Thought I’d start today with a possible submission for Viz’s Top-Tips;

“Ladies and homosexuals, save thousands of pounds on expensive skin products, beauty treatments and the like. Simply agree to play in a football tournament in Costa de Caparica, agree to meet at some ridiculous time in the morning, wake up late after a night of partying and forget to take your sun cream. After a couple of hours of playing, exposed to the unforgiving midday sun, you should have achieved a healthy radioactive incandescence. Now simply wait a couple of days, ignoring any laughter – it’s just jealousy. And here comes the science bit, by now your skin should have hardened and flaked slightly to resemble one of those casey balls that scratch your face off when you try an audacious, yet misguided glancing header. Ignore the irritable itching sensation for now, but once the top layer starts to peel, a quick shower and scrub should do the rest. And voila! You have a beautiful layer of baby smooth, shiny skin, without a single penny of your hard earned cash making its way to the pockets of the robbing b@stards who call themselves cosmetics companies, which might just possibly prevent them for inventing new ridiculous faux-latin names for active ingredients like Bifidus Digestivum. One can only hope, but at least you can hold you’re slighty tender but beautifully shiny head held high, knowing you did your bit.”

Arthur Brain , Lisbon  

Apologies for the language, just wanted it to sound authentic, should Viz want to accept my letter, perhaps I will submit it after all. And to quote Alan Partridge “Please don’t write in complaining that that was offensive, it wasn’t.” The only difference being that AP had preceded this, with a string of blatantly offensive discriminatory remarks, whereas the above comments aren’t mine – he’s called Arthur Brain for a start, so who’s the joke on? Ah Memories of the infamous Brass Eye Paedophile episode and ensuing media furore.

Unfortunately however, Arthur’s Top-tip is based on my actual experience. The tender skin doesn’t hurt half as much as the fierce sting of embarrassment at confirming a stereotype. Oh the English abroad, or ‘Bifes’ (Steaks) as the Portuguese like to refer to us as due to our ability of cooking a deep shade of red in the sun. It’s the ‘helpful’ comments that really get to me, yes it was stupid of me to forget my cream, but once I’d forgotten the cream, the dye was cast. Everyone forgets things, but in most cases we don’t have our forgetfulness tattooed all over our faces for 4 days afterwards. Thank God, I’d permanently have a long list of names and birthdays scrawled all over mine.

Ok, so following the festival antics in Coimbra, Santo Antonio in Lisbon was next on the agenda in early June. I volunteered myself for a bit of an ambitious round town, whistle stop tour with Dan and Amanda, hoping to join the rest of the gang back at Bica around midnight. Some people were working but for others it all started in the afternoon. There was a sound system up at the miradouro at Santa Catarina with DJ’s playing from 4pm. They started on time too; I wasn’t there but could feel/ hear the bass from our house. So, I stuffed a few cold beers in a cool bag and wondered up, settling on a bit of grass in the sun, admiring the view over the river. Yeah a pretty blissful afternoon was in store. I popped home after a couple of hours for supplies and dragged Ivana back with me for more of the same, meeting Dali and friends up there. The hours passed pretty quickly and it was soon time for me to leave. I met Dan and Amanda on Avenida Liberdade to the ringing sound of gun fire. Fortunately gun culture hasn’t really arrived in Lisbon yet, it was part of the ‘Marchas Populares’ that were proceeding down Avenida, as processions tend to. A couple of beers and sardines down and we headed for Alfama. Timing was crucial as everyone heads there once the procession finishes, and once you’re stuck in the crowds that’s that. We made it up there in pretty good time, and managed to get more supplies, although they seemed to be adding a special San Antonio-Alfama weighting to the prices. The tough bit was getting back down the hill and across to the Bica, as most of the crowd were still coming up. Fighting against the current was impossible, but there was the odd trickle of people heading down, but getting across the river and into the stream was no mean feat. Finally arrived back at the miradouro, to meet the gang who certainly seemed to have imbibed the party spirit, or had Wendy had it all? When the music finished we tried to meet up with others down in Bica, but that was no walk in the park. Phone calls, text messages, and dodgy directions and drunken misunderstandings are all par for the course and dare I say all part of the fun! Canadian Wendy might not have agreed, despite only being about 100m away from us, it’d all been too much, she gave up, but sounded like she’d had a good night.

Arrived back at home with a  small group in tow for a nice cup of tea at a rather civilised 5am. Thankfully(?) no repeat of last years antics with Nuno and Juan, walking home from Alfama around 9am whipping each other with our t-shirts, like kids in the changing rooms. Nice memories, but you can’t beat a nice ‘cuppa’ can you?

Next up: Sao Joao in Porto, African Music Festivals & the soon-to-be-legendary Boavista Social Club

Also thanks to Emma for convincing me, but I have a new favourite website/ tool-thing, Last fm, which magically, logs what music you are playing on your laptop through media player, i-tunes or whatever, and has it available on your page, with lovely info about events in your area, recommendations, weekly charts, what your friends are listening to, and even a neighbourhood of people with similar tastes. If you’ve got one already, add me as a friend, the link is below. If you haven’t, have a look anyway. I was reluctant too at first.

http://www.last.fm/user/gouldinho  

 

Toodle Pip!!

 

-         Hey haven’t seen you in a while.

-         Well no I haven’t been around much really – you see it’s all due to the Apple Juice you know.

-         Apple Juice?! How exactly?

-         Well you remember this one episode about 6 months ago when I spilt it on my laptop.

-         Not really.

-         Oh well anyways, it kinda gave me some un-funny problems with my X key Caps Lock and stuff.

-         Nasty!!

-         Yeah t’was but it went away and everything was fine but then the problem resurfaced, with certain keys working sporadically or not at all, including the space bar, Enter, and half of the bottom line of letters, makes it a bit difficult to type anything really. Funny thing is it’d go away and then come back, bloody gremlins.

 

Hope that explains the absence, I did discover that the ‘missing keys’ would work if I held down the shift button, but with inherent problems. If I put caps lock then held down shift while I typed, it’d work ok, with the exception of punctuation. I’m sure you have probably realised (probably faster than I did) that this is all getting a bit complex and is a pretty frustrating way to use ones laptop. I just thought it might go away like the other problems did, maybe it will, but I’ve got a new keyboard now anyway.

 

For once I don’t really have a main theme to write about, which maybe a good thing, I think I was in danger of losing a few people with my recent posts. My Mum said she stopped reading the last one as she didn’t really understand it. So I’ll hold back my rant about marginalisation, isolation and ‘the matrix’ for a little while, but the irony of the fact that my reason not to write it, is the subject of the piece is not lost on me.

 

So what have I been up to? Well its party season in Portugal, which for me started back in May with a trip to Coimbra for the infamous ‘Queima das Fitas’ student party. Other than hearing about it I knew very little of the event, which was a pretty nice way to discover it. So we (I’d gone along with Evora and a bunch of student friends) arrived in Coimbra and headed up to the main square area where the festivities were already in progress. The first signs of the part that greeted us, other than the masses of people heading in the same direction was the dress of the students, formal black and white topped off with a brightly coloured top hat and matching cane (which resulted in one of the party naming it the Harry Potter party, but I thought it was more Alice in Wonderland).

 

So how does this thing work? I’d heard rumours about free alcohol, but was a little sceptical. So we wondered into the thick of it, to find a procession of float type things decorated in bright colours and manned by students in aforementioned attire. The floats were designed with a kind of service hatch down each side and people from the crowd would approach the float and be handed a beverage. One brave member of the group went up and managed to come back with a pretty disgusting Malibu and Orange combination - Success? Once we’d realised we could request the drink of our choice, it was a whole different ball game, especially as most of the floats came equipped with fridges. So the next couple of hours ran as follows, walk up to float request beer, follow float and serving person until beer is handed over, retreat to friends, drink cold beer in the sun, watching the spectacle continue, and repeat. But, why only a couple of hours? Well in truth it continued through the afternoon and early evening, but after a couple of hours I was getting hungry, I’d seen a few snacks flying around so tried my luck, asked at the next float and sure enough they produced sandwiches and crisps, at this point I was pretty convinced I was in heaven.

 

At around 9 (I think), we headed down towards the centre and congregated around another square, handily surrounded by cafes as it appeared the floats were all (finally) out of free booze, all good things…

 

I’d love to finish this story, but unfortunately my memory doesn’t allow me to accurately, but here’s what I remember. Hung around in the square til about midnight, realised I’d lost Evora and friends. Went to find them in a student bar in the old town, found them, drunk some strange cocktail type thing that seemed nice at the time. Left at some point, think I remember walking up a hill and some stairs in front of a church ‘for a bit of a lie down’. Laid under a tree for a bit of a rest (I’m still not entirely sure this happened, or if I imagined it).I decided to head to the bus station after waking up.  The station was closed, but already there was a queue of bodies forming, so I joined it. Evora and the gang turned up. They opened the back doors of the bus station (ie the ones that we weren’t queuing at). Mayhem ensued, we were still in the queue when they announced the first 3 buses had already been filled, the next was at 11am and it was only 7am. In the mean time I’d got talking to an English girl in the line who was also going back to Lisbon and decided she was gonna try the train station. I decided this was a good idea and jumped into a taxi with her. Turns out it was, within 10 minutes of arriving at the station we were on a train and heading back to Lisbon, just time for a bit of a nap I think, possibly my second, but who knows?

Last night was one of those “Is it just me?” nights, well technically I guess that should be “Is it just us?” as I was out with Wendy and Emma – but you get the drift, we were definitely in the minority.

Well, the night started off well enough, I’d spotted a Baile Funk gig (or Favela Funk or Carioca Funk or whatever name they’re calling it this week) on at Zed De Bois, and the band ‘Bonde de Role’ seemed to be highly thought off and signed to Diplo’s label, so we decided to give it a try.

 

Hang on a sec, I’ll just back up a bit for those unfamiliar with it, but Baile means Dance/ Dancehall, Favelas are the ghetto areas around Rio in Brasil (as featured in City of God, if you’ve not seen it – what are you playing at? Stop reading right now and go buy, beg, borrow or steal a copy), and a Carioca is a girl from Rio, which are good starting points for the history. The music evolved from Black/ Soul parties, popular in the 70’s in Rio, growing out of control and prohibitively expensive and spreading to the suburbs and favelas, with records being imported from the US. Due to the proximity the imports included a lot of Miami Bass sounds that have heavily influenced the music, typified by the fast hard beats, and aggressive lyrics. The lyrical content would usually reflect on life in the favelas in a similar fashion to US Gangsta Rap, so violence, guns, sex and drugs were firmly on the agenda. And in a bit of a Art imitating Life, chicken and egg cycle - controversy, violence and death have been a feature of the scene. Ok, enough of the history lesson, see Wikipedia if you want to know more (although I’m not so sure on some of their Portuguese translations).Also, Zed de Bois is a bar/ concert venue/ art space in Lisbon, with a reputation for putting on cutting edge, fresh and edgy stuff just so you know. Ok, context (trust me it’s relevant) out of the way, let’s get back to our hero’s adventures.

 

So we arrived at ZDB, it looked empty from the outside, so we were gonna go for a beer elsewhere and come back, but popped our heads in to see when it was due to start. Fortunately(?), we decided we might as well get tickets while we there, and just managed to get the last three tickets. Relieved and quite excited about the prospect that it was sold out, we went for a quick beer and headed back to catch the documentary on Baile Funk they were showing before the performance, which featured Deize Tigrona, who we’d seen play in Mini Mercado the week before – the style and slang had made understanding the lyrics a bit tricky, but the bits I did hear would probably make Snoop Dogg blush- she wasn’t a shy girl? So the documentary set the scene and we were ready for the gig – just time for Wendy to arrive, grab a beer, and a few tracks from the dj (Is that Dizzee Rascal I hear?) and we were all set.

