What Happens In Kavos?

Much like the City of Sin that the phrase is stolen from. Kavos is a resort full of drunkeness and debauchery.

Thankfully in the Summer of 2002 I was a holiday rep in Ipsos and NOT Kavos. It didn’t stop me having many adventures. I’m sure you’re all aware of my run in with Goofy!

I couldn’t spend a Summer on Corfu and not visit Kavos for at least one night! That opportunity came by chance one day.

Two other workers Conor and Nicola asked if I fancied going downwith them. One of our friends was taking a group of holidaymakers down to see Tony Hadley in one of the Clubs.

The next day I was due to head to a different resort for training and the Kavos reps would be driving so I could get stay in their spare room and get a lift to the training. Result.

I raced home on my moped, showered and put on the glad rags ready for a night of drinking and dancing.

After the nightmare that is Corfu’s roads at night, we arrived slightly shaken but in one piece in Kavos.

Frantically texting to see which of the many bars Erin was in. By chance we bumped into the reps for my company who promptly told the bar staff we were workers. Meaning we would pay workers prices for our drinks for the night.

Being a sensible chap I took the number of one of the reps. In case we got separated so I could find out where their apartment was.

Sure before long there were shots being consumed. Dancing on the bar and if memory serves. Tony Hadley signed one of the reps boobs!

Conor and Nicola headed back to Ipsos and I found myself on a sun lounger on the beach beside a fire.

Next thing I know. I wake up to a glorious sunrise. Not a soul to be seen. I wander back into the club to be greeted by a solitary Albanian cleaner.

As I’m walking out the club, my trusty Nokia 3310 in hand to ring and find the apartment. I stumble. It was the step, honest! Dropping the phone. As they did it split into three pieces.

The back landed at my feet and as I stopped to pick it up a chap stopped his moped and picked up the front and actual phone. Snapped them together and rode off. I hobbled down the street, having injured my knee falling down three step. Shouting the few Greek words I knew. Malakas!

Luckily I still had my work phone. But no credit. I checked my pockets and I had the grand total of €4 on me. Nothing to do but ring the boss.

She was pleased to hear from me at 7am on her day off. Especially as the training had been postponed. I explained what had happened and she told me to head to a travel shop as that’s where the tours left from.

Tell Yanni that I worked for her and he’d put me on the trip that was heading to Aqualand. I could then get a bus back to Ipsos.

Yanni was lovely. Made me a frappe and told me to wait a while that the tour was going at 9am.

Now remember I’m dressed for a night out clubbing. It’s now 8am on a July Corfu day. Temperature was getting hot already. Young holidaymakers in Bikinis and shorts ready for a day at the watermark starting arriving.

When the tour bus turned up. I was handed a sheet with a list of peoples names on it. “You check” the driver said.

Slowly my hungover brain processed this information. Somehow they’d been a bit of a misunderstanding. They thought I was working as the tour guide!

Much as I tried to explain I was just getting a lift, they didn’t understand. It became apparent I wasn’t getting on this bus unless I was a tour guide.

I checked off names and we were ready to go. At least as I was “working” I got the front seat to myself! I did have to point out the sights as we passed.

14 hours later we arrived at Aqualand. Saw the holidaymakers in and told them what time to be back at the coach. Then hopped back on the coach. The driver drove to the far side of the car park and parked up.

“Don’t you go into Corfu Town?” I asked.

“No, there’s a bus stop over there.” He said pointing.

By now it’s 11am and I’m melting in my jeans and shirt. I’m in the horrors proper and there’s not a drop of shade.

An hour later the bus arrives. I pay my euro and collapse in a heap. It takes this old, no air conditioned bus nearly 2 hours to get to Corfu Town, thankfully it stops at the bus depot so I don’t have to try and navigate my way there.

We’re on the hone stretch now. Just one more bus which should stop right outside my apartment.

Obviously this is me so I’ve just missed a bus and now have to wait 2 hours for another. Thankfully there is shade and it’s only a Euro fare so I can buy a bottle of water.

Finally the bus arrives and 30 mins later it does drop me right outside my apartment. It’s now 5.30 pm and I fall into bed knowing that tomorrow is Airport Day and I’ll be on the go from 5.30am till 1 or 2 am.

