Portugal

I remember our holiday to Portugal, dear reader. 2003. The fuckwits. The beautiful weather. The bronzed bodies. The Iberian men. The custardy desserts.



The Lisbon Metro is a fabulous service. Trains were frequent and immaculate. Also, the route plan is easy to understand, contrasting wildly with Tokyo's which blows my tiny mind.


I'm not a Status Quo fan, though Quo or no Quo, it was margarita time. I wasn't a smoker back then, though intoxication was usually followed with a fag.


Lisbon is a beautiful city. Very clean and the people are friendly. One slightly odd fact... I was offered hashish on several occasions while making my way from one end of the above street the the other. I presume it was the drug, though cannot be sure.


The fatter of the two fuckwits liked to pose in as camp a way as possible. Curiously, he wasn't out to his parents and when on the telephone to friends or work colleagues, he strutted around the place like a neanderthal and took his voice down by at least three octaves.


The beaches on the Algarve coast were to die for. The sand was clean and soft underfoot. The sea was clear, though dreadfully cold. I'm sure, not much warmer than the English Channel, if at all. Not a big deal for Minge, though, and all I'm really used to.

What I wasn't used to, though, was being stung by a weever-fish! The bastard! My leg swelled up like a zeppelin and I was in absolute agony. Thankfully, a seaside first aider came to my rescue. A gorgeous Portuguese man, beautifully tanned, sun-kissed hair and a package to make Jeff Stryker's look tiny.


Our trip to Lisbon was a huge relief for us, affording us time away from the fuckwits whom we'd left behind in Vilar Do Golf, Quinta Do Lago. Portugal's capital and its environs exuded beauty, history and delicious food. We visited castles, markets, went shopping, ate the most beautiful meals and got tipsy on local booze. A waiter, tempting me with his liquor in a restaurant, offered me a free taste of the local liqueur. "It's like you," he said, "sweet, but strong."


Lisbon, I thought, was like a European San Francisco. A suspension bridge, trams and homosexuals. Fabulous!


I wish the UK was as outward-looking as Portugal and as proud of our explorative past as the Portuguese. I wish the British Isles enjoyed a warm climate. I wish my country was a republic. I wish we had the Euro. I think I should move to Portugal!


Our return from Lisbon, thankfully, only meant a short stay on the southern coast of the country, not because we hated the Algarve, no, but because the fuckwits made us tense and anxious.

There are many things I'd like to forget about that holiday, my love, but I shall never forget our day in Silves, our visit to Pena Palace or our drive through the empty country roads to and from Lisbon.