Calling All Expats

Quick, I know what xenophobia is - good Grik word - but what's it when you shun yer own countrymen? Very English trait.

"Calling all expats. Is there somewhere you like that's local to you - a bar, restaurant, or club - that has a British flavour? Tell us about it."

Not mulching likely.

You think I want a midian horde of vulgar Brits barging in and buggering up the ambiance of my treasured hideaways I've worked so hard to keep secret?

OK, lads, fair's fair - perhaps I spoke hastily. Going native often works that way.

OK - but promise not to tell:

The Pioneer Arms just round t'corner from the Kondokali Kamp Kemist

The Nellie Dean en route to the Marina (from where come most of the Nellie's clilentèle, wonderful bunch, laff a minute)

Stelio's - fantastic Μουσακάς joost like mum makes. Ask for extra chips and Roland's personal bottle of Daddies sauce

Friday nights at the 'Feta 'n' Frolic'? A must. Hamish on karaoke? Magic.

Some of them lassies who dance on the tables? Eee, make the preacher lay the Good Book down.

Tankard of Tub: Never been in there but me mate Simon says it's bloody marvelous.

Greaat big HDTV screen, always on loud, always on sport.

Any Greeks come in, Sandra doesn't half give them a bad time - imitates them something rotten.

"What's that, luv? An ouzipan? Want that in a tall glass wi' Fanta?"

Yerss - good one, Telegraph ... point them our way and we'll gie 'em a reet good time. (Nuther 16 pints over here, Doris, when you've time, darling)