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Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Hellenic Hell

A couple of years ago, Mik and I had an excellent Greek meal provided by Andreas in the Buttercup Cafe in North Berwick. There was one problem. No toilets. And the meal lasted for three hours.

Imagine our delight, therefore, when we learned that Andreas had moved his Greek Nights to the yacht club at the harbour - and there were toilets!

We arrived on Saturday evening to get the last available table, with a blasting loudspeaker a few feet from my ear (for the entire three hours). We were regaled with a lively selection of Greek holiday hits which we were encouraged to sing along with. At one point we were all told to go la-la-la-la-la---lah, along with a song which seemed to be one of Andreas' particular favourites. I pretended to be totally absorbed in my grilled haloumi cheese. (Alan and Irene had kindly brought along some ouzo, and that, with the wine, eased my distress for a while.)

There was clapping-along to Zorba's Dance but things went badly downhill when Andreas started playing Abba's Greatest Hits, louder and yet louder. Women with glazed eyes, all around us, were vigorously punching the air in time with Mamma Mia. We couldn't quite believe it when this was followed by Tony Christie wondering if this was the way to Amarillo (I don't think it was). By now a conga of about twenty people was stumbling round the yacht club, banging into tables, roaring out the lyrics, and punching the air. Then came Tom Jones (louder still) to announce It's Not Unusual (it was for us).

To get some relief (no pun intended) I went off to find the toilet and ended up in a cold dank changing- room with a lot of old towels. Eventually, I established that the only available toilet was the disabled one - with a disabled lock. And, of course, the seat wouldn't stay up. Therefore, when four weighty songstresses burst in I was in mid-pee, attempting to hold the seat up with my knee. They tactfully left me to it and had an unnervingly good laugh in the corridor as I completed my business.

After three hours we pressed a bundle of tenners into Andreas' hands and crept off downstairs into the night as the multitude launched into Abba's Thank You For The Music.

The food was fine.

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Jim C. Wilson  Poet
‘A true poet —