Pass the shoe-horn
Hey, at least I try to shoe-horn my stories into the subject…apart from my collection of old memories, this subject reminds me of the collection of people that I found when I went to Crete in the winter of 1984.

Funny how we thought about that momentous year in the years leading up to it (a bit like the millennium), and now it is very much ancient history…don’t suppose most of you lot were even born then…ah me.

Anyway, after leaving Germany in something of a hurry and licking my wounds in Nice for a week or two, I hitched across to Montpellier to visit an old mate from Blighty who was studying for a year at the uni as part of his degree. Had fun there, including having one of the wildest magic mushroom nights of my life and meeting the ex-housemate of my first ever girlfriend. From there, my plan was to catch up with some friends made during the year before finding some bar work in the ski resorts. I took the train to Geneva, wasted a couple of days visiting Lichtenstein (don’t bother) then headed for Innsbruck, where I stayed with an American girl (Sandra) who was studying there and would put me up. I’ve actually consulted my diaries on this, as the little grey cells are a bit un-clear, and it seems I phoned my folks at one point to get all my post sent to me at Sandra’s flat. It says one letter was from Kent (a person), and I can vaguely remember knowing someone of that name, but where we met, what he looked like, where he came from are all wiped clear from my memory. I also had a testimonial from Lloyds Luncheon Club sent to me – an open reference as to my character and barman skills.

The most interesting letter by far though was from Liz. She’d been in my group at 6th form college and I’d met at a party when I was briefly back in London earlier in the year, when she’d broken the news to us that she had just got married at the age of 19, to a guy who must have been early to mid-thirties, after they had known each other for a week. Turned out that it had been a cocaine fuelled week of love and sex and plans. The plan was to move to Crete and open a bar/restaurant there which ought to be ready by winter. In her letter, which was from Crete, she said they’d bought a place and were doing it up and that they were on course to open by December; not only that, but they were offering me a job as barman! Great, I thought, this was a very nice back-up plan if anything went awry with bar work in the Alps.

You can guess what’s coming can’t you? Once Sandra had politely chucked me out, I headed for Grenoble and then Albertville…then Bourg St.Maurice. No luck in any of them; OK, sod them I thought. I’m free, I’m single, I’m young, I’ll go to Crete and take my chances. A couple of days later I was there: Chania on the northwest coast. I followed Liz’s directions and found their house just out of town behind the BP petrol station. No-one there. A girl came out of the petrol station and asked if I was looking for Liz and Bumpy (for that was what everyone called her hubby). Yes, I said; they’ll be back on the bus in ten minutes.

Fine. Ten minutes later, along came Liz – hugs, kisses, - come on in, have some food, have a drink, you can sleep here, etc. I made myself at home and started chatting to Liz. Turns out the restaurant wasn’t ready yet, hoping to open for New Years’ Eve, but there was plenty of work available picking olives and oranges and they knew loads of people that could help. Fine.

Then, in walked Bumpy. Sorry, in staggered Bumpy.

“Bumpy, this is Che” said Liz.

“Have you come to shag my wife?” he slurred, “One of her little friends from home come to sniff around and sneak into her bed when my back’s turned are you?”

Well, I’d had some welcomes in my time, some warmer than others, but this was fairly obviously not one of the warmer ones. Luckily, he was sober in the morning and somewhat apologetic, although he didn’t really remember what he had said. I was somewhat shocked to have walked into a soap opera, but it was, I suppose, a fairly good entrance into the life of that town in the winter season.
After a coffee, Liz and Bumpy took me into town for second breakfast at one of the cafes. There we met one of their friends Roberto. He was about 6’ 4” tall and Argentinian with the rugged good looks of a male model (which he had been) and the bags under the eyes of the heavy drinker the morning after, which he was. In this, he wasn’t alone. I was soon to discover that nearly everyone on Crete – that wasn’t born there – drank pretty heavily most nights; not surprising when a large shot of Metaxa brandy or Ouzo cost about 20p, and when you think about what kind of person ends up picking oranges in Crete in December, i.e. no ‘normal folks’, no students, just a rag-bag of people – male and female – from all over the world. I later found out Roberto was on the run from Interpol for his drug running activities.

