The capital of Portugal is Dublin, the Portuguese drink nothing but Guinness, and from Lisbon to Faro you’ll see people looking out for leprechauns and singing traditional Iberian folk songs like The Wild Rover.
That’s the only conclusion I can come to after spending a few weeks of summer on the Portuguese coast where every person I met sounded like they were auditioning for Boyzone or Westlife. There can’t be many people left in Ireland right now, as the number of Algarve karaoke bars resonating to ‘Danny Boy’ will testify.
I blame Ryanair, the Irish airline that takes its business plan from Fagin and its charm from Lord Voldemort, forgetting to tell you the add ons such as an actual seat, or toilet paper, or oxygen to breathe, increase the bill enormously. The Irish seem to have fallen for it, and Ryanair’s destination boards may read London, Lisbon, Paris etc, but I suspect that once in the air the pilots are all changing their minds and landing at Portugal’s Faro airport. Maybe it costs extra if you want the pilot to use his GPS.
The big trend on the continent this summer is not designer tops or shorts, but flip flops. If you haven’t got Havaianas you haven’t got anything worthwhile. These fashion must haves look like ordinary rubber shoes from the Pound shop but they have a small flag of Brazil on the strap, so cue everywhere selling rip off footwear with the little blue globe flag proudly stamped. Those photos of you lying flat on your back outside the holiday karaoke bar will make you look like Hollywood royalty if you get your feet in the picture.
Before Portugal we spent a week in Spain and flew in to Gibraltar. If you’ve never been there imaging setting a plane down on Oxford Street in a typhoon and you’ll get the picture. As we landed, passing the huge mountainous rock on our right hand side, we suddenly accelerated and took off again. A very novel way of arriving in a country. Turns out the captain wasn’t sure he’d miss someone’s house and decided to try again. If he only worked for Ryanair he’d never have to worry.
Have you noticed that one downside of our increasingly jaded lives is that a great old holiday tradition seems to have died out? No one claps and applauds the pilot any more when the plane lands. It was always a reassuring sign of being posh by deliberately, and snootily, refusing to join in, but now it seems we’re all sophisticated so I may have to start the tradition again on my next flight.
Our place on The Algarve is near Tavira, a quaint fishing town with 25 churches, 6 chapels and 5 convents. If you think you’re overworked, these are all served by 1 priest. As my daughter said “he must do a church crawl every Sunday”. I think it’s like a pub crawl but with a less varied wine choice.
As usual tattoos were in abundance on the beach, and my prize winners included a Scottish guy who had full size angel wings running the length and breadth of his back and The Mona Lisa wearing a clown nose on his arm. He tied for first place with An Essex bloke who, classily, had the word DEVIANT on his fat belly and a barcode on his back. I’m sure Jeremy Kyle is making the calls now.
We took part in a holiday quiz and actually won it, though I’m not sure how. Daughter number one was writing down the answers, and to the question “which organisation has the motto Per Ardua Ad Astra” I told her to write The RAF, and she then asked how to spell it. Seriously! She also refused to accept a question about the famous song The Londonderry Air as she couldn’t believe anyone had written a song called The London Derriere. Remind me to check how much we’ve spent on her education.
Anyway, it’s good to be home. We flew back from Faro airport and all the wannabe Boyzone people were there again, this time literally! Ronan Keating was waiting for a flight to Dublin with his kids, and even though he probably has a private jet he chose Ryanair. He must have a sense of humour.
Holidays are great, and they’re educational. I now know Ireland decamps to the Algarve for two months every year, everyone on our beach knows now that a tattoo of the Mona Lisa wearing a red clown nose is funny for just ten seconds, and my daughter has now learned how to spell RAF.
Holidays should be compulsory.
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Monday, August 13, 2012
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Holiday
I’ve just had a week off from work and I would love to tell you that my plan of having seven days of debauchery, lying in bed till the afternoon, getting up to have a breakfast of chocolate Easter eggs and then lying around catching up on unwatched Desperate Housewives episodes, came true. But it didn’t.
Life, sadly, doesn’t turn out the lazy way we plan, unless you’re a WAG or a politician. When the first WAG becomes an MP then the game really will be up.
