I went to Rhodes undercover for a spot of guerrilla journalism. Ok, ok – I will come out with it straight. I went hankering desperately after a shag with anything that had a twat, ideally humanoid. So did I form a soulful relationship with a moist orifice? More later…
I wanted to discover the debauchery, the drunkenness, the drug abuse, the promiscuous sex , the shocking truth and the Baroque architecture. Ok, fuck the architecture.
At the age of 19 I looked into taking a holiday with Chav Tours – sorry, club 18-30. In those days of course we did not say chav, the word had not been invented. In fact we said pleb. It is a sign of how classical learning has declined that we do not even abuse the working class with Latin insults anymore. O Tempora, O mores! At the age of 19 my tight fistedness beat my horniness. That is saying something. At that age I would have used my dick to drill through a brick wall to get at anything female. I decided not to go. Why? I was living off the bank of mum and dad anyway.
This summer I finally bit the bullet. I arrived at Grotwick, sorry – Gatwick. I had a butterfly stomach. How would the underclass react to me? Me of the floppy hair a la Hugh Grant? Me who is accused of sounding like I am out of the film Notting Hill? Though boringly bourgeois my accent has been labelled made in Chelsea. I am only two generations out of the working class but that may make quite a difference. Some of these people are two generations out of work.
I was attracted by the Club 18-30 brochure. It stated the itinerary was Ibiza, Mallorca, Kos, Rhodes, the STD clinic. I was also assured that my dick would get bigger after a Club 18-30 holiday – with the growth of warts and chancres. It was meant to be shag-a-slag. I signed up for Chav Tours.
I was anxious that I be thought an intellectual. I had it on good authority that an above average intelligence youth on such a holiday was someone who know who his father was. Moreover, would I be allowed on the plane without an ASBO?
Just to try and fit in I wore a polo shirt, not a Ralph Lauren one. My shirt said, ”Danny Sullivan construction”. So I was wearing camouflage. I would blend in like a chameleon among the proletariat. But I make about as convincing a builder as I do a ballerina.
I reached the departure gate. An eclectic crowd lolled around. Some were coffin dodgers off for one last soak of their osteoporosis stricken bones before giving up the ghost. But they were few. Some were middle-aged parents with the dad suffering that salt and pepper effect in his receding hair. The perma tanned mum had seen better days with deep wrinkles scoring a leathery and overly made up face. A brace of demanding kids would be tearing around the place. But there were many youngsters too. They tended to congregate in single sex gangs of half a dozen each. Boys and girls would hang out on a sofa looking morose – like the start of a school disco where alcohol had been banned.
I spotted a prize-winning chav straight off. This pimple faced boy of 20 summers wore a black baseball cap with that curious sort of visor bit that does not curve or bend but is dead straight. He committed the first fashion gfauz pas to rule him out of polite society. Never wear sports clothes unless actually playing sports. A rugger jersey may be excepted from this. American sports gear is especially suspect. An ice hockey top or basketball bib is decidedly dubious.
I observed these inhabitants of the concrete jungle from a safe distance. It was like being on a particularly dangerous safari. I mused with anxiety that Gatwick is on a direct line from Croydon. Many inhabitants of Croydon have sought refugee status in Afghanistan.
One thing I noticed is that I think every last person was white. This certainly is no reflection of the ethnic diversity of the south London area where Gatwick is situated. Good point – the Jamaicans are too classy to mingle with this white trash. Everybody was white and nobody was speaking Polish! Was I in Britain or not? At first I questioned whether I had accidentally booked myself on the BNP summer school away trip. Sadly my suspicion was misplaced. I was soon to discover that my fellow holidaymakers were nowhere near so refined or broad-minded as the BNP. By the way I am not racist. I speak as a man who has fucked a Zambian!