He was the first in my collection, next was Roberto’s best friend Ricardo. Ricardo was a pure-blooded South American Indian from Colombia. He had the thick, dead-straight, black hair cut into a ‘helmet’ that is so characteristic of that region and the most incredible body that I have ever seen – and I say that in a purely objective way. His skin was copper-coloured and his chest hairless, though sculpted to perfection. He looked as if he’d been brought up in a tropical forest, walking miles each day for food, scaling mighty mahogany trees, blow-pipe in hand, scooping water from deep leaves, while keeping an eye out for jaguars. When I first saw Jonah Lomu striding around the rugby pitch, bowling over the opposition, it reminded me of solidity of Ricardo. Almost more impressive than his physical appearance though was his presence. He was the most REAL person I’ve ever met, he liked me, and when, in his broken English, he said “ You, friend”, and lightly (but firmly) poked me in the chest and gazed into my face with his shining, black eyes, I knew he would protect me with his life and expect the same from me.

Then there was Kerrie. She was Australian and one of those calm, unflappable Aussie chicks that you find in places like that. A comfortable size 14 with lanky blonde hair and blue eyes. I shared a room with her for a week or so – purely as friends, but it did give the local gossip mill something to chew over, especially as she was probably early 30s and I looked late teens. She eventually tied up with Andreas, who was a 22 year old Swedish burglar, who told us tales of Swedish jails, and had an impressive bunch of keys which would allow him to enter virtually any property he wished.

Next, the girls. Three girls that had met up in Crete and formed a close-knit ‘family’. All in their early 20s, Laurie was Canadian, from Prince Edward Island, quite serious in a Canadian sort of way. She fell in love with an Iranian lad who, I fear, was after a visa or work permit rather than a long-term commitment. Traudie was German (West German, in those days). She had short blond hair and I fancied her fairly badly. She fell for a Scottish toe-rag called Dave, who was married to a French woman – he’d left her at home looking after the baby. He also tried to nick my walkman. Lastly, Renata: she was Brazilian, but didn’t look it, if you know what I mean. She was small, had short, curly blondish hair, no chest but a large bum and wore little round glasses years before they were trendy. She was lovely though and liked to give people massages (including me) and sing songs. We had many a heart to heart talk about this and that, life etc.

At one point I moved in with the girls and spent one memorable night in a single bed, sandwiched between Laurie and Traudie, all with our undies on, though mine were stretched the tightest as I tried to avoid poking Traudie on the arse with my member, while Laurie nestled against my back with her small but soft breasts and my knees and thighs rested against the back of Traudie’s curled-up legs.

Bumpy was a complex guy and I learned a lot from him in a funny sort of way. Being a fair bit older than most of us he seemed wise. Looking back, I suppose he was, but no more so than I was at his age. The trick is to surround yourself with youngsters when you are about 30, so that you can use that extra decade of experience to put yourself in a good light. He told me some things about myself which were probably true, and made me take a long hard look at myself. I didn’t like all I saw, but wouldn’t have swapped much either…except my ability to talk to girls I didn’t know.

Talking of which, I fell in love in Crete. First time for about 18 months. A tragic tale. Her name was Malene and she was Danish. Not a tall, blond Dane, but a petite, very pretty, curvy Dane perfectly Che-sized and shaped and she loved me too. Just one problem, her boyfriend from Denmark was arriving in a couple of days and although it clear to both of us that she didn’t feel as strongly towards him as she did to me, she didn’t feel able to commit to me as he was travelling a long way to join her.

Finally there was Che. He was a quiet young guy from London, wore black DM boots and an army surplus coat. When not listening to his walkman or reading Sartre, he’d be scribbling in his diary or writing his famous novel. He was fairly funny and worked hard when the occasion arose. He got on well with most people but would often go off by himself for some solitude. He was a bit of lost soul really. Didn’t know what to do with his life so was killing time by living hand to mouth and having ‘experiences’. I think all he really wanted was a girl to call his own, who he would love, and who would love him forever. In the end, he was drinking too much – on New Years Eve he couldn’t remember anything past 9pm…he said some hurtful things about people he thought he liked so decided to pack up and go home.

It would be June before he got his end away again….
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Tue 16 Jan 2007, 15:09, Reply)