I had written down loads of things to catch up and do this week, and by the weekend I had accomplished most of the important stuff on the list. I had written my quarterly fan letter to the VAT man, a distant bloke who seems never to give any love back despite the money I send him, I renewed my house insurance so my collection of single socks and dead plants are once again protected, I caught up on a few new albums, and I even dropped in on my daughter’s dance class to watch her end of term display. Being the only person not wearing a bra in the room I felt completely out of place and I waited expectantly for my Billy Elliot moment when I would suddenly jump up and join in. To my daughter’s relief, it didn’t arrive.
Last time I watched her perform it was like looking at a class of seals tapping their flippers in time to a beat that was in their heads but not on the CD. This time was magical. Suddenly they had evolved into mini grownups who actually looked like they could stay on their feet and knew that “coordination” wasn’t the street with the Rovers Return pub. I was very proud.
After the dancing I even managed to get out in my garden, although the word “garden” at the moment seems an exaggeration as it has as much colour as an X ray – unless you count the lovely green moss growing in the brown grass and spreading its joy on the patio.
Our plot is around half an acre which is large compared to a window box but small when next to, say, Beth Ditto’s drawers. It’s big enough to warrant me being out there every weekend from now till winter and I did really enjoy the first weeding, clearing and backache.
If you’re thinking “how sad that in his life that passes for fun” then you don’t understand my neighbourhood. Over the garden walls you can catch up on the gossip from the past few months while everyone has been shut indoors, and a quick try out on the kids’ trampoline means I can see what others are having for their tea or what they’re watching on telly. One neighbour even told me he’d seen things from his trampoline that would make my hair curl, and then he shut up before expanding further. I think he suddenly realised he’d seen them going on in my house.
Talking of expanding further, my proudest achievement this week is that I have finally got around to doing something about my waistline, by going back to the gym. I managed five trips this week to do cycling, running, sit ups, weights and the recovery hot chocolate, and I am now officially obsessed with exercise again.
In my mind the pounds are coming off, I no longer look pregnant, I’ll soon be able to squeeze back in to my XXXL pants again, and elasticated waistbands and smocks will be a thing of the past. I’ll even be able to throw away my new T shirt which Debbie uses as a Slanket.
Having a week off is fun. Why don’t we do it every week?
Life, sadly, doesn’t turn out the lazy way we plan, unless you’re a WAG or a politician. When the first WAG becomes an MP then the game really will be up.
I had written down loads of things to catch up and do this week, and by the weekend I had accomplished most of the important stuff on the list. I had written my quarterly fan letter to the VAT man, a distant bloke who seems never to give any love back despite the money I send him, I renewed my house insurance so my collection of single socks and dead plants are once again protected, I caught up on a few new albums, and I even dropped in on my daughter’s dance class to watch her end of term display. Being the only person not wearing a bra in the room I felt completely out of place and I waited expectantly for my Billy Elliot moment when I would suddenly jump up and join in. To my daughter’s relief, it didn’t arrive.
Last time I watched her perform it was like looking at a class of seals tapping their flippers in time to a beat that was in their heads but not on the CD. This time was magical. Suddenly they had evolved into mini grownups who actually looked like they could stay on their feet and knew that “coordination” wasn’t the street with the Rovers Return pub. I was very proud.
After the dancing I even managed to get out in my garden, although the word “garden” at the moment seems an exaggeration as it has as much colour as an X ray – unless you count the lovely green moss growing in the brown grass and spreading its joy on the patio.
Our plot is around half an acre which is large compared to a window box but small when next to, say, Beth Ditto’s drawers. It’s big enough to warrant me being out there every weekend from now till winter and I did really enjoy the first weeding, clearing and backache.
If you’re thinking “how sad that in his life that passes for fun” then you don’t understand my neighbourhood. Over the garden walls you can catch up on the gossip from the past few months while everyone has been shut indoors, and a quick try out on the kids’ trampoline means I can see what others are having for their tea or what they’re watching on telly. One neighbour even told me he’d seen things from his trampoline that would make my hair curl, and then he shut up before expanding further. I think he suddenly realised he’d seen them going on in my house.
Talking of expanding further, my proudest achievement this week is that I have finally got around to doing something about my waistline, by going back to the gym. I managed five trips this week to do cycling, running, sit ups, weights and the recovery hot chocolate, and I am now officially obsessed with exercise again.
