Kavos, Corfu: Welcome to hell.

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.

“Nevermind”

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.

 

 

 

 

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Pink.

Sunday 28 July

So I’m standing in a pink circle dressed in a pink toga watching two Greek guys do something I can only presume is a traditional dance.  Which is probably pink.  Then everyone drinks a shit load of pink Ouzo from an industrial size cooking pot, before plates are smashed over your head by a guy called Dr George.  Everyone gets real loose.  It’s like a zoo.  A pink zoo.  Half naked guys predator their way from pink vagina to pink vagina, with lots of pink cavorting happening in shady pink corners.  Or just on the dance floor while everyone watches.  It’s like a scene from ancient Greece (which is fitting), where Dionysus is fisting Aphrodite on acid while several dwarves suck grapes from the feet of rotting corpses.  Who are pink.  I can see my friend Mikes junk, and I’m not enjoying displaying my farmers tan, while using my kilt sporran on as the only place to hold any valuables.  I look ridiculous, but after about ten shots of the Greek version of Sambucca, I don’t give a pink fuck.

Fast forward several hours and I’ve seen things I can’t unsee.  I might even have partook in some of them.  There might have been a couple of incidents on the beach at silly o’clock in the morning.  There might have been a shower thing.  There might have been…no I can’t say that one.  Anyway, you get the gist.  I’ve met some crazy people and potentially some life-long friends.  I’m invoking my inner Wilde.  I’m pushing and testing my boundaries.  I’m having the summer of my life.

I’m away to get my pink on.  YAMAS BITCHES!

 

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HEDONISM AND DEBAUCHERY!

Wednesday 24 July

I’m sat in a place called The Pink Palace, in Corfu.  Corfu I hear you balk?  Yes dear readers I am well aware just how far out of my hitchhike to India I am.  I’m sat recovering from a two day fever (apparently called Corflu), nursing mossie bites the size of golf balls on my forehead.  I kid you not, last night I looked like the Elephant man.  Oh and I’m watching a load of youths cavort around in pink Togas.  I can’t complain, I was doing it the other night.

So what has happened?  What hasn’t would be more to the point, most of which I cannot include here.  Safe to say I left my new home at the Wild Fig after possibly the best summer I’ve had.  I miss it every day, but I certainly don’t miss the dreadful Zadarian internet connection which has presented me with little opportunity to  update you of my musings.  Consequently I am somewhat behind, but I will be brief.

I’ve been building furniture.  Crazy eh?  There’s the edge right there.  However the last time I made something vaguely out of wood it was a fuse tester circa 1990, and it didn’t work.  I’ve sawn, buffed, chopped, sanded, nailed, varnished and screwed.  Take that how you will.  As a result I’m going to start a new career in bespoke garden furniture made out of pallets.  Pictures to follow.

I’ve also been doing my fair share of things I shouldn’t.  I will let your imagination run wild.  I’ve been pushing my boundaries to what I’m capable of, and I’ve found myself skinny dipping on numerous occasions.  As in, I’m the first in the water.  Now for those who really know me, you would understand what a large (potentially small) undertaking this is.  I’m pretty proud of myself.  The other day I considered doing a bungee jump.  I mean I’ll never do it – don’t be fucking stupid – but the fact that I’m considering it speaks volumes.

Then my two wonderfully liberated friends Mike and Kathi invited me on a road trip down to Corfu.  This would be in keeping with my hitchhike mantra, and I’d get to see three new countries I hadn’t originally planned on experiencing; Montenegro, Albania and Greece.  Montenegro was stunning, Albania felt like I was back in Colombia only less attractive and with more gas stations on one mile of “motorway” than you’ve ever seen in your life; and Greece has been…well…let’s just say it’s been.  You never insult the alligator until after you cross the water.

Where I go next is something of a mystery at this point, but then again; isn’t that how the best adventures begin?  I promise to not be so tardy in future.  Things are about to get interesting.  Slash filthy.  Or maybe dangerous.  Who knows?  All I know is somebody is chanting “take it off” repeatedly round the corner and I’m going to find out what it is.

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Hooligan quiz

Saturday 13 July

What  do you get when you cross an amateur football team of English drunks, three French girls, a Kiwi and one hot feisty lesbian?  A pub quiz of epic carnage and one crazy night.

I’ve been tasked with putting together some trivia for the evening’s entertainment.  I’m slightly disappointed in this, as I regard myself as a bit of a useless knowledge guru if I may blow my own trumpet for a while.  My finest hour came during one of the nine times my ex-girlfriend dumped me.  I left my flat in a fit of depression to drink myself to breaking point in a local bar, whereupon I discovered they were running a pub quiz.  Being a billy-no-mates, I had no option but to enter on my own.  Much to both mine and everyone else’s surprise at the popular and well attended weekly event, I won the whole thing solo.  I then took the winning case of beer back to my apartment and cried.

I digress.  6 gorgeous (and I mean gorgeous) Canadian girls have arrived, but as we’ve not finished their room yet, we have to send them to an apartment next door.  They promise they’ll be back for the quiz, and with a decent ratio already in the hostel, I’m thinking this could be my chance to shine.  As acting quiz master, surely I can put together an entertaining show and maybe break my horrible losing streak?  I use a tried and trusted fun quiz format with some solid questions, a jokes round, a quick fire round and a dance off if there’s a draw.  Money in the bank.  Start at 8.30pm sharp.

It’s 9.10.  No show from the gorgeous Canadians.  In their stead comes an entire football team (including substitutes), of a lads-on-tour shit show of messiness.

“Are you going out?  It’s a great night out in Zadar.”  I helpfully persuade.

“NOWEWANNADOTHEQUIZ!”  Is what I think I hear.  My heart sinks.

A few hours later and we’re having a blast.  It’s going down a storm in spite of a few louty attempts to disrupt from a small minority.  A can of beer is spilled on the floor and chants of “SLURP!  SLURP!” ring round the patio.  A middle aged balding man with his arse hanging out drops to the floor and sucks up all the drink on the tiles.  He looks like he should know better, but he’s already been mooning the French girls for much of round two.  Wearing shorts for these boys is a dangerous thing as they have a habit of dropping them easily.  Nobody knows the hot lesbian is a lesbian and it’s hilarious.  I’m slightly concerned there’s going to be a riot.  We finish with a dance off and I even manage to raise about £30 for my charity.  Hearty congratulations all round for a job well done, and even though I sit up alone as I write, three sheets to the wind and rueing a distinct lack of Canadians, I really can’t complain at all.

I re-read my drunken facebook status update the next day.  Apparently I called the night a “symphony of epicness.”  Hemmingway eat your heart out.

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