I would have to go all the way to Greece to discover a culture on my website – white working class culture. Culture may be too strong a word – perhaps ‘fungus’ would be more accurate: especially in view of some of the holiday souvenirs these boys and girls would be bringing home on their shaven genitals
The time came for us to board. The porky South Asian chick who had checked me in also boarded me. She had kindly overlooked the fact that my bag was 1.5 kg overweight. That was only fair as she was about 15 kg overweight — bag or not. Judging from her tongue-pressed-against-the-pallet accent I weaned that she was not many years out of the Subcontinent. Priyanka, as I shall dub her, must have had a very different life from these cheerful low lifes. Aged 25 or so – living with her parents – home at 6pm – alcohol never passed her lips – and as virginal as a mother superior. I wondered what she made of these white scum setting off for a week of inebriation and fornication?
Then on to the big kite. Almost every seat was taken. I sat beside two whites who were almost 50. I immediately introduced myself to these smiley types. I shall label them Linda and Gary. Linda was a lady of very substantial girth. Despite her immense belly, thunder thighs, generous jowls and meaty biceps she was rather feminine. She had found a way to dress her obesity prettily. I would bet my bottom groat that her barnet was dyed – a dark chestnut. She wore white cotton trews and a black blouse. Both were mercifully loose. I did not wish to see the contours of her enormous form. That would be enough to turn Casanova queer. Her beau was a shaven-headed man who was of a slightly muscular build. He had a tattoo on either forearm. She remarked that people had said she had gone for a bit of rough. They both spoke Cockney – his accent was grittier than hers. She came from County Antrim. She had moved from Carrickfergus to London aged 7. Her dad had a pub in Parson’s Green. She married at 20 and had two daughters and a don. She said I would be very good for her 27-year-old girl. Her boyfriend had 3 daughters the eldest of whom was 20. He turned out to be a builder – it figured. She was an estate agent in Worcester Park. That is an agreeable suburb where John Major lived once.
We chatted easily. They asked me if there was much crime in Boratistan. I said no. If the police need information out of a suspect they just beat the hell out of him until he talks. Of course occasionally the rozzers have nicked an innocent man. They give him the kicking of his life until he confesses to a crime that he did not commit and the wrong man goes down. Gary chuckled, ”well it works though, don’t it.” Kicking the shit out 0f suspects and fitting them up was an effectual crime control technique employed by the old bill in Blighty until about the 1970s. I expressed my concern that people thought that posh was gay.
I dozed for some time on the plane
I awoke as we circled in over Greece. I saw the beauteous island and we circled around. It was a tan colour – like the bathers. The crags stood out and the sea was an exquisite navy blue.
We landed without any fatalities and the assembled company broke into applause. A surefire sign of sophistication. The only other time I have been aboard a plane where the passengers clap on landing is when a place touches down in Ireland at Christmas and my fellow Paddies show their appreciation to the autopilot. Or indeed when a plane load of Romanians return home from the UK – back to Romania. They applaud to congratulate themselves at having made it safe home with the loot successfully swindled from the moronic DHSS.
Off the plane and out into Mediterranean heat. It was an evening with a slight breeze. Ere long I had entered the air-conditioned terminal and tramped over the rubber floor. As the queue edged forward I overheard some English boys phwoarring at a young Greek policewoman. She was indeed nubile. I quipped to one of them that he would like to be arrested by her. My turn with the handcuffs! The policewoman fantasy does not do it for me overmuch. Passport control processed us quickly. The Greek chick smiled at my ‘Yasoo’ salutation but would not give me a stamp.
Out into baggage collection.
Thence to the arrivals hall. I immediately saw a striking, tall blonde in a club 18-30 clipboard. She smiled winsomely. I bounded up to her and introduced myself. She was Louise and spoke with a charming northern English accent. She could be a wet dream.
Then off to the coach outside. I mounted the steps with some trepidation. No more old folk or families here. Just sun seekers and merry fuckers. How would they take to me? I could be shunned or mercilessly ribbed for speaking the Queen’s English. I considered affecting some mockney. It this affectation were to slip I could always ask whether my interrogator sought to embark on a fracas, ”You startin’, mate?” I practised in my mind what to say. ”Faak aff yer bleedin’ toff. I’m from Sarf Laahndaahn ain’t I? I saand educated coz I studied Leejure Management at Sarf Bahnk Uni didn’t I? Ve fing is vat yer a faaking poof, innit?” The trouble is the young generation speak Jafaican rather than Cockney. The standard working class London accent is now demode. I reasoned thought that I had better not use words of more than a syllable for fear of being accused of being sesquipedalian.
