Dimitris Kostelis looks at the difference between Bristol and his home in Greece,
while Sasseye attempts to find love in the city.
Several months ago, Dimitris Kotselis arrived in Britain to study at UWE. Here, he offers a unique insight into the people and culture of our green and pleasant land.
It was early September when I boarded the plane that was to get me the hell out of Athens and into Bristol. My mother cried a little bit as if I was going to Belgium to be a miner, and my father who joined me on the trip was filled with anxiety regarding every single aspect of my settling down in England. I felt quite strange myself; I couldn’t stop thinking: “hey boy, what the hell are you about to do?” In addition to this, the guy who was supposed to be my ‘best friend’ actually turned out to be a snake with a capital S due to the fact that he was filling my girlfriend with the most terrible lies about myself, causing great tension between us- just a week before the exams. You can’t exactly say that everything was ideal at the time.
During my first days in England, my father would give me loads of crap on the importance of being a student in England. He would get very nostalgic about his own time here, when he stayed in Kent. I constantly tried to explain the following facts to him:
1: Things have CHANGED since the late 1970’s. Thatcher is no longer the Prime Minister and Johnny Rotten does not seem the least bit dangerous nowadays.
2: I am NOT doing a Masters on agricultural economy, but a BA in Film and English!
When I went to the bank to open an account, they told me that the matter would be settled in two days but a week later it still wasn't sorted. Apparently, everyone is suspicious of everyone else nowadays since we live in the post 9/11 era. When someone - especially a foreigner - tries to open an account of some sort, they try to determine whether or not he has any links to O. B. Laden.
I had heard stories about the notorious English drinking before, but I has not realised the full extent of the situation. It turns out that as soon as the sun goes down, every U.K. citizen starts to drink and howl at the moon. I am not implying that all Englishmen are werewolves, but I cannot understand how the city centre is filled with people drinking their guts out, screaming like Britney ‘the talentless’ asking her audience to ‘het her one more time’. Anyway, it is comforting to know that people in Bristol are tranquil by day - unlike the average Greek man to whom you say good morning and are greeted with the reply “Go **** yourself kid”.
The matters of communication with people back home has not been solved yet. Telewest have been giving me a hard time and I am obliged to use a mobile phone which charges extortionate rates. Of course, I could use a phone booth, but I must stress that many people use them as lavatories and believe you me, you can NOT come up with words of romance for your girlfriend when you are standing in a puddle of p***.
One moment which made me feel like a caveman occurred when I stepped into the kitchen and found my flatmates watching TV. My question was simple: “hey guys, did that amnesic woman manage to remember anything?” Their reply was thundering “we’re watching EASTENDERS you fool, not Neighbours!” The Greek equivalent to Eastenders is Forbidden Love, a program that one should watch either after an excessive consumption of LSD or a thorough reading of Dostoyevsky. Yes, dear readers, Forbidden Love really is that bad and I am afraid to say that Eastenders is no different. I managed to avoid Forbidden Love only to be threatened by the Eastenders.
My other British love is the tabloids. Every morning, I have Breakfast and try to read a tabloid afterwards. The thing is, I never manage to get past page three. So, when I am asked “what's going on in Iraq, mate?” I do not have a clue since the news on Iraq is located far beyond page three! Despite this, it is refreshing to enter the Spar shop and see headlines such as: “Kylie involved in Lesbian orgy” or “photos of Appletons’ incest encounter inside!”
I’ve had enough of writing about myself now, dear readers and I bet you have had enough of me as well. So, I’ll take off now! See you soon.
LOVE IN THE CITY
Saturday nights always used to be the same. My mates and I would be out down the pub, necking bottles of anything 5% volume + and scoffing salt and vinegar or steak flavour crisps. Then at nine o clock, I'd be reduced to shovelling anything that came in handy down my throat. Why? As the smoke of Marlboro Lights finally clears, in they walk. The Boyfriends. As my mates split off to canoodle in corners with their men, I, once again, feel like a complete lemon. And a gooseberry. And a Third Wheel. And any other choice phrase you care to coin. For I am the one with that detestable label...The Single One.
There are loads of blokes I'd love to sink my manicured claws into- the Kurt Russell lookalike from work, the guy I frequently see at the bus stop, and Duncan from Blue- but alas! I find these men are already spoken for or completely unobtainable.
However, my luck did seem to change, as a casual snog turned into a relationship. Looking back, I don't know why I allowed it to progress- the guy kissed like he was chomping on a turkey escalope! Not good! Feeling the eternal gooseberry start to panic though, I decided to give it a go. I mean, after a kiss as bad as that, things can only get better, right?
The next few weeks I felt more like a part of the crowd. Why I needed a man for this is the Million Pound Question. I couldn't even phone a friend for the answer!
Exams soon raised their ugly head though, and I was forced to retreat to Swotsville in order to pass them. While locked up in my bedroom, feeling like bloody Rapunzel, I realised that the guy I was dating was never on my mind. Not even for a split second. I mean, my God, I was finding the rainforests and Hamlet more entertaining! When the bounty of the Earth is occupying your thoughts more than the guy you are seeing, you know something is bad and must be put right. And fast.
When I was eventually released from my prison, I knew that the relationship had to end. I felt really sick, pondering for days how I was gonna end it. He may not have been Sex On Legs, but he was a genuinely nice guy, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Eventually, I decided upon the best letdown I could find. Forget the phone, forget silly little notes, forget the fancy words! I found that I couldn't say anything nice, so I said nothing at all. I ignored all his phone calls and rebuffed his attempts at conversation. OK, OK, that is really chickening out of the situation, but what can I say? I am a bona fide chicken, from my head to my toes! Anyway, I haven't seen him since then so I've had no abuse hurled at me by him.
The next Saturday night, me and my mates had plenty of cash in the accounts for once, and decided to celebrate by going clubbing. I couldn't wait to dress up to the Nines and unleash myself on Bristols Bloke Scene. I pulled out my best black trousers, slipped into my stillies, dusted a touch of bronzer down my cleavage and off I went. (And I only stumbled 3 times, I'm proud to say! Well, come on, stillies are killer heels to walk in!)
In the club, I managed to pull twice, one of whom was particularly sexy and the body of 5ive's J. I was in heaven, I tell you! Meanwhile, my mates looked miserable all evening, and one even came back from the toilets having been dumped via Vodafone. I felt so sorry for her, but at least I had fun!
Maybe Bridget Jones is all wrong. Maybe it's not men we should be looking for. It's the single life we girls should be after. The single life is so much fun. No ties. No commitments. As long as it's safe.
As I round up this article one song keeps popping into my head - The Best Things In Life Are Free by Janet Jackson and Luther Vandross.
The best things in life are free? I couldn't have put it better myself!
‘Sasseye’
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