 

The group appeared, a dj and 2 mc’s (male and female), and were soon banging out their opening number, couldn’t pick out the source material but it sounded a bit like late 80’s, early 90’s metal. I could be wrong but I’m proud to say I know little about this scene or the ‘Rock’ hand signals that are generally thrust in the air along to it (like pointing, but with the little finger also extended – think it’s supposed to represent the Devil, no?) And sure enough hands appeared throughout the crowd with the male mc leading the salute. They won back a bit of credibility in my eyes with the next track which was based around the riffs and bass of ‘Funky Cold Medina’, before they plunged to new depths. Me and Emma* looked at each other in horror, as the strains of Europe’s “Final Countdown” kicked in. You couldn’t help but laugh, but looking around us, no one was – far from it they were lapping it up, their pseudo-horns continuing on their quest to the roof. Maybe we should have left here, but like an episode of Worlds Worst Police Chase Smashes 32 'Juggernauts meet Mobility Carts series', I felt compelled to stay and watch despite the horrors that I was witnessing. Being told that the lyrics were describing a gay James Bond, slightly appeased me for a while- ahh maybe its tongue in cheek after all. The sudden appearance of ‘Summer Nights’ from Grease quickly put a stop to those thoughts though, but not to the crowd who couldn’t get enough. Do these people have no concept of ‘cheese’? Where’s their pride?

 

It all ended pretty strangely with them going off stage, everyone expecting (and almost everyone wanting) an encore, some mumbled message about 15 minutes, male band members re-appear, call for female mc to reappear, she doesn’t, they do a track without her and walk off. An odd end to a very odd night that left me thinking the whole world had gone mad and here’s where the context becomes relevant, because like I said this place has a reputation for being on the cutting edge, and if I wasn’t reeling already, the final straw came when I reflected on the documentary we had seen beforehand and roots of the music – so let me get this straight, we’ve got some mean hard-ass drug dealing gangsters crowded in a dancehall with gyrating girls and they are all getting’ down to a bit of Travolta and Newton John, followed up with a ripe smorgasbord of ‘Europe’s finest’. Now is it just me, or does that strike anyone as a bit surreal?

 

Allow me to expand on why this troubled me so. I love music, particularly new and forward thinking music, pushing new ideas and new styles, and there is so much good new music out there. I often feel there just aren’t enough hours in the day to take it all in. So I’ve never been a fan of artists replicating styles from the past, to me it’s lazy and tired, yeah take elements but do something new with it. Fortunately, most of this phenomenon seems to have flooded the pop market with the recent 80’s revival in mind. It grates me, but so long as it stays there, we can stay out of each others way and leave each other to our own thing and get on with our lives in mutual isolation. And bar the odd notable betrayal (Goldfrapp – how could you? After an album as beautiful as Felt Mountain – tut tut tut, it still smarts). But this is not pop, Baile Funk is big at the minute and growing fast, and its presence was noticeable back in England when I returned, on the lips of all credible music lovers chasing the latest sounds. It must be fresh, even my friend Joe’s putting it on at C90 (www.c90.org) back in Sheffield. Now maybe I’m overreacting and maybe ‘Bonde de Role’ are the sell out pop-hybrids of a genuinely new style that has something fresh to say – but the label they’re on and the hype they seem to be getting suggests otherwise, combined with the crowds reaction it just makes me worried.

 

I guess I could have dismissed it easier and forgotten about it but when we moved onto a new bar in Santos, looked very classy, red carpet treatment, chandeliers and drink prices and appropriately attired clientele to match (with a few notable exceptions- you see a theme here). It transpired that the dj had some criminal records (Help Emma, can you remember any of the notable crimes) and was only too eager to violate our ears with them – I looked around hoping to find expressions sharing my pain across the dance-floor, but instead all I could see were smiles and shuffling suites. I had to vent my frustration in some way, it’d been a testing night, so I just pretended to lynch myself in full sight of the dj – not sure if it registered but made me feel slightly better. I’d seen enough of this apparent epidemic of style but no substance which seems to have gripped Lisbon. So we drunk up and retreated to safe ground – Mini Mercado, where you can pretty much count on good music. And good music there was, but people there was not. We were the only ones in there (hmmm - negative correlation).   

 

This kinda relates to a piece I was planning to write about isolation, it’s in my head it just hasn’t leaked out through my fingers and onto my laptop yet (unlike the apple juice eh? – yeah funny!!), but expect some references to the matrix. I’ll leave you with a recollection of one of my favourite scenes from Annie Hall, which I was reminded of when I thought about the smiling suits dancing to bad music. Woodie is walking towards the cinema, pondering the complexities of adult relationships (surprise), when he walks past a blissfully happy couple arm in arm, walking towards him. He stops and asks them how they maintain such a happy relationship. The woman replies “Uh, I'm very shallow and empty and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say.” Cue the man “And I'm exactly the same way.”

 

 

*(I know it should be Emma and I – but that just sounds rubbish – said the English teacher – yeah, keep it real huh?)   

Yeah, yeah, yeah I know it’s been a while and as usual I’ve got quite a lot to report and I’m guessing (as usual) I’ll probably not even cover half the things I intend to, but that’s all part of the fun. But the main thing is I’ve started! Once I start, I’m ok, but it’s just getting round to it – Procrastinator Extraordinaire!  

Ok, so what have I been up to? Good question, if only I could remember half of it. Well in the reverse order of how I used to open my Christmas presents I’ll start with the biggest first - believing as most children do when it comes to presents that biggest is best , funnily enough I used to (and still do at times) eat my meals in a similar fashion. I would always leave my favourite part of the meal untouched until everything else on the plate was finished. Curious but there you go, so back to the last present, first (erm yeah?)

I told Speakwell I was leaving at the end of the month (Feb – Ok I know), but in a moment of weakness and unnecessary guilt I offered to help out if they didn’t have a replacement. I thought the extra money wouldn’t hurt, and if it was only a matter of a few hours and for a few days it wouldn’t be too painful. But after the first week it was clear there were no signs of a replacement and I was still doing my full timetable – so thought it was time to call it a day and so I did. And this was how my 6 days a week, became 2. I won’t lie the 2 days a week is blissful, but I wouldn’t recommend discussing either if you want to stay on the good side of friends. After weeks of moaning, I’ve noticed mere statements of trivial facts such as “I’m off now until Saturday” can come across as gloating - particularly when it’s only Monday evening. So I’ve learned to keep them to myself, it’s not easy though and as the words try and get out they crease my mouth into a smug grin, many people would describe as Cheshire cat-like, but can’t say I’ve ever really seen a cat smile.

Talking of smugness, it reminds me of the photos I took for you (you lucky people) of the work of an opportunist Graffiti artist I spotted near the zoo. On seeing it, it made me ponder the moment the ‘artist’ must have realised the potential and at this point smugness must surely have ensued - possibly at a level about five times that of the Smart Car driver I saw pulling into a space only a Smart Car could fit in, as other drivers looked on enviously as they started they’re umpteenth lap of the Bairro Alto. Admittedly the Graffiti artists work is not on the intellectual word play level of converting “Save Space – Crush Cartons” to “Save Crabs – Crustaceans”, but I liked it all the same. On a similar note, I’ve never been a big fan of Adam Sandler (wait for it) but I saw the film ‘Mr Deeds’ the other day – no classic, but I found myself laughing out loud at points (don’t worry nobody was watching). Yet, when I watch the genius that is Monkey Dust (what do you mean, you’ve never heard of it? Catch up – I think I may have to start leaving recommended reading, listening and viewing lists) I barely chuckle, although if my brain could laugh I’m sure if would guffaw til it hurt, but (thank God) it can’t.

Slapstick and similar comedy often gets labelled as childish and in some way inferior to its intellectual cousin – but if it makes us laugh out loud why deny yourself. The brain seems to have a curious role when it comes to comedy, if something is funny you can’t help but laugh. And in situations when your brain knows you shouldn’t laugh, can the mighty all powerful organ (…that’s the brain, ok) stop you? Can it plums! If anything it makes it worse - resistance is often futile. There’s no stopping the power of the laugh. Just as a final point of clarification on the off chance Woody Allen’s reading – Just because I laugh louder when watching Vic and Bob hitting each other over the head with assorted kitchen equipment, than when I watch one of your films – doesn’t mean they’re not as funny, they’re just a different kind of funny – but appreciated all the same if not more (Cheers Woody I knew you’d understand, give me a bell when you’re in Principe Real sometime.)

Just before Easter, my British Council classes were on a module about Mysteries and the like, and there was a section on conspiracy theories with a bit of a discussion. So I thought I’d do a bit of research to prepare the lessons. Googling ‘Conspiracy Theories’ brought up the usual suspects I’d expected but also a lot of stuff about 911 I hadn’t really paid much attention to before, but thought it would make interesting material for a lesson so started digging. The more I read the more intriguing it became and before I knew it 5 hours had passed and I could have gone on reading but I still really didn’t have much of a lesson plan. There was so much that happened that I knew nothing about, and some pretty big questions that have never been answered. I was really surprised that I’d not heard anything about some of these events aside from Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 911, particularly as a person, who likes to engage in this kind of thing, but always with a sceptical mind.  I guess I had wrongly assumed that if anything was happening of such significance it would get proportional representation in the media and would filter through to me somehow – How naive?

It was interesting to see people’s reactions in my classes to the information too. Many, like me had not really seen or read much about it, and their initial reaction on raising the subject was generally one of flat-out denial, any ideas away from the ‘official’ version of events is just too fantastic to even start to believe, isn’t it? Or so I thought until I started to look into it. A few films had been recommended by the various websites I’d looked at, one of which was called Loose Change, which seemed to crop up quite a bit, so I acquired a copy – and sat back and watched with initial, if slightly sceptical, interest, which gradually turned to shock at what I was seeing and what it could potentially all mean. The narrator makes some pretty bold assumptions at points but generally sticks to presenting evidence/information and providing some interpretation. The problem is there is a lack of hard evidence, because most of it seems to have been gathered and swept under the carpet as quickly as possible (which in itself seems a little strange – for what should surely have been a massive investigation) but also signs of a massive media cover-up, with access to footage of the ‘attacks’ being denied by major news agencies. It’s not really the robustness of the available evidence that starts the doubts but more the amount of questions about various aspects of each incident of the ‘attacks’ but also the number of inconsistencies that stack up about the official story. If anything I’d say the greater leaps of faith are in trying to believe some of the points in the official story than in the conspiracy theories – for example no steel structure has ever collapsed due to fire before yet on one day we’re meant to believe that 3 did (yes 3 not 2 – I didn’t know about tower 7 either, which wasn’t even hit by a plane), and despite the steel structures being weakened by the intense heat of the fires, the passport of one of the suspected hijackers from inside the plane was recovered intact. I realise I may sound like one of these conspiracy theory nuts if I continue, but I don’t intend to put over the various arguments here, just to stimulate interest so people take a look at this stuff and make their own judgements.

Good starting places are the following on YouTube;

Painful Questions - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8soQBZz9Sk

The 3^rd Tower Collapse - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GEPjOi2dQSM

Loose Change itself (89 mins) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7WsyEqKQRBY

& A Good website; Scholars for 911 truth -  http://www.st911.org/

So if there is more to this than mere conspiracy nut fabrication, then why is it not common knowledge? Good question. Well curiously enough from the off, Mr Bush made a statement that conspiracy theories would not be tolerated, and anyone offering them would basically be the equivalent of an unpatriotic deserter. And the mainstream media seems to have followed this line. I tried to find footage of a logical discussion where the conspiracy theories were rebutted with solid logic. But it wasn’t too easy, the treatment of  anyone offering alternative explanations is a bit ‘defensive’ to say the least, a leading academic has his sanity questioned, and accused of hating his country on a mainstream TV show – it’s bizarre if nothing else.

