Your Country Needs You !!!

Oh dear. Where to start, where to start?

What do I start with?

My embarrassment?

My disenfranchisement?

My horror?

It’s just disgraceful.

First point of issue has to be “Over-Paid Prima-Donna’s”.

What a bunch of wankers we have running the FA.

I’ve been a manager for almost the whole of my working life. I understand how hard it can be to get those “Under you” to perform to their highest standard. How difficult it can be to ask them to “go that extra mile” for you when they are tired and low. It has been tough pushing my friends and colleagues to reach the targets which are perhaps really beyond our reach. But. But. And it’s a big but. Dare I say that I have done it. That’s why I got the better pay. That’s why I climbed the ladder and got to the top of the organisation.

In my business now, I run one of the few pubs that are surviving this combined government/council attack on a once great industry. My ability to manage keeps my business running and surviving.

I could run The England Football squad.

However. I wouldn’t want to be England Manager. I wanna be the Chairman of the F.A.

I would sort this shower of shit out. Trust me.

My first action as the new head of the F.A. would be to sack the whole fucking lot of them. Start again with a fresh organisation who actually care whether England win or not.

Interviews for my managerial staff would be simple enough. There must be zillions of qualified people applying for the job. How do you pick between them. I would show preference to those coming to be interviewed wearing England Shirts and (even better) sporting a visible England Tattoo. My reasoning being that if you love your country enough to wear the badge – you’re in.

My second action would be to round up all the arseholes who Cappello took with him to South Africa. I’d get them in the office, one at a time, and tell them to hand back any property belonging to Team England and GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SIGHT. They are not fit to wear the shirt and never will again. Over-Paid-Prima-Donna’s. Indeed they are.

Am I over-reacting? I don’t think I am. After all, this is the most important issue in the entire country.

Ask yourself this. The recent General Election. Not even half of us bothered to vote. Those that did vote generally had split opinions as to who should rule the country. Some support Labour, some Conservative, others the other weirdos.

At the World Cup 2010 we were of ONE SINGLE OPINION. WE ALL WANT ENGLAND TO WIN THE WORLD CUP.

Every single one of us. There is no greater issue in the country. England should win the World Cup.

Some of us like Rock Music. Others can’t stand it. They prefer Dance music (Hmm. Another subject, another day) or Classical, or Jazz, or whatever. We don’t all agree. We all have different tastes. BUT - WE ALL WANT ENGLAND TO WIN THE WORLD CUP.

Some people like watching Ant and Dec on a Saturday night. Some prefer Dale Orange. Some will watch anything to avoid him, even “Come Dine With Me”. BUT - WE ALL WANT ENGLAND TO WIN THE WORLD CUP.

It’s the one uniting issue in England. WE ALL WANT ENGLAND TO WIN THE WORLD CUP.

Some of my friends insist that the country would be better of as a republic. Others of my acquaintance love our Queen.

When HM Queen reaches the end of her reign and God calls her off to the big Corgi Kennel in the sky, we will no doubt be given a day’s holiday to celebrate the coronation of Big Ears and his wife, Clamidia. I wonder whether as many people will be putting flags on their cars and houses in patriotic fervour as we have seen over the last few weeks.

I wonder how many people will tune in on that day to watch the procession. Not as many as tuned in to see our idle bastards being out-played by Slovenia, a nation with as many inhabitants as Birmingham.

I wonder if my pub will be filled with many cheering boozy revellers, happy in celebration of our new monarch as we saw when our idle bastards managed to scrape a goal against that great footballing nation, Algeria.

I will happily give my vote to any political party who can promise me that England will win the next World Cup. We can win it. Maybe one day. When we have people in charge with as much passion and understanding of the game as our housewives and pensioners. Maybe one day we will have the guts to change things.

I would make it clear to everyone that playing for your country, when your country is England, is about the most privileged thing you could ever do. I would insist that any player earning over £3,000 per week (which is all of the twats) is disqualified from ever putting on the shirt unless their earnings were put into trust for when their career in football is over. Any player who plays his club football overseas is also similarly disqualified. England is where you live and work, thank you very much.

The teams that employ the potential England team individuals would be HEAVILY fined for playing our lads the week before an international match and equally fined for not playing them at other times. I will not tolerate our lads sitting on the bench for Man U when they should be scoring goals.

These are just a few ideas and PLEASE, feel free to add your own, by way of COMMENT below.

Lets make a change folks. Lets make it happen, after all, it’s more important than anything.

