Tash Tales with Alf Ridyard

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Greek holiday: Postcard from the edge

This week, we have a lighthearted look back at one of our holidays in Greece, some incidents are slightly exaggerated although some are not – make your own mind up.

Hiya mum, having a great time here in Cretolopolis, as you can see our hotel has the magnificent views as the brochure said and it is only a minute from the sea, that is if you jump off the top, unfortunately it is six hours back.

Not only, as the brochure says, “a torch would be handy at night”, so would a Sherpa, a donkey and an SAS survival kit.

Our rep organised a night out at the Alexander the Great, spear chuckers and backgammon club the other night, not unlike our own labour clubs, two acts on were Dennis Rucksack who turned up in a nighty and Banana mascara, summat like that, the Mrs as usual wanted to join in the bingo, well what a palava, took ages, read the numbers out in Greek first then English, eg, triskadecapende, 35, the Mrs now full of ouzo fell asleep after 10 numbers, broke wind , woke up and shouted HOUSE!!

That was it, thrown out, we then decided to get a taxi back to our digs, had to search a bit but we found one, typical taxi place neon lights beaming “Harry Stottles” taxis drivers all sat there with a fag hanging out the corner of their mouths.

Off we go, just like home they all think they are rally drivers, how they drive with a fag and phone in one hand and a bottle of water in the other amazes me but we did arrive back safely. Unfortunately we have a family from the other side of the borough staying here, mum, dad and two little ankle biters daughter Chardonay and son Billinge (unlike the Beckhams named after where he was born not conceived, doh!).

Dad is a typical tattooed moron food stained vest and socks with flip flops on, little Billinge is a dammed pest with his laser lights and joke shop tricks. They caused havoc on the beach yesterday, dad fancies himself as Wayne Rooney or any star that has worn the England shirt and made poor Billinge go in goal and proceeded to enact the 1966 world cup final, for the benefit of the German guests who were occupying most of the sunbeds.

He then proceeded to cover most of them in sand as he dribbled the ball round them, scalding one with hot coffee as he barged past him, then five yards from little Billinge, he smashed the ball slap bang into the lads face bursting his nose and loosening a few teeth in the bargain.

Billinge was sent sprawling on his somewhat obese mother who in turn rolled off the sun bed like a stranded whale, crushing little Chardonay the daughter.

Dad was now running round the beach, arm whirling like Mike Channon and tugging at his vest as though it was an England shirt, the German guests were looking at each other in complete amazement as this moron had caused more damage than the dambusters in WW2.

I will close now mum as our barman Costas apakit wants us to settle the bar bill and his mate Tellus apakolies wants to tempt us on a trip to the caves of Hades that seem to exist in every Greek resort, having a wonderful time.

Your loving son, TASH