"It's OUZO time troops!" he said with a look of pure evil glinting in his eyes. Vanessa quickly popped off and returned with enough Ouzo to go round. Having learned and instantly forgotten the Greek word for cheers, we poured the horrifically flavoured spirit down our throats, only for Brian to pipe up with his favourite phrase: "WE HAVE A TWENTY FOUR HOUR BAR!" he exclaimed with a ludicrous grin on his face and another disturbing glint in his eyes. We were clearly in a lot of trouble. We then checked in and were shown to our room. There had clearly been some mistake - the room was far too nice for us considering the miserly sum we were paying (23 Euros for the room, cooked breakfast and two course dinner). We had a brand new room, with a bathroom, balcony, air con, and THE most incredible view out over the bay. Tickety boo!
We showered and changed and headed down to the bar for dinner, sitting ourselves down with another group of Canadians, including Matty Holland (Irish footballer) and Dawson (from that Dawson's river kids program) lookalikes. We had a good laugh at their looks related misfortune and went up to get our food, only to be served by the recently reincarnated CHRIS FARLEY. If you don't believe me, just check out the photographic evidence provided...
"Would you like some soup?" screamed Chris hysterically. "It's good soup!" he exclaimed with that jolly and familiar smile on his large and hideous face.
"What soup is it?" asked Will, understandably tentatively.
"Strawberries and cream!" screamed Farley, delighted at his newfound recognition.
"No really you coke sniffing, pie eating Saturday Night Live has-been. What flavour is it?" asked Will, with a sneer across his face. At the same time, I heard a scream of "I LIKE JAZZ!" reverberate hysterically across the room, as the shadow of a six foot wide afro cut across the early evening sun.
"Sorry man, it's good soup: Minestrone", smiled Farley.
Having eaten our huge and delicious dinner, we retired with the Canadians to the local corner shop to get some beers in for some predrinking. Despite having our nipples rubbed rather energetically by the shopkeeper, who insisted on calling us his lovely boys and asking us to touch each other, we escaped unscathed with the beers and hauled ass back up to the Palace. After three sips of beer, Dani was away. Talking complete and utter shite, he had clearly already overdosed on the loopy juice. We finished our beers on the balcony accompanied by the most incredible sunset, and headed downstairs to watch the Champions League final in the bar. Seeing as it was our first night in the Palace, we decided that despite the protestations of three already sozzled Toronto Jews, that drinking games were to be the order of the evening. An intensive round of the coin toss game began in earnest, and within 5 minutes it became clear that Dani was indeed an extremely unlucky man, as he had downed about thrice as much as everybody else. It became even clearer that all three of our newfound companions were indeed incredibly bad drinkers. After about half an hour of drinking, Dani was screaming like Ru Paul after overdoing it on the estrogen, Judge's central nervous system was letting him down more than usual, and Jazzman had fallen off his chair. Poor boy, one of the Greek staff mistook him for a large and smelly mop, and used his bushy afro to mop up any errant puddles of beer. We rescued him and continued the drinking. By 10 o'clock, Real Madrid had been crowned champions of Europe, and the Toronto posse were past the point of no return. With the table heaving with empty bottles, Jazzman had stumbled to his feet with a look of tearful pain in his eyes, and screamed:
"I HATE JAZZ! I HATE JAZZ! I HATE JAZZ!" at this point, the entire bar turned and gawped at the Screech Powers lookalike who had invaded their privacy. "Miles Davis was a cad and a buffoon! I love country music! Dolly Parton is the king...er I mean Queen, and Garth Brooks rules!"
"Thanks for that!" I said, and headed off to the bar to buy a round of double vodka redbulls. I handed these out with a look of glee on my face. The TJs were clearly in need of some hot redbull action, as they were tired and emotional, and their underwear was in danger being soiled. After a few more vodka redbulls, Dani declared:
"It's zzAboot zzzTime to zzGet zzME some Poosy!" With that, he wandered randomly towards a group of 'laydies' and began to verbally assault them one by one. He awaits the sexual-harassment suit through the door any day now. The Judge found this very amusing, so much so that he spoke his first words of the evening. They were unintelligible, but the effort was appreciated nonetheless. It was clear that Zack was a man of few words and even less enthusiasm. Will decided to continue the drinking games, where he succeeded in making the Judge drink more than was necessary every time.
"F**CK!" exclaimed the Judge, downing his 5th double vodka redbull. By this time, Jazzman's rant had dulled to a quiet whimper. Dani had returned empty-handed from his 'poosy-hunting', and we decided that the only thing to do was to dance in a quite ridiculous manner, accompanied by various inebriated members of the bar of the Pink Palace. Splendid.
At about 3 o'clock, none of us could actually stand, so we decided it was time to retire to bed. Having reached said bed, it was clear that the room was spinning far too much to sleep, and besides, we hadn't seen the beach yet! So we wandered to the TJs' room, and dragged them and their ever-present trouser tents out of bed (always whackin' off...like damn spider-monkeys!) Dani decided that his beach attire would consist of boxers, an extremely smelly T-shirt, one sandal, one trainer...sexy! Having no idea where the beach was, we headed off in a random direction, hoping for the best. Of course, not being able to stand (let alone walk!) tends to be a disadvantage, so we decided that drastic action was needed if we were ever to get Dani to the beach in one piece. He constantly lost his running battle with gravity, screaming in his worst English accent:
"Ma bloody shussssss!"
Will then decided that the only solution was to steal Dani's waterbottle, and squirt him incessantly with Greek tap water, until his nipples protruded like bullets (and I have to admit that Jazzman was turned on by this: "I may not like Jazz, but those nipples are PERFECT!") Having had our fill of amusement, we decided enough was enough, and took the TJs back to their room, where Dani, in support of Jazzman's anti-Jazz movement, obligingly smashed beer bottles well into the wee, small hours.
What a fantastic day!
