Putting Reek in Greek (Patreon)

Thank fuck the week is almost over. It all started because I booked a discount holiday to Malia, like a fucking egit. The flights were cheap and the advert promised it’d be a ‘Great Gay Getaway’. It started out with a delayed flight, adding 4 hours of waiting in a packed terminal on top of the 3 hour uncomfortable flight. We were late to the crappy hotel, my room had already been given to someone else, and I got downgraded to a filthy cupboard with a narrow bed and no shower. The indifferent staff told me the price difference would be reimbursed on my credit card within two weeks and that I could use the pool shower.

I could have lived with giving up my beach view room with queen size bed and marble bath tub if there were some great gays to get away with, but no. Had I done any research I would have known that the place is littered with pubs and chippy shops for plebs who want to get wasted and watch footie in better weather. To top it all off I’ve coincided directly with all the trashiest stag and hen dos known to man. Everyone’s a chav, everyone’s English and worst of all, everyone’s straight as a ruler. Definitely nothing to offer a cultured gay man from South London. So here I am, sat in a tacky cocktail bar with two nights left, and can’t wait to get the fuck back to work. I just got what might be the evening’s last Old Fashioned, contemplating going to bed early when they enter.

They’re a classic example of everything that’s wrong with the Brits. They stagger in, singing and chanting “OI OI” and “Lads! Lads!”. They’re young, comically sunburnt, with identical chavvy haircuts, short on the sides and long on top. A group of working class boys on a lads’ holiday. One of them’s wearing a t shirt that says ‘On it till we vomit’, another that says ‘Pussy Patrol’ and a couple of them, of course, have football shirts. They’re a ridiculous cliché, drunk and rowdy. One loud-mouthed guy, their leader, is particularly handsome. He’s topless despite this being a public place, revealing a toned, athletic body; he wouldn’t look out of place dancing on a podium in Soho. His hair is dark brown and spikey, he has a diamond stud in both ears and a mischievous expression on his face as he starts chanting ‘Shots! Shots! Shots!’ and soon they’re all joining in. A row of tequila appears from the bar and he cries out “What happens in Malia stays in Malia!”

I don’t want them here. I resent their misogynistic ways and the atmosphere they’ve created. Not to mention I’m having a terrible day, so the London boy in me does the only thing he can think of and seeks out the bouncer, a bald, robust figure in a tight black T-shirt stood by the doorway.
“Is there any chance you can get those guys to leave? They’re making people uncomfortable.”
He shakes his head “Sorry, sir, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Are you sure? It’s not fair on everyone else in here”
“As long as they don’t break any laws, pay their bills, don’t fight or break anything they are welcome to stay.“
Normally I’d give up, but I’m miserable and exhausted from sleeping with an AC unit rattling outside my room, so I feel a lie come to my lips. I even shock myself as I say it.
“But they are breaking the law. I’ve seen them at another bar this evening and they’re dealing drugs.”
He looks at me, the irritable expression gone from his face.
“What did you say?“
“I said they’re drug dealers. They’ve been selling cocaine.”
Suddenly, his expression is deadly serious.
“Thanks for letting me know. You have a good evening now.”

I watch them covertly, with a slight smile as the security guard approaches them. There’s a confrontation, voices are raised, and like kicking a beehive they buzz around the bar collecting their shit. They glare around the bar, even in my direction, before they go and peace returns. I chuckle to myself. What happens in Malia stays in Malia… Stupid chav cunts.

I go back to the bar stool and finish my cocktail at a leisurely pace, sit for a while and listen to the music they’re playing. At least I think that’s what I do. Everything starts going fuzzier and fuzzier, warmer and hazier. I need to get out and get some fresh air.

“Mate, wake up…”
I’m groggy, I’m parched, my head’s pounding and I’ve no idea where I am.
“Wake up, fella!”
I feel a strong pair of hands shaking me, gently at first, and then roughly. My eyes slowly open, but everything’s dark and for a second I’m terrified that I might have gone blind, until a pair of sunglasses is pulled from my face and I’m blinded instead by the bright Malia sun. It’s high enough for breakfast to be over. Leaning over me is a handsome man; he’s wearing a grey t shirt and a backwards cap, but I recognise him instantly as the topless guy from last night. I panic, try to move but my body doesn’t want to respond and instead I slump to the ground.
“Whoa…whoa…”, the man says, catching me in his arms and holding me tight against his broad chest. “Thank fuck you’re a skinny bastard.”

