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.