Interview? - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UiSe_OsaQrk

Ok, ok enough of the heavy stuff, I just urge you to check it out then I can go back to my musings on my own little world.

(Hmmm, something strange is happening, I think Microsoft could be involved, having written this entry I’ve been trying to post it for the past hour, but just get strange error messages – I think it’s definitely a conspiracy)

Just thought I'd better give a quick update to say I'm ok and have managed to keep my pedestrian rage just about bottled up. The last entry wasn't meant to appear so Heavy. No hang on, it was - but within the context of that being my last rant about my terrible timetable dilemmas. So for those who've written to check I was ok, thanks for the concern, but don't panic I've not lost it just yet. Ok, quick recap on the last couple of weeks or so...

 

I had a bit of a travelling ordeal to get back to Lisbon, national express at 1am from Sheffield, change at Coventry, followed by a 4 hour wait at Luton airport, before finally boarding the plane. I landed in Lisbon on the Sunday morning in need of a few hours sleep. But, I decided to forgo the sleep in favour of the football in the pump house. Just had a quick 20 minutes to dump what was left of my case (I think the baggage handlers had an off day, the plastic casing is split into pieces and its now held together by the inner lining) at the apartment and get a quick update of what was happening with the place from Bruno. and an update I got, I even understood some of it – here’s my best attempt at a translation – (house…………everything clean…..Brasilian girl…..), I know the last bit for sure, cos shortly after I was introduced to a distinctly Brasilian looking/ sounding girl called Wal (from Walderice, I was later to discover, pronounced /vow/). well she seemed nice enough, but I had no time to exchange pleasantries – don’t you know there’s a game on? Apparently she didn’t, but I did – so that was that.

 

after the game, I went back to the house under the illusion that I’d get some work done and have all my classes prepared with time spare to watch a film and get an early night. it was a reasonable attempt, but I failed on all 3 accounts. However, I did succeed in knocking a glass of apple juice over, and when I say over, I’m not talking the kinda ‘whoops a daisy, better get a cloth’ type over. I’m talking ‘sh*t! not my files, oh my mobile – oh noooooo!!! laptop!!!!’ – type over. I frantically blotted the keyboard to get as much up as I could and discarded soggy papers whilst berating myself for being such a clumsy idiot (who says we can’t multi-task?). it was a nervy moment switching the laptop back-on, followed by a hollow sinking feeling as I was met by a blank screen and lack of any sounds suggesting it was working on the problem. I worriedly reset it again, and thankfully this time it seemed to work, keyboard was a bit sticky – but if a sticky keyboard was to be my only punishment, I’d take it. If anyone has Can top apple juice for worst beverage to spill on your laptop, I’d be happy to receive you nominations.

 

By Monday evening, I’d established that Wal had taken Juan’s old room and either was a bit obsessive-compulsive with the washing and cleaning, or had been employed by the landlady to clean the place. It was a bit confusing and I was too embarrassed to ask. On the plus side I could understand Val’s Portuguese much more than I could Bruno’s and even managed to survive a conversation on beliefs, religion and general views on life. It was a bit of stretch but I think we achieved a reasonable level of mutual understanding. By Tuesday things were getting clearer and I was pretty sure Val’s duties were undertaken in a professional capacity (although I’m still not 100% certain), although it was less clear if these included the offer of meals prepared when I got in from work and impromptu shoulder massages. On the second occasion this occurred, I was sat at my desk, under the pretence of working again, and a little embarrassed by the situation I felt I should offer something in return. I went with the offer of a few English lessons. It appeared I may have over-cooked it, as Val told me to get on the bed. A trifle intimidated I said maybe later and made some excuse about having to prepare my classes.

 

The rest of the week passed relatively uneventfully, with the exception of some kind of record breaking attempt as I managed to knock over another 2 drinks (beer and another apple juice) in my room on consecutive days, bringing my total to 4 drinks in 5 days including kicking a glass of water over at Mikey’s before leaving for the airport to cap a performance even James ‘Dropper’ Prigmore would be proud(?) of. Thankfully this trend seems to have been a one-off, and fortunately there have been no repeat incidents – touch wood. Talking of woods, it appears I wasn’t out of them yet as far as my keyboard was concerned, being haunted By a sticky ‘x’ key with cupid aspirations – scattering anything I attempted to type with a smattering of kisses. Awh cute!! But, not entirely desirable when you’re trying to type student reports. After cleaning under the keys with a damp tissue, I thought I’d cracked it, but after a few blissful days of gremlin free typing, the same fate now seems to have possessed my Caps Lock key. The annoying yet harmless enough kisses in my typing had now turned to the barely comprehensible babblings and manic SHOUTY outbursts, that brought to mind the winos I pass on my way to work, sat out on the same doorstep, day and night, their bloodshot eyes competing with their weather beaten faces to see which can take on the deepest shade of red by the end of the day.

 

The Caps Lock ghost is proving a little trickier to exorcise, and even trickier to rationalise. It seems to have violent mood swings, disappearing and reappearing with slightly tweaked symptoms without any apparent pattern or regularity. Right now it appears to be behaving itself – but only a paragraph ago it was up to its tricks. Generally, I can type things in word and alter it all afterwards (like this), but when I’m on messenger people think I’m joking “SorRY, I sEEM tO bE hAViNg pROblEMS wITh my CAPS LoCK kEY” –not sure why but people seem to think this is amusing?

 

Bye for now, and If you see me on Messenger, I’m not SHOUTING OK????

 

 

 

 

Howdy, (Probably should have been the greeting for the last post to be fair, but I've never been big on punctuality)

 

Ok, so I'm back in Lisbon, and back into the teaching with a rather unpleasant bang. It was a shock to the system after over 2 weeks away from lessons and planning, but I'm now back to my droid like existence and seemingly endless cycle of commuting, preparing, teaching and sleeping (Oh here he goes again.....WAIT!!, before you hit the exit button, let me do you a deal - If I get it all out of my system this time, I promise I'll make this my last rant about my workload, schedule and oh so terrible life-style...Agreed ok). It's hard not to moan about it when it seems to be all I do a lately, but trust me I'm tired of listening to myself, so I'm sure the poor souls around me must be.) I hate what I've become, I find myself trudging to the Metro at 7.30 in the morning, spitting venom, plotting my revenge against anyone I can pin this heinous travesty of justice on. And woe betide anyone who has the temerity to get in my way, loiter on the pavement too long, block the escalator, push in the bus queue. Merely existing and being out of the house is enough to get you on my hate list at this hour, and no one is spared my mental wrath, man, woman*, girl or boy, even the elderly, disabled, and downtrodden (who have a disproportionate presence on the list for their particular abilities in the loitering and (ma)lingering disciplines). To anyone who knows me, this will hopefully sound completely out of character (I pray this is the case or have I been deceiving myself all along?) So where does all this sudden hatred come from? I find myself wanting to blame someone, but as one of my favourite Beck songs goes, 'It's nobody's fault, it's nobody's fault, but my own'. Ok, so the odd timetable review along the way wouldn't have hurt, but essentially I've accepted my current timetable, and heavy workload with the goal of easystreet in the future, which should in theory make the present easier to deal with, but it doesn't. 

 

(* - In the spirit of reporting accuracy I feel the need to confess that I have been charitable enough to spare the odd attractive female from my anger -and they have at times been known to reduce the inner rage, or at least distract me with thoughts of what never would have been)

 

How do I explain this Jekyll and Hyde-esque switch in personality then? Well, personality is the key word, and mine just doesn't sit well with this kind of life-style. It breaks down like this;

 

·                         Commuting - Whilst talking to Damien, (a kindred spirit in this TEFL struggle) he relayed an observation he'd made at one of his reviews that most people hate commuting, not exactly a revelation granted, we try to make it as tolerable as possible by cocooning ourselves in books, magazines and I-pods, but nobody would claim to be having the time of their life  - (not even that mentalist who collects useless discarded things in a shopping trolley and trudges his was around Cais de Sodre - hang on, maybe he is - he doesn't have to commute? Now there's an ide....) - In fact I'd say the majority hate it, and tolerable is as good as it gets, and most people do it twice a day. But when it's about 6 times a day, the petty annoyance can evidently multiple into seemingly irrational inner rage. I once worked out that on certain days I spend more time commuting than teaching (all that time I could put to better use, and time is the issue) - looking on the bright side it does allow me to get through a fair few books and give me chance to listen to my ever-expanding collection of music - mustn’t grumble.

·                         Deadlines (Endless) - although commuting has never been a sworn enemy of mine, his evil cousin 'Deadlines' has always been a constant thorn in my side. I've just never been good with deadlines (gazes upwards recalling long nights at a computer over countless school and university assignments, just completed at the 11th hour, with a slight giggle at the falling asleep in assembly the following morning and a bout of sleep deprivation induced hallucinations for my dissertation - oh halcyon days). I always thought there was something wrong with me? Turns out there is, my personality (there's that word again, all will be revealed). I just can't get down to work til the last possible moment, when it's do or die - many a time I've been pulling a document out of the printer and legging it out of the door having whiled away precious minutes earlier in a countless range of distractions (only today I found myself completing an online English grammar task......for beginners! It did have a lovely drag and drop layout though. ["nice action (got one)"] See what I mean. Despite putting everything off til injury time, I still don't enjoy oodles of free time. The anxiety of a looming deadline doesn't allow me to. Yet I don't get down to work either, I just potter from one distraction to the next. 

                         Early Mornings - The nocturnal hours have always been my saving grace. I've never been too good at working during the daytime, but night time is a different story, not sure if it's the relative lack of distraction once everyone's gone to bed, or the freedom from impending deadlines (other than sleep - which has never been too pressing as an insomniac), but when you feel at your most energised and productive at 2am and you've got to be up at 7am - you've got a bit of a problem.

I could go on, (in fact I did originally, but revised this entry a little), but it basically boils down to time, or lack of free time to be more precise. The majority of my free time seems to be the odd stolen moment between lessons, or guilt ridden evenings when I feel I should be preparing something or other. Saturday night seems to be my only respite from planning or guilt from not planning. I'm not sure where this pressure comes from, but I dread to think if it was a job I actually cared about.

If nothing else this experience has taught me that maybe teaching is just not the job for me, but then I kinda knew that before I set out on this journey, it just doesn't suit my personality. Thing is I probably wouldn't have realised that if it wasn't for some team building exercise we did at work. (For those of you who I've already preached the gospel of personality testing to - you can switch channels now). We were asked to answer a series of seemingly trivial questions, if I wasn't sceptical before, I certainly was after completing it - 'What's this gonna tell them about me, I could have answered many of them differently on any given day?' I naively thought to myself. Then the results came back. I'm naturally a sceptical person, so I've tried to be objective and rule out things like a need to relate to the profile that came back, but I couldn't escape the fact that the report had me pinned. But rather than (as some seem to do) feel restricted by it, I felt completely liberated by it. Suddenly many of the foibles and facets of my character were not me being a freak  , or something odd about me (well not a unique freak anyway, INTP's only account for 1% of the population).  They were just features of the whole personality that makes me who I am. And who am I? I'm an INTP. I cannot understate the effect the report had on me, and I'm not alone. Other people who came out as INTP's have reported similar feelings - cue voice-over..."He always felt different from the other kids at school.....". I try and push everyone I know into doing the test themselves as I want them to have the same experience, but I'm frequently disappointed - oh well if nothing else it's more data. I try to persuade my parents to read the report, but I think they just dismiss it - and group it together with star-signs and other things they don't believe in, I wish they would, I think it might explain quite a lot. (check out the subtle manipulation - nice eh?).