Sadly my trip to Kavos wasn’t full of the debauchery you or I expected!

Who Killed Sara Season 2 Streaming on Netflix May 19th

As the title suggests this Mexican Crime Drama is all about Alex Guzman’s (Manola Cardona) search to find out who killed his sister. Sara!(Ximena Lamadrid)

After a tragic paragliding accident kills Sara. Her brother, Alex is persuaded by Cesar Lazcano, His best friends and Sara’s boyfriends father, to take responsibility for the accident.

Cesar tells him he will serve two months maximum and that he will reward him financially and take care of his sick mother.

Instead he screws him over and Alex is sentenced to 30 years for homicide. After 18 years he is released from jail early for good behaviour.

He has however spent those 18 years inside plotting his revenge against the Lazcarno family.

What follows is a masterpiece in suspense. As Alex investigates we learn more and more about the events leading up to Sara’s murder. As well as finding out more about the people involved.

Throughout the ten episodes we are fed clues that lead as to believe a different person is responsible for the murder.

Yet each time another clue appears to throw suspicion onto someone else. Similar to Lupin the ending is not what I was expecting.

Instead of finding out who killed Sara. We are left with even more questions. Luckily we don’t have long to wait. Netflix has announced that season 2 will stream from May 19th.

Good Morning Veronica Streaming On Netflix

After the slow paced Bitter Daisies, Good Morning Veronica is like getting into a Ferrari after driving a Fiat Punto.

Within minutes of the first episode starting a young woman has commited suicide in the police station with a hand gun!

A lowly police clerk, Veronica is stood in front of her as she pulls the trigger. So close she ends up with blood on her face.

This leads to her getting involved in the investigation. Even talking to reporters when the Police Captain won’t. She appeals for women who’ve been abused or raped to contact her.

Two women come forward and Veronica ends up taking on the investigations. With the help of her friend, Nelson. The police IT guy.

The police Captain, Anita clashes with her. Luckily for Veronica her Godfather is the Police Chief. Time is of the essence for Veronica though as he is due to retire and Anita will take over.

The pace is relentless. The acting is excellent throughout. From Taniá Müller, Veronica to Camila Morgado as Janete. Eliciting the whole spectrum of human emotions. From revulsion to hope.

Along the way Veronica discovers that one of the cases may be linked to her father. A Police Chief in his day. Until rumours of corruption caused him to murder his wife and commit suicide.

Veronica is determined in her quest for truth and justice. We feel her pain when things go wrong. Her anguish when her actions are the reason for another’s pain.

This is a definite must watch and, based on this I’ll be looking for more Brazilian shows to watch.

Bitter Daisies Netflix Review

Like many of you my TV viewing, well I say TV most of my viewing is on my phone, has increased during the pandemic.

I came across Lupin on Netflix and loved it. Since then I’ve pretty much only watched foreign language programmes. This has a couple of additional benefits.

  • When watching in bed with Josh asleep beside me I don’t miss anything with the volume down low.
  • I’m not as distracted by social media as you can’t afford to miss anything by looking away.

So is Bitter Daisies worth watching?

The Synopsis – Lt. Rosa Vargas is a rookie Civil Guard officer sent to a small town in Northern Spain to investigate a young girls disappearance. Preview

This is not a face paced thriller. The story unfolds slowly. In fact in the first few minutes of arriving in the town the local Civil Guard, Mauro, tries to get Rosa to close the investigation and return home.

She persists and a simple missing girl case turns into a hunt for a killer/killers responsible for multiple deaths.

We find out little about Rosa. Nothing about why she became a Civil Guard. No partner or ex that we know off. Save for taking medication for anxiety and a voicemail recording from her sister, nothing is revealed about her.

We do discover that her sister disappeared in the same town. During her investigation she comes across information that pertains to her sisters disappearance.

The lives of the locals are uncovered bit by bit. From the Garage worker that’s also a Satanist. The church volunteer who has a prostitute as a companion. Not least Mauro and his daughter who we discover knew the missing girl.

I was hooked. Each episode left more unanswered questions than it answered.

