Kokkinelli and the EU

[BEagle]

You'll be telling me next that you actually have to pay for kokkinelli these days.....

"WHO HALLOUMI, WHO LIVER??!!" "Yes sirs, I bring more tahini and nose warmers pretty damn quick........ You one-oh-one tanker wanquerres, not one hundred squadron poofs?"

I do actually miss that....



A bit.


Now and again.


Unfortunately I haven't been able to sample the joys of the kebab and kokkinelli culture for a while now. But, if memory recalls correctly, the waiter normally asks "You full kebab or half kebab. Who halloumi, who liver. Everyone sheesh? Village salad?" in that quiet, polite voice so reminiscent of the days of "WHA' IS YOUR DME SITIA?" bellowed by Greek Air Traffickers from an echo chamber.

The first point is that some readers unfamiliar with a 'proper' kebab - might think that we're discussing a donar kebab. Not so!! The Cyprus kebab is a multi-course pig out involving much noise, abuse from both sides, copious kokkinelli and often ends in the early hours with the sound of hurried footsteps on an urgent mission....

One first needs a few jugs of brandy sour to get into the mood. Then, around the time that the Mess dress rules change into boring mode, one sends a chum to order taxis. These will often be sorted through Chris, son-of-Chris, friend-of-Chris, no-problem-I-fix friend-of-son-of-Chris, or others. Who know Chris. A large black Merc will then turn up and the game of 'how much to the village' kicks off. At breakneck speed the limo heads off and after slowing down to just subsonic to avoid flattening the lads on the gate, it soon deposits the happy kebab fans at a 'restaurant' consisting of breeze blocks, metal tables and chairs, a TV playing loudly to itself in the corner, an old grey haired wizened chap sitting in the other corner, numerous bondhu cats investigating the mysterious disappearance of their brothers whilst avoiding bottle tops thrown at them for them to play with - and various long-suffering waiters dressed in the traditional black trousers and white shirt. An argument then begins over how many tables and chairs are needed; much dragging and scraping of furniture then ensues until finally, much to the chagrin of the locals, a table for about 15 or so is constructed. Drink is then ordered - invariably Keo beer, kokkinelli and Sprite (to weaken the kokkinelli. On no account should the Sprite be consumed on its own - that would be Against The Rules.....). Bowls of salad, pitta bread, tahini, tatziki, olives, lemons, yoghourt etc appear with incredible speed - and cries of "Oi, Stavros more nose-warmers" soon follow as the pitta bread is woofed in the first 2 minutes. Then comes the interrogation "Who full kebab, who half kebab?" The full kebab is usually something like sheftalia, sheesh, liver or halloumi (hence the "Who halloumi, who liver?" question), racing chicken and pork chop. Served at around 10 minute intervals, during which time the kokkinelli arrives, is consumed at the rate of at least 1-2 bottles per head (because we NEVER fly the next day. No, dear me no. Never indeed...) and is replaced. The half kebab can be more selective but causes more difficulty for the waiters. Personally, I'd go for sheftalia, sheesh, halloumi and lountza and wouldn't bother with the racing chicken or pork chop. Yet more nose-warmers, salad and tahini, then the coffee decision and silly jokes about "Turkish- oops, sorry, I mean Greek Delight please". If none of the party have been sick on the table, fallen into their plates or behaved too outrageously, then you might be lucky and get free Ouzo as an after dinner treat - or if you're luckier, Filfar. Then, after the 'who had what - ah, to hell with it - £7 Cyp per head'll do' accounting game, it's time to accuse the taxi drivers of not turning up on time or attempting to rip you off before another high speed drive back to the block. One hopes that one's crew will keep quiet at the main gate to allow the most sober person present to show ID to the gate mate and vouch for the rabble in the back.

Then after a few litre bottles of Keo or Carlsberg as a night-cap, one finds one's pit. Not long after the bed starts spinning, an urgent communication from the lower intestines prompts the first player in the bog sprint competition, repeated at regular intervals by other competitors.

Come the next day and, miraculously, all is well with the world.

Or not.

At least, not until about Elba. And you can always blame the headache on attempts to get the weather on HF!