Now Its Flies

I could just see him through the brothel beads. It was hilarious;
he'd obviously been made to wash his cock and balls in the too wee sink
and was advancing towards the bed with the kind of waddle you get when
you've got your trousers round your ankles. Which meant he still had
his boots on - the desperate bastard. Honest, he looked like something
out the Benny Hill Show. Next minute all you could here was 'OOOOOO
AAAAA OOOOOO,' and that was just him. I was trying not to splutter the
tea the madam had passed to me, all very polite like, but when the
'AAAAAAARRRRRRGH' sounded through I just burst out laughing. She looked
at me with mild amusement in her face and asks 'Its a long time since
your friend has fuck, yes?'
'Hahahahaha, aye ye could say that, hardly surprising though seen the
cunts no had a wash fur aboot six weeks,' I tell her and start to whack
my leg like they do in the westerns. She obviously hasn't a clue what
I've just said but she joins in all the same, giving it a deep hoot
hoot laugh that's coming up from the depths of her massive belly. Next
minute Giles appears with the stupidest look I have ever witnessed on
anybody's face- aye anybodys. I give him a round of applause 'Hail the
conquering hero returneth "two-stroke" last of the Greek romantics, how
was it for you your grace?'
We make our way to the bar near the square in the searing heat to
guzzle some ice cold beer. A prelude to the serious drinking which
usually doesn't commence until the later, cooler evening. Well
sometimes. Its a 'locals' taverna whose patrons consist exclusively of
old Greeks who think nothing of sitting for hours with a single tiny
cup of coffee occasionally accompanied with an ouzo and saying
absolutely nothing. Its as if they've known each other too long and are
so bored conversation would be out of the question. They always greet
us though. We are something of a novelty.

Outdoors, shirtless, we take our positions for the backgammon marathon.
Not that the game holds any mystery or even enjoyment, we have played
each other so many times now we are mearly going through the motions.
Still it passes the time. Giles, however, insists on his insane
ramblings, gestures and manic facial expressions as the game unfolds,
building himself up to the usual crescendo when he wins. Which is quite
often. Unfortunately.
What a sight sitting opposite. Age; thirty. Hair; well indeed, less
said about that particular style the better, suffice to say its not
likely to be displayed on the cover of Q magazine. Beard; ditto.
Tattoos; a mess of Indian ink, self penned, apart from his pride and
joy when his friend obliged him with his artistic ability whilst
incarcerated in some godforsaken hole in New Dheli, he told me its an
Indian princesses face, well all I can say is - God help the prince.
Scars; two, one above the eye, the result of a childhood bicycle
accident and the chest scar, this beauty is accompanied with an equally
impressive tale as to its origin - acquired with a vicious machete blow
while attempting to save a simple Sudanese market girl from rape at the
hands of two crazy drunk Arabs. Stature; short but quite solidly built
- stocky. Language(s); a native Frenchman but also quite fluent in
English, some Italian, Greek and surprisingly Arabic. Disposition; an
avid, good humoured alcoholic. Status; friend.
'That little trip tae the knock-knock has kinda scuppered oor coffers
shipmate any suggestions?'
'You have to speak slowly Johnny and not dialect please..ahhaa two
sixes.'
'OK slowly it is...w e h a v e n o t m u c h m o n e y m o n e y
.......n o t .. m u c h ...u n d e r s t a n d.'
'Ha, four four, two fours, I have you, I have you........what? money?
no problem! I fix it soon.'
He`s right [about having me] and I have to suffer the usual humiliation
which accompanies defeat - a good cheek pinching and back slapping to
the tune of the French national anthem, whatever that happens to be
called. Still he`s happy.

The smash of coins woke me up. Giles was standing grinning. He had
thrown down a heap of small change and notes onto the taverna table.
'Whaaat, where did that come from?'
'I just ask,' he says.
And ask he did. Going round restaurant tables and shops asking. No
embarrassment. No qualms. Just a brass kneck and a pathetic expression.
Obviously a practised art.
'You are unbelievable, ye canny just saunter around asking people for
money.'
' Why not? Count it.'
'Because we'll end up in the .........Mmmmmmm nice one mate.'
We pay our bill and tread the road to the bus stop. Time for a change
of scenery. Somewhere with a nice beach will do nicely - us bums need
somewhere to bum around.