He props me back up on the deck chair I was sleeping on, holding my head upright, his face close to mine. I can smell chewing gum and cigarettes on his breath. I’m sure it’d be erotic if I wasn’t so frightened. “Now dickhead, I want you to listen very carefully to me. Blink once if you understand.”
He’s using a hushed, calm voice, but with more than a hint of viciousness. I manage to consciously blink, though even that is an effort.
“Good. Now, it seems like you had your drink spiked. Unlucky for you, but fortunately I am here to help. I left you out in the sun for a bit to sober you up but clearly it didn’t work. You’re wankered…”
He ruffles my hair and my head instantly slumps to the side without him supporting it, so he takes a hold of my temples and pulls me sharply back upright.

He barely whispers now. “OK, listen to me, you little prick. You messed with the wrong lads last night. We’re no drug dealers, but it cut close to home for some of my mates, so they are divesting certain personal pharmaceutical investments as we speak. Personally I ditched my stash of slow release growth hormones by giving you quite a liberal dose. It should have you set well into the next quarter, perhaps longer. Russians really now how to cheat…”
He chuckles darkly and stares straight into my eyes. Back to normal voice again. “Don’t look so scared mate. My job is to keep you in sight and entertained until they are back. We’re going to have a great day together… Now, what’s your name again?”
I try to respond, but can only groan.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that…” He laughs, coughs and then spits on the floor. “Well…my name’s Caine, and to be honest, fella, I don’t give a shit what your name is…But what I do give a shit about is that you ruined a proper good vacation for me and the lads.”
My body tenses at this accusation “No worries though… tonight’s a new night, as they say… and you’re going to make it unforgettable. You’re about to become the newest member of our Lads on Tour group: Gaz. That’s your name, right? Gaz? Blink once if it is…”
I sit there, not responding. My name definitely isn’t Gaz. He grunts and lands a hard slap across my face.
“I said blink if your name’s Gaz!”
This time I do blink.
“Good lad. You’re not as thick as you look. Now, Gaz, let’s get you semi-functional. We’ve got lots to do today and a big night ahead of us. Drink this.“
He shoves gym water bottle in my mouth and squeeze it lightly. I can do nothing else but drink it, though I happily do. It tastes like an isotonic drink. Sweet, salty, slightly sour and slightly bitter all at the same time.

I’m staggering down the street, with Caine supporting me. A lot of passers-by are shaking their head or trying to not stare at us…well, me; to an outside eye he looks like a well-meaning boy helping out his mate who’s had one too many. Nobody would guess he was a straight chav with a perverse sense of justice, propping up a sedated gay man.

But it’s not only this apparent display of friendship that is making people stare. Despite not having had a good look at myself, it is clear even to me I’d been out in the sun for far too long. “You look a bit burnt there Gaz. I thought I lathered you up pretty well with sun lotion. Looks like I took the tanning oil by mistake.”  My usual pale skin was a painful, blazing red all aside from a tan line where he’d left a pair of sunglasses on my face and an equally ridiculous set of white lines where he’d dressed me in an old wife beater; I was now modeling what most Brits would call a ‘twat tan.’

It wasn’t just any wife beater either. In contrast with my normal, well accessorized shirt, chinos and brogues look, I only had a total of four items on my body. One pair of orange Jägermeister promotion flip flops. One pair of blue, slinky adidas football shorts as, perhaps not less expensive, but certainly cheaper looking stand in for board shorts. And finally, the crown jewel, someone’s black wife beater that read “I HAVE THE DICK SO I MAKE THE RULES” in outlandish red letters. All of it covered in traces of what must have been at least one out of vomit, food and cum, and I could definitely smell both sweat and alcohol wafting from it.

All of this I piece together painfully slow, as I’m practically carried by Caine along the scorching street towards God knows where. I’m paraded around town like an effigy of the worst of Britain, unable to do anything to shield myself from, or even look at the passerby.

Suddenly Caine steers me into a building. As he guides me through the door, I notice the spinning red, blue and white of a barber’s pole. It’s a Turkish barbers; the two men working there turn around and eye me up and down, one is unable to quell a small laughter, the other barely hiding his disgust. It’s a far cry from the warm welcome and prosecco I get at Toni & Guy in London. The decor is ugly and cheap, with neon lights and linoleum. The two men discuss something among themselves in another language, ignoring us, until one finally comes forward with a neutral “You want a haircut?”

