Happy hour (s)

May 13, 2013 9:51am Published by Jules Smith in The Art Philosopher 24 Comments

Thankfully the rammel got off at another complex and I let go of the breath I’d been holding. I was stressed, tired to the point of relentless hysteria and hotter than doddery old daddykins behind me. We finally got to our destination and  were greeted by a  lovely Greek  man who took us to our room.


Now I usually worry about where my Mother is going to take me as it is either five star opulence or hovel. My recent experience of ‘Hotel California’ only aided in fuelling my fear. After all, this is Greece which is known for its basic, simplistic charm; not to mention the fact they’re running out of moolah and a severe lack of German tourists. Thankfully it was simple, clean and quiet. 

The gentleman showed us how to work everything and handed my Mother the key to the apartment. 

” I need drink and food.” I said to my Mother, ” I haven’t had anything for six hours and I’m fading.” 

“Yes me too.” She agreed.

“Right, lets go. Where’s the key?” I asked as I went to shut our door.

” I don’t know.” She looked around bewildered.

“But he just GAVE it to you!” 

We spent the next 40 minutes looking for it. It was nowhere to be found. Bags were emptied and cupboards that we hadn’t even been in we’re checked. I don’t know why we do that when we look for things, it’s very odd. Like, did I have a momentary lapse of conscious and hide it somewhere without realising? 

“Have you eaten it? Flushed it down the toilet?” I asked, exasperated. 
She actually went to check and I wondered whether or not to go and drop her off with doddery old Dad for company. She’d be like catnip for him.

Eventually she found it in her pocket.
 Her. Pocket.

We went across the little man made road to our complex pool bar. 

” Shall we have a jug of sangria?” My Mother enthused.

” Anything to numb the pain.”  I replied.

I sat outside near the pool. The empty pool that glistened under the suns rays. I saw a few people lying quietly around on sun beds.. Couples reading books and being civilised and speaking proper English.  The only noise  was the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra singing from the bar. I suddenly started to like my Mummy again.

After sating my weary self with a Greek salad, an omelette and sangria we went to meet our rep in the bar.  He looked about 15 and came from Liverpool. 

He greeted about five of us as we sat listening to his description of the island.

“And if yous want some karaoke you can go to..”

“No.” I said.

“And there’s loads of clubs in…”

“No.” 

“Or we do a booze cruise on a…”

” Really?” I asked.   His face sparked up at my possible interest.

“No.” I said firmly.  He gave me a booklet on the island trips which I took outside into the sunshine and pretended to read.

We went back to our  little studio room as  I needed to have a shower to wash away the trauma of the aeroplane and coach load of dross that I felt  had permeated into every thread of clothing and every pore on my skin.  

No hot water. Not even bordering on tepid. In a land of permanent sunshine and solar panels.  Off I trotted to back to the teenage rep. 

“There’s no hot water..” I said to his little, young face. He looked back at me with childlike wonder.  This clearly didn’t fit in with his booze cruise script. Thankfully a nearby holiday maker heard me.

” You have to turn all the taps on in the kitchen and the bathroom and the shower and wait ten minutes before it works.” She said.

Three hundred hours later when we’ d finally showered in hot water we went out into the little town and down the street full of bars and restaurants.  Now when you come here everybody is touting for your business. Particularly in a place where businesses need your money.  Every second we were greeted  by a ‘Mr Charming’ and his spiel.

” Hello lovely ladies…fantastic to see you..come in here and let us look after you..what is your name..oh very beautiful.”

Yawn. At first I was very polite and responded with a “Thank you. Yes, lovely to meet you, just having a look round and I’ll see..yes, it’s been a pleasure.” But then I got racked off. It’s like shopping at home in the city centre where you are relentlessly pestered by ‘Big Issue’ sellers or ‘ Save the whale’ students. My responses got more curt the further I went down the strip. I don’t know what happened to me. I used to be nice.

Suddenly my Mum spotted a lovely little cocktail bar.

“Shall we have a cocktail?” She enthused. I looked at the chalked up blackboard outside which read ” Happy hour from 2pm -midnight. All cocktails only two euros.’ 

“Anywhere that has a ten hour, happy hour works for me.” I replied, and in we went.

As she studied the drinks  menu I watched the sun setting over the mountains and started to relax into my environment.  I looked across the table  at my Mothers puzzled face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m stuck between a blow job and a screaming orgasm.’ She replied.

” For the love of God.” I shook my head and wished I’d been brought up by nuns; maybe I’d have turned out better. ” I don’t really see how you can be stuck between the two. For only two euros I’d take the screaming orgasm all night long.” I replied.

“You ask for them then then.” She said as the barman approached our table. Great. Now I refuse to be intimidated such things, so I looked the Greek Adonis straight in his green eyes and said, very confidently,  ” I would like two screaming orgasms please.” 

“My absolute pleasure.” He replied in his soft, Mediterranean accent.  What a bizarre conversation and one that would not usually be met with such enthusiasm under different circumstances.

“And two blow jobs!” Piped up my Mother before he left.

“Absolutely!” He responded with a grin. Typical bloke. A lot more more excited by the latter order.

Our four cocktails arrived with bells and whistles and we supped happily on them as we watched the passers by. 

“Oh dear,” said my Mother, “look at that woman..” 

Now I generally don’t care what people look like, what they dress in or how they decide to do their hair etc. I’m all for people expressing themselves and becoming their own individual piece of art. However, there are certain instances when  one has to take stock and know that something is just wrong. 

