Act Two – The New World

Shirley steps off the plane and takes her place in a two-hour queue for her EES checks. Thanks to no-farage-on-a-small-boat man, and other self-serving idiots, Shirl, the family from Hull/Hell, and even social media ‘influencers’, must prove they have fingers and a pulse before entering sacred EU land. Those with EU passports sail past, collect their free drink, receive their lei from the Consular General, and take advantage of the complimentary golf buggy from the nearby five-star resort for self-indulgent clowns who only think about their own wealth. Finally, Shirl, or Shril as she already thinks of herself among this madness (but mainly because I keep typing it wrong), is through the biometric chicane and out into the searing heat of a 35° Greek morning where her onward transport awaits. No longer is this a banged up old banger from the late 70s, now, these days, it’s either a top of the range, gas guzzling Mercades, or a silently driverless, creepy, automatic self-directing electric car with no charm. Or it’s a banged-up old banger from the late 70s. She takes one of the choices and heads to her next destination, affectionately known as the ferry across.

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The Ferry Across

Once upon a time, these boats sailed in the manner of Mama Mia! with all the villagers aboard transporting their ugly fish and uglier companions amid authentic Greek laughter, old ladies in black, jovial fishermen with enthusiastic moustaches, and assorted, slightly salted old sea dogs. Never more, however. Shirl is directed by a teenager in uniform who tells her to wait behind a crash barrier with the others keen for a large boat to take them across the water. There, among Temu-bought luggage and no sign of the travelling companion, she waits in the blazing sun as the less well-heeled pass out around her, and someone sneezes. On hearing this, half the convicts put on a mask, while the other half say illness generally is a conspiracy against fascist democracy put around by socialist seagulls. At this point, the family from Hull disagree and piles in to make their views known, and Shirl takes a pace away from the ensuing carnage.

Eventually, the ferry pulls in backwards, opens its arse-end and deposits its last meal onto the quay. The last meal appears to consist of Strawberry Mivvy coloured once-white people in nothing more than string bikinis and net curtaining, and sleeveless football t-shirts and swimming shorts, with no regard for gender. Some carry luggage and search vainly for a taxi, while others clamber from one overfilled vehicle to another, ready to be bused off to a hotel in a vague part of the island which will, in stories told later, look like the brochure once they have finished building it. The more easily bewildered tourists just hang around and get in the way. The local traffic pulls off the ferry, with the gypsy van filled with children that may or may not be theirs, plus carpets. The farmer comes next with his two bewildered goats in the front seat, and his wife in a rocking chair in the flat bed back, followed closely by the local football team (under 11s) in a riot of away-game blaspheme and joyfulness.

Once the ship’s last movement has cleared the concrete, the teenage official (who is probably 20-something but Shirl’s getting on a bit now because it’s been a long journey) blows an official whistle and gives an official sign and puts the foot passengers on their starting blocks as the cars and trucks pile on, and then another whistle lets everyone rush among them to take their life and Temu-Vuitton in their hands to secure a passage. Everyone must show a ticket, but the paper ones are rejected along with the old folk who don’t have a smartphone and therefore can’t get on, but our Shirl manages to secure a footing, flash a screen, drag her case upwards and find a seat in a plastic bucket up on deck.

Taking the shade beside the fume-belching funnel — because someone was sick across the other side, and the family from Hull’s five year old is playing in it — she watches the sea knowing she will soon be swimming in its turquoise luxury along with the abundance of jet skis, wind surfers, pleasure boats, day-trip boats, swimmers, used nappies, parascenders, plastic floats, weary fishing boats, plastic bags, children, fag butts, divers, and a large gathering of pouting influencers with their cameras because someone’s rumoured the sighting of a live fish. And the crossing begins…

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Continued tomorrow…

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This week will be different. I have a long/short story for you which I will post in instalments day by day. Should you feel the need to share these posts with your friends, real or social-media virtual, feel free.

A few of us were chatting recently, and the classic play/film, Shirley Valentine, came under discussion. Most people know it from the film adaptation of the Willy Russell one-woman play, and I must admit, I’m one of them. I don’t mean I am a one-woman play, I mean I never saw it at the theatre, but I remember walking past when it was on in London in the late 1980s, and wondering who was playing the part this week? The star name seemed to change so regularly, gradually becoming less ‘star’ as the run ran.

