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.
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…
Continued tomorrow…