In my mind the pounds are coming off, I no longer look pregnant, I’ll soon be able to squeeze back in to my XXXL pants again, and elasticated waistbands and smocks will be a thing of the past. I’ll even be able to throw away my new T shirt which Debbie uses as a Slanket.
Having a week off is fun. Why don’t we do it every week?
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Come Fly With Me
www.paulcoia.com
Hey it’s good to be back. I’ve just returned from an awful lot of holiday and just a little bit of time travelling.
The holiday was in Portugal’s sunny Algarve whilst the time travelling was back to the fog bound days when Britain had an empire of fat, posh people with gout who would stick their veined, bulbous, noses in the air and order the working class to lick their boots, prepare dinner and service the wife in return for a bit of floor to sleep on and a half hour off on Christmas day to get deloused.
Other than Polish builders I thought no one had to put up with that sort of condescension these days, until I went on holiday and found enough “attitude” coming my way to make me feel I’d slipped in to a Charles Dickens novel.
In going on holiday I had joined the lowest of the low, the shoeless class known as The Ordinary Unwashed Rabble In Search of a Tan, or TOURIST for short.
All year round I carry a briefcase and laptop when I get on board a plane but till now I didn’t realise that these were secret symbols of a special club or lodge where people had to be nice to you. Board a plane wearing a T shirt and a pair of shorts and dare to travel economy, and you may as well shout “I want to wipe snot on your face” as you will be ignored, pushed and pulled, and end up feeling like something the scullery maid scraped off her master’s dinner plate.
I’m not a bad person. I don’t go around kicking walking sticks away from old grannies – though I did once accidentally bump in to Joan Collins – so why were my usual smiles met by surly jobsworths from the minute I joined the conga lines waiting to check in? Why is it OK for the plane to be seven hours late and for airport shop assistants to talk to each other rather than me as I’m waiting to pay for my newspaper? Why is all eye contact with us tourists banned along with obviously obscene swear words like Thank You or You’re Welcome?
I can understand that the tourist uniform can seem scary. The men with one earring, and footie shirts strained over the belly while the missus wears gold Birkenstocks with mini denim skirt and a cropped T shirt to show off the crazy art work of stretch marks and cellulite mixed with Bruce Wayne’s Bat signal on the lower back. But we’re not all like that. We may take over beaches with strained, and stained, Speedos and our women may go topless while imagining they look like a Footballer’s wife, but they know really that unless Manchester United sign Arthur Daley they’ll never be that wife.
So, vacations are actually a two week fantasy for us Tourists. But why can’t others join in with us and go along with it?
The planes used for The Ordinary Unwashed Rabble In Search of a Tan are a bit like an old groupie that’s been passed around by many previous owners, and the trolley dollies who look down on us, sorry, look after us, are made to wear garish coloured dresses with so much cheap nylon that the static could light up Detroit for a winter. Whilst captivated by their rhythmic gum chewing perhaps I only imagined their downturned mouths and the announcement of “Please turn off any electrical devices, just as we are turning off our personalities and smiles until we can get shot of you lot”.
Tavel as a business person and you get a sandwich and a cup of coffee but travel as a tourist and everything costs more. “Oh, you want to sit do you? That will be extra sir. A cup of tea? That’s ten Euros. You want toilet paper? That will be another three Euros but it’s extra for soap and we can arrange for someone to wipe your bottom for another twenty.”
The sandwich was so stale I had to dunk it in my tea but I managed to slip the rest in a wheeled bag the passenger in front had dragged aboard to save paying for an extra piece of luggage in the hold. I’m sure he had his kids in there along with the whole family’s luggage, three inflated lilos and a hired minibus to take them from Faro airport.
As if things couldn’t get worse, the bus from the aircraft to passport control found me standing next to former politician and reality show contestant George Galloway. There’s always something that upsets your stomach on holiday isn’t there?
But I did like the welcoming attitude of the Portuguese, even down to the English language newspaper laid on at the airport to introduce us to their culture. Amongst the advice on sunscreen and binge drinking, there was a wonderful story on page ten of the Portugal News (dated 2nd August if you want to check) about a man who had shot his neighbour.
Jose Correia was jailed for the attempted murder of Jose Macedo but tried to excuse himself by saying he believed his neighbour had sodomised his cat and had turned the animal homosexual.