I could go on, but it's gone 2am again, and I've got to be up in less than 5 hours - sorry couldn't resist the last whinge. This entry is nothing like how I expected it to be, I haven't even mentioned bus wing mirrors, new housemates, apple juice, Clube Mercado or Monkey Graffiti, but I do feel it's been pretty cathartic, if a little self-indulgent, not only have I got the Personality stuff off my chest (it was inevitable), but also agreed to no more moans about work - and that's got to be good news for all concerned, that is unless you hang around Cais de Sodre Metro station at 7.30 in a morning.

Good night!!

Hi all,

 

Just thought I'd better do a seasonal update, I'm back in Sheffield (well Swinton to be exact) for the festive period, after a brief stop off in Peterboro' to see Karen and the gang. So far it's been a bit boozy, but a good laugh (old habit's die hard, or so it seems), so an all dayer in Sheffield with cocktails aplenty and powsh lunch in '23' was followed by Christmas eve in Swinton and a mini pub-crawl, and then onto Boxing day and the now infamous Boxing Day Massacre. What do you mean you haven't heard of it? Well it all started about 8 years ago, when a small gang of us went out in Swinton on Christmas eve dressed as old men (or Eddie Hitler in my case), this caught on and even spread New Year's Eve too, with a different theme for each, Golfers, Old Women, Pop Stars, Film Stars, Vikings, Morris Dancers all spring to mind. But where are the photos I here you cry - they are somewhere, I promise - Kenty is trying to compile a bit of a website, it's work in progress at the minute, but you can have a look - www.myspace.com/boxingdaymassacre ).

 

So this year it was Cowboys (although I think 'our Mick' was aiming for Woody from Toy Story or Brokeback Mountain - which would have been hilarious, if I hadn't asked him to get me an outfit together - grrr!!), so we set off at 12 to the first of all 20 pubs in Swinton, having an alcoholic drink in each - bit of a gruelling schedule without the booze. I think everyone made it, well I haven't heard about any casualties yet? Think I've just about recovered (physically anyway, reputationally I'm not so sure.)

 

I'm off to Leicester today with Joe and Anna to Rob and Cressida's for Rob's Birthday meal, which I'm looking forward to as I've not seen 'em for ages and the food sounds devine. Still undecided on plans for New Years Eve, I'm not a big fan in general, I might even stay in...(Gasp!) I know, I probably won't, just nothing seems to appeal at the minute, maybe I have overdone the nights out of late.

 

All for now, just wanted to put a bit of an update on for Christmas, hope you all had a good one, and whatever you do for New Year, have a good 'un. See you soon.

 

 

It’s Saturday night 3am, tomorrow’s my only day off, and I’m here writing my latest blog entry – something’s gone wrong somewhere, surely. It’s been a heavy week. Wednesday was Vikter Duplaix at Mercado – on a school night too, Thursday was Jorge’s Birthday, so by Friday evening, I was ready for a quiet night in. My Slovenian housemates had other plans. They’d planned a ‘Bad Czech’ party. But what’s a ‘Bad Czech’ party I here you ask? Well I guess it’s kinda the equivalent of a ‘Bad Taste’ party only with slightly more emphasis on combining the worst fashion crimes of the 80’s and 90’s – a rich source admittedly! Only I hadn’t planned for it, so had to improvise. My pastel ensemble, B-boy 'fly for a white guy' kinda look was pretty effective to be fair (peruse the photos if you’re unconvinced). Although I found people’s reaction to my blue shoes a little harsh, particularly the ‘where on earth did you get those things?’ type queries. “Well actually they’re my favourite pair, I wear them all the time.” bounced around my head, but never quite made it out of my lips. The music was also a fitting array of badness, with some pop nastiness from the last few decades, sprinkled with some dirty obscure electro (I even became acquainted with the wonders of Slovenian ‘Magnifico’, despite their Bosnian influence, which is painfully obvious to your average listener, no?). This heady cocktail, along with a few Caiprinhas to wash the beer down, fuelled a bit of improvised living room/ dancefloor tomfoolery. The liberating effect of knowing you look like a complete tosser is intriguing. You’ve just got to let the inner-geek free and by surveying the scene it would appear there were quite a few in attendence. It was like I'd suddenly been teleported to the sweaty last dance of their annual conference, decked in ill-fitting tennis shorts, cardi and sporty head-band to keep the ginger afro in check, with Napoleon D on the decks and dancing in a way only he (and Erland Oye) . By 3am the geeks had generated enough collective self-confidence to venture out into enemy territory, and were aiming for the Bairro. But it seems the true geek in me was stronger than I’d bargained for, so I decided to decline and head to bed, the inner geek needed to sleep.

The only other notable event to recall would be my night at the Numera Projecta, to see Akufen play. He was on last after 3 other performances. First up, some guy playing bizarre instruments – very fourtet – nice, then came a couple of VJ’s from London, playing dance tracks set to film and Tv scenes. Very watchable, if not a little predictable with the choice of clips, but a little odd to sit watching them play when you’re sat in a cinema.

I’m not sure that any venue, would have helped me understand the next set – I wanted to understand it, but the seemingly random sequences of noise, blips and distortion, remained a mystery - the sonic equivalent of a magic eye picture that never reveals itself no matter how hard you stare at it. If you wanna try, the guy’s name is Kim Cascone, think he’s worked with David Lynch before if that makes things clearer. Akufen to the rescue, and on he came, thankfully playing in the foyer area of the old cinema – a bit surreal but it worked. Maybe all the sitting around had taken it out of the crowd, but they seemed reluctant to move. A few resistant pockets of head nodders and groovers held firm and eventually it spread to the rest – then it went off. I don’t mean that in any kinda cool, happening lingo – I mean the electricity, lights, music, the works, followed by a 10 minute gap of silence and darkness before it returned. Finally power was restored and things had just about got going again, to be halted by another power cut. A further two power cuts later, and the crowd’s patience was almost spent. It was still good but so frustrating and Akufen cut the figure of a man unamused by proceedings, by the end of the night.

Ello again,

 

Still working a fair bit, but also packing in plenty of weekend fun too! Oh the mixed blessings of insomnia. The folks were here too for a week, which was nice, particularly as I’m now free most evenings, so we could squeeze a few slap-up meals in (bonus points if you know the origins of that saying), with Picanha on Janelas Verdes being a high point – I thought they’d like it, so had saved it for their last night. For the luck we had with good meals, the same was certainly not true of the weather, as it pretty much ‘p’-ed it down the whole week! Talking of colourful language, the lads from football have also asked me to apologise to the ‘rents for their utterances during the Wednesday night’s game. I just laughed and told ‘em not to worry about it - knowing our words would pass for pleasantries at any given Sunday game between pub-teams of the Don and Dearne, where I used to play (Which is handy ‘cos they’re probably gonna read this – I apologise now mum, but he was).

 

Well the Sun did show its face, as my parents made their way to the airport – and it hung around for the weekend. Sod’s law, they haven’t had much luck with their visits weather-wise, despite the frequency of visits. That weekend was a blip though, the only constant feature of the last few weeks has been the rain and it sure has come down – impressive thunderstorms though!

On the (extended) weekend front, I’ve been taking advantage of a couple of slack Friday mornings, and managed to meet up with Rui and Tomas and friends for a few, and last Thursday even saw a return to Oka with Wendy and Jo (back in Lisbon for the weekend) and the Slovenian Marmite fanclub (“It’s like smelly marmalade”), Sadly Friday night was their leaving party, Sanka and Guia (shit no idea how to spell their names, maybe I should have tried spelling Fatka instead – Polona, if you read this please help!!) had become part of the household after their 10 day stay. And it was with teary eyes, we said goodbye. (Genuine sadness, nothing to do with the Caipiroskas and vodka shots we consumed) If only I’d picked up more Slovenian than the word for ‘Wait’ /Chucki/ -cute innit? I couldn’t wait tho’ I had to get to Lux for none other than Mr Kenny Dixon Junior aka Moodymann “I don’t play music for the masses to dance to, I play music for the minority to listen to”.

  If it wasn’t so pretentiously tossy and if I thought the door staff would share the joke,  I’d probably find the door procedure at Lux quite amusing and an endless source of amusement. Having stood in line for 30 minutes, the door-person just stands in front of you until you ask his permission to go in – ooh the nerves as he decides how much you have to pay this week! I added the fact that my mates were already inside, in case he decided to add ‘sad loner’ tax to the entrance price! Whether the cunning ploy worked or not, I’ll never know, but I was in! It’s a curious habit, but when I’m on the dancefloor if the music is particularly good, I find it difficult not to close my eyes, and this was certainly one of those occasions, and 2 hours later having been lost in the music, I was back again – so it was kinda ironic, if not so funny at the time, when some insecure nob – decided to have a go at me in the toilets in Portuguese, then English for the heinous nightclub crime of ‘smiling at his girlfriend’ (does it count if you’ve got your eyes shut?). Well, this didn’t really phase me ‘til he said “You’re not in the UK now”, but that cracked my sheen of composure somewhat (I mean UK for Pedro’s sake, I wouldn’t call him an Insecure Iberian nob, would I, that’s just disrespectful?). What cracked his, was me telling him what he was (refer to his intro line above). At which point he advised me to watch myself. At face value this seems like sensible advice, even if a little tricky without the aid of a mirror, cos if I was it’d be a bit tricky to be looking at his girlfriend – whoever she was, I didn’t know and I’m still none the wiser? (For the record I am disappointed in myself for losing my composure – even though any physical aggression was actually unlikely). Finished off the weekend, with a couple of lessons, a touch of sleep, party at Graham and Jo’s (Cambridge gang etc), a game of hunt the live footy match around Lisbon with Jo and the pump house quiz, before back into a week of work – wish me luck!

I am still here, but getting round to the update has proved a little tricky to say the least (and I’d love to blame an endless succession of nights out and parties but it’s just sadly not the case – but don’t break out the tissues just yet). Things are happening, and given the rapidly decreasing hours that struck last Spring, I’ve taken a conscious decision to work my blocks off while there’s hours available. Although, I think I’ve embraced this approach a little too strongly and am pushing it a little. Resulting in not just breaking my PB, but smashing it, clocking in a 36 hour week (think my previous best was probably 24 at the most). Not only that but the previously sacrosanct Friday mornings and Saturdays have also gone by the wayside in this new era – “Does he know what he’s doing?” I hear you cry. “This is hardly a good basis for the catalogue of boozy do’s and mixed up misadventure we’ve become accustomed to, you crazy goddamn fool!” “What exactly is he gonna fill the space with now, rib tickling tales of teaching blunders and side splitting accounts of student slip-ups, well kick off my hush puppies and chuck us another hob-nob, I’ll be hung, drawn and quartered before  I miss that?”

 

Well, before you desert me completely I still have to fill you in on the rest of my Summer, which seems like a very distant memory after the harsh realities of almost having a ‘propa’ job again, only 6 days a week rather than 5 – ah this is not the life! Enjoy it! I’m going part time from early spring (we thought you already had). Now where was I, leaving Seville I think….(hey there’s that bleary screen special effect again – How’s he do that?)