There's trouble ahead. The police have set up a road block. This is
serious shit - about thirty men bristling with rifles and machine guns,
two armoured cars and an ominously grim looking Black Mahria. Time to
wake up Giles. No easy task seeing as he had been drinking wine since
we set off and was now in a gloriously noisy drunken slumber. I end up
having to pour water out the bottle over his head, a bit drastic under
normal circumstances but these pigs were in no mood to dance. The one
that boarded the bus looked like he was about to go ballistic. Here was
a man who believed in the short, sharp, electric shock method of
rehabilitation - and he was staring straight at me!
He asks for a few I.D.`s then homes in on the object that has so
obviously incurred his wrath. I'm not up for this, feeling far too
fragile. I'm beginning to wish I`d joined Giles in the wine drinking.
At least then I would have some sort of self confident glow, but I`d
decided to save myself until later - keen to suss out the talent
situation first. Bad move.
I wouldn't say he was shouting, it was worse than that. A sort of slow
deliberate menacing tone that cut me to the quick and in Greek at that.
I just shrugged to display my complete ignorance of what he had said.
Not only another bad move but obviously a heinous crime. Passport he
shouts, I try to explain I`ve left it in the hostel but only manage to
get half way through. His face is now a lovely shade of Doc Marten
oxblood. English, off, off. My intuition is desperately sending signals
to my mouth that perhaps this may not be the best time to communicate
the cultural and ancestral differences between the differing national
regions that make up the British Isles - however much it offends being
referred to as an Englishman. Keep it shut, looks like your in enough
trouble already and 'Braveheart' hasn't made it onto the VCR in this
particular officials home. I look round at Giles and am relieved to see
that he`s fallen back to sleep - the last thing I need is some unwashed
French hobo stinking of stale wine trying to argue my case. No this
calls for a more subtle approach. To what though? What is it that I`ve
supposed to have done?
Wearing a well worn cut-off Levi jacket which reveals a large marijuana
leaf tattoo on the left arm and a Amsterdam bulldog cafe logo on the
right may be, in certain locations [such as Reading festival]
considered cool and normal. Its a bit different when you`re getting
searched by a Cretan with a gun pointing at your head and you've got a
bit of hash lurking in the wee pocket of your jeans.... Fuck.
'You have been drinking yes' says the sergeant.
`Yeah but not today' I say, thinking I wish tae fuck ah had.
Then the minion whose going through my pockets pulls out my drivers
licence. I`d forgotten about that. This is excitedly shown to the
sergeant who in turn hurries over to Dr Marten who`s been standing at
the bus door watching - no sorry staring. He strolls over and asks
[back to the menacing tone only this time in English] 'what is this
document.' So I explain and he seems almost satisfied, only the absence
of a photograph causing a problem now. Things are calming down a bit
though as he asks my address, age and so on - the tone becoming
slightly less threatening and the colour of his face paling to a sort
of rose pink. Then ....horror...disaster.....disbelief....Out of the
corner of my eye I can see the familiar figure of Giles making his way
down the bus, he gets about one step onto the tarmac where a rifle is
shoved under his nose and he`s made to turn out his pockets. All hope
is fading fast, oh well at least I`ll have some company, the prospect
of being banged up in a foreign jail alone is - how shall I say mmmm
disconcerting. Giles though has his passport with him [miracle] and it
is dutifully checked and shown to Dr Marten erm sorry Pinkie who walks
over to Giles and roars who is this man pointing at me.
'Johnny he is my Scottish friend,' says Giles and then adds something
in Greek. Pinkie ponders on this information then barks a few orders.
The gun at my head is lowered and the sergeant hands back my licence
and tells me to get back on the bus. An order which definately does not
have to be repeated. Just before I get on I`m stopped dead in my
tracks. What is your father`s name bellows the main man.
'My fathers name is William.' I tell him without hesitation. This seems
to be the cryptic solution and I am allowed to board and we all get on
our merry way.

The girls hand on my arm makes me jump. She smiles in an act of
friendly reassurance. 'Do you know why this is happening?' she
asks.
'No, but if you do, do tell.' I say, noticing how stunning she
looks.
'There was a breakout from the jail. They shot their way out and two
guards were killed. One of the gang was English and he has long hair
like you,' and she strokes my head, 'you were in the wrong place at the
wrong time.'
I start to laugh 'story of my life.'