Entire swathes of the coastline have been overrun by these makeshift dwellings, leaving little space for any additional illegal activities such as camping and barbecuing in the wild.

Beaches are overrun by buxom mamas yelling obscenities at their young. By their tattooed husbands proudly following their beer bellies around. By virtually naked young girls acting like women of the night in the middle of day. And by hoards of screaming kids, praying that a massive cleansing tsunami would suddenly come and wash them all mercilessly away.

They only return to their quaint little village for that momentous monotonous moronic morbid murtali affair. When in their mad fervour first they block roads to fix wooden poles and posts, then up come the flags and the blue lights on their roofs. Followed by endless mind numbing simulations of war. This culminates in following an out of tune band, tons of tiny papers littering the streets for days, and usually ends up in a good old punch-up between so called friends.

But then the day after all is forgotten on the white sands of Armier. And then off to the Trade Fair for a geyser some Jablo and a new air condition! And make sure that they don’t find cheaper lest they do a complain!

As for the ones they have left back in their native concrete bush, in a crazed act of mad desperation they bring out their entire living room onto the pavement, TV and all. And they sit there glaring at the close passing traffic, swallowing fumes, while munching on pastizzi and hobz biz sunflower zejt.

For these are the kings and the lifes and the mans and the gisems who run this country in style and in class, right down to the ground.

Footnote.
Disclaimer – any resemblance to real persons living or (preferably) dead is purely coincidental