 

Ok, so after deciding to opt for the train option on to Cadiz, I was armed with ticket in hand and ready to go – just the small matter of picking up my bags from the apartment and walking through the tourist crowded streets in the baking heat of the Sevillan Sun in August. I’d just about recovered by the end of the 2 hour trip to Cadiz. Ok, off to the tourist office, find myself some nice cheap lodgings, dump the bags and relax with a few cold ones and some tapas. A blissful vision and a million miles from the rather sobering reality that awaited me. I found myself still wondering round after midnight with all hopes of affordable accommodation long gone out of the tent flap, sore feet and a heavy bag cutting into my shoulder, stuck on a peninsula with all public transport, out of there, well and truly finished for the night. Even ‘B’ movie script writers were struggling to come up with a more desperate scenario. Maybe it was tiredness, but my brain was struggling to come up with a  cunning plan, and attempts to find somewhere to stick my tent for the night were laughable on a piece of land 4km by 2km and almost every square metre of it built upon. My 2 possible options were hardly ideal, but could work – first was sleeping rough in some dark out of sight area in one of the little parks – a)they were little, b) they were devoid of dark areas and c) they were currently populated by yoofs hanging around them. Ok, so maybe I should scale a fence and throw myself and my bag, into some fenced off yet soon to be built upon waste land – pitch my tent and hope for the best. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad option on reflection, but an old woman sat facing the fence, was preventing any serious attempt. I was sticking with the out of sight plan, when I walked past a street of flats and noticed they had a kind of decking/ walkway with a narrow gap underneath – I’d clearly switched to survival mode by this stage and when I noticed one had a couple of bushes shielding the decking from view, I was over the fence and diving underneath it before I’d got chance to reconsider. Laid in my sleeping bag, with my bag as a pillow – I was feeling quite smug with my plan, although this soon vanished as various bugs started taking an interest and I tried to take refuge by sleeping with my T-shirt over my head, to keep them off – you have no idea how hot and uncomfortable this made things, and a face full of insect bites the next morning, suggested it wasn’t too successful in its purpose either – It certainly made the relative comforts of coach travel seem much more agreeable than I’d ever thought possible as I settled in my seat on the coach to Tarifa. (In case you were wondering, Cadiz seems like a lovely place, although my memories weren’t so fond – I would suggest booking in advance though!)  

Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you.....you know the rest.....Well it is my blog's first B'day and not one person has sent in comments wishin it a happy birthday, shame on you! Yup, it's a year since I headed for Barca on some mad flight of fantasy, it seems to have gone pretty quick, but at the same time the day I left Sheffield seems like ages ago (is that possible? Not sure but that's how it feels)

 

I'm now back in Lisbon, and in the thick of an intensive course at the school, 5 hours a day, 4 days a week with the same 2 students, who need to start work on a building contract in Ireland in 3 weeks time and up until last Wednesday couldn't speak a word of English. May sound like a bit of a nightmare, but it's not so bad and I need the cash. My Summer holidays and adventures are already fading fast, so I'd better tell you all about 'em before I forget them, nice link eh (cue hazy soft focus effect and we're back in early August)....

 

Well my first stop was Zambujeira do Mar for the Sudoeste music festival, I was there for 5 days in total and despite getting there a day before the festival started still a nightmare finding somewhere to pitch the tent. As a first wave had swept into the area and 'reserved' large sections of the area, by wrapping tape, string and whatever around the trees, for their mates to turn up at the last minute with a guaranteed spot. Nice for them but there was hardly an area that hadn't been 'claimed' and if there was you couldn't get to it without garrotting yourself on various bits of washing line or fishing line. Particularly hazardous when drunk trying to find your tent in the dark, for the onlooker that is - who said the Portuguese don't have a sense of humour? Having pitched the tent, I decided to walk into Zambujeira. I was pretty sure I recognised the road next to the festival site as the main road to town, so confidently strode off into the sunset. Imagine my surprise (and disappointment) after an hours walking down the same road to see a sign to the town pointing back the way I'd just come. Although it may have been the sensible option, I wasn't too keen on retracing my steps with little but the odd tree and passing car for company, so decided I'd take a detour, head to what I guessed was the coastline then follow it round til I reached the town - why not it was a beautiful evening. 2 hours later and I was on a pitch black county lane listening to wildlife (I hoped) rustling in the bushes and thinking of similar scenes from horror films. Fortunately, the seemingly inevitable and excruciating chase scene - where I ran and tripped due to looking over my shoulder, still managing to get caught by a weapon wielding guy who never even broke into a jog - never materialised. But perhaps more surprisingly I did actually make it to Zambujeira almost unscathed. I say almost as I was starting to develop blisters after more than 3 hours of walking. If that didn't deserve a beer, I'm not sure I know what does. I saw a few familiar faces from our Easter trip and didn't head back til the early hours - at least it was straight up the main road this time. It was, about an hour and a half straight up the main road to be exact, I slept well that night. 

 

Far removed from the rain of your average Glastonbury style mud bath, the Festival enjoyed glorious weather in a perfect setting, with a free bus to the town (and beach) during the day - what better way to refresh yourself after the night before than a nap on the beach and splash or swim in the sea. It was an impressive line-up too, with Prodigy (rolling back the years, but still amazing live - just leave the new stuff out next time eh!), Zero7 with Jose Gonzales (who also did his own set earlier in the evening), Seu Jorge, Afrika Bambaataa ( a journey through the original funk and soul breaks to electro to hip hop - stopping off to see Mr Oizo on the way and a nod to ODB as we passed  - nice touch!), Breakestra, BossAC, Marcelo D2 (Brasilian Hip-Hop with Samba influences and the best human beatbox I've ever heard), Goldfrapp (Forget the 80's revival trash and just sing the beautifully sublime 'Lovelyhead' - ok don't then) and the the awesome Daft Punk who surpassed expectations playing from some mad pyramid/ ufo type structure on stage - don't believe me? See the photos. Plus a few acts I'd not heard before but really enjoyed, Brazilian Girls, Kooks, Brakes, Macaco, Dengue Fever and a DJ duo called Dezperados. Did I miss anyone? Well a few, like Skin and Madness but who's counting (or even still reading for that matter). Hats off to Tomas who finally arrived after midnight on the last day, although he did catch Xutos and Pontapes (a kinda Portuguese Dire Straits). After the final day I was more than ready for some relaxation, but the sweltering hot bus journey to the train station, 2 hour wait for the next train and finally on to Albufeira wasn't really what I had in mind, but a necessary evil if I wanted to get to Seville as planned.

 

Albufeira was as nasty as Seville was beautiful, even more of a shame as you could see how nice it must have been before the Beautiful Churches and character had been crowded out by English bars and tacky shops and restaurants. After less than 24 hours there, it was a relief to be on the 4 hour coach journey to Seville. I arrived late in the afternoon and was hardly off the bus before a local old lady had decided I looked like I needed somewhere to stay - she was right, so we discussed details in what I've recently discovered is called 'Portanhol'. I'd managed to establish the place was very central, 'Mucho Fraquito' and a mere €15 for the night. At this price I wasn't about to quibble, so agreed to go see it and off we went. I was expecting it to be a spare room in her apartment, but turns out I'd got a separate apartment, below hers with my own living room, bathroom and most importantly after 6 nights in a tent, a proper bed - I'm still not quite sure what 'fraquito' means, but I didn't really care.

 

Seville is beautiful and seems almost untouched by modernism, retaining such character with the huge Cathedral, Churches and Palaces and the baroque houses that look like miniature fortresses packed in to the narrow winding streets which fortunately provide some forgiving shade from the fierce heat - dubbed the 'Frying pan' by the Spanish. I ambled round a few of the streets before my stomach convinced me it was time for some Tapas, and at 1-2 euros each, perhaps it's not Spanish for 'rip off' after all - the real problem I had was choosing which to have from the epic list of options. I was just getting into the swing of it when I realised they were putting the stools up on the tables around midnight. I hadn't planned on such an early night, but did manage to find an Irish bar still serving and got chatting to a Turkish guy who said he was from Switzerland with such a good Irish accent, I'd assumed he was taking the piss - apparently not but he had me fooled. 

 

So the big day arrives and we head to Fortress Pump House once again for the usual routine of Breakfast and pre-match build up and before we knew it kick off had arrived. A tense first half with a mixture of English and Portuguese in attendance. Despite my reluctance, the tv crew from Portuguese channel SIC were adamant they wanted my views on the action so far, and there I was in front of the camera again to give my opinion albeit in Portuguese. It went ok, although I think I said something about Rooney being important for us (Doh!). The second half continued in the same vain as we all now know England went on to victory through penalties, before beating France with a Rooney hatrick, and then trouncing a sorry Italian team in the final with Crouch scoring an unlikely overhead kick before 4 other players chipped in.

 

(Well, not quite, this was the result of a conversation over a few imperial that I was so far behind I'd write about England's victory and my blog would become a work of fiction from here on in.)

 

So England crash out on Penalties once again, and we were stuck in Lisbon with very few places to hide, wearing tear streaked face paint(not quite, but almost). We stuck around to support Brasil, but it apears it wasn't our day as they also crashed out. So decided to cut our losses and retreat to Tim's place for a post world cup wake with beer and pizzas.

 

I'd just about got over the dissapoint by semi-final stage and joined the German gang for the Semi-final against Italy at the Goethe Institiute. Seems like I'm cursed as they also crashed out in the last minutes of extra time, leaving most of the attendees in a state of numb silence. My bad-luck continued the following day as I was with the Portuguese for their semi-final loss to France. (for the record I also wanted France to win the final- mainly for Mr Henry).

 

Over the final weekend there was a Free Festival of African music set in Belem on a stage next to the river. A group of us went for the first night before heading back to Lisbon for Jo's leaving party, finishing around 6am. A fitting send off - you will be missed Jo!! (Come visit soon!)

 

After another night of the Africa festival, Saturday and Nuno's Birthday had arrived. We congregared in a garden in Restelo armed with Paddling pools, Ice, beers, Febras, a football and a bbq. The highlight was a rather crowded, Portugal v the rest of the world kick about, which we were winning, before a rash challenge (on concrete) and ensuing handbags, prematurely brought an end to the fixture. As the sun began to set we joined the Africa festival once again, for some Reggae from the Ivory Coast (T'ken Jah F'Koly or something similar) A car full of us then moved on to a really cool outdoor bar looking over the river, with a scattering or mattresses, tables and cushions and big fabric dome tent thing with a tv showing bizarre japanese films (reminded me of Spectre-man, or whatever the guys name was, Friday video nights with a chinese take-away with Dad as a youth). The World cup final had arrived and so had Karen and Gia for the week, quick tour, bit of a siesta and on to the pump house for the big game, meeting most of the gang in there. Karen got chatting to Dave and I managed to learn more about him in 30 mins that I had in the previous 6 months! The girls were tired after a long day so we decided to give the Festival a miss and headed back to the veranda with a bottle of Vinho Verde.

 

Monday was a beach day with Nuno, Polona and the gang down in Costa Caparica, before giving the girls their first taste of the wonders of a night in Bairro Alto, discovering the delights of Morangoskas, Caipirinhas and plastic cup street drinking. I didn't have many lessons this week, so it worked out kinda well, even if the girls did prefer days at the beach to my ideas for more cultural trips around Lisbon. We met Maddie and Amy on the Tuesday and all decided to go to the beach on Wed. We had a dinner party at the house, and Polona had press ganged me into making Sushi, my first time outside of the lessons. Could have done with a bit more rice (I didn't know 13 people would turn up), bit stressful, but it went well with able help from Lemba, who picked it up so quickly - I was in danger of being upstaged. Donna arived on Thursday, so it wa another day of beach and Bairro, and first night excess, a bit messy but we made it back in one piece. Friday and Saturday folowed in a similar vein with beach trips, restaurants and nights out including a trip to the cool outside bar with fabric dome thing, followed by Santos for a drink in Estado Liquido (with a Guy playing sax over a DJ inc a Metro Area track, schmmooove) and Fluid (Funkiest wall paper in Lisbon and best Apple n Vodka drinks).  Saturday didn't start too early and it was always gonna be a bit of a stress with the plans we had, spot of shopping, Largo to Calmo and views over Lisbon (I insisited on something at least slightly cultural), before hitting the beach, meeting (Donny) Chris in the process (just to clarify, he's from Doncaster, not some Gangster reference or owt). A few beers by the sea, dinner back in Lisbon and before long it was getting late. The girls wanted an early night as they were leaving early on the Sunday.

