Wednesday 31 July
As far as going off course actually goes, I’ve gone. I’ve arrived in little England, and it’s a total shit-hole. A playground for chavs and stupid British teenagers which needs to be bombed off the map. Nay, not bombed; Napalmed. These nob heads need to burn before they can breed. I can’t move for singlet wearing, backward-baseball-cap twats with crap tattoos and names like Wozza. Slappers looking exactly the same as each other strut the streets with vacant looks and horrible voices. “Keep calm and suck my dick” reads one T-shirt. “I’m in fucking Kavos bitches” reads another, which isn’t going to be good for the moron for much longer when he lands back in Essex. What in the name of the wee man am I doing here?
The Pink Palace was doing exactly what it said on the tin, and we were getting stuck. New friends were proving hard to leave. Events were spiraling out of control. We needed a change of scene. In spite of all my protests, and what he would call me being a “whiny bitch”; Mike opts to drive to Kavos; a party town on the bottom tip of the island. I know exactly what to expect, but nonetheless were tear ourselves away and hit windy Greek roads in the late afternoon heat.
Mike has the fear. Mike having the fear gives me the fear, especially as he’s driving and shaking at the same time. Considering how much booze the two of us has consumed over the past few nights, sweating it out sitting next to each other in the van might not be the best idea. But the nightmare was only just beginning. It wasn’t until we arrived in Kavos when we (I) realised we were on a road straight into my darkest fears.
Imagine, if you will, taking Blackpool and moving it somewhere unbearably hot. The centre of this mess consists of two main streets that criss-cross at an intersection. One is dedicated to eating; the other drinking. Interspersed are ATV and scooter hire shops, pool halls, bowling ally’s and arcades. Neon signs advertise foam parties, sex shows and pints of shots. Pints of shots. Knuckle-draggers and sluts prowl the streets with swagger, keeping their distance and not interacting until they’re smashed at the school disco. “Let’s go fucking mental” is a common chant. Ear bleeding chart dance shite blasts from all sides. Signs promote the tempting prospect of having ten shots funneled down your throat. Vacuous PR girls and cockney geezer-wankers attempt to get you into the establishment they’re “working for”. Everyone is hideously ugly in every sense of the word.
“So you want to get fuuuucked tonight dahhlin?!” some street tart drawls.
“Literally or figuratively?” I respond.
“Yawot?” She puzzles.
I walk away only to be approached by a cleavage. Her lip has several stitches and she’s missing a tooth. Apparently because she got “fucking smaaaashed the other niggght didn’t I?!”
OK so when I get on my high-horse about these sort of things I understand I can come across as pretty judgmental. A feeling that I’m better than them perhaps? Each to their own right? Let them have their fun. Fuck that. Kill them all now. I fantasise about a cache of assault rifes and rocket propelled grenades, roaming the streets like Tackleberry gunning down neaderthals and wannabe strippers. Maybe a flame thrower for the real dickheads. I’d drop special cases into a vat of acid.
The only positive is equally a negative. British food. On the one hand I’ve had my first proper fish and chips in nearly two years, on the other I find it utterly ridiculous that you would want to come to a place for a week which was exactly like the place you just left – only a lot hotter. Everything is British. Everything. The advantage for the world traveler is I can stock up on things I’ve missed or run out of. But it still doesn’t stop me from feeling that I was contracting AIDS just by walking the streets.
I hate meeting British people generally while traveling, especially in large scores of lads and ladettes. I will never go home. I don’t want to risk it. I know I’m tarnishing with a very big, sweeping brush; but I’m going to come out and say it right now. With the obvious exception of friends; as a race; I don’t like the British. I just don’t. We have a disgusting reputation on the world stage. They attempt to segregate a Serbian party here because they hate us. In my experience on the road – they’re not the only ones.
I try to take the experience as a positive one as I attempt to get out of what can only be described as the most horrible place on the planet. That and I won 40 euros playing pool last night. These scumbags are good for something. Hell on earth – thy name is Kavos.