Come the final episode the clues that had been dropped carefully along the way clicked into place.

Maria Mera plays the part of Rosa to perfection. She assumes the role of a keen, young Civil Guard working her first big case impeccably. Focused solely on the investigation, even though in may cases she stumbles on clues rather than finding them through investigative means. Her rented apartment is sparse with no personal touches added. She even keeps a lost dog for company.

Mauro, Toni Salgado is a stereotypical law enforcement officer from a small town with little crime. More intent on keeping the peace and harmony than punishing offenders.

One of my favourite characters was Albere the local Civil Guard commander. He is the wise head. Offering advice to the young Guard whilst reminding her that they don’t have to help her.

This is definitely worth adding to your watch list.

I’ve just discovered that there is a second series, though as yet no release date on Netflix.

My Last Childs Firsts are also my Last Firsts

I’d often thought it was a woman’s thing. You know, how they get all emotional over the milestones. Especially the lasts.

You know the ones. My last child’s first day at pre school. My last child’s last day at pre school and so on and so forth.

Yet last night something strange happened. I’d given Josh his bedtime bottle and put him in his cot.

It’s one of those clip to the bed things so he’s right there beside me but not in the bed so no fear of my fat ass squashing him.

As I placed him gently into it I noticed, that, when he’s stretched out he is nearly the length of it. We’d known it wouldn’t be much longer and his full size cot is on order.

I was struck by a feeling of melancholy. Josh is the LAST baby of mine I’ll hold. His ass is the last one I’ll have to deal with poonamis from.

Don’t tell Jen Hogan but I’ve a feeling it’ll be me crying as he goes to pre school on his first day.

We’d not planned more after Little Miss. She was supposed to be the last. Then Dr’s had told us it was highly unlikely we’d conceive again due to issues with Mrs OMGs ovaries. As the saying goes.

Never say never!

I didn’t get this same feelings I’m experiencing now with her though. I was my normal, kids grow its what happens self.

I can only guess that the reason my state of mind has altered is because, shortly after Josh was born by section, they removed Mrs OMGs tubes. Meaning there really are going to be no more babies.

In the truest sense of the word he is my last. Every first he does will be the last. They might not have much impact at the time but all those little milestones from Buddy and Little Miss are there in my mind.

That shaky first step. The first, and thank god only, trip to A&E following an Ambulance with one of my kids in it. The first plaster cast for a broken bone. I remember them all.

Josh is nearly six calendar months old . He has his two front teeth, can perform an Olympic worthy roll onto his stomach but hasn’t yet managed to crawl. It’s coming though. Then. Before we known it he’ll be walking and talking.

Perhaps it’s just Lockdown that has me all melancholy. I’m sure it won’t be long till I’m back to my usual self.

I hope so. If not send wine and ice cream.

It’s All About The Moments

I was out in the backyard yesterday on poop watch. The dogs were out running free and I was there, shovel in hand ready to scoop the fresh poop. You want my life don’t you?

I glanced up and noticed the combination of clouds, sunset and the Church would make a perfect photo.

Poop watch over I ran upstairs to grab the camera and returned to take the photo. In those few moments the shot had gone.

It made me realise that life is the same. We only get one chance at each moment. You can’t go back!

We woke to snow this morning. Like all five year olds Little Miss saw it and immediately wanted to go out and play.

Buddy being 12 and up too late snapping or xboxing wasn’t in the mood to get up. Even with a hyperactive five year old bouncing on his head.

So it was left to me to pull on the wellies and gloves and brave the cold. It was cold and wet. The snow wouldn’t stick enough to make a snowman, but we had fun.

Snow being a rare sight here in Ireland it could be a long time before we get another chance to have some more moments like these.

Isn’t The Human Mind a Strange Thing

I’ve oft been intrigued by how our mind works. Why some memories are seared forever into our minds yet others disappear as quickly as morning dreams.

There’s also the strange occurrence of how different people remember the exact same thing differently.

That however isn’t the focus of today’s post. Today I’m more intrigued with why subconsciously I appear to be afraid of aging.

I’ve never been too bothered about what age I looked. Perhaps this was due to having a youthful appearance. Or just not acting my age!

