Thassos 2004

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Day 4 - Saturday 12th June 2004

Being mistaken for a German I can just about tolerate, but turning up at the swimming pool bright and early to grab a sun lounger ahead of the day's ray-bathing, only to find that the whole lot had been taken by German towels was a step too far for me. "Bloody Germans" I bellowed at the few people in the vicinity. Towels already down on the sun-loungers at 9:00 and hardly a poxy German in sight. I had a good mind to remove their towels and pile them in a corner somewhere, before playing the 'deny everything' card or the 'I don't understand you, you crazy fool' act.

Debs talked me out of both, but whenever a German child cried or we were disturbed by loud talking or laughter, we'd mutter about the Germans as blatantly as possible, mentioning the war whenever possible.

The sunbathing was going well, although I had to cover up some sore areas from the previous day and Debs hid under her sunhat and the parasol for most of the hotter hours. Despair arrived when a pair of German women showed up and claimed we were under their parasol. Proving this by showing us a shiny key, it became clear that one has to purchase the sunloungers for the day and obtain a key to unlock them. Strangely, our loungers were unlocked when we turned up, but hey these things happen.

We trudged over to reception to get our very own shiny key and I had a good whinge at the reception about the Germans and their sunlounger pre-occupation, but the dim-witted receptionist clearly did not understand and, short of walking her to the swimming pool, showing her the crowds of Germans and gesticulating profusely, I gave up.

We paid for the sunloungers and settled once more. I was getting concerned about my headaches, but put that down to dehydration and besides which, I was engrossed in a Stephen King book which was more gripping than a German beach towel on a sunlounger.

By the time dinner came about, I wasn't feeling good. Cold, tired, thirsty and still the headaches. Some food helped, but what I really needed was an early night away from the Greek music and the shrieking German brats.

I had never really come into contact with Germans before - I've never been to Germany, I know next to zero German words and all the holiday resorts I have ever visited have almost always been dominated by Brits, but already they annoy and irritate me. Their short army haircuts, the way they walk with their backs dead straight, the way the men insist on wearing tight Speedo's, their consistently screaming brats, their military, disciplined approach to absolutely everything and their sheer inability to build sandcastles. In fact, as I sit here writing on the secluded terrace outside our super-clean bungalow, Aegean sea visible over the evergreen trees, the pheasants calling on the hills and the soft rattle of a goat's bell as it nibbles away at the bushy hedgerow at the entrance to the complex, I can hear screaming. A German brat. I know it's a German brat because it's the same German brat that I've listened to for the past two nights and the same German brat who's parents shout at it in an attempt, I assume, to shut it up.