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YOU
HAVE REACHED THE SECRET REPORT OF THE GREEK TRIP 2001.
Dennis
wrote these short reports shortly after we returned from Greece, as a
record of all the stuff that happened which was noteworthy.
They
are reproduced here for your viewing pleasure.
CITIZEN PORN
or
RISE AND FALL OF PORN-BARON
It was on the first day in Athens that the stage was set for one of the many nearly-disasters of the trip. After a dinner of sorts, everybody retired to their rooms (well, a room, not necessarily their room), and went about their personal interests. Those who played ‘Hearts’ gathered around a packet of cards. Those who liked music listened to their artist of choice. Those who liked to do nothing but watch television did nothing but watch television. And then there was a group who spat and yelled insults from balconies, but let’s forget about them for now.
One of the telly-addicts was particularly dismayed that he’d actually have to pay for Pay-TV. Like all great discoveries, it was an accident: he had fiddled with the TV and all of a sudden there it was: the clearest picture he could wish for, showing hard-core porn. This was his transformation from addict to visionary: he made this wonderful discovery and felt that all humanity should benefit from it. And if not humanity, then at least the Year 10s. And so, by use of telephone and personal visits, all of Year 10 was able to watch hard-core porn for no cost at all.
The exception was Judas: he’d been sharing a room with two Year 11s. They didn’t have the connections to the Porn-Baron and so missed out. That night two people lay restless (excluding those who enjoyed Pay-TV benefits): Judas because he was missing out, and me because the porn was German: I understood every groan that came from below, above, left and right. It was truly unpleasant. The next morning Judas’s wish came true. Him and his two companions (of which I was one) were watching ‘The Smurfs’, in Greek. I went for a dump, and heard somebody enter the room. When I came back out my place had been taken by the Porn-Baron, and the Smurfs had been replaced by a fat woman yelling “Ja! Orgeilesav!”
By now news had reached everybody except the teachers (or so it was thought). The hotel was filled with groaning of German fat women; amidst it all I was caught as the only one who knew what they screamed. (The Horror! The Horror!)
The next day, a group of sixth-formers made a phone call to the Porn-Baron, and a few minutes later he was standing in front of our door, whispering, “They know. They know everything. Tune the TVs back to normal setting and they’ll never have any evidence.” He must have done this with almost every room, to avoid as much damage as possible. His empire of Free-Pay-TV porn was crumbling and he tried to avoid panic by panicking. Here is the conversation between the sixth-formers & the Porn-Baron:
Porn-Baron: Hello, Free-Porn Services?
Sixth-former: (With Greek Accent) Hellooo? This is reception. You have been watching seeex? You paaay? Ve come reeseet.
This was the end of the free-porn empire, and the Porn-Baron was back to where he had begun: shit soap operas and ‘The Smurfs’ in Greek. However, a true Don won’t be outdone this easily, and he moved into the ‘intoxicating substances’ sector, and so his next purchase was a 1 litre bottle of ouzo: nearly a pint of pure alcohol.
THE DRUNK BUNCH
They drank too late and not enough
There were four of them. ‘Judas’ was the youngest, inexperienced in handling a 45er (% by volume, that is, not calibre) but eager to learn and talented. The next one was ‘Lanky’, who was the luckiest boozer ever. The fastest drinker of them had no name: he was either too drunk or too hung-over to recall it. He could down three ouzos in one swift move, and nobody outdid him at speed drinking. The fourth and last was ‘Don’. He was the most experienced of them and insisted on drinking things neat. Even ice was only barely bearable to him, and he’d have rejected it if it hadn’t been for the fact that there’s nothing quite as bad as warm booze. Together they had bought a 0.7 litre (Or 1 litre. Memories differ.) bottle of ouzo. 48% alcohol. After a brief warm up they squared up to the bottle, each one armed with a glass. The first four shots went to ‘Don’: he filled his glass and emptied it. The others mixed it with differing amounts of water.