 

After seeing them off I'd arranged to meet Maria, although we weren't too sure what we wanted to do - Well Maria suggested the beach, but after a week of hardly anything but, I was a little less than keen. We decided to go the Portuguese yoof approach, spending the hot afternoon, in the air conditioning of a shopping centre eating fast food and going to the cinema. First stop, McD's, the first time I've been in a long time, but if you're going for crappy fast food, why stop at KFC. The cinema trip was abandoned due to a lack of good films or concensus - I'm still not sure which. Plan B found us laying under the shade of a tree in the gardens around the Gulbenkian museum, which was really nice until my prediction that the 'flying rat' in the tree above us might not be able to resist such easy targets, came true, and I happened to be the chosen sitting duck, although technically human and lying down the pigeon wasn't so interested in semantics - what luck! Maybe it was a sign? Maria made a few hanging comments about Night swimming with ex-boyfriends, but if there was a hint there I wasn't getting it - unless of course she actually wanted to talk about REM. We decided to head to mine for dinner and a film after a chance encounter with a couple of cockroaches. Maybe a spot of comedy was called for, but on reflection maybe 'Shaun of the Dead' wasn't the right choice. Hadn't realised the humour was so English (well I laughed - slightly).

 

On Monday, I'd got a casting appointment for some voice-over work and before I knew what was happening I was in a mini recording studio, with a glass screen and one of those professional mic's with a foam circle in front of it. After some prompting through the glass window I slipped on the headphones and could now here the guys in the other room giving me instructions. It went well I thought, but if they agreed they'd obviuosly misplaced my phone number or something as I never got a call. After a certain amount of gloating to Karen and the girls I was off to see Kanye West on Monday night an amazing open air evening gig in the fabulous Marques Pombal gardens in Oeiras. He lived up to the expectations, not only doing his big hits, complete with live string section but also covering a few others that I didn't know he'd produced. Lessons had now all but finished and it seeems it was the 'leaving do' season, with Andy's on tuesday (with the bombshell that he may not return after applying for a job in Holland) and Amy's on Thursday. Juan had some friends over too, just in case I couldn't think of a good reason to go out. It was definately worth a trip to Tejo bar (always is). Up to this day I've always viewed the optical illusion picture of two women (see attached) quite sceptically as I thought the hag like women with the huge nose was stretching at a bit, but there she was in the bar - uncanny (sorry didn't have my camera). On Saturday, Recloose was playing at Mercado so I met a few of the English gang in the all too predicatable 'Cena dos Copos', which we seeem to cling to like a comfort blanket, but I managed to prize them away and off to Mercado for the gig.

 

My final week of teaching before the summer was here and with a few cancellations it was hardly worth bothering by now, but I struggled through the 2 lessons like a trooper (for the record it's the first week that I've been paid for more cancellations than actual lessons - nice but when the total is 5 it's hardly a cause to celebrate). Spent much of my spare time, which was plentiful, enjoying final days (and coffees) with Gisa (and the girls), and finishing compilations of music for Juan (which I'd promised months ago) and one for Gisa before she left - it was a bit of a tight squeeze, but I finally finished with minutes to spare before going out for Gisa's last night.  

 

A Friday nights trip to Estoril had raised my expectations that I could encourage a few people to come along and see Fela Kuti's son play at a world music festival in Sines on the Saturday night, but unfortunately any willingness seemed to have dissapeared as the alcohol gave way to hangovers. I did think about going it alone for a while, but thinking was as far as I got and consoled myself with the thought that I might as well spend a last weekend in Lisbon before my travels down in the South, so I made my debut at Op-art near Docas to see a friend of ours, Anthony play.

 

 

 

Ok, so I’m a bit behind, but the good news is England are still in the World Cup (in Blogworld). Spent Saturday afternoon, watching Sweden capitulate to Germany, then possibly the game of the entire tournament for me Argentina v Mexico which whetted the appetite for England’s clash the following day with Ecuador. Saturday night was Tim’s (Essex) leaving bash, with Jim and his band providing the tunes, interspersed with ‘Rooney!’ chants over the mic.

Sunday morning (ok it was early afternoon, but it felt like Morning) and it was time for our pilgrimage to the Pump House, for the now – ritual of coffee followed by full English building up to a pint around an hour before kick-off and it’s down hill from there. The game was quite an anti-climax and we were all ready to apologise on behalf of the nation for anyone that had to sit through it, but we didn’t get chance to and at least we’d won.

We relocated to Leah and Jim’s place for some delightful homemade curry, ready for the Portugal v. Holland game, although at times we thought we’d got the wrong channel and were watching a World Cup themed Wrestling Special, our narrow victory against Ecuador was looking better by the minute as the suspensions racked up. There were mixed feelings as the full time whistle blew and England v Portugal was now a reality. If we were in any doubt, it became quite clear from the walk home as we walked down Avenida Liberdade which was now a sea of flags and bumper-to-bumper with cars overflowing with people celebrating the victory. Not that they needed any additional incitement, but the sight of a guy in an England shirt strolling down the road seemed to provide it.

The following week was the now-familiar rush between lessons and places to watch the World Cup, particularly now we were at the ‘business end’ of the tournament and the tactic of sampling different venues was working well, including the Swiss/ Ukraine bore draw (which sparked the idea for a big brother style system, where both teams could be eliminated for dull play, and a team who had played well but lost be re-instated by fans votes– say Mexico), Brazil/ Ghana in Outro Face da Lua (best salmon sandwiches in Lisbon? maybe) and France/ Spain in Sao Paulo square (unfortunately the result put a bit of a dampner on Juan’s birthday celebrations), and finally Germany/ Argentina in Bar Iberico.

 The week had all gone by too quickly (it was only a paragraph ago) and here we were on the eve of England v. Portugal, there had been plans for a pre-game night out, but a venue had not been agreed. I knew where I was heading, Quantic was playing at Estado Liquido, and I wasn’t gonna miss him. Not much danger of that as it happens, appears I’d turned up a bit early and would have been one of 3 people in the place when I arrived, so I checked what time he was due to play and made a hasty retreat to the Pump House. The second attempt was much more successful, a nice crowd building, warm-up dj playing and Will (to his friends) was floating around and fiddling with the odd record, so I got myself a beer and had a quick chat with him. Turns out he was heading to Porto in the morning, do couldn’t join us in the Pump House, but it was worth a try. Before long, a few of the gang started to arrive and they’d been at a bit of a party and brought everyone with them, which seemed to be about half of the teachers from Cambridge School. It was a really good night and everyone seemed to enjoy it, dancing along from anything from Funk and Soul to Hip-hop, House and Reggae later. It reminded me of the early Lights Down Low parties back in Sheffield. I was having so much fun I occasionally forgot about the match which got closer by the passing hour, but only occasionally.  

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PS - After Caty and Lisa's visit to Lisbon (see 'The Kop out Entry (sorry folks)', they've (well maybe Caty) set up the following website to help(?) other lost souls find the caminho of enlightenment. Who'd have thought the path would involve playing yankee soccer with a baby outide a church, but who said the path was on obvious one hey? Well anyway - there's more stuff on here - including pics of the gang and said bambino, enjoy(?)

http://www.hotchicascorporation.com/index.htm

...or are the photos on here, oh I don't know, look they are round here some where, ok!

http://thatcaty.spaces.msn.com/PersonalSpace.aspx (What doesn't kill us...Caty's blog)

 

Bye for now...

For the unitiated and those I haven't told about my experience from 2004, The Sao Joao festival is set in Porto with people crowding round the city wielding toy hammers (apparently it used to be leeks, but became plastic hammers when rationing was an issue), and hit each other over the head, friends, strangers, the mayor - whoever you see basically - although I've not had the courage to bop a bobbie yet! There's music, dancing and drinking in the streets and bars, fireworks over the river and even miniature home made hot air balloons floating up into the night sky. It's hard to explain (particularly when you don't have any photos) how mad it all is, and why it's such fun, it's like having a second childhood for one night only, but this time you can drink!

 

After hopping off the early train to Porto, I was met by Carlos - a quick trip to the now infamous Loja da Cidadao - it turns out the Portuguese, or at least Carlos, have the same problems and frustrations with bureaucracy as I'd experienced, including one story where he went to buy the forms, walked straight up to the counter as there was no queue, only for the woman to ask him to go back outside, get a ticket, then come back to the counter to be served. Scary thought, but maybe I've been lucky so far...

Back at Carlos's place and the group had doubled as his girlfriend's brother and a friend had joined us. After a light snack of caracois (snails) during the game, we headed off to Ana's restaurant (I met Ana in 2004 - a regular at her other bar - she offered to adopt me as a son if I moved back to Portugal - all because I sent her a Milky bar, they are good…..but, sorry I digress). The hammering had officially commenced, and I still hadn't purchased my weapon of choice, So I just had to grin and bare it as the pre-emptive strikes came in, maybe they remembered me from 2004?  Ana was rushed off her feet, but was really pleased to see me and said I'd grown (mais gordo?). Still room for a plate full of Febras and Entrocostas tho'.

 

From there we headed into the thick of it, down by the Ribeira, crammed with people and toy hammers with the odd scattering of long stalked garlic plant things (may not seem like any kinda match for a hammer, but trust me the range is impressive and I'd swap having garlic smelling leaves rubbed round my chops for a bop over the head any day). There was now a stage there in the middle with music and dance performances - an unneccessary addition for the TV cameras in Carlos's opinion and I had agree as the stage blocked half the Ribeira  and the crowds cramming round it blocked off the rest, so no one could get through. Next stop 'The Parrot's Nest' for a beer and a quick dash to buy a hammer, before the fireworks started.

 

It was much more fun now I had my hammer and despite 2 years out of the game it was like riding a bike and before long I was pulling out audacious cross shots and crafty back hands like a pro, dotted with ritualistic play-taps to the older people bowing their heads, before reciprocating the offer. After the fireworks we got ourselves a table outside The Parrot’s Nest, and with a line of people now moving away from the Ribeira – a constant procession of fresh victims. Ah, this is the life, hitting people while sat down and not having to move, other than the occasional trip to the bar.

 

Once the novelty had worn off we headed down to the river, near the bridge to launch Carlos’s hot air balloon, the pressure was on with a controversial last minute change to the shape due to under-buying of crepe paper, and a base that looked a bit heavy for the size. Would this be the end of Carlos’s 100% Sao Joao record, it was time to find out. We spread ourselves out around the balloon and held it roughly in shape as Carlos lit the wad of paraffin soaked paper at the base, the balloon started filling with hot air and filled out pretty quickly. We were still supporting it but the balloon was now full, but didn’t seem desperate to take off, a short while passed, it looked good but still no lift when disaster struck; the flame had grown and caught the crepe side of the balloon which burst into flames, engulfing the balloon. The disappointment was tangible as Carlos stamped out the ashes of his failed craft – oh well there’s always next year - I might try my own.

 

No time to cry over spilt milk, we passed over the bridge to Villa Nova de Guia, heading towards ‘Hard Club’. Anyone thinking that this doesn’t sound like my kinda place would be right it’s not, but Carlos works there and wanted to pop in to see what it was like. The place was not how I imagined at all, apart from the presence of people predominantly dressed in black, it was big, spacious, and made of stone, with big wooden staircases – more like a chateau than a rock club. I did wonder if Carlos would tell his ‘rock’ friends about his failed balloon flight, I’m guessing not. We saw a couple of punk bands play, and maybe I shouldn’t sound so surprised but it was actually quite good. I met Miguel and Helena again, who we’d been with for Sao Joao in 2004, and before I knew it, it was time I should be making a move. Sat on the train ready to leave with my hammer in hand, reflecting on another amazing night, but not for long as I drifted off into much needed sleep, only waking 4 hours later to the sound of my mobile alarm as we were coming towards Lisbon – refreshed and ready for England v. Ecuador.

