of being pool-side, away from leacherous Gianni and the piercing noise-making of Shriek (which was always closely followed by a sharp “BILLY”). Today was to be a day away from familiar faces and away from familiar surroundings. Today it was cloudy and we hardly saw the sun.
However, the taxi journeys were interesting. It would appear that neither road markings nor traffic lights have any significance here, as we clearly drove through sets of red, ventured onto the grassy verge and overtook where forbidden. Accustomed to the persistently irritating bleep of his taxi radio, the driver casually sipped coffee through a straw as he blasted his way through the traffic, through the red lights, up the verges and overtaking lorries on blind corners where road markings and commen sense said otherwise.
At last we located the beach, glared in frustration at the sky and lay down anyway. Not wanting to read like the other three, I took a stroll along the beach and headed for the rocky outcrop about a hundred yards along. I found a flat rock overlooking the sea, away from any road noise, kids or Germans, and sat on it, looking out across the waters and staring at the rocks. I thought about a few things - work, football, school, women, music - and eventually swanned back, shocked to find out that I had been reflecting for two whole hours.
There was not a lot to do, so it was decided that one of us had to be buried in the sand. Guess who….. Correct…..
I looked on as Mark and the Lauras scrabbled away at the sand, clearing a trench where I soon lay. They piled the sand on me, took a few photographs, and I had just enough time to wash off in the sea when the rain started.
We dashed back to a nearby hotel where a taxi was summoned and before long we were streaming through traffic like shot through a gun, including a manoeuvre where we took about eight cars in one go…..
Thankfully we arrived back in one piece, had a brief swim and got ready to go out.
Not being able to decide, once more, on where to go for food, we ended up at the busy Italian restaurant for a pizza each, although the Lauras somehow managed chips and a salad too, putting to shame the quantities Mark and I had consumed.
For somewhere different to drink, we went off into a side street, got greeted by a northern English girl and went into the bar. The music was loud, there was barely anyone there and we contemplated the day’s events. The northern girl came over, took our orders for drinks and went off to pour them. We discussed the hair-raising taxi rides and the cloudy weather.
“Let’s pray for sun tomorrow” Laura G suggested, and proceeded to persuade us to link hands, close our eyes, get in touch with our souls and pray to God for sun.
The candles flickered, a gentle breeze blew and we sent our telepathic messages to the God of Sun.
“Errr, what are you doing?” we heard, as our prayer was interrupted and the waitress took a step back and rattled the glasses on her tray. We laughed heartily and were a tad embarrassed, but we did get her to photograph the scene when we re-enacted it and she said she’d buy us all a drink if it turned out nice tomorrow.
Next stop was the Sunshine cocktails bar. Here, Laura G and I had an in-depth conversation about relationships and debated the ‘all men are bastards’ claim, whilst Mark and Laura G watched the world go by, taking the mickey out of anybody and everybody in the search for good looking people.
The search proved fruitless (aside from present company!), although much amusement was had, and after some more photos we headed back to the hotel.
DAY 13 - Saturday 27th September
We saw Darryl and Emma at breakfast and they told us of a conversation they had with Gianni, whereby when Gianni yawned, Darryl asked if he had had too much drink, or too much umm-hmmmm, as Gianni had done to us on Wednesday morning. Darryl then enquired as to whether Gianni had a girlfriend - no - boyfriend? Not impressed, Gianni stormed off.
The weather wasn’t brilliant today, although Mark did sleep on the sun lounger for most of the day. Darryl and Emma, Mark and I splashed around in the pool with the frizbee and flat volleyball, being as noisy as possible.
After having a competition to see if we could injure each other with the frizbee, we tired and I went off to watch the football.
We went to Kassandra roof-garden restaurant for dinner, where the Lauras ordered mega quantities of food once more. Several beers, much banter and a good feed later, we headed off to do some karaoke where we met Darryl, Emma, Ian and Ginny. Ian had requested Wie Wam Bam and volunteered himself and Emma to sing it. However, when the time came, he bottled it, Darryl refused to take his place and I was roped into getting up to take part.
I hoped that I might recognize the song once it got going, but sadly not, so I was stood like a lemon next to Emma, smiling at her not really knowing it either.