Caine throws me in the barber’s chair. I notice whatever I’ve been spiked with is starting to wear off as I’m now just about able to support my own head. The barber is behind me, glaring and tutting like I’m an idiot. I see him take in the stains and slogan on the tank top as he puts the cape around my neck.
“You look unwell.” he states.

Caine’s voice comes from behind me. “Yeah man, he’s just taken a lot of shit. You’re a pussy but you’re right as rain ain’t you Gaz mate?” He slaps me hard on the arm. It’s agonising on my sunburn, but I can barely flinch.

The barber seems appeased, rolling his eyes, and taking another look at the photo Caine is showing him on his phone.
“While we were out Gaz gave me strict orders to get him a fresh cut before we hit the town again today. When he sobers up he’ll be gutted if he isn’t looking his best. He even said he’d pay triple, didn’t you Gaz mate?”, he laughs. “You stupid stoner bastard.”
The barber nods OK.

I’m sure he’s being deliberately rough as he sets to work, shoving my head from side to side and pressing the clippers tightly against my scalp, totally ignoring my sunburn. Still, while my muscle control is coming back, I’m feeling fatigued, and before I know it I doze off. When I come to, the barber is holding a mirror up to the back of my head and tapping my shoulder impatiently.
“Your haircut, sir.”

I see Caine’s reflection appear behind me, smiling broadly, flashing his perfect white teeth, then see my own eyes widen as I take in this new look. Gone is my fashionable London haircut. In it’s place is a modernised fusey bowl cut; the top third of my head is covered, but below that is a harsh line where I’ve been shaved bald. The barber must have done something to the hair he left on my head, as it’s now blow dried into a ridiculous, voluminous mess. I look like a giant iced gem. It’s a style I’ve only ever seen on the stupidest chavs and builders trying to copy their favourite stars from The Only Way is Essex.

“Oi oi, Gaz, a perfect lad’s haircut for a night out with the boys!” Cain shouts in my ear. “Great idea with a perm innit?! You get this do for half a year without any work in the morning.” He reaches across to shake the barber’s hand. “Thanks, I promise Gaz is smiling too, aren’t you mate? Thinking of all the pussy you’ll get with your new do ain’t ya?” Both men laugh as Caine reaches into his pocket and pulls out what I see is my wallet, cramming a handful of euros into the barber’s hand; well above what I assume is triple their going rate it. “Keep the change mate.”
The barber smiles.
“Have a good one lads…” He turns to Caine and lowers his voice. “Please help your friend take a shower. He really needs one.”

“I can’t wait to tell the lads how you were too stinky to stay in that Turkish barbers! Classic Gaz! Gaz the Stinker! Must be all the growth hormone that is starting to kick in.” Caine howls as he leads me down the pavement, people are staring at us. The sun is above us, so it must be about lunch time.

“Now, Gaz, mate, we’ve got one more stop before we’re ready for our special lads’ night. But I want this one to be a surprise. Drink up.” He handed me the gym bottle again. Still thirsty I eagerly empty it. “Good lad. I added something extra, so it’s not just electrolytes and that mental patient docile stuff you had before. It’s time for you to have another little sleep. Not even a stab in your guts would wake you up…”

Eventually I do wake up, this time to the distant sound of buzzing. I know the drill by now; I try to speak, but no sound comes out. My senses clear and I feel the gentle touch of someone rubbing me with lotion. It stings. As I look around I realise with horror exactly where I am. He’s taken me to a fucking tattoo parlour. I don’t even have any tattoos…well, correction, I didn’t. I feel a lump in my throat as I dread to think of what Caine has in store for me.

As if on cue, he appears. “Morning you lazy bastard! You’ve woken up just in time; quite a few helping hands worked together to sort out all those tats for you in time. But we got it just like you wanted, Gaz!”

I wonder what tattoo artists would work on an unconscious client, but I know Caine is a ruthlessly smooth talker. I remember articles I’d laughed at in the Daily Mail of people who’d had ridiculous tattoos done on holiday. Now, thanks to Caine, I could add my own name to that illustrious list.

