Summer’s almost over, hurrah. Don’t get me wrong, I adore sunshine and holidays. In fact I spend every grey winter day fantasising about what I’m going to do when the weather breaks – like gambolling barefoot through golden cornfields in an Amish smock, or indulging in a spot of nude synchronised swimming to the sound of The Beach Boys in the Manchester Ship Canal.
But somehow Summer and holidays never fulfil my expectations. This year was no exception. It started in June with a heated telephone exchange with an online fashion retailer because my biker boot wellies failed to materialise.
Chavvin' a good time
Why don’t these companies plan ahead for English monsoons? It’s hardly freak weather. Anyone who has ever lost a toe trying to walk in flip-flops in the rain will understand. Wellies have become a quintessential part of our summer wardrobe, so retailers owe it to us to get some in.
Then there’s the barbecue that never is. We fall for it every year, stocking up the freezer with BOGOF burgers and kebabs marinated in garlic/lime/sweet chilli. Mine finally made an appearance on the Boxing Day buffet table.
On the one day sunshine streams through your bedroom window, you take the dog out for a leisurely stroll along your usual quiet route. But it’s inhabited by scores of spotty chavs in sawn-off kecks with unleashed, one-eyed devil dogs, named Troy or Rocky. So suddenly you’re on an assault course, legging it in the opposite direction, brandishing sticks in defiance, diving through bushes and climbing trees to escape the jaws of death.
So, to exorcise the English craparata, you book a holiday. This year we went to a part of Corfu especially chosen because it’s quiet.
But the “uh-oh” brain bell started to sound when a gang of 15 of the aforementioned arrived in the airport lounge wearing printed T-shirts bearing the name of their resort – Havos. Except it’s Kavos.
I was in an amiable holiday mood so I blamed the printer. Each had a nickname on the back – one of which was J. Fritzl – you know, the Austrian father who locked his daughter in the cellar, abused her for years and fathered her children. Hilarious. Surpisingly, not one was wearing one which said D. Head.
And so they started with the loud, inebriate inanities – “seen ‘er over there with the tits. I’d give ‘er one, but her mate’s a troll.” The cabin crew eyed them suspiciously. One couple asked to be moved immediately and a cheer went up. I watched the Boyfriend’s lips purse and cheeks redden and tried to convince myself that he wouldn’t take on 15.
But it continued until the cabin crew stopped serving them booze and then we heard fizzy plonk corks a-popping. By that time, I was thanking the Lord that we were miles away from havoc in Havos or chaos in Kavos, or even chavs in Chavos.
So we got to the hotel which wasn’t our first choice. That was full, or so we were told. As it turns out it was empty, something to do with room allocations to different tour companies. Grrrr. But our fifth choice, three-star hotel was, in fact, a two-star with no pool, but opposite the beach, which was full of greasy, red crustaceans, some of them English, and pebbles.
It was about 40 degrees when we entered our room, which lacked the usual religious artefacts of a monk’s dormitory. But it became clear by the heat blistering our eyeballs, that the air conditioning didn’t work.
So we went down to complain to the man on reception, to be told that it was six euros a day to hire the doofer to make it work. That’s 42 euros a week. Oh, and could we please leave a 20 euro deposit just in case we were tempted to steal it. I was tempted to shove the doofer where the sun don’t shine, and there aren’t many places on a Greek island in July.
But we were there for a week and we had the Dunkirk spirit, so we made the most of it. Unbegrudgingly we paid 10 euros a day to be transported by sea taxi to a more exclusive beach with a bar and a pool. But the boat boys needed a full boat because of the Greek economy and all that, so we had to join a sea caves tour every day. By the end of the week I could repeat the captain’s script word-for-word in a Greek accent…. “and dere on de left is a rock dat looky like a lion head…. and to the right a hole in da cave make a blue eye.”
That was when inertia set in. It was too hot to walk a half-mile uphill to see a stunning monastery. So we sat there too lazy to talk, to read, to eat, to fart, but forcing ourselves to sip water to fend off impending death. What a fab holiday.
So, bring on winter with its tree-felling gales, thigh-stinging rain and snowstorms which cause carnage on the roads. At least my expectations won’t be dashed. And with a pair of ball-breaking biker boot wellies for protection, I’m finally at one with the elements.
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