Joseph Bazalgette would spin in his grave.

Burnt Tree Island.

What a feckin mess.

Tell me. Have you ever seen anyone actually working on the feckin thing or is it just a designated practice area for maniac digger drivers?

I see a hole cordoned off by bollards, traffic cones and yellow meshing and I can’t help wondering what the hole is for and why it has been dug. Why has it been dug? Any idea’s anyone?

According to Sandwell’s website (just type in “Burnt Tree Island” on Google, you’ll find the link) the initial stages of the project will be taken up with redirecting Gas, Electricity and Water supplies.

That’s alright then.

Feck off!!!

Redirecting Gas, Electricity and water may well be quite a job, but surely to Christ it ain’t so big a job that it takes years.

When Joseph Bazalgette gave Victorian London a Sewerage System it took him 10 years altogether. 10 years. But his system was over 83 miles of massive brick-built mains sewers plus 1,100 miles of smaller “street” sewers. These tossers at Burnt Tree have got a few hundred yards to sort out. If they’d been in charge of Bazalgette’s project, they’d still be down there now.

Have you seen the signs for the “Expected Date of Completion”? Its scheduled to be a right feckin mess until sometime when your grandkids will be leaving school.

That’s just so much feckin bollocks I really can’t see how the “Construction Partners” (as Sandwell M.B.C put it) Carillion Construction Ltd, get away with it. I mean. It’s ludicrous.

I remember when they made wholesale changes to the Birchley Island (which you’ll note is much larger, has more exits and is right on a feckin motorway). It took days. A week – tops. They got on with it as soon as the busiest traffic times eased up and sorted the fecker out, mainly overnight.

What are they up to at Burnt Tree? I’ve been on Sandwell’s website and there in black and white, “The scheme is expected to take 21 months to complete”.

Feckin Jesus.

It’s a good job there ain’t a war on.

21 months. That’s almost enough time for a “white elephant” to have a baby “white elephant”.

And how much is this baby elephant costing?

£12.3 MILLION. You could buy a fecking football player for that.

£12.3 Million that is, until the costs start accumulating. And accumulating. And accumulating. £11.8 Million provided by The Department Of Transport (i.e. you and me who have to pay through our arses for Road Tax that we’re told keeps going up as some sort of “green tax” on fossil burning fuels, bollocks and bullshit). The rest paid for by ……. Wait for it…… Yes, you guessed it. YOU AND FECKIN ME.

I can’t believe that this is all gonna be for the better either. They’re changing a 5 exit island into a 4 exit set of traffic lights.

Ask yourself where you sit in traffic the most. Is it waiting to get onto an island or is it at traffic lights? I believe it’s an easy question. I live between Birchley and Burnt Tree, which for different reason have always been too busy. Birchley, for a start is too big, I reckon. Cars get too much speed up as they go around and that makes it harder to enter the traffic flow. Living between these monster islands gives you a negative attitude to islands. Most Islands are easy to enter and exit. Think about a drive from Oldbury through Smethwick (A457). Loads of Islands. Easy peasy. Compare that with the Wolverhampton Road (A4123). Hundreds of traffic lights and it takes three days to get from Oldbury to Wolverhampton. Not that you’d ever want to go to Wolverhampton, but you see my point.

Islands are better for traffic flow than Traffic Lights. Absolutely definitely.

The world’s gone mad. And we just sit there, in the traffic queue, staring open-mouthed at the miles and miles of yellow meshing as no fecker does anything.

Feckin un-bloody-believeable.

Humps My Arse!!!!

Road Humps.

Feck me, is Sandwell not the worst place to drive a car in the entire universe?

We must have more sleeping policemen than real feckers.

What is it with the Road Planning Department at Sandwell? Have they all gone barmy or are they holding an office competition to see who can feck the most roads up?

There are lumps and humps everywhere. Even Ashtree Road, by my mom’s, which is never gonna be sped upon, being as narrow and car-jammed as it is, now has speed humps.

God help you if you’re being taken to hospital.

I’m fed up of having to apologise to Jo about going over a hump in the road too quickly (that almost sounds like she moans when I hump too quickly – hey, I like that). :o)

Jo has a very serious back complaint (not my fault). Last year, she had a major operation on it (Microdiscectomy). It only takes a “jolt” to get her problem aggravated (I nearly said “It only takes a little one to get her on her back” but I thought better of it).

