Classic Legend (from the archives)

Many years ago, when I had a full head of hair and could pull women (ie – 1994), I had a successful family holiday in Crete. The highlight of this holiday was Nena, a gorgeous Swede who’s job, as far as I could make out, was to make bored German tourists play volleyball with her. Anyway, encouraged to visit her again, I packed my bag and, naturally, The Legend. Much fun ensued as the tent proved impractical in the heat, particulalry as The Legend acquired crippling sunburn on the first day. Unwilling to share a confined space with Lionel Itchy, we spent the majority of our remaining cash “upgrading” to the world’s tattiest chalet. The door didn’t shut and the furniture appeared to have been thrown out by an Ethiopean family; there were four bunks in the chalet, though hardly the room for two people. Perhaps previous guests had holidayed in a shift pattern.

Trappped in by his Flakin’ Stevens skin problem, The Legend decided not to chase any of the beautiful, nubile nudists that occupied the rest of the camp. Indeed, their friendliness increased as they realised we had a chalet to call our own. The world over, status is all with the ladies. The Legend decided he fancied the maid that cleaned our hovel every morning and, while I was out seeing Nena, he stayed put and tried his rudimentary moves on her. The maid was about forty years old, mind.

Money was tight, even more so in the second week when The Legend came back from the shop with our supplies. He bought a box of coco-pops (no milk), a six-pack of sachets of strawberry jam (no bread) and two bottles of 20/20-style cheapo alcohol. Apparently, the plan was to eat the cereal dry and, possibly, dip our fingers in jam at the same time. That said, the night on the 20/20 was a roaring success of boozyness. Unfortunately, upon returning to our domicile, The Legend vomited on the tree outside. At least it wasn’t inside.

The next day, as God is my witness, the tree was dead. It was about sixteen feet tall the night before.

The highlight though was undoubtedly the hunt for pornography. The Legend was excited by my stories of the hardcore pornographic playing cards available in all of the shops. Unfortunately, The Legend bottled his purchase at the last minute and sent me into the store. Humourously, I decided to pick a pack with a decidedly scatological (look it up on google, I’ll wait…) nature. Unfortunately, they were so horrific that I couldn’t bring myself to even look at the images. The Legend seemed less bothered though, though he wasn’t exactly into women shitting in each other’s mouths and the like.

The next day, upon returning for lunch I smiled at the maid and got a frosty look in return. In the chalet, The Legend was sitting at the table, in his pants, playing solitaire with the water-sports cards. The maid quit the same day.

What’s Greek for “The Legend?”

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