 

Well, it's been a while, and let's face it I haven't been up to date for some time now - so rather than languish behind like a 12 year old on the families Friday supermarket shopping trip I thought I'd at least put some info on here about my movements and activities over the last 4 weeks (already- never!) - I may update this after the War has finished, sorry did I type War, I meant World Cup. Ok, here'yar.....

It’d been a good couple of days in Guincho, despite the occasional symptom’s of ‘Rooney injury’ depression, which flooded back each time football came to mind, even the beach wasn’t a safe haven, where a simple glimpse of boy kicking ball would trigger an attack. The bouts of ‘denial’ and hopelessness that followed had started to fade the following week. Polona and her friend Lemba were in the apartment, working on their art installation thing for the weekend. I wasn’t to know the exact details, as Polona wanted it to be a surprise, but they asked if I’d be willing to help them. I reluctantly agreed, wanting to help out but not too keen on the role of actor which they had in mind for me. I’d been reading a book about the life of a journeyman actor, endlessly going to castings and auditions to scrape by – I remember thinking how uncomfortable I’d feel having to improvise a scene for the camera, funny I normally like these quirky coincidences, if only I knew. The theme was anger and desperation, emotions I’m not over familiar with, I’d have to dig deep and was a bit embarrassed being in front of the camera with little direction. After a few improvised rehearsals, I’d settled for a burst of pounding my fist on the wall with my forehead pressed up against it, stood on the balcony of our apartment turning and screaming random obscenities into the early evening sky before holding my head in my hands and grasping my hair in emotional exhaustion and desperation – good eh! - A deep red sunset or pre-thunder storm brooding skyline would be the perfect backdrop, but we had neither and had to settle for the remains of a bright sunny day. (…for the record, I only mouthed screaming obscenities for fear of causing a ‘scene’...).

 

With my scene filmed and my acting debut under my belt I was off to a Reggae festival with Juan, Nuno and friends. By the number of bottles consumed on route I could have predicted it would get messy, I wasn’t wrong. We’d arrived at Tejo Park, well oiled, but with the rounds that followed we clearly thought we required more lubrication. I was just about maintaining some kind of sanity, until Juan introduced us to a favourite Spanish drinking ritual, biting a small hole out of the bottom of the plastic cup, and holding it up high aiming the stream of beer into his mouth, before a precarious pass to the next guy. Unfortunately, our aim was pretty good and even worse it caught on, as more supplies soon followed. I don’t remember all that much of the concert or the rest of the evening – I do however recall being slightly ‘ill’ and finding it very difficult getting out of bed the next day. Might not come as a surprise that I was late for my one lesson that day, but it didn’t start until 4.30pm! Yeah it’s fair to say I wasn’t feeling at my best. By a huge chunk of luck, my student failed to turn up, so I drank my much-needed coffee and headed home. I decided that the sensible option would be to have an early night, so I slipped out into the night with Barbara and Ricardo for a ‘couple’ of beers in Bairro, met up with Jorge at Clube da Esquina, before a steady amble home.

 

Saturday was the day of Polona’s art installation, and a group of us were heading up to the place at 5pm. I wanted to get out of the house, but had underestimated my level of inertia, particularly as I didn’t know what I wanted to do when I went out. When it came round to the time, the only travelling I’d managed to do had been restricted to the world wide web. I’d been informed that my role had taken on greater significance, as they thought it was good, and decided not to use the others as they were too short, I could feel a few cringes coming on. Wasn’t helped when meeting some of Polona’s friends when we arrived, greeted with ‘It’s the English guy’ – ‘funny I don’t recognise you?!’ I said, in a voice that could only be heard from the inside of my (slightly blushing) head. I’m not sure I was ready for such fame! This was soon replaced by infamy as a number of Nuno’s friends were there who I hadn’t seen since the Reggae night. The installation was set in a converted, but still rather industrial warehouse, and consisted of a large assortment of painted pottery items arranged around one corner of the room, people gathered around and the video started, rather sizably projected on to the back wall, accompanied by a suitably angst ridden soundtrack. Thankfully I managed to keep ‘That’s me that is’ type shouts to myself, as my scene appeared between other clips of things being torn and broken and discarded. A girl in black with black face paint across her eyes appeared and worked her way round the crowd, getting up close and personal to people but not in a pleasant way. Sure enough my turn came and there she was shaking her hands and giving me hard point blank stares in an apparent fit of rage. I know these southern Europeans have different norms, but this was surely personal space violation even by Portuguese standards (“Linesman!! Linesman!! Did you not see that?!!” –not sure why that just popped into my head but it did.) Next up, a number of formally dressed ‘servants’ came round with the same face job and silver trays offering the audience with safety goggles and a selection of hammers to choose from. I have to record my disappointment that they didn’t have enough to go round (hammers that is), and I missed out, but I wasn’t to be denied. It turned out audience participation was required and without any script I couldn’t be sure what had prompted it , but before long, tooled up or not, we were wading into the pottery in a fit of destruction, smashing the pottery – with hammers, throwing it against the walls and floor (my chosen option) and the odd two footed jump challenge from the more adventurous and with nothing but tiny fragments remaining it was all over! Must be time for a drink! So it was back to ours for the aftershow party although it appeared there had been a mix up as the champagne failed to arrive and had been replaced by cheap cans of super-strength beer – sophisticated what, what! We moved onto a few bars in the early hours once the reserves had been drained, and even managed several more beers before calling it quits – all in all it was an impressive team performance - the lack of any casualties was particularly remarkable given the ambitious and gruelling agenda- Good Work!

The following week wasn’t so successful and truth be told twas a bit of a nightmare all in all. I turned up for 3 lessons which had been cancelled in advance (one I forgot about, a non-existent Portuguese lesson and an 8.30am start that had been cancelled the day before, both of which the school forgot to let me know about) and then to top it off I managed to turn up for a class with the wrong file with all my material for the lesson at home on my desk – 5 minutes to spare and some serious improvisation required, I got through it somehow. As things were going so well I decided to try and sort my tax out on the Friday, after an hour of waiting for my number to come up, they announced that there was a problem with the computer system, this actually helped as a number of people who had been before me left and I ‘just’ wanted help with the forms, but first I was told I needed the right forms, I was given the reference number and then had to take a ticket to wait in another queuing system to buy, yes buy the forms before returning to the woman sat behind the desk. Who, incidentally, had spent the last 10 minutes waiting for me, even though the forms were only 10 metres away from her desk in the first place, as both queues continues to build! I couldn’t quite believe it all but eventually I’d got my forms filled in and somewhere to take them next week – surely progress and such efficiency – maybe the end was in sight.

 

The weekend had been set aside for another Guincho trip and with the sun setting. After a quick stop for provisions at the hypermarket, including a military style plan to split up and cover different sections each, we were on our way…well would have been if we could remember which section of the expansive car park we’d left the car in. A slight setback, but we eventually found it, after calling Andy who had located it with much less hassle (we were miles off). Just made it to the campsite and got tents up before darkness had set in. There was a tangible air of satisfaction as the coals in the bbq began to glow. Fortunately the tragedy of our previous attempt had been consigned to memory and there was to be no repeat performance, armed with the right tools we were suddenly bbqing masters. It’s a good job there was plenty of beer to be soaked up. Saturday’s beach session was ended prematurely by a belter of an FA Cup final in Bar Guincho and soon after we were back stoking up the bbq again for a repeat performance. Sunday started out a bit overcast, so we decided to skip the beach and head to a bar called the Windmill, I’d heard about it but never been and it was supposed to have an amazing view over the sea and coast, it does (see photos). I was replenished and ready to resume my quest to pay my tax on the Monday morning (well I thought I was).

 

Well, having just about recovered from the lack of sleep from Zambujeira, Wednesday the 19^th of April came round, which was (of course) my Birthday. I had to teach the brats at Maristas, but decided to have a party instead, so I took along, sweets, crisps and more sweets and we played games for the whole lesson, using sweets as prizes and generally stuffing our faces with crisps throughout. That skinner bloke knew what he was doing, the attention was unbelievable – I’m almost tempted to take sweets to every lesson, just for a bit of peace and quiet! I’d cancelled my evening class, so it was next stop Pump House for a few birthday beers and the Arsenal game – quite a turn out too (obviously for me, not to see the Gooners crucial semi-final), most of the gang had to work the morning after so I’d said I’d save my big celebration for Thursday, Friday and Saturday. So after, leaving the pub, me and Juan sneaked off to Tomas’ place for dinner, then just a steady few beers. On Thursday afternoon, I missed a call, I tried to ring back but it wouldn’t ring. Later that evening, my phone rang again. I answered it and it was Nils (see Zambujeira page for details), he said he was here in Lisbon and could I meet him for a drink. I had to go teach but made arrangements for later, it’s only a drink. We met in Hennessy’s and before long he’d dropped the bombshell of not having much money, and asked if it’d be alright to stay. Bit of a quandary, but I could hardly say no, given that we had drunkenly invited him (I say we – but I’m still blaming Juan for starting this one, I was just foolish enough to pass on my number, let’s say it’s a lesson learned). So Nils, joined us for the Birthday celebrations (stage II), which ended up being a rather eclectic crowd,  trawling round Bairro Alto including Juan, Tomas, Bart, Andy (Belgian), Jorge and various Erasmus extras we dragged along the way, Uli, Ines and friends (Spelling?) and hanging around outside Mezcal. By the end of the night someone made the mistake of mentioning Cachupa – the Cape Verdean place, and that was it Juan wouldn’t have no for an answer, so off we went to round off a rather blurry evening.

 

On Friday I’d arranged to meet Tomas, and pick up some tickets for Indie Lisboa (the independant film festival, that would run for a week). I’d spent about 2 hours trying to squeeze as many films in as possible, carefully slotted between football matches, lessons and gigs – it wasn’t easy, we managed to buy tickets for an ambitious 11 films in 8 days – so our week ahead was set! Nils came along for the ride and then realised that he needed to get to the Post office as his friend was sending up his forgotten passport from Zambujeira, hmmm.

 

With the evening drawing in, no passport had arrived and Nils was still flapping about plans to get a bus back to Zambujeira and his lack of money, but not in any meaningful way. My helpful searches for bus times, didn’t bear any fruit – this was starting to become a bit of a nightmare! Nils didn’t have money to go out, and I’d arranged to meet Bart and Jorge to go to Zed des Bois for a gig so I was faced with a dilemma. Let someone I don’t know all that well stay in our apartment for the evening while I was out or turf him out onto the streets with no money. Although not entirely comfortable with the decision I went with the former option and still mananged to feel guilty about the whole thing (I could imagine my Dad’s perceived reaction of ‘Stupid boy’ and his irritation that I’m far too trusting where he would err on the side of caution. I met Jorge and Bart and shared the bizarre situation before we headed to the gig.

Panda bear had just started as we waltzed in on a freebie with Bart who works there. It was certainly different, bizarre electronica with some quirky keyboards, animal sounds and looped vocals – which reminded me I must get in touch with Joe. At it’s worst it sounded like a 5 year old, let loose with his new Casio keyboard and a dodgy microphone, but occasionally the vocals would form some beautiful and much needed rhythm and harmony to the whole affair. Jorge was less convinced. Black Dice were a bit heavier, but with a similar theme, reminded me of a bit of  four-tet, with some  Caribou (Manitoba) thrown in for good measure. The beauty through noise approach, wasn’t to everyone’s taste, but it was interesting and they had their moments.