I drive quite casually. I ain’t in any kind of a hurry. I just amble along happy to get there eventually. However, despite my view as to my speed, I must go too quickly for Jo’s liking (as every road hump throws us against the roof of the car. “Ooops. Sorry Darling………… Whoops!..... Sorry Darling…………. Oooops……”).

Why do we need road humps? Don’t we have enough Speed Camera’s or something?

The amount of wear and tear that these road humps cause must be considerable too.

I wonder…… what if someone decided to take Sandwell M.B.C. to court.

I can imagine the Judge …….(Adopts a deep booming voice) … “Sandwell Norman Stanley Fletcher. This is not the first time you have been brought before this court. You are charged with employing an excess of speed humps”. Sorry. Drifted off the path there. Seriously though, could we, or someone, argue the case that Sandwell have been responsible for the excessive wear and tear on the shockers and wheels of their car? I’d like to think so. And this ain’t me jumping on one of these Americany Blame/Claim thingies. I don’t want “Injury-Lawyers-4-U” on the case, thank you very much. I want a simple guy who just gets on with his job. My car’s knackered and I blame you, sort of thing. I don’t want sensationalism, just a quiet result.

It would only take one winning claim to get the JCB’s out. Overnight the fecking things would disappear from our streets. All I want is one brave soul to take em on. Come on. You know its you, don’t you. Do us all a favour.

UP THE FECKIN' DOLLS HOUSE

So. We have a “stay of execution”.

Mr Jobsworth from Sandwell M.B.C. came to see me in a much lighter mood than he had telephoned me and luckily, I received him in a lighter mood.

What, on the telephone had seemed so final and resigned became a “how can we sort this out”.

I maintained my innocence throughout. I told him who many of the guys here are telling me the complainant is. I told him to look at the history. Sift through your files and see how many complaints you have had from people about ‘The Dolls House’ and then compare that with this list of complaints you have had from this arsehole. You will find that the list is the same. There is only ever one person, as far as we know, who has ever raised these complaints against us. It’s clear to me that I am not the nuisance neighbour but the one with a nuisance neighbour.

Mr Jobsworth couldn’t confirm or deny this, obviously, but he promised to investigate. He wont. I know he wont. He’ll just go back to his suduko and plastic cup of coffee.

The outcome is that I’m still living under an axe, waiting to fall (or is it Maxwell’s Silver Hammer), and I’ve gotta comply with a few technical improvements to the fabric of the building (i.e. Window Locks (to prevent you, the public, from chosing to open the windows, even if it’s as hot as hell) and a “Automatic-Cut-Off-System” linked to the fire exit, so if anyone opens it, the music stops).

That’s not too bad. I can suss out the technicalities of the cut-off switch easy enough and screw-down window locks aint a fortune.

The threat still hangs in the air though, stinking like a Frenchman.

Mr Jobsworth wouldn’t come outside to listen to the noise level himself, stating some bullshit like “it wouldn’t be the same now, at 3p.m. as it would at night. You’ve got no road traffic noise at night, so we’d hear your karaoke music louder at night than in the day”. I was so thrown by this scientific inovation that I couldn’t think how to argue. Now I think about it, my argument should have been obvious. I should have told him it was bullshit.

The way I see it, Mr Jobsworth and his team of knobless fuckwits are happy to close me down with just their opinions and that of my nuisance neighbour. I want evidence, not opinion. The next time this demon comes knocking I will refuse to talk and "have a meeting". I want them to take me to court. I'm sure the courts don't deal in opinions. Evidence, I'm sure, is what they need, so feck em.

Anyway. I’m still in the shit but it ain’t quite the end of the road for us just yet.

As my mate Big Shell says “UP THE FECKIN’ DOLLS HOUSE”.

Sandwell Council Wanna Shut Me Down

Had a phone call today from Mr Jobsworth of Sandwell Council. Apparently, the music was too loud on Saturday night and they're gonna do their utmost to have me shut down.

This isn't the first time I've had this shit to deal with.

In fact, last year, they sent me a NOISE ABATEMENT NOTICE which was basically my last chance to change my ways and be a nice little quiet chap.

The next course of action, according to my warning last year is a trip to the courts with a potential £20,000 fine and my license revoked.

Saturday night was karaoke night here.

Some of you reading this would have been here.

It was the night when all the girls spent ages in the ladies loo's, slagging each other off and either castigating or defending Somebody for their behavior with another person's man (I ain't getting into that one, either - keeping quiet for now).