“You guessed it mate, you’ve got some sick new ink. What’s better is Phoebe here is treating them with burn victim lotion. Seals those fuckers right in, so you can go swim tomorrow if you like. Makes them a bit blurry, but it’s no worse than any one year old tat. Let me show you on my phone…”
With a manic glint in his eye, he slowly scrolls through the photos of the artist’s handiwork in front of my face with careful glee, enjoying how I can’t really react, but I still find myself gasping at what he shows me.

My body has been turned into a ridiculous canvas of male clichés; there are British flags and patriotic slogans, roses, poppies and images of football players I don’t even recognise on my arms, legs, neck and chest. There clearly is a wide range of styles and level of abilities represented. But the blazing centrepiece is a huge Celtic print of three letters across my back; a name, not my name, a name bestowed upon me today: ‘GAZ’, underlined with the grammatically incorrect phrase ‘Malia 2017. Lad’s on tour’

Caine locks eyes with me in triumph.
“On other guys I’d think this much ink was stupid, but on you, mate, it’s fucking on point. I’m happy it came out perfect, since red and yellow can’t be lasered.”
He swipes to the next photo, showing a gaudy glass stud in my earlobe.
“It’s acid treated, so you don’t have to worry about the piercings growing shut.”

Everything is starting to blur together. Perhaps I’m in shock, and you would think for all the sleeping I’ve done today I would be on top of things. Caine has led me back to the cheap holiday apartment where this hellish day began. This time I can feel tingling, like pins and needles, of movement returning to my body. I’m able to stand up on my own, and I’m in the middle of a bedroom with Caine in front of me. He’s dressed really nicely in a white linen shirt, breathtakingly handsome. In spite of all that’s happening I can feel my penis bulging in the adidas shorts he put me in this morning. I don’t want to get hot for him, and perhaps this is another of his additions to the water, but I suspect he just is that hot.

“Now, mate, let’s get the final touches for the finale. I want you to have a say in this, since you’ve been so good all day. Which footie top is it going to be for the big night? What do you say, Stinker? Red, or blue?”

He spins me around forcefully and I gaze up at two football shirts hanging on the wall. I assume they’ve both already been worn by one of my new ‘friends’ the night before. My shoulders slump in defeat and I quietly nod in the direction of the blue one.

He pulls it over my head. As expected it smells of stale sweat. “Nice choice, mate. I think the red would have really brung out your sunburn. You really should get some aloe vera on that, you daft twat. No time for that now though, the lads are waiting and it’s taken you all fucking day to get ready.”

We’re in front of a club, waiting in a queue. Everyone is dressed nicely, in collared shirts and dresses, and I feel so conspicuous in my sweaty football gear. I’ve regained a lot of movement, but I’m lumbering and everything’s still fuzzy around the edges. “Sorry everyone!” Caine shouts “Gaz here has had five pints too many!”

As we reach the front of the queue, a dapper bouncer blocks the way.
“Identification, Sir.” The bouncer stressed the Sir a bit extra, dripping with disapproval. There was an awkward pause. I check the flimsy pockets of my football shorts, but they were as empty as I had expected them to be.
“Oi, Gaz I have your new passport.” Caine handed over a passport to the  bouncer. It was one of those temporary passports embassies issue for people daft enough to lose it while abroad. The bouncer opened it, made a quick look, and handed it back. With far fewer pages than a normal passport it looked flimsy. I opened it and flipped to the identification page. Most of the fields were what I would expected them to be. Height, sex, number all as expected. The expiration date was only a month in the future. Again, nothing surprising for a temporary passport. But the photo made me nauseous. It was a photo from today, though I had no memory of it being taken. My mouth was slack jawed open, eyes bloodshot, sleepy and unfocused, skin unevenly tanned. To crown it all, that ugly haircut and two slits shaved in my left eye brow. I had no memory of that being done either. I raised my hand to confirm. I was painfully aware that had the photo been shot a few hours later there would also be a pair of cheap studs in my freshly pierced ears and an ugly tattoo snaking up from the tank top, on the side of the neck.

Just as horrifying as my run-down visage was the name in the passport. Instead of John Holland, my name, it says “Gaz Taylor”. As if he could read my mind, though that wouldn’t be that hard at the moment, Caine spoke again. “The lads were kind enough to submit a deed poll to correct your name before getting your temp passport. With any luck your new permanent ID card should be waiting for you when you get home. I say permanent, but you can of course change name again in like 2 years, or whatever their hold off time is.”