The face is now wrinkled, and there are white hairs aplenty flecked through my hair. None of this bothers me.

I’ve not rushed out to buy Just for Men or invested in creams to eradicate the wrinkles.

Yet for some explicit reason I avoid wearing my glasses!

This perplexes me no end. As a young man I considered purchasing glasses with plain glass in them. I thought they would make me look more interesting and attractive to the ladies.

A few years ago the kids were due eye tests. Little Miss wasn’t keen on hers so I took advantage of a free test voucher and one done. They actually prescribed me glasses for driving and computer work.

Besides the odd time here and there for the main they sit gathering dust on top of the press.

Recently though I’ve noticed, mainly at night, that it’s a strain to see. So, reluctantly, I’ve taken to actually wearing them.

I don’t look a complete idiot and there is a noticeable improvement in my vision whilst wearing them. So I can only assume that my reluctance to wear them is caused by a subconscious desire to avoid the admission that I’m getting old.

Rum, Rum and More Rum

It’s funny how some memories implant themselves in our consciousness more than others.

As a socially awkward young man I partook in many a night out binge drinking. Most of them have disappeared from my memory as quickly as the hangover.

The above tweet from TL Wright instantly reminded me of the first time I drank Rum, and there’s a bit of a story involved.

Having failed most of my GCSE’s I ended up going to Burford School as a boarder to retake them.

Boarding at Burford was a completely different experience to the Salesian School for emotionally disturbed boys I’d boarded at for the previous six years.

For a start it was mixed boarding. Sperate wings obviously! Also being a 6th former we had extra privleges. A smoking room for one! Another was being able to sign ourselves out to the pub!

So one Sunday night my friend Mark and I went to the teacher on duty and signed ourselves out to the Cotswold Arms.

Probably wearing too much Lynx Africa, and our Air Jordans we made the short walk to the pub.

On our arrival Mark said “What shall we drink?” My home was a strict one. NO underage drinking at all. Besides Beer, Gin and Tonic and Whiskey I’d not a notion what drinks there were.

“Ah I’m not fussed.” I replied.

“I’ll get the Rum you get the pints” he said
So I had my first, and I’m pretty sure last, taste of Lambs Navy Rum.

Sat at a table we knocked back the rum. Holy Mother of God that stuff burns! Luckily the cheap lager doused the fire burning its way down my throat and into my stomach.

We proceeded to knock back rums with lagers to wash it down, until one visit to the bar we were informed there was no more Lambs. We had to settle for some inferior, less fiery brand!

Noticing the time we had a discussion about when we were supposed to be back at the boarding house. School nights differed to Friday and Saturday.

After much discussion, we were drunk after all, we decided it was probably 10.30. So we left the pub shortly after half ten and stumbled the short distance back.

Sadly, unlike sneaking into home drunk, upon returning to the boarding house you have be signed back in.

As we swayed down to the office we were met by the Head of Boarding.

“Into my office now you two” he barked. “You can go home, I’ll deal with this” he told the teacher who’d been waiting our return!

He then proceeded to remind us that we were underage, that we represented the school and that the teacher was late going home to his family as we had stayed out late. It was 10pm curfew on a Sunday!

At one point he asked us our ages and I recall mumbling 16 under my breath as a I swayed like a tree during a tropical storm, using every muscle and ligament in my legs to remain standing upright.

He finished by telling us we’d better be up for breakfast in the morning. It would seem I’ve never been a morning person having been late for breakfast a good few times.

The bollocking over we headed for our dorms. I made a stop off in the small kitchen that had a toaster, bread and a milk machine. Thinking that a glass of milk and some toast might help with the absorption of alcohol.

Toast eaten, milk drunk I headed off to my dorm. The minute I lay down the room started spinning and I felt sick.

Off to the loo I went. Didn’t get sick. Back to bed. Sods law isn’t it, the second I lay back down I knew I was going to be sick.

I knew well there wasn’t going to be time to get to the toilet so I dived at the sink in the corner of the room.

The contents of my stomach emptied I realised that there was something blocking the plughole! (Remember that toast.) Grabbing a toothbrush I jabbed it into the plug to clear the blockage. Rinsed the sink and my mouth and fell into bed.