Delly was karaoke-ing (well, not much karaoke as it happened, as the computer was playing up. Probably didn't start until 9.45 p.m.) and I did the Play Your Cards Right (Big Shell & Little Shell won £140).

It was a hot, sticky night. Windows were opened (even though they shouldn't have been) because it was as hot as hell in here.

Now. The Doors And Windows should remain shut at all times, thanks to Mr Jobsworth. We are being a public nuisance to someone by enjoying ourselves in our friendly, fun way. There's always some fecker who hates you for smiling. I should know. I smile like a mongol on mescaline and yes, some people hate me for it. And don't try to feck me off about calling em mongols. Does it make the condition any better if we call it something new? No. Feck off.

Mr Jobsworth issued the rules last year that made us shut down the karaoke early i.e. 11 o clock.

Miserable Fecker.

Its not as if we are really a nuisance. We're not. This building was built as a house, not a pub. Built for the owner of the local brickworks. They used his own, finest, toughest, strongest Rowley Blue Bricks. These bricks are world renowned for their superiority. They're very good insulators and sound, trust me, does not escape. ...... Unless the windows and doors are open. Also, bear in mind, that good insulators work well in both directions. We are never very loud, with karaoke. We don't need to be. These excellent walls keep all the noise inside, so, the amp is not switched up high. We couldn't stand it if it was.

I challenge anyone to walk about outside here on a Saturday night, whilst karaoke is in full swing, and tell me they think there is a problem for my neighbours. It's not a problem. We are not bad neighbours.

The problem is...... someone out there doesn't like me.

Or my pub.

One or the other.

Or both.

They are complaining because they can. Not because there is a noise.

Last year, I used to have "Live Bands" on Thursday nights. Not every Thursday, but as often as was realistically possible. I was trying hard to justify (to myself) these Thursdays, as they were not as popular as they should have been. Bands cost a lot of money and not enough people were coming out to support it. I tried advertising the nights with A0 size posters on 2 special billboards I had made.

It wasn't long after starting the advertisements for "Rock Bands" that I started having calls from Mr Jobsworth.

The conversations would always be pretty much the same.....

"... We've had a complaint from one of your neighbours about noise on Thursday night. You had a 'rock band' on, I understand".

"Yes. We had Led Zep here, mate"

"And the fire exits were open. And the windows were open. And it was too loud"

"Mr Jobsworth. With all due respect, Feck Right Off"

"Eh?... What was that?"

"I said, Excuse My Cough. The Windows were shut. The Fire Exits were shut. The band were not excessively loud. They played to the people in this room, which I can tell you is not very big. There was not a noise problem"

"Well Mr Tarplee, we've had a complaint and we have to respond to these complaints ..... blar .... blar ...... "

So. Eventually, Mr Jobsworth paid me a home visit. I showed him the room and tried to insist on giving him a demonstration of the so called "noise". He didn't want to know. If he'd have allowed me to demonstrate, I could have put on some music and turned it up, pretty damned loud. So loud that it is uncomfortable to stay in the room. Then we could've walked outside and followed the perimeter of the building. He wouldn't've heard anything. I think he knew this, which is why he refused. He just wanted to hand me his letter of warning and feck off home for his dinner.

I asked him who was complaining. He wouldn't tell me. All he would tell me was that he had the power to have me shut down for non-compliance with an order if I caused a noise nuisance again.

So. Some mystery person, who doesn't like me , or my pub, or both and who can remain incognito has, in effect, the power to close me down.

And this went on. I had more complaints and defended myself as best I could.

One Monday morning, I went to Staples to get my big poster printed to advertise the following Thursday. I design the posters myself. They ain't bad. In fact, they look quite professional, as if designed for me. I came back with my 2 posters, got out my bucket of wallpaper paste and put up my advert for "Gandi's Walrus", or whoever it was.

Within a hour of pasting up the advert, I got a call from Gandi saying his band of walrus's couldn't make it, sorry.

Oh well, never mind.

I left the posters up. I just couldn't be arsed to get them down, truth be told. Taking them down wasn't really an option anyway, as I only ever posted over the old ones, so up they stayed.

Thursday came and went without Gandi. No-one in the pub that night even mentioned to me that I was advertising a Gandi that they'd come particularly out to see.

Friday morning I got a call from Mr Jobsworth complaining about the noise from last night's rock band.

Did I give Mr Jobsworth a round of fecks or what? I told him to go boil his head and if he wanted to see my video evidence, from my security system, showing "No Gandi" he could come along and I'd prove it. I told him to go and tell this nosey feckwit who keeps complaining that they are lying feckers and to take this as proof of my innocence.