The coach was half empty. People sat in knots in their gender groups. I took my place in between two groups. I realised that to my front was a bunch of deaf guys. I sought eye contact. I wanted to make friends but feared that being overly forward would backfire. Should I play the grey man as described by Richard Tomlinson in the Big Breach? I was on my Jack Joan and my only chance of scoring was in being gregarious. They say be yourself and I genuinely am self-assured and a dog who wags his tail.
Ere long the tasty Louise boarded the bus and off we drove. She stood at the front and spoke over the microphone. She said, ”this is where your holiday begins”. The proletarians let out a loud cheer. She told us a few essentials. Later she moved up the bus speaking to this group and that.
I looked around. I did not dare do anything so shameful as get out a book. I noticed that everyone had tattoos. I believe they are compulsory when you get your first jobseeker’s allowance giro. Thereafter one gets one tat for each successfully completed year of unemployment.
After half an hour we crawled through the fair town of Faliraki. This borough is full of tacky bars, nightclubs, eateries and hotels. It is cheap and very cheerful. Louise told us about Bar Street and Club Street. Each street did pretty much what it said on the tin.
I was dropped off at Tina’s Hotel. Louise said farewell to us outside the coach. I chided this babe for not coming to have a chinwag with me on board. The real sweetie apologised and gave me a hug and a kiss – not a snog sadly.
The reception area was open. There was a decent sized pool. A score of browning Britons lay around it. The place was not too dirty. Check in was perfunctory. I was given key 209. I went to my room. Before inserting the key I was surprised to see the light already illuminated. I opened the door to see a weedy British boy and his hot blonde bird. I apologised and said I had been given this key. Thet were just installing themselves. I joked that they probably did not wish to share the room with me. Typical Greek organisation! Back to the reception and I got a new key
To my bedchamber at last. It had 2 beds. All was dandy. There was a bin by the loo. I was soon informed that in Greece one cannot put paper into the lavatory. That is revolting. I cannot believe that in this day and age Greece has still not entered the civilised world.
Shortly I met the head rep at the hotel. He was a pint-sized Englishman named Jamie. He had an Irish surname and hailed from Suffolk. He was clean-shaven and had short brown hair. Considering his modest stature he was full of confidence without suffering small man syndrome. I found him exceedingly genial – just right for the job,.
I saw a gang of English boys had T-shirts especially printed for their holiday. It named their destination – ‘Falaraki’. I had not the heart to tell these misguided youths that it is spelt ‘Faliraki.’ It gets worse. Some fuckers had Falaraki 2012 tattooed onto their chests.
Raki is Turkish liquor. This isle was under Ottoman rule till 1912. Is Faliraki something to do with this spirit?
Incidentally I saw neither hide nor hair of drugs there. I heard nary a whisper about them. Distinctly odd that given that I was in the company of young hedonists.
The first night.
I walked into town. I had forgotten my trunks – or so I thought. I did not intend to dare to bare on the nudist beach. I am happy to air my differences with the fairer sex. Those who frequent nude beaches fall into three categories – the elderly, troglodytes and elderly troglodytes. How do I know? That’s another story.
As I browsed a boutique some raucous girls from across the street called out to me. I looked across to see three cuties. One of them shouted ”she fancies you.” That was hardly to resist. I find it hard to resist the faintest prospect of pussy. Another said, ”come across sexy.” Over I trotted. I am a sucker for compliments.
I met a shortish Scots blonde. She was nubile but for a fucked up mouth. Too many teeth squashed into misshapen lips in an overly small space. She had her compulsory pair of tats. There was a brunette with a northern English accent. She sported a bar midriff accented with a belly button stud and a tattoo. There was a tall northern English blonde who had a Chatham facelift. tHEY WERe all hotties and wore hotpants. They remarked on my pukka accent. They were bowled over that I was mannerly and called them Miss. When I ordered red wine they nearly fell over. I alluded to them as ladies and they were flabbergasted. I said I was a boy and they said they wold not call me that. I regard myself as young and eschew adulthood.