Originally, the play was commissioned by the Everyman Theatre in Liverpool, and premiered in 1986, with Noreen Kershaw directed by Glen Walford. It moved to London two years later and was released as a film in 1989. Now you know.

However, when we were discussing the story, the question around the table was: What would Shirley’s experience of Greece be if the story happened now?

So, with thanks to those who fuelled the discussion, here in a seemingly never-ending set of slightly sceptical scenes, is the movie treatment for ‘SV 2025’ which comes with the subtitle read in a gravelly voice: ‘Just when you thought it was safe to return to Booking.com…’

(If there’s any problem with my using the name Shirley, I can easily change it to Burly because, let’s face it, she’s put on a few pounds since 1989.)

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Act One – Liverpool

We start in a similar way to the original, only the dog opposite has eaten Julia McKenzie, and who can blame him?

Shirley does her shopping online, so she rarely goes out, and she’s booked her holiday with Booking.com and earned a Genius discount of 0.05%. She had to do it this way, because there’s now a coffee shop where the travel agent used to be, and that’s where the husband works, because every industry in the area has now been given over to coffee shops with the exception of one Subway, and the hotel which now houses disgruntled voters from Clacton who had to flee Farage, and because there were too many small boats in the south and never was seen a departing farage on any.

Escaping the post-Tory sorry-story state of the country with no O, Shirley receives her booking confirmation and braces herself for a 3.30 am flight from the most obscure airport possible because it was the cheapest, and prepares to fly to Greece. Only, it’s not Mykonos this time, because it costs €1,200 a night to stay there, and that’s without breakfast. As she waits for the day to arrive, she does some last-minute shopping (online) and then, because the trains are on strike, has to walk to a post office to ensure her passport is sorted. Sadly, the nearest post office is 100 miles away, and she doesn’t yet qualify for a bus pass, so she’s tramping back in the rain when she sees her old schoolmate. Said old schoolmate is now a very respectable online chat-and-cam star who invented the straight equivalent of the Grindr app, and who does outcalls for rich clients, but only if they swear an affidavit stating they have never met Donald Trump. She gives our Shirl a cup of tea and a change of underwear before swiping right on her phone — and she’s away to her next client.

Getting There

The big day arrives, and Shirl’s off to the obscure airport for a night of hanging around, drinking cheap coffee for an exorbitant price and trying to stay awake. The family from Hull makes sure she does, what with the two-year-old off the leash, dad on the lash, and the five-year-old with a toothache. Mother doesn’t care; she’s on the Bacardi at three in the morning ’cos she’s on her hollibobs.

Shirl meets another friend who is to be her travelling companion, but who immediately strikes up a conversation with a transgender TikTok influencer on a mission to find the ‘authentic Greece’ and disappears with her/him/they/it/which/why. Shirl’s on her own for the rest of the week. Yay!

Flying with Budget Air is no budget activity. For a start, Shirl’s paid for her basic flight, she even paid to choose her seat and to get on first (just in case the thing takes off without her). Because she’s on her first ever holiday, she paid extra for a glass of warm water and a biscuit left over from the 1912 Antarctic expedition (well, Scott didn’t need it) and added a little more to have the right to an extra piece of luggage in the cabin which was taken off her at the gate anyway. She could have pre-ordered a snack from the in-flight catering department, but they only had anagrams on offer: Budgie tar, Airbed gut, and a Gabie turd, for which she might have needed a bite guard, and, to understand the kids in the next row, a brat guide. (These are all anagrams of Budget Air. It took me ages with the Scrabble board!)

Should there be an emergency on board a Be a Turgid flight, it’s £1.00 in the slot for the gas mask to come down, another £2.00 to use it, and £3.00 per hour to rent the lifejackets. Onboard toilets now cost £5.00 a go, so she doesn’t go, and you can’t use cash, only cards.

Four hours pass. Painfully.

