The residents of Greek holiday islands Crete and Zakynthos are not terribly happy about young Brits getting trolleyed on their streets. Not surprisingly. It’s a sickening spectacle, literally as well as descriptively.
But if you pack your sea front with cheap bars, offer free shots of rocket fuel at certain times, and get excitable kids to dance like dervishes until they reach a state of mass hysteria, you shouldn’t expect Saturday night at Frinton.
It is a recipe for mayhem.
It was never like that when Mrs N and I were relatively young Grecophiles, or maybe we went to the right places – plenty of restaurants and bars, but no thrumming nightclubs. Hospitality and generosity were the order of the day; not profit at any cost.
We spent many a holiday on their fine islands lapping up their laidback lifestyle, sunshine, and ouzo. And never once did anybody have to call out the cops to sort us out.
Although I suspect we did get close the time we inadvertently overdosed on Retsina and Domestica (it has to be tasted to be believed, but amazingly you get used to it). We spent the next morning with vile hangovers mumbling 'Kalamari' to everybody we bumped into.
We got some terrible looks in return. By the time we reached the main square, I swear there was a mini mob glowering at us.
Maybe we should have said ‘Kalimera’ – which means good morning. It certainly didn’t do Anglo-Greek relations any good to call everybody ‘Squid!’
*Did you spot yesterday’s senile mistake (since corrected)? In my haste, I typed ‘here’ instead of ‘hear’. If you didn’t spot it, welcome to the old codgers’ club.
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