We didn’t have much time before the last bus, so I squeezed in a rendition of Your Song, downed my pint and we hurried for the minibus.
When we went back to the girls’ room afterwards, there was a knock at the door, it was one of the hotel staff claiming there had been a complaint about the noise we were making. A tad peeved by this, we reduced our conversation level to a mere whisper, then there was a tapping at the wall. By the end of the night, Mark and Laura K were writing messages to each other to minimise noise levels, whilst Laura G and I whispered on the balcony.
After this, Mark and I went down to the bar where Darryl, Emma, Ian and Ginny were finishing their drinks. As has come to be standard over the past week or so, we reported in. The Hotel Hilltop El Dorado soap opera of ‘are they, will they, have they, won’t they’ scandals has certainly developed and provided much entertainment for our fellow guests. We relayed the evenings events, answered questions, gave opinions, autographed books - that sort of thing - until the followers had had their fill and retired to bed.
DAY 14 - Sunday 28th September
“We’re being discussed” Mark said when he and I were at breakfast this morning. “And now they’re recruiting others” he added, and before we could say “fancy another egg on toast old bean?”, the father of Shriek had come over, leant forward on our table with his fists and tried to intimidate us with his sad, fake, large ‘gold’ necklaces which made him look like a pathetic version of BA Baracas.
“Are you the guys that go to see the girls in 24?” he growled, as his fat, bulbous wife waddled over with Shriek and hid behind him.
“I suppose”
“Can you keep the noise at night down a bit? The doors shutting and your talking keeps us awake”.
This would have been fine. His semi-assertive request would have been far more warmly responded to if his beached whale wife hadn’t exaggerated BA’s point with “yeah, it’s been keeping us awake for three nights now, and we’ve got this little one who can’t sleep, we’re absolutely shattered”.
Thankfully, Mark hadn’t really woken up yet and I told myself to calm down as I felt the heat of rage swell up inside me. Otherwise they would have had a swift response along the lines of “first of all you interrupt our breakfast, trying to intimidate us with BA here’s tanned fists and sad jewellery and then you have the audacity to tell US to quieten down when it’s YOUR child that noisily plays with its toys and irritates the hell out of everyone, and it’s YOUR child that knows it can ignore its parents when they tell it to shut up because they won’t do anything about it. Fair enough, we go back to their room for a drink on the balcony, but it’s not late - it’s only 1am, there’s no music and we don’t stay long”.
Now, of course, we are going to make as much noise as possible during Greek night and Darryl is going to engineer a decapitating frizbee accident for Shriek. War.
There were a lot more people at Greek night than last week and we sit with the Lauras and immediately start taking the mickey out of everybody else there. Lots of silly photos and lots of Amstel later, I find myself on the dance floor with Lynn (a middle-aged woman who befriended us during one of several early evening drinks at the bar) forcing her to do air guitar in front of everyone there. Splendid.
The rep turned up and had a dance, we went to the bar again and people began retiring to bed. Far too drunk to talk, I staggered upstairs leaving Mark to slur at people still drinking at the bar.
DAY 15 - Monday 29th September
Blatantly still drunk, I started the day with a ten minute conversation with myself. Breakfast beckoned and we sat with the Lauras, Darryl and Emma by the pool to wait for the coach.
So, when it arrived, we settled down, said our farewells to Darryl and Emma and got on our way. Emma decided to firstly lift up her skirt thing to reveal her rear end (bikini’d up though) as we set off, and then chased after the coach, flailing her waving arms as we disappeared into the distance.
The journey back was uneventful, aside from the hour long queue to check-in which we spent abusing the Lauras and staring at the lesbian monstrosity that we encountered upon arrival two weeks ago.
Upon return to England, we caught the shuttle bus to the railway station where we intended to continue our journey in the company of the Lauras. Problem - trains to Watford necessitate travel into London then back out, and high cost. Options? Bus.
So we said our goodbyes to the Lauras, got back on the shuttle bus to the airport and eventually caught the bus for Watford. The man at the train station had said it was a direct bus and should only take 45 minutes.
Two hours later, we had endured the petulence of British youth, felt ashamed at the state of our country and arrived at the front door sensing that the post-holiday blues were about to get a whole lot worse.
THE END