After a few rounds it was decided to have a game of ‘Pissed Poker’: Playing Poker while you’re pissed. The Nameless One had proven himself at this many times, but he was up against some formidable opposition: ‘Lanky’ and ‘Judas’ hadn’t had that much to drink, and ‘Don’ may have lacked luck, but the ouzo had little effect on him.
The evening went on and the bottle emptied. The air was filled with the heavy smell of ouzo and they had just had another round when somebody knocked at the door. ‘Don’ emptied his glass and put it on his head. The long, grey coat flapping around his legs, he went for the door and looked through the glass. On the other side there stood a teacher, hand at the hip and ready to go. Everything seemed to slow down. ‘Don’ turned silently and whispered the name of the teacher, then went to hide his glass, ‘Judas’ and the Nameless One did the same and the latter then hid the ouzo bottle. Nameless One did the same and the latter then hid the ouzo bottle. ‘Don’ started shuffling cards nervously while ‘Lanky’ stood up and opened the door.
The teacher made three heavy steps into the room and then looked about. Surely he must have smelled the ouzo? Hesitating, he said: “I see you’re playing cards?” All he got was a nod and a “yes” from ‘Don’. He nodded and made his way to the door. Suddenly he stopped and turned on the spot. He looked at ‘Lanky’. “What is in your glass?” The reply came with a shaky voice: “It’s milk with water, Sir.” ‘Don’ dropped the cards. It was all over. The bottle was nearly empty. The four of them were almost full. Almost: fate is cruel: their main punishment was the fact that they had to join the other drunkards downstairs and watch one of those American bible-films. Barrabus, if I am not mistaken. They weren’t alone in their suffering: while most others had gone to the pretty place where the flowers grow, there was another guy, Year 10, who wasn’t entirely sober and was punished so cruelly for molesting two girls from Belgium.
This was a sorry end. Pubs all over Europe had failed to break them, Bavarian folk music and the strongest drinks could not unnerve them, and Ice-T had failed to tame them. They finally met their match in Barrabas. The results were terrifying: Judas has become a Year 11 who says “troosers” instead of “trousers”. The Nameless One has become a semi-grunger, torn between Dr. Dre and Papa Roach. ‘Don’ now has a thousand-yard stare, listens to depressive music and tries to drown the member of the film in a sea of alcohol. And ‘Lanky’ is still lanky.
EATING RIDER
A man went looking for good food and couldn’t find it anywhere.
Let’s get this straight from the beginning: Not all food was bad in Greece. The cheese and the wine, for example, were simply brilliant. However, these are the only two foods I can think of that get better with time…
I also liked the chocolate cookies.
It didn’t start off bad at all. The bread was dry, but then again bread is always dry, but the vegetables were, or at least, made the impression of, being fresh.
However, the hotel had found a way of promoting the lemonade in its minibar (priced at 200 Drachmas/40 pence): for dinner we had the ultimate drink to accompany the food: tap water with a strong chlorine-flavour. Which was probably better than not having chlorine in it, at any rate. The dose made me suspicious.
On this first day, we were fed porridge and a chicken that appeared to have been dug out of its grave. We took our leave as a few bloated Americans wandered in. They were better off than us; they had reserves to draw from.
That evening, the minibar made us discover two things: Just how lovely Fanta can taste, and that there was no beer in our minibar.
The breakfast could hardly have been worse, and it wasn’t. In fact, breakfast was always the best part of the day: I could eat as much cheese and as many eggs as I wanted, and I did. Unfortunately, our packed lunches couldn’t keep up the standard. There were two versions available: classic and vegetarian. I never tried vegetarian, but I can confirm that in this case ‘Classic’ probably referred to a time period: we ate what Alexander the Great didn’t want. The ham had the consistency of cardboard as did the cheese, but neither had a peculiar taste. Neither had a taste at all, coming to think of it. Which was more than could be said for the banana-flavoured drink we were given. Fortunately, the apple was rather good. It may have been called lunch, but I ate it within hours of leaving the hotel.