The woman was in her mid fifties and on the rather  large side. Now that’s all ok but not when sporting a lace mini dress from Primark, an orange ‘go glow’ tan, fluorescent pink and orange hair, and red cowboy boots. This kind of eccentricity only works on 15 year old girls with bodies like ladyboys. Fact. 

I turned to my Mother and said, ” Mirror, mirror, on the wall….you lying bastard.”

My Mother spat her blow job all over the table.  I found this rather more appropriate than her earlier ‘mmmmm’s’ and ‘ahhhh’s’. Given, it was a yummy, creamy cocktail but so inappropriately named.  Again, under normal circumstances, a woman swallowing your ‘hot fish yoghurt’ and professing to thoroughly enjoy it, is probably just after your money. 

We left the bar somewhat tipsy and reverting to ‘British’ type when we were set upon by Gypsy Rosa Lee and her bunch of roses. 

” Oh God.” I mumbled as I looked round for means of escape. I’m always, always made a play for by the mumbo, jumbo, witchety types who totally freak me out.

Too late. She offered me a rose and I declined as politely as possible hoping she wouldn’t do anything nasty to me.  She then forced it into my hand and said I could have it for free. Yeah right. Then she actually touched my face, looked deep into my eyes and said, “Beautiful. Many talented.” And then something else in a foreign, spell like language.

“Mother, give her some money, I think she’s cursed me!” I urged.

My Mother gave her five euros. 

“No. Ten!” She snapped.  Hold on! It was bloody free a minute ago!  My Mother stuck to her guns ( well, it wasn’t her being cursed was it) and the gypsy lady accepted gracefully and snapped a plastic tube around my Mothers wrist before wandering off to find her next victim.

We made our way down the unmade, unlit road to a little Greek taverna for dinner. It was then that I noticed my Mothers arm was all lit up in bright neon green.

“Oh great,” I said, “She HAS cursed me. Now I can even see you in the dark!” 











24 Comments

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‘Hot fish yoghurt’? Brilliant. This post is filthy.

It’s utterly disgusting 🙂

So funny. I really love the way you write. It’s just like reading a pocketbook. 🙂

Thank you Dee! And hello 🙂 yes, maybe I should do a pocket travel guide!

oh come on! why does every food and drink have to be reduced to the lowest common sex denominator? i will take my Clear-Colored Water and Potatoes-Mashed-But-Not-That-Mashed in the study thank you very much.

it’s all okay, no curses yet, just don’t bite from any shiny apples offered by hags in the woods…hags in blonde wigs and makeup are okay…Bambi’s alright, too.

Oh how very posh! Ha!

I have been cursed- I fell over in the street before I even had a drink! But that’s another story…

I have a tattoo that says, “simple, clean and quiet.” What a coincidence!

Your activity options make the place sound like Disneyland for drunken adults.

I never respond well to the hard sell, either.

Don’t blow jobs always lead to a screaming orgasm? Isn’t that always the case anyway?

The moral of this post is to never visit a country in economic meltdown mode.

Mentioned it in the previous comment section but you can always use UB instead of typing out the name of my blog. It’s cumbersome and I now hate it, but at the time I thought I was being clever and creative. Got me where it usually gets me.

I have one at the top of my thigh saying ” if you can read this you’re in the wrong place” I figured it would protect me from drunken slovenliness.

It’s actually much nicer than I’m making out. Honest.

Well it depends doesn’t it? On who’s going first.

Thanks UB. Much easier.

hot fish yoghurt? lol. now it sounds even more disgusting that it really is.
i’m missing your witch friends, Juliette ! should pay them a visit some day 😉

I think that’s pretty accurate! I could do with my witchy friends to keep the gypsies at bay!

LOL Jules… I honestly wish I was there, just to witness all this first hand. Oh well, there’s always next time 😉

One day we will Az, and we can bitch, moan and laugh together! 🙂

I never lose my key in my pocket. I usually lose it in somebody else’s pocket. R

‘Really?….No….’ Hahaha that’s so funny. (Really, I’m not kidding, Jules.)

Did you say your Mom spat her blow job all over the table? There’s an image to remember next time I’m having dinner for this one is ruined. Dear Lord….

Ten? The nerve.

Sorry to put you off your dinner Blue. Think how I felt!

I know! Ten euro! These gypsies are onto something!

My favorite gypsy is THIS gypsy heh heh…

Great writing! My eyes were bugging out by the end of your story. Your mom sounds like mine – Her Pocket. Yes.

Thanks Belle 🙂

Mothers are mental. From my experience.

Gypsies, eh? Never really had to deal with them. Don’t believe in curses anyway, but what a great sales tactic!

Lucky you! They make a bee line for me.

You really need to buy a couple of chemlights, shake them and pour them discretely on gypsies trousers or dresses when they’re shuffling by running scams. (yes I actually do travel with chemlights usually) Standing, pointing an accusing finger and shouting out some sort of nonsense works. It’s like putting a post-it note on somebody’s back that says ‘kick me’ but it’s a lot more fun with a gypsie.

Haha! chemlights and a wielding tomahawk perhaps? I like your style, LL!

you need to be flexible in situations.

Wow. I’m quite confident that a ten-hour “happy hour” would be the death of me! 🙂
Some Dark Romantic

But it’s a great near death experience! Ha!

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