And so, we land on a Greek island that isn’t Mykonos, and which isn’t Santorini, because you can’t get in there without a cruise ship, and it’s not actually Greece at all, but a backlot at Shepperton, apart from some cutaways which were filmed in Majorca on a set left over from ‘Evil Under the Sun.’ Whatever. Shirl’s now in Greece.

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Continued tomorrow…

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As today is a national holiday, many people will be taking up residence by the seaside, I assume. So, I thought I would look through my folder of photos and see if I could find five different beside-the-sea shots. This should go some way to prove that I do sometimes visit other parts of the island, though a couple of these were taken in the winter or early/late season. There are two taken at Panormitis because I was selecting thumbnails and it was hard to see, but there you go, and here’s the first one.

What am I doing on this bank holiday? Well, I continue to read through and check the next mystery, I have some admin to do, I want to vacuum my office carpet, no, I really do because I spent 20 minutes yesterday sweeping it with a stiff brush, and it’s perked up no end, but now I need to do a deeper clean, so that’s something thrilling to look forward to. Then, I must set up next week’s blog…

I’ve written this thing based on a film about a woman coming to Greece and falling in love with it, and I’m going to post it next week in instalments starting on Monday and finishing, all being well, on Friday.

All I can say is that you’ll either appreciate the satire or you won’t, but I wanted next week off, so I’ve got this prepared in advance.

Here’s a line from the introduction. See if you can guess what’s coming: The question around the table was what would be Shirley’s experience of Greece if the story happened now?

You can start reading on Monday. Have a good weekend.

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Upright photos today, from the old collection, so probably taken in the winter. The Kali Strata and one shot that was definitely taken last November, because I remember the walk we were on with the boys. Hopefully, these will set you up for the day. I have a day of editing ahead, interrupted later this morning by a quick ‘pop’ to Yialos to collect a couple of things from ACS. This afternoon, I think, if I can, I will continue editing, because I would like to have it all done before Monday, when I can start on something else.

Over the weekend, I plan to set up all of next week’s blog posts, so they are scheduled in advance. This will save my first thought of the day being, ‘What shall I put on the bleedin’ thing today?’ Actually, that’s usually my second after, what time is it? If I can only see street lighting, I know it’s before a certain time, but am not sure what that time is, if it’s daylight, I know I’ve slept in. I’m used to getting up in the dark, but recently, I’ve been up after the sun, which is a) unusual, and b) very unusual. Still, at least I’m waking up, and that’s always a good start.

Thanks for the nice comments about the new look of these pages, btw. The blog runs inside a template, but the old one ended up not being quite as compatible with the updates to WordPress, and there wasn’t a template update ready, and… Well, boring mildly techy stuff, so don’t worry. Just have a nice day.

So, onto the editing and final checks of the latest instalment of my series (which you can find here if you are interested).

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It looks like I’m having a quiet week this week. Highlights might include collecting Sam’s name day present from the courier and having a final read of my next mystery, which should be back from checking today. Friday is the day the Virgin Mary’s body and soul were taken to heaven, so it’s a public holiday. I imagine everything will be open as norma,l apart from banks, town halls, and other similar places. Tourist shops, bars and cafes will be running as normal, and there will be plenty of celebrating taking place.

Looks like some people are early for the party…

This was the collection of local and rented mopeds all jockeying for a parking space near to where their owners work, live or are staying. I reckon that’s the largest number I’ve seen in one place at one time. They’re taking over the streets just as sunbeds are taking over the beaches. Apparently, if you want one of those luxuries down in Pedi (on the left) these days, you’d better get there early.

If, however, you live right up at the top of the village and think you’ve escaped the mopeds, think again. More and more alleyways are being made accessible by concrete ramps, or even wood and metal ones like we have next to us. That’s there (temporarily, I hope) for some building work, and it’s been there (temporarily) for about six months now. Not only does it look terrible, but it also rumbles and rattles when people use it to get an extra few yards closer to home, and it’s got metal bars across it, making it dodgy to walk on.

Anyway, here’s the view the other morning. Busying up, as you can see.

I’m off to do my other blog now, then to pay the water bill (joy), then to potter and mumble in that absentminded way people do when they know they should be doing something but can’t remember what. Ah, yes, writing my short story for next week’s blog posts. I’ll do that next.

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