Soon I realised that this was a transparent ruse to get me into the bar. It was called KGB. I surmised that it had little to do with Komitet Gossudar Bezopasnasti – the Committee on State Security. I doubt that none of these three airheads had heard of it.
The lanky one felt my eyes on her arse. The others told her that I was studying her buns – as I said they need not have. I courteously inquired if I could grope her. ”No yer perv!” What sort of a girl did I take her for? Good point? She dressed like a streetwalker and tempted boys into pubs. She was be a lady of righteousness.
Soon I was gone from that establishment.
Later back at the hotel bar I struck up a conversation with a group of North Britons. One of them was named Louise. She was built for comfort not speed. Strewth her whale-like form was a work of wonder. She was very amiable and spoke to me a lot. She had half a dozen tattoos despite being only 24. She was gainfully employed in a call centre in Rosyth. Louise had an unnerving habit of wearing leggins which did her no favours. Her mighty thighs were not tempting. The other Scots included a very pretty petite blonde named Adele. There was another one with her hair dyed raunchy red – her name was Mel. Mel had a pretty face but as I was to discover she had a venerable girth at the age of only one and twenty.
There were some boys with them. These blokes were in their early 20s. One of them always wore his baseball cap at a rakish angle and also a permanent scowl.
One of the chaps who was in this group was a rangy youth named Callum. He also wore a baseball cap though not askew. He has a good few tattoos and two tongue piercings. His camp timbre made me think he may be queer but why was he not in Mykonos – the gay island. I later heard him speak of going on another holiday next year and staying in a gay hotel. This more or less confirmed my suspicions. His dress sense my charitably be described as heterosexual. He too was a call centre worker from Rosyth.
Off we went to a pub. I chatted to Mel. I homed in on her and stroked her plump thighs. They all smoked but being only 21 this had not taken a toll on her skin. I asked if her can were natural. She fell for this elementary con by lifting her top and allowing me to feel her melons. Later she thought the better of this and moved seat. A skinny boy who was her chum was told by her that she did not want to spend time around me lest I think that she would let me have my wicked way with her. He shook my hand with uncommon vigour and patted me on the back, ”Have a good night mate.” I immediately divined that this was not some hearty expression of bonhomie but a courteous way of telling me to depart. Depart I did with good grace. If I am not wanted I always leave straightaway.
There were some pulchritudinous ladies in the hotel. Ok ‘lady’ is a rather dishonest word for them. These shapely girls of course spent most of the time barbie walking by the pool in black bikinis. Some of them were charitable to put their norks on display. Thankfully those who got their fun bags out always had a sublime pair: fulsome, upright and possessed of nipples that could poke your eye out.
I would put tunes on the loud speaker in the hotel. I had Faccetta Nera booming out. Louise asking about the lyrics to this kicking beat- was it German? sHE had done German at school! It was Italian. I was anxious lest the Italians hear it and mistake my tatse for the tune for being in fact sympathy for Il Duce./ Italy had occupied these islands for 30 years and so this song might not be flavour of the month.
These ewes were called Hayley and Kayley. Hayley won an Olympic gold medal for ugliness. She was in fact very personable. Hot girls can afford to be bitches. These trogs could not let their bodies do the talking.The poor thing was tall and enormous. She had lined skin that defied her 29 years by looking rather older even under a goodly inch of cosmetics. Her misaligned teeth would render fellatio a hazardous proposition. Yet she was swept off her feet. An ordinary looking boy of 22 or so whisked her off into the lavatory for a quick knee bender. She came back 10 minutes later as I chatted o Kayley. I shit you not!
Kayley had the physique of a hedgehog. She was companionable. What a chatterbox./ She wa 24 and had a brace of children – aged 3 and one and a half. She had split up with their dad.
Kayley took a yellow rubber duck to bars. No she did not buy it drinks – so she had not read Brideshead or about John Amery (RIP). Anyhow – she even had gone to the trouble of making a facebook page for the duck. She insisted on people posing for snaps with Ducky Jones.