I knew then where my problem was. Advertising on the outside wall was giving this neighbour a free ride to Arseholeville.

I stopped the adverts. Well, changed them to adverts for cheep beer offers.

The complaints stopped for a while.

Then. One day last summer I had a letter of Mr Jobsworth saying that there had been another complaint about noise and that they were not going to tolerate it. This was my final warning. This letter came with a NOISE ABATEMENT NOTICE served to me.

Any more complaints and I'm fecked.

Well. I had this phone call, this morning, from Mr Jobsworth.

He's coming to see me tomorrow at 3.30 p.m.

He might not survive the meeting.

I will not stand for some arsehole to threaten my livelyhood without a fight. I will make it quite clear to him how careful he needs to be.

The other day I threatened to leave here. And I still might. But not for some fecker with a clipboard.

If I have to continue writing this blog from a prison cell, then so be it.

I will not be threatened. No way.

I'll let you know how I get on as soon as Jo can get my laptop into Winson Green for me.

Chocolate Milkshake My Arse

This afternoon, I had to take Jo to the MOT station to pick up her car, which after £130 for a few screws and washers was ready for collection. It was tea-time and we endured the tea-time traffic, which thankfully was heavier in the opposite direction.

"... don't fancy sitting in this lot, on the way back" said Jo

"No. Neither do I".

"Shall we pop to MacDonalds on the way back for a coffee?" Suggested Jo.

"Yes, Darling. Excellent Idea"

Now. I gotta say, before I start slagging em off, I actually like MacDonalds coffee. It's sound. And cheaper than your Starbucks and such like poncy outfits. The food too, to be fair to them, is alright...ish. It serves its purpose when you're in a rush and just need a quick tide-you-over.

So. We collected the car and Jo followed behind me to MacDonalds in Oldbury. By the time we'd got there, my desire for coffee had become a desire for something cool to drink.

I opted for a Chocolate Milkshake.

Chocolate? My Feckin' Arse.

How do they have the front to call that chocolate. It's not even slightly chocolate. Not in colour. Not in taste. It's completely tasteless and colourless. It's just cold.

I wonder who sets the control that issues the chocolate sauce in the milkshake machine? I'm assuming thats how it works. There must be a setting thing which ups or downs the amount?

Now. I've noticed in the past, when I've been through the Drive-through at MacDonalds that on the wall, in the little prison cell that the spotty kid passes your order to you from, next to the Draught Pepsi/Fanta/Whatever there was a sign. This sign was a reminder to spotty kid to put plenty of ice in each serving of pop. The sign reminded spotty kid that it was one of his team-mate's turn to get a bonus for how many servings of Pepsi they could achieve from each tank of syrup. The principle, for the hard of thinking, being that the more ice you put in the cup, the more pop this will displace, and therefore your half litre (or whatever) cup only needs a quarter of a litre of pop to be filled up. Imagine this multiplied throughout the year and someone, somewhere is making a monkey out of us.

So. Do they have a bonus system in place for the Milkshake Machine?

Is spotty kid getting an extra £5 this month for robbing me and you of our chocolate?

I bet there is.

I'm fecked off with it.

I wanted chocolate and got cold. Not even boring vanilla. Just icy cold pulp.

Rubbish. Just Fecking Bollocking Feck-Eyed Rubbish.

Post Number 1 - Holiday Grumbles

We, this being my first blog-post, I better say something worth saying.

This is why I'm starting my blog.

• I wanna comment on what I'm seeing
• I wanna explain what I'm doing
• I wanna explain why I'm doing it
• It's a therapy thing

So. Here goes nothing.

I've just come back from holiday in Crete, Greece.

Almost everyone I've seen since getting back says ".... did you have a nice holiday?"

And you know what? No I didn't really. Not as good as it should have been.

And I feel guilty about saying it so I say "Yes thanks.... It was great" and I give em a great big cheesy smile and they go away.

It's awful. I mean, the holiday wasn't shite. It was okay, .... I suppose. I just feel cheated and let down.

Crete is a lovely place. Very nice. All of Greece, from what I've seen so far is lovely. BUT. It's not as nice as Corfu. Crete is much more dry and arid.

Okay. Okay. Okay. I sound ungrateful. This is my problem. I don't want to sound ungrateful. Its a great big privilege to have a holiday.

Here's why I'm being a misery.