 

Next we were off to a party in Alfama, which Uli had told Jorge about. It was all a bit awkward when we arrived as we didn’t know anyone, Uli wasn’t there and nobody seemed to know of her either. All the same we were made to feel comfortable and everyone was very friendly given the bizarre situation. Uli and Ines arrived a little later, and we stayed to the early hours before deciding to call it a night. My much needed slumber was broken by Nils waking me up at the un-Godly hour of 9am, to get some details so his mother could transfer some money to me, to pass on to him as he still didn’t have his passport. I’d also been allocated market shopping duties, and with an early kick off of Arsenal v. Tottenham (the crucial food poisoning game), I was starting to get a little stressed. Managed to whip round the market, into Rossio for the money transfer and back to the Pump House for the footy in record time and almost made the kick-off. And….relax, but only for the duration of the game as I had a tight schedule, squeezing in my first film of IndieLisboa before returning for the Liverpool vs Chelsea FA cup game later that day. I’d finally said my goodbyes to Nils, as he was off to Sintra with his newly acquired funds. It was a bit of an action packed day and after nipping home to get changed I was off to Dave’s bbq, maybe a few Caipirinhas were what I needed. Time flew by, as drinks and food flew down, and before I knew it, it was time to be heading back to Bairro Alto to meet the gang, for the ambitious final leg of four days of celebrating, a trip to Lux til the early hours. (It’s mind over matter – I’m not really tired!), by Lux time, I was struggling a bit, but soldiered on. The plan was almost derailed as the woman on the door, decided to request a ridiculous €180 per person for entry (this was the first time I’d experienced Lux’s policy of retaining the right to charge what they want – basically to control who they want to come in – very frustrating as we don’t look very Portuguese and they don’t seem to be having any problems) Fortunately, Tomas had a quiet word, as one of the Dj’s is a friend of his who we met in Zambujeira. So the €180 euros suddenly reverted to the usual €12 minimum consumption and we were in. It was good from what I remember, but I think I’d bitten off more than I could chew, and by 6am I was slipping between being awake and a half dream state thing, bizarre I know, you should have been me, so it was time to throw in the towel.

 

The following week was a heavy schedule of films and teaching punctuated by another bank holiday on the Tuesday for Portugal’s day of liberation, which clearly called for another session around the usual haunts with Tomas and Juan. The week culminated in a showing of Matthew Barney’s new film ‘Drawing Restraint 9’ starring himself and the missus, Bjork, on the Friday night. A captivating but bewildering affair which was only completely unravelled when we saw the documentary about the film the following day. (Still need to see his Cremaster cycle films which are based on the same central theme). On Saturday my favourite Nowegian songsters were in town, so it was off to Aula Magna to see the Kings of Convenience, a rather civilised theatre hall type sitting affair with around 1,500 quickly filling the best of the unallocated seats. Had I realised, I’d have turned up earlier, but had to settle for a seat a bit further back. It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t heard of them what makes the Kings of Convenience so good, there’s no gimmicks it’s just a perfect marriage of wondrous acoustic melodies and heartwarming (and sometimes quirky) lyrics sung by the one and only Erlend Øye. This guy could rival Napolean Dynamite in the geek stakes, and even has a dance to rival the Shippster, but despite this retains an air of being pretty damn cool (The epitomy of Geek-Chic). He gave the night a special intimate feel, which wasn’t easy given the size of the place, even helpfully informing some late comers, where we were and what songs they’d missed just to set the scene, without a hint or sarcasm and somehow still exuding warmth. After a few more songs and a bit of audience participation (joining in when prompted on some choruses), he said he was feeling lonely on the stage and urged people to come down and join him, and the braver ones made their way to the stage. As the stage started to fill, with nothing to lose, I made a run for it, running down the stairs like a star struck contestant on come on down, down the side and onto the stage where a circle of people were beginning to form around him. He started singing “I’d rather dance, than talk to you” a favourite of mine and the assembled group boogied along with him. I was all a little surreal, but an amazing moment. After the song he informed that the sound engineer had said it wasn’t such a good idea, so people began drifting off, until he said we didn’t have to leave but maybe it would better if we sat down, so sit down we did – now in a small cicle around them, like some Sunday school sing-a-long, where we stayed for the remainder of the gig, it capped off a wonderful evening. But naturally it wasn’t finished there, onto meet Jorge and and friends and a late attempt to go to the IndieLisboa closing party. After about 20 minutes of queuing, I decided to cut my losses and left them to go to Clube Mercado, where DZihan and Kamien were playing, it was a good decision, and shortly after I arrived, Maria and her housemates turned up – it was a great way to finish the night. On Sunday it was up and off to Guincho, for a day by the beach, bbq and camping with Tim, Yuko, Dave, Bob, Ale and the rest of the gang, almost all infact – think we were 18 strong at one point. The bbq was a bit of a nightmare as the charcoal we thought we had turned out to be fire-starting logs, that burned intensely and then died dramatically, you had to admire the perseverance and attempts to cook anything, and if it wasn’t for Tim’s gas stove, there could have been a lot of hungry people, but somehow we muddled through, eased by overflowing stocks of beer and wine. By midday on the Monday (another holiday – I hope you’re keeping count), the dazed and confused made their way from their tents for another day at the beach, beers and burgers (more meat?)in Bar do Guincho before heading back to Lisbon in the early evening, determined to do it all again sometime soon.

I'm struggling to remember anything noteworthy that happened from the week before Easter, so I'll assume that nothing did, up until Thursday that is.

 

After wrapping up lessons for the week, I met Steve in Labios de Vinho for a few beers and we were joined by Tomas and the gang around midnight before heading to the corner near Mezcal (the usual hang-out/ starting place for most of the Erasmus mob). We were with Tomas's 2 new housemates Andy (Belgian Andy for ease of ID) and Lucy, Jorge (Spanish) and Bart (Belgian) had also joined us along with assorted Belgian friends (fingers twitch at the keyboard as I try to work in some reference to 'It's a knockout' - but alas the e-mail already has a title...). It was destined to be a Mercado night again as Carl Craig was playing there and I was already getting a bit panicky about getting in. I'm not sure why, but when I really want to go somewhere/do something,  I start having irrational fears about everything going wrong and not getting in for one reason or another, I'm sure it's pretty annoying to others and is rather all consuming for me. But once it sets in, I just have to go regardless of company or reason (sad but true). So off I went, with the rest of the gang still pondering the options. The huge queues, sold out signs, or cancellation that had seemed so inevitable, never materialised - so I went straight in. 

 

The night was going well, Carl Craig was playing some really nice atmospheric deep house, and it has to go down as one of my favourite nights in Mercado despite some stiff competition. Tomas arrived with Lucy in tow and had quite impressively managed to get more drunk than when I'd left them earlier, and it appeared that Tomas had decided it was a good idea to play matchmaker with a performance that Cilla couldn't dream of (well probably wouldn't want to actually, subtle it wasn't). He had a game plan and an array of tactics, from pep-talks to questioning ones masculinity, and even some moves straight out of  the playground with the odd push and nudge that would have made Roy Keane proud - he wasn't gonna be denied despite my protestations that 'it wasn't that simple'. But on leaving the club, a bit of a boogie to a Moodymann record was as far as I'd got. We went back to Tomas's house and had some food, but Tomas hadn't given up yet and decided to take Belgian Andy out for a few drinks, and leave us alone in the flat. Conversation was a little staggered as the alcohol had rendered Lucy's English to the same level as my Italian but a few smiles seemed to suggest progress was being made, and was it my imagination or had she slipped into something a little more comfortable? Shortly after we'd retired to the living room to listen to a some music, Belgian Andy aplogetically burst in, and within 5 minutes I was called into the kitchen for a 'word'. He asked what was going on, so I explained the rather strange situation, before informing me that Tomas wasn't the only one with designs for her - my night was getting more bizarre by the minute, if only I knew....

 

A short while and a bit more chatting later and Lucy had said she was quite tired, followed by the show stopping line of  "So, we go to bed". It puzzles me why "Faux Pas" is  French when it's clearly much more of a British phenomena, it seems a bit ironic but without falling back on national stereotypes I wouldn't have thought the French would need it too much, whereas we don't even have our own word- when surely it should be the lexical equivalent of 'snow' to the eskimos. As I was in all too familair territory and given the lack of obvious indicators leading up to this to this moment, rolled in with the language barrier, I decided to proceed with caution and asked for a bit of clarification, which was replied with "We just sleep".Well no red card and the rules of the game established -  I thought was a bit of a result, particularly as I hadn't signed anything. No further clarification was required as she followed this with "So I show you my room", which she did and then wondered off leaving me in there to ponder my next move. Ok, maybe I make myself comfortable, don't want to rush things - get undressed and jump into bed, so easy does it. So I slipped off my shoes and sat on the bed. This done, she returned and delivered a bit of a curve-ball "So, we see another day", my green light was looking decidedly more amber by the minute, but my optimistic side was trying to convince me that this may be some phillosohical comment akin to 'taking each day as it comes and being thankful for each one", it wasn't. It's at about at this stage when I realised it wasn't happening, that I spotted my shoes so plain to see on the floor and began to pray that the floor could swallow them up, it didn't. Maybe I could kick them under the bed, and retrieve them at a later date. Too late! They had been spotted and I was hurriedly slipping them back on, to minimise the embarrassment I'd made such cautious steps to avoid. Said my goodbyes and was soon on my way home.

 

Well you win some, you lose some. I just don't understand why my losses always seem to be so painfully awkward and faux pas laden - why do I have to be so English. Oh well, it does provide good material to write about I guess and I pondered whether this factor could potentially effect the decisions I make and where that would leave me. At least I was set to escape to Zambujeira for a few days for Easter. 

 

Andy (andygouldin@gmail.com)     

Forgive me readers for I have sinned! It has been several weeks since my last Blog-fession!

 

Finally got the internet connection working in the new place, embarrassingly enough I discovered I’d turned off my wireless connection (I didn’t know it was possible) and had spent three weeks trying all kinds of elaborate technical attempts to remedy the situation (maybe it was better not to share this but a bit late now).

 

The first weekend in the new place was mostly spent building Ikea furniture, scraping walls and painting, punctuated by the usual routine of nights out including a rather random get together of various friends in Bar Q for Barca v Madrid, on to OKA with Ale and her brasiliera amigas, then off to Tago Bar to finish us off.

 

My parents were here for the week, so my week was pretty full and involved a few trips out to Cascais for lunch, pleasant walks round Lisbon and the like, squeezing in several midweek outings including a real highlight, going to see a Portuguese group going by the name of Alien Freak Show, despite this being only their second gig we’d already had a sneak preview of their material as they practise at a place on Travessa da Portuguesa and we could hear them from our old flat. It’s a curious act to explain, the music alone is excellent, but they inject a lot of humour into the performances without it becoming gimmicky, you can’t help but smile (the girls – Gisa, Lena and Maria – described them/ their act as cute – and I’d have to agree), random manic screams of Timmy!!, a song based around a chorus of “eeeeehhh, ya, yah, ya, yah!!” (a personal favourite) and a song of lines from the Big Lebowski were all part of the act and were definite highlights.

 

The weekend was the usual blur of Bairro Alto drinking sessions thrown together with a  Thai meal, a trip to a new Brasilian bar ‘Ar Puro’. I’d spent Saturday with the folks, walking around Alfama, stopping off at Chapito for a bit of light lunch (always a crowd pleaser), bit of a trek around Estrela and Principe Real, before settling down to some nice seafood and the classico of Sporting vs. Porto, (rather ironically it was far from a classic and Porto rolled out winners by the only goal, which pretty much seals the Championship for them) Saturday night was concluded in Mercado (again, sorry,  I know but they do get a regular supply of good acts, it’s hard not to) Faze Action were in attendance this time. One of my new flatmates, Polona, was working too so the Bombay and Tonic’s flowed, and I remember walking home rather drunk. I also remember warming up some of Barbara’s home made soup and how good it tasted, but little more. Polona told me the next day that when she got home I was fast asleep sat in the kitchen with a bowl of soup in front of me. I woke the next morning in bed, but I still don’t remember moving.

 

All for now, but I’m still a couple of weeks behind so further chapters will follow shortly now I’m back on-line, and there’s quite a bit to tell you!

 

Andy (andygouldin@gmail.com)