The club is classy, expensive and busy. Caine guides me across the room, his hand pressing firmly into the small of my back, over to a group of men who are chatting among themselves. Of course it’s the same group of lads as the day before, my new ‘mates’. “Fellas…you remember Gaz? He’s very sorry about last night and really keen to make it up to you all!”
They turn, and I feel their eyes on me, taking me in; the tattoos, the outfit, the piercings, the hair. They’re all dressed nicely, suave and in sharp contrast to the ridiculous figure Caine has shaped me into; there’s a moment of silence before they burst into raucous laughter.

Soon I’m being shoved from person to person, they’re all shaking my hands, offering me swigs of their pint, clapping me on the back and eager to spend time with their new ‘mate’. I feel that even with those minuscule amounts of beer, my tired body is sinking fast. One of them squeezes my bicep, asking me if I’ve started to swell yet and if I watched the match last night. Another asks me if I knew there was a dress code, pointing at my top and loudly shouting “Classic Gaz”. Someone named Chris tells me he knows a guy who needs concrete workers, and write a number with a marker pen on my arm. Another pulls me over, asks me what the capital of Thailand is, before slapping me hard in the balls and saying “Bang cock!” They are all taking the piss out of me.

I’m standing with a guy called Shaun, who is showing me a top he picked up for me that day that is also ‘Classic Gaz’, a lime green T-shirt proudly emblazoned with the words ‘MUFF DIVER’. However, this presentation is cut short by lights flashing from outside in red and blue, and the music in the club stops abruptly. The boys scatter and I feel a lump of joy in my throat. Somebody must have informed the police; finally my nightmare is over!

Four police officers quickly advance towards me. I look around and Caine is no where to be seen. In fact I don’t recognise anyone around me. I don’t realise how drunk I am until two of the officers roughly restrain me and put me in handcuffs. I try to speak to them, but they completely ignore anything I say, and as I’m shoved into the back of a police car I can hear the music start in the club again.

I wake up as they drag me out of the car. Everything is so unreal. Like it is happening to someone else. A police man is asking me questions and I think I answer them. Two officers take me to a well lit room and tell me to take off my clothes. Flip flops, shorts, shirt. Every piece can be removed in one motion. They take photos. They look in my mouth. I lie on my belly on an angled, padded table. I’ve had things in my ass many times before, but this wasn’t what I hoped for. I get dressed again. They take me to a small cell, and I can finally fall asleep.

When I wake up again for a few seconds everything feels fine. Nothing hurts. A bit thirsty perhaps, but nothing more. Then I see a horrible football tattoo and a cellphone number scribbled on my arm, and all the memories of what has been done to me floods back. There is no clock in the cell, so I don’t know exactly how many hours I sit there until someone comes to get me, but I have plenty of time to consider my situation. I understand what Caine meant with growth hormones producing smelly sweat, because it is definitively me and not the clothes that stink the worst.

When someone finally come and get me it is a police officer explaining they got a call about a drug dealer matching my description. While they didn’t find any drugs, I was clearly under the influence and they kept me in custody. The blood report showed a whole buffet of different drugs, but being under the influence isn’t an offense in itself. He further informs me that a report has been sent to Europol so I should arrive airports an hour earlier from now on, as I can expect thorough searches. With that he wishes me good luck and hope I can get my life back on track. He has no idea.

Lastly he hands me a sports bag. I had been checked out of the hotel while in custody, and the bag was the only thing in my room. A last laugh from Caine. The bag contains a wrinkled bundle of damp clothes. Joggers, sweatshirt, t-shirt, a pair of seriously worn trainers and three socks. No underwear. It’s as if someone did a hard workout and then put his clothes in sealed bag for a day. No matter how I am getting home, it will be just as unpleasant for any travelers close to me, since without wallet this is what I’ll wear.

In the side pocket is a hotel envelope containing three papers. The checkout folio from the hotel, a Ryanair boarding pass for the evening flight back in the name Gaz Taylor, and a fax from my employer. Or rather former employer, as it reads “Upon receiving the drug use report we are hereby terminating your employment effective immediately in accordance with section 18 (e) of your employment contract.” I look again at the phone number scribbled on my arm.

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