At least Jose had understood the necessity for those around us to join in the fun of our holiday and make us smile. Next time The Ordinary Unwashed Rabble In Search of a Tan come to town I wish someone would tell the airlines.
Hey it’s good to be back. I’ve just returned from an awful lot of holiday and just a little bit of time travelling.
The holiday was in Portugal’s sunny Algarve whilst the time travelling was back to the fog bound days when Britain had an empire of fat, posh people with gout who would stick their veined, bulbous, noses in the air and order the working class to lick their boots, prepare dinner and service the wife in return for a bit of floor to sleep on and a half hour off on Christmas day to get deloused.
Other than Polish builders I thought no one had to put up with that sort of condescension these days, until I went on holiday and found enough “attitude” coming my way to make me feel I’d slipped in to a Charles Dickens novel.
In going on holiday I had joined the lowest of the low, the shoeless class known as The Ordinary Unwashed Rabble In Search of a Tan, or TOURIST for short.
All year round I carry a briefcase and laptop when I get on board a plane but till now I didn’t realise that these were secret symbols of a special club or lodge where people had to be nice to you. Board a plane wearing a T shirt and a pair of shorts and dare to travel economy, and you may as well shout “I want to wipe snot on your face” as you will be ignored, pushed and pulled, and end up feeling like something the scullery maid scraped off her master’s dinner plate.
I’m not a bad person. I don’t go around kicking walking sticks away from old grannies – though I did once accidentally bump in to Joan Collins – so why were my usual smiles met by surly jobsworths from the minute I joined the conga lines waiting to check in? Why is it OK for the plane to be seven hours late and for airport shop assistants to talk to each other rather than me as I’m waiting to pay for my newspaper? Why is all eye contact with us tourists banned along with obviously obscene swear words like Thank You or You’re Welcome?
I can understand that the tourist uniform can seem scary. The men with one earring, and footie shirts strained over the belly while the missus wears gold Birkenstocks with mini denim skirt and a cropped T shirt to show off the crazy art work of stretch marks and cellulite mixed with Bruce Wayne’s Bat signal on the lower back. But we’re not all like that. We may take over beaches with strained, and stained, Speedos and our women may go topless while imagining they look like a Footballer’s wife, but they know really that unless Manchester United sign Arthur Daley they’ll never be that wife.
So, vacations are actually a two week fantasy for us Tourists. But why can’t others join in with us and go along with it?
The planes used for The Ordinary Unwashed Rabble In Search of a Tan are a bit like an old groupie that’s been passed around by many previous owners, and the trolley dollies who look down on us, sorry, look after us, are made to wear garish coloured dresses with so much cheap nylon that the static could light up Detroit for a winter. Whilst captivated by their rhythmic gum chewing perhaps I only imagined their downturned mouths and the announcement of “Please turn off any electrical devices, just as we are turning off our personalities and smiles until we can get shot of you lot”.
Tavel as a business person and you get a sandwich and a cup of coffee but travel as a tourist and everything costs more. “Oh, you want to sit do you? That will be extra sir. A cup of tea? That’s ten Euros. You want toilet paper? That will be another three Euros but it’s extra for soap and we can arrange for someone to wipe your bottom for another twenty.”
The sandwich was so stale I had to dunk it in my tea but I managed to slip the rest in a wheeled bag the passenger in front had dragged aboard to save paying for an extra piece of luggage in the hold. I’m sure he had his kids in there along with the whole family’s luggage, three inflated lilos and a hired minibus to take them from Faro airport.
As if things couldn’t get worse, the bus from the aircraft to passport control found me standing next to former politician and reality show contestant George Galloway. There’s always something that upsets your stomach on holiday isn’t there?
But I did like the welcoming attitude of the Portuguese, even down to the English language newspaper laid on at the airport to introduce us to their culture. Amongst the advice on sunscreen and binge drinking, there was a wonderful story on page ten of the Portugal News (dated 2nd August if you want to check) about a man who had shot his neighbour.
Jose Correia was jailed for the attempted murder of Jose Macedo but tried to excuse himself by saying he believed his neighbour had sodomised his cat and had turned the animal homosexual.
At least Jose had understood the necessity for those around us to join in the fun of our holiday and make us smile. Next time The Ordinary Unwashed Rabble In Search of a Tan come to town I wish someone would tell the airlines.
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