She was always in Champers bar. She was looking for sex. She was pissed off because Hayley was getting more than her. Hayley had been had by a 19-year-old a couple of nights before. That is fair enough. Aged 18 I lost my cherry to a 33-year-old. She bitched about Hayley’s drinking. I think by this she meant alcohol more than cum.
I told Hayley I admired her and would do the same if I could. She better do it now while she still could.
I must admit the thought crossed my mind. Should I proposition this munter? She was a woman mountain. Under those layers of fat there was probably a twat. But imagine the walk of shame. If I brought her back to my place and she was seeing sneaking out the next morning. Try living that down. A rough bird is like a moped – fun to ride, till your mates see you with one. The hideous girls get it less often so they appreciate it even more when they do get a length. In the end I could not bring myself to ask. Besides I could not get it up for her , I am sure. As I saw she was actually a likeable person. I am not a chub chaser but am not averse to the larger lady – within reason. Her ‘largeness’ was well beyond the bounds of reason. But look on the bright side. In the winter she’d keep you warm and in summer there’d be plenty of shade. If forced to turn to cannibalism this munificently proportioned lady could keep one going for a month.
Hayley and Kayley had a quiet disagreement. Kayley was dischuffed that her overzised matess had got some action and she, Kayely, had been left on the shelf. Hayley had also been boned by a 19 year old. Kayley admonished her hefty chum to be safe and reminded her that she had condoms in her purse.
Later Kayley disappeared and I had a chinwag to Hayley. She told me, ”Guys like me”. It was hard to credit but I had seen that guy disappear into the loo with her. Not quite true romance. I told her that if I were her I would do the same. If I could penetrate a 19 year old I would be walking tall.
So would I manage a sex act that almost bridged the species barrier? In a word – no.
At the hotel loud music was belting out from about 10 am onwards. It was mostly dance music.
On the first proper night we went for a bar crawl. I thought I must get myself noticed if I was to stand a chance of scoring. I volunteered for a game. I was supposed to collect T-shirts. I whipped mine off. Not being in a group I could not collect more and was excluded. I sat out the next round. One of the contestants was a plumpoish blonde in a white skirt.
Jamie was the rep running the competition. He told the boy and girl still in the game to grab the first member of the opposite sex they could see. As I stood hard by I found my hand taken by that young lady. I cannot remember her name – let me call her Susan. Then we were told to go to the lavatory and swap clothes – down to our smalls.
Off we rushed but she declined to swap undergarments. I was glad of that as her thong would have been a little sharp on my orchestra.
Back to the bar. Jamie asked if he had exhanged undies. I confessed that we had not. I would not have gotten away with mendacity as he made the other couple reveal theirs – to hoots of approval from the unsober mass. So we lost. I got over it. Then back to swap back intou our own clothes.
Later I chatted to Susan. She worked in an old folks home as a care assistant in Gloucester. She had the obligatory few tattoos. She was a single mum. Any girl over 25 without a child there was seen as a lesbian. She had a weakness for Marlboro lights.
Later we repaired to a nightlcub named George’s. Its eponymous proprietor was as bald as lap dancer’s pudenda. This ageing Greek had a deep and barbarous voice. His voice came across as lecherous and spooky. I wondered if he was putting it on for effect. I heard him speaking unselfconsciously and it was just the same.
There were free drinks to be had at this place. The music boomed out. The lights were low. George led us in some inane chants. ”Oggy” – ”Oi”. ”Oggy, Oggy, Oggy”/ ”Oi Oi Oi.” ”Oggy”/ ”Oi” ”Oggy Oggy Oggy” / ”Oi Oi Oi”. This gibberish went down well. Then he moved on to more intellecutally taxing recitations- a responsorial pslam if you will,
”I say Fali you say Raki. ”
”Fali” said he
”Raki” said we
”Fali ”cried George
”Raki” we chorused
”Fali” he called
”Raki” we thundered
”Fali – fucking – Raki!” George was not putting a curse on his native place. The expletive was just as an intensifier.
