Slapped wrist for blog neglect

Dearest readers. Here is a humble apology. I have been back in the UK for a whole week and I have not put fingertip to screen to check in with my devoted Ukrainian readers (as well as any other devotees that I may have out there).

So where did I leave you? Oh yes, I updated from the plane and gave you un petite window into the ten days of blissful indulgence on Mykonos. So the isle remains fabulous. It’s hot, clean, a tad pretentious and full of lively people, mainly gays. And the sea was bliss. And the food….. Wow. For all the average meals that we had (and there were a few….) we also had some beautiful meals. The best of which was the fish we had at Fish Tavern Kounelas, a tiny place in one of the many windy little alleys, next to a gay bar called Portas (love that place) and opposite one of the many little stores that sell fake Carreras and Ray Bans. We were ushered into a crowded space, to a table shoe horned into a space, with insufficient room between the tables so that I knocked a French woman’s salt and pepper over with my JLo-esque posterior.

Once we had eaten our starter, a sublime choice of flat bread with hummus, taramasalata and aubergine dip, we were taken downstairs to meet a less than friendly blonde woman who pulled a series of drawers open to show a fabulous selection of shrimp, sea bass, tuna, sole, red snapper and lobster. A wood fired grill sat hot, waiting for our selection to be placed on it’s scorching hearth. I chose the snapper, Pete chose the sea bass. It was incredible.

The nightlife on Mykonos takes no prisoner. Now it’s not a seedy den of sweaty bear like men, leather, chains and sex. It’s very civilised. Our favourite haunt was and always will be Montparnasse Piano Bar, home for the 10 days we were there of Bobby Peaco, Kelly Howe and Kathy “Babe” Robinson. Bobby plays a honky tonk piano like no other. Kelly has an incredible voice and I have never met anyone so instinctive. She could belt out a number on memory, without lyrics, 15 years after she last sang the song. Amazing.

But my heart belongs to Babe Robinson. She has revised her set list this year. She will always do Bring on the Men and When You’re Good to Mama. But this year, she added some Adele to the mix. Larger than life, and brassier than a door furniture store, Babe can sing the divas like no other.

However this year’s award for best performance goes to Marc Peacock-Smith. Or should I give him his stage name Marc Williams (not the adult film star, or Robert Powell’s character in Holby City). On our first night, following an afternoon lazing by the pool at the Elysium hotel, we headed for a spot of dinner (alas one of the average meals, but I ate a traditional Greek pasta dish pastitsio, as seen on Barefoot Contessa made by the wonderful Ina). Over some Dutch courage house White wine, Marc decided that would be the night to hit the stage in the piano bar. So armed with sheet music, and following about an hour of pre-performance nerves which we left his other half Alan to deal with in an obviously well rehearsed fashion, Marc took to the floor to perform a touch of Michael Bublé. Fabulous. You know it’s a good performance when an Italian straight woman in singing along as if she were a teenager at a JLS concert with her fists in the air. We had the usual post performance elation from Marc, and we were all allowed to get back on the sauce with immediate effect. Our italian friend then used Marc as a high benchmark for the rest of the holiday. If ever a song did not meet her standards, she would decree “no. The boy. The Bublé boy sing.” and with a wave of her hand would dismiss Kelly Howe.

We would fall out of the Piano Bar, nigh float out high on vodka, show tunes and fairy dust. And we would head over to Porta bar. Next to the fish tavern, it is an awkwardly shaped bar on two levels, where camp house music and pop music spills onto the adjacent streets along with the gay men and drag queens who frequent the bar. This little routine carried us through the holiday. Following next, Pete, myself, Alan and Marc departed to Jackie O’s and Babylon, two bars which sit side by side on the lane by the sea. Two
Dance bars which both compete for the same crowd, bizarrely they both follow the same script, of Drag cabaret followed by DJ playing camp music. I do question the business model, surely you have to have a USP, but to be honest the tills never stop. Financially, it’s a draining holiday. The Greek economy is in crisis, but Mykonos seems to react by adding a euro onto the price of everything. €8 for a vodka coke? The exchange rate is nigh on £1=€1, so you can imagine my reluctance to have a €10 cocktail.

Our drunken shenanigans took a new height here. In a crowded room on the dance floor, imagine my amusement when I realised that for the entirety of Kylie’s All the Lovers, I was positioned almost squarely between the legs of a wallflower old gent. As soon as Alan got wind of this, he displaced me in this choice position, leading to a dance off of biblical proportions. It was only at the point where I decided to drop it like it’s hot, and wobbled, only to be rescued by our dance-off gent. I decided that once he had realised we were sloppy foolish drunken lushes, we scuttled off to dance on our own.

We would spend our days, eyebrows raised, on Elia Beach, amongst the gays and nudes. Alan and I bonded over more than a touch of curiosity over the sights on the beach. The varying shapes, sizes, and general devil may care attitude people have with public nudity is just bizarre to an Englishman. Groups of Italians, Bulgarians, Greek, Spanish men who stand around conversing with one another completely unflinching about the level of nakedness before them. I just couldn’t do it. I struggle to know where my eyes should be when the person I’m conversing with is nude before me. Perhaps when one has spent so much time contemplating the naked state of people, to encounter a breed of men who are super comfortable in the all together is a completely new experience for me. One I need to rehearse before I feel I have perfected such an art.

Lunch was a frugal tale of us being super cheeky and pinching bread, cheese and ham from our hotel’s breakfast buffet. Although by day 8 I was completely ready to never have a ham and cheese sandwich. I must admit that I, after 8 days back in the UK, am still to touch anything pork or overtly cheese based. We needed a break from the bread routine, so went to the Elia restaurant on the beach. Whilst €13 is steep for a salad, it was nice not to feel completely bloated like a dingy all afternoon.

Right dear blog readers, it’s nearly 11pm and I have kettle bells in the morning. I will continue my update tomorrow. Until then, sleep well dearest readers.

Blog later xxx

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

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