Last year, Jo and I were lucky enough to go away on holiday twice. I run a pub and its a hellish way to live your life. You have no privacy and no life of your own. Having TWO weeks away from it isn't too much to ask for, I don't think. Most publicans I know and have known have always had LOTS of holidays. And I don't blame them. You need em and if you can afford em, good luck to you. I can't afford as many as I'd like but I do my best to make sure that my wife & I have a break away from here when the opportunity arrises.

The First Holiday last year was MAY 2009. We went to Crete.

It was a raving bargain. The holiday was one of Thomas Cooks "Group" holidays that they advertise on the window, to draw you in (They're called Group Holidays, not because you go away as a group, but the group of Thomas Cook shops in one area get together and GROUP BOOK some holidays at a cheaper rate and then sell them on). We booked this holiday at The Stella Village, Analipsi, Near Hersonissos. Stella Village is "donkeys years" old and has seen better days. The owners of Stella Village have not been flittering away the money they've made though. They bought the piece of land next door and set about building Stella Palace, a new, chic 5 star luxury holiday complex which is what they call, in greek "the Dogs Bollocksos".

So, Jo and I had paid pennies to stay at Stella Village. Then we enquired if it was possible to upgrade to ALL INCLUSIVE. They offered us A.I. for £10 each per day and at the rate I can sort out the Metaxa, that offer was immediately taken up.

When we got to Stella Village the guy at the desk, Demestos, asked us to wait until everyone else had been dealt with, as they understood it was our honeymoon (I always tell em that, you get a free bottle of wine and a bowl of fruit in your room) and they had a special treat for us.

Actually, they had a problem. They had accepted money from us for A.I. and couldn't provide it at Stella Village.

Their solution, which certainly suited us, was to put us in the new place, Stella Palace.

Stella Palace really deserves its name. It is beautiful. They have designed and built a really terrific holiday complex. And its all brand new. We were right at the start of its very first season. We weren't the very first occupants of the new room but we were close.

Our room was lovely. Jacuzzi bath. Super-King sized bed. Air-Con. Massive Balcony which overlooked the room below's own private pool.

Seeing the private pool below made me envious of the lucky devils in that suite. I tried to upgrade us but Demestos was having non of it. So. We enjoyed our holiday in luxury that had cost very little. We both slept a hell of a lot on that holiday. It'd been a tough winter and our first chance to rest took us both to the land of nod. We left our room very little on that holiday and didn't get to see much of Crete at all. Very rested but almost strangers to the land there.

We decided that upon return, we'd book a holiday for MAY 2010 at the same place but in one of the super-duper private pool suites.

We did just that. Booked the specific suite we wanted. Cost a feckin' fortune. All together, I reckon the holiday we just had cost around £2200 which is about £1700 more than the previous one.

And....... It just didn't live up to expectations.

You see for a few hundred quid each, we had had a great bargain and enjoyed it (what we saw of it). For over a grand each we had nothing very much extra. Obviously the pool. Yes we had a private pool. I used it once. Jo used it once. Wasted. Complete waste of money.

Then there's the financial problems in Greece. We were All Inclusive so it shouldn't have mattered but. But. Every meal, the waiters, Thermos and Argos tried to persuade us that the All Inclusive wine was not suitable to persons of elevated status such as ourselves. We should PURCHASE something from the wine list. Hmmm. Should we now? "No Thank you Thermos, I didn't want it yesterday, and I don't want it today - perhaps you could let us have what we've already paid for and then piss right off, eh"

And then there's the bar. Lovely. Right by the pools. Nice.

"Hello Georgios, Can I have please, a Brandy & Coke, with ice and a Malibu & Coke, no ice for the wife"

"Yes Mr Chris. You know the Brandy is our local made, yes"

"Yes Georgios, you told me yesterday, and the day before. I bet you're now gonna remind me that you have some very nice good proper Brandy for You Pay Extra"

"Yes Mr Chris, You Pay Extra, Yes?"

"No Georgios, I No Pay Feckin Extra, No" Hmmm.

"Mr Chris, Malibu is You Pay Extra" Hmmm.

On my first night there, at an All Inclusive bar, I managed to spend £53. Hmmm.

Everywhere within this beautiful All Inclusive complex there were little greek people trying to squeeze a few more quid out of you. And it hurt me. It spoilt it for me. I was just so disappointed with it all.

So. I ain't being unreasonable am I?

Disappointed. Thats what I am. Disappointed.

So. Don't bother asking if I had a nice holiday.

You might not like what you hear.