It resulted in me being rather hungry on the Acropolis, and so I discovered a companion for life: Greek chocolate cookies (Mr. Chambers didn’t approve of the German way of solving the problem: catching, killing and eating a fat tourist). They cost 500 Drachmas (£1.20) and after the debacle that was the dinner of the day before, I embraced them and bought half a dozen packets.
Thus I was suitably armed for a face-off with the day’s excuse for supper. As usual, the cucumbers and bread were agreeable. The porridge was porridgy. The chlorine-rich water was rich in chlorine. And then we were served something they tried to convince us was pork. Unlike the chicken it can’t have been dead for a long time. It tasted like medium-rare roadkill and there was probably a good reason for it. I thanked God for the chocolate cookies and cheerfully ate the reasonably dead pig.
During the culinary trip that followed, things didn’t get much better. We often had noodles in watery sauces, which differed only in colour, not in lack of flavour. We only once had Greek food (Gyros), and that was probably the highlight. I also have to mention the special flavour of octopus’ tentacles: after they’ve been fried they taste better than expected.
A special mention has got to go to all those vegetarians who came along. I don’t think any of them will ever touch a quiche again. And was that dodgy stuff really cheese? Only veggies know the answer.
TRIUMPH DES WILLENS
Delphi was a Gas
The day was Wednesday or Thursday. The place was a small village near Delphi. One main road, a hotel on each side. On one side us, on the other side a group of students from Hessen, formerly East Germany. It was the teacher’s night out.
The evening was tranquil. I had just stocked up on Pepsi and chocolate cookies. Ouzo and vodka were flowing freely. On the first floor, a Year 10 had to be restrained by others as he was in another world. What public transport can’t achieve ouzo and Smirnoff had done: he was in a galaxy far, far away. Another Year 10 was molesting Belgian girls on the same floor. The card-players played cards and were oblivious to the mayhem around them. And on the ground floor they taught Mr. Bird a game called Pontoon (Quote Mr. Bird: “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I think I’ve won again.”)
In short, all the nice people were busy. All that was left were those who had no interest in card games, couldn’t be thrilled by alcohol any more, and were scared by girls from Belgium because anyone able to speak French was definitely frightening. They had taken up their positions on the balconies, facing the Germans.
At first, poking fun at Joel satisfied their cruel minds, but even Joel has a limited comedy value. And so, a conversation begun, not unfriendly at first: (“Do you know the football results?” Germans: “No.” “Well, fuck you.”) At this point it was discovered that two of the Germans had become rather fond of each other and had the lights switched on, but not closed the curtains. Accompanied by loud cheering from the balconies, the boy from Hessen followed nature’s call. A crowd began to gather: German porn on TV in Athens was one thing; a live-show in Delphi was another. At this point, Joel closed his curtains and locked the door, as his balcony had been invaded by Year 10s. The Germans tried to drown the live-show’s noise by putting on ‘Teenage Dirtbag’ at full volume, which was the beginning of the battle. Somebody started ‘2 World Wars And One World Cup’. The reply came in the form of several German expletives, which I swiftly translated. A few minutes (and several translation) later, their cruse of ‘Inseluffen’ (Island-Apes) were out one by a skilful rendition of ‘Deutschland Deutschland uberalles’ and spontaneous cries of “Heil!”
Alerted by the noise the two lovers closed their curtains in a state of panic, (Joel, where were you with your camera?) and switched off the lights. Oblivious to accusations of racism, a parade was started, with many people from all years goose-stepping and saluting.
And so, as a Year 10 kicked down a door downstairs, as barely clad Belgian girls fled in panic, as one person started singing ‘Belsen was a gas’, and as Mr. Bird was playing cards, his colleagues were drinking more than necessary. The showdown was ended by the teachers staggering down the road. More precisely, a new object of hilarity was found: Ms. Aslidou stumbled straight past the hotel, and Mr. Chambers had to hobble after her to bring her back. Only a very few of us noted that the sole fact of him being still able to walk was an achievement. The Germans left their hotel the next day and so did we. What remained were scared Belgians and hotel staff educated in the art of swearing in German.