Even in paradise, one must learn from the sweating salmon-coloured he-beast
One man's hidden gem is another man's purgatory
Picture the scene.
It’s quiet. Incredibly, peacefully quiet. The only sound is the distant murmur of the waves on the shore, interrupted by the occasional flutter of wings as a swallow darts past to pluck an insect from the surface of the pool.
And you can track every movement of the birds, as they swoop and dive from a cloudless sky. The sun’s shining, but not beating down. That comes later. That comes with hours lazing under parasols, with beer in a glass so cold the head begins to ice over.
It’s balmy, with a slight breeze bringing the iodine-laced tang of salt and seaweed. You glance at your arms. Good work on the tan. You look healthy. You look relaxed.
And you’ve not felt this relaxed since…
Well.
You’ve never felt this relaxed.
Not since you stayed here last year anyway.
A week on an Ionian idyll.
Nothing but time.
Time to immerse yourself in a new book every day, to sleep eight uninterrupted hours for the first time since you started a business, to spend long evenings talking to the person you love more than anyone else in the whole world over a cocktail, a glass of red, a plate of the fresh seafood they’re hauling onto the slipway fifty foot from your seat.
You’ve not looked at your phone in days. Your watch in hours. You know there’s a coach due to the airport some time this morning, but the couple across the terrace from you have their cases.
You’ll move when they do.
No need to worry about something as uncouth as a timetable.
You swirl the ice cubes around your final drink of the holiday, close your eyes and exhale slowly.
Then there’s a shadow.
You force one eyelid open.
And there’s a shape.
Five feet and seven inches of glistening pink flesh on the verge of searing to red, eyes screwed tight against the reflected glare of the sun it’s unilaterally decided to blot out. You can’t see the off-kilter football crest tattoo, but somehow you know, you just know it’s there.
He speaks.
“Bet you’re fuckin’ glad to be leavin’ mate. It’s fuckin’ shite here. Too quiet. Fuck all to do.”
The words catch in your throat. You’ve not spoken to someone other than your spouse or a waiter in three days. And you’re taken aback.
The silence wasn’t meant to be an invitation. But you can tell that for one of you, all silence is deafening and demanding to be filled.
“Bet you’re missin’ proper English bacon, not like this crap. We’re never comin’ ‘ere again.”
Your jaw drops. Like you’re an Edvard Munch painting. Like you’re Donald Sutherland. You want to say something. Words like Benidorm, Lineker’s Bar and did you expect a fucking banana boat you cerise homonculus are rising in the back of your mind, but you just can’t form the cutting sentences that usually come so easily to you.
Not here.
Not in paradise.
You splutter something placatory. You like it here. You wanted the quiet. The time. The space. You wanted a blank canvas to reconnect with someone you adore. You couldn’t have chosen a better holiday.
But the interloper has moved on. He’s found something to do. That something is to barrack the shopkeeper in a Greek village of 19 full time residents for not having today’s copy of The Daily Sport.
The swallows are still swooping. The couple opposite are fidgeting with cases. Time to go. Time for reality. Time to learn one last little lesson.
Even something you think is the epitome of perfection might not work for someone else. And it’s not your job to tell them they’re wrong.
Something mint - this long copy bus advert that the Copyranter called “art”
We’ve seen this message before. Train travel is easy, there’s no traffic, you can relax and you can use the time productively.
We’ve seen it hundreds of times for decades. From “Let the train take the strain” to any advert with a smug commuter, G&T in hand, gazing out the window as a locomotive whooshes past a tailback.
When the message is that compelling, you’re free to re-use it. Time and time again. And if you’re as good at writing as DDB’s copywriters are, you can make the very length of the copy into the pitch itself.