Thankfully this was one occasion my brain didn’t screw me over and woke me at 7am. I jumped up, went for a shower and was sat on my bed reading when the head of boarding came in to wake us.

“Morning Alan, see you at breakfast” he said.

That my friends is the first, but not last time I got so drunk I was sick. It was though the last time I ever did Rum shots.


My adopted Father is from Montana and grew up with the Rocky Mountains as his playground.

When I was 11 we made a trip Stateside to visit family, including for the first time Dad’s side out in Montana.

With Great excitement he pointed out the various mountains. In typical sulky child mode I responded with.

Great. Once you’ve seen one mountain you’ve seen them all!

At boarding school we frequently were taken on hiking trips. I’m guessing a 10 mile trudge over the Brecon Beacons works well at tiring a pack of emotionally disturbed teenage boys.

It does mean I’ve been at the summit of Ben Nevis, Pen Y Fan and Snowden. We never did the Lake District for some reason so Scafell Pike has yet to be done.

I’ve been skiing in the Italian Alps and Aviemore. Two very different experiences!

At the time I didn’t appreciate the natural beauty and wonder of these different Mountain ranges.

Now though, as an older, possibly wiser man, I’m fortunate that I can say I’ve seen them.

I’m even more blessed now to live right next to the Sleeve Bloom Mountains. I’m not one for trekking across the whole range, but I do enjoy a stroll up them with Little Miss every now and then.

I also get to see them every day. On the school run and when popping to the shops.

I’m guessing the point of this is. As parents it’s not our job to make our kids happy every minute of the day. Some days they will bitch and moan. Even more these days with Xboxes and PlayStation’s. Wifi and Social Media.

Hopefully though when they are older they too will appreciate those days I forced them to Don their wellies and trudge across the mountains with me.

Some days they are going to sulk and moan because we have made them put on their wellies and warm coats to trudge across the mountains.

Hopefully though when they are older with kids of their own they too will appreciate the wonders of Nature that I dragged away from Tik Tok for.

A Christmas Memory

This year has been one like no other! Even though, like the Summer of 69, it seemed to last forever, Christmas has snuck up on us.

For those living in England and many other European countries Lockdowns will be in place.

I’m sure many parents will shed a tear over the Christmas period, consumed with guilt that their kids won’t have the perfect Hallmark Christmas. I’ve a tale to tell that might help you a small bit.

I was about 8 years old and we’d moved into a rented house in Kidlington a few weeks before Christmas.

It was the first time I’d not shared a room with my Sister. The house was huge compared to the small Cotswold cottage we’d lived in previously. There was also a massive garden and tarmacked driveway.

To me Christmas day was the same as every other Christmas I’d experienced since being adopted. We got up saw what Santa had brought. I got a White and Blue Huffy Bike, with peddle back brakes. Then we sat down for breakfast. After breakfast we played with our new toys until it was time to get ready for Mass.

Dressed in our new Sunday best we went to Mass.

After being suitably reminded that Christmas was about more than presents we returned home to open the gifts that had lain wrapped under the tree for weeks. Placed there as they arrived in boxes from relatives in the States. Even my Dad was known to give them a shake and squeeze to try and work out what they contained.

Then like most households we had dinner and then watched The Queens Speech. My Mother coming from Louisiana meant that if Gone With the Wind was on the, that was the Christmas movie we watched.

Thankfully after this we were allowed to watch a populist movie. Miracle on 34th Street or the the like.

With sweets eaten and toys played with. It was time for bed.

For eight year old me it was a rather good Christmas. A new bike, Star Wars figures no doubt and chocolate. I’m pretty sure I went to bed happy.

Many years later I learned that Ma cried herself to sleep because we’d not had a proper Christmas dinner.

The cooker in the rented house wasn’t up to cooking a turkey and so dinner time had come and gone with no Turkey.

I don’t remember what we had instead.

So as we head into a Christmas that will be unlike any we’ve had before. Remember that once Santa comes and there is food and chocolate it’ll be ok.

In years to come the kids won’t remember anyway.