Then he called for 6 beauties to step forward. In fact he got twice that number. He had them come up onto stage. He told these girls to do the dirtiest dance they could. He played a song of concupiscence. The girl gyrated and stroked themselves. After a couple of minutes the chubby chap took the microphone, ”Girls you are boring me. If you were in your bedroom with your boyfriend and he had a hard on how would you dance?” To be fair their movements got a little cheekier with rolls of the hip and pelvic thrusts. One girl took her T shirt off but her chest protector remained resolutely in place. I decided to give them a little encouragement. i STARTED up a chant.
”Get your tits out Gert your tits out. Get your tits out for the lads. Get your tits out for the lads.” This abstruse harangue was chanted to the rhythm of Rhonda as in ”Bread of heaven.” A couple of my youthful companions overheard and joined in my incantations. It was hard to be heard over the roaring music. Sadly none of the ladies favoured us with their pert mammaries.
So the evenings passed in such bars at the crepuscular hour. In one I was approached by a large chested girl – let me call her Claire. This Mancunian was 20 years old and rather pretty though plump. She had light brown hair and a winning manner. Nothing came of it.
There were many skinhead skinny youths there. They used a punch machine to see how strong they were. I had nothing in common with these teenagers, I joined in. I am pleased to say that I was not the feeblest.
THE HIGH BROW BIT
I took three trips to the remarkably well preserved Rhodes Town. It is a treasure trove of history. The old city is marvellous. Its laneways are narrow so that shade falls across it. It was a fortress of the knights of Rhodes for 250 years. When the Ottoman Turks were about to storm the isle these knights relocated to Malta.
The Aegean shimmered beautifully. The azure sea was as blissful as you can imagine. The water was so clear one could see the bottom even when the brine was a few metres deep. The sky was perfectly cloudless. No a drop of rain fell on the dun soil the week I was there. A few gnarled little trees stood about. The landscape was craggy and uneven.
I conversed with some other guests. There were two Italian couples and I spoke to them in their language. They kept aloof from the British riff raff. The two bronzed young ladies were elegant in long cottin dresses. they had their compulsory tattoos and would not be seen dead without a cigarette.
I stuck up a semi friendship with a chap named Dean. Dean was a well built bloke from Croydon. Croydon sets the standard for ugliness. He was taller than me and played rugger. He had his own recruitment business. He was there with a few pals one of him was a slim young man named Howard. They wer heavy smokers. It interested me that they still called them fags. They had Cockney accents – about the youngest people who still do.
There was a trio of young ladies from Inverness. They were very lissom. One was a trainee nurse.
Every Greek I met spoke English. It is a tourist island. I saw signs up in French, Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, Hungarian, Turkish and even Polish.
There were precious few books to be had. I was reduced to reading a German guidebook. _
We went to the port by coach. On the road the rep Jamie too =k the mike and told us about sexual positions.
Superman\/ Come on her back. While she sleep fix the sheet to her back so it sticks like a cape.
Houdini/. Shag her on th balcony. Without telling her pull out and get your mate to do her. Go down to street level and wave to her.
There was a ravishing Geordie girl. She was tall and had a fantastic body topped off with dark brown hair. She told us about
Cherry Bakewell. Come over her face and then punch her in the nose. She belted out about how having her ”back door bashed in is full on torture.” I could not believe that one so pretty had such a potty mouth. She should be a pornstar.
Gorilla Face/ . Shave your pubes. CUm on her face then throw the hair on
I read Vroom by the sea and did not drink much.
There were deck games. One chap ate a raw onion. I do not see the fun. There were diving games. We all had the chance to swim.
We took a cruise. It was sold as a booze cruise and not a snooze cruise. It was not quite an Saga holiday nor a trip on Royal Caribbean.
My holiday was not vanilla.
We played a drinking game with cards and silly rules. Someone would get up and dance. We had to follow or of the last one had to diwn a drink. Only drink with the left hand. I broke it twice and had to down my beer. Then it was time for dares.
A hefty Scot heifer had to snog me. She has not a bad body but she had such a moon face that had I not known better I would have taken her for a Down Syndrome. She protested strongly but then consented to the snog. Once she shoed me off the assembled company was in stitches,. I serenaded her, ”Let’s go all the way tonight – no regets.” She vehemently rejected this. That was as much action as I goty.
I enjoyed the hol but would not go again.