Day One: Madness

 

03:01. Bloomster Awakes

03:01. "Get Some" time alert

03:09. Everyone goes for a piss

03:10. Steve goes for a second piss

04:15. Bugger, it's time to get up.

 

After banging out a few hours kip at Dan's Putney cardboard shack, Dave and I were awoken by the death rattle of the TB infected Bloomster. The Webb brothers were duly woken so as not to feel left out. A few minutes more kip before all hands to the pumps and on route to Stanstead, a local airport for those deniers of Cambridgeshire. ie not Cumbria, Yorkshire, Sussex, Oxford or London. Never mind.

Left an English Pea Souper to fly into Lisbon's glorious sunshine. Met by Monkey Man at the Arrivals lounge who took us to a local rendering plant. Expected El Bloom to be made to swim through a trough of disinfectant, but luckily we got half our motor allowance, the Webb brothers scored a Fiat "You have a women's car" Punto. Then back to the airport for Andy and Dave to stare at a bit of Lisbon Airport totty for half an hour before she gave us a Renault "Goes like shit off a shovel" Clio. Oh and she had a cracking pair of norks visible through a diaphanous blouse. Nice.

So onwards. Not having read the Portuguese highway code (do they have one???) I felt duty bound to ignore any traffic signals or road etiquette. Eventually arrived at the fleapit meeting point, where our hosts, two English ex-pats, Christine and her husband Mad Bob McMad, winner of last years Tomar Mr. Mad competition were waiting. We were duly ushered into the backroom of the café, beer and mucho chicken was ordered and the shite began to flow. Christine left us with Bob and of load of Bill Hickey local guitar strummers. Bob began to describe 1. How to make bombs from brake fluid and chlorine: 2. How brandy can cure cancer: 3. How 2 liters of red wine a day keeps the doctor at bay, "It's good for your legs, your stomach, your ears, your lungs". "Your lungs?" questioned a Pendle unbeliever. "Yes," replied Bob, "It aids the circulation...." What ???????????????

Well, finally we left the café, not before stocking up with a crate of Super Bock beer, then on to the villa. Bob was keen that we didn't dehydrate in the Portuguese sun and insisted we drink ourselves into oblivion. All of Pendles finest duly took their places by the pool and got well and truly wankered. Eventually all the beer was drunk, so Weaner and I were dispatched for re-supply at the local shop. We had to drive and we were initially wary of the strict drink-drive laws in Portugal. Not to fear!!! Bob suggested all was ok and that if we were pulled, that sucking on a 20 escudos coin would beat the rozzers breath box.

 

Back at the ranch Bob let us know that he was an Africa old hand and had campaign medals through from the Boer War to helping FW Boata out with a few recalcitrant darkies (they don't like it up em you know). Having mentioned to Bob that I was off to Africa myself soon, he insisted that I be vaccinated against Smallpox..!!! He then transferred his medical knowledge to the Yorkshire Rattler, who was looking 110% in his blue suede shoes and natty cardy He prescribed (yes you guessed it)!!!Brandy!!..and plenty of it !!!

Andy

Mad Bob McMad of Tomar (AP)

 

Dave had done us proud. Not only had he booked a veritable palace of a villa, complete with swimming pool, bidet full of white port, leather chairs, fridge of beer, the Swedish netball team etc etc but, he had put in the advance work to locate, cross examine and secure the services of Portugal's biggest freak. Mad Bob Mutton Boy McMad was a top clan freak, grade one with oak leaf clusters. Bob had been released to care-in-a-community-of-cavers from the high security Tomar hospital for the facially infected. He was later to introduce us to his son, CJ, who had yet to develop the facial scurf of his father, but was evidently at least half cod as he thrashed around the pool diving for scraps and crumbs.

Mad Bob with his reading specs

Mad Bob entertaining friends

Drunken madness

Drunken madness

More drunken madness

 

Later we went to a local Bill Hickey bar where we ate more lard, drunk more beer and listened to Bob tell us about how many nig-nogs he'd blown away and how to cure malaria by rubbing yourself in goose fat and scotch whilst drinking brandy. All the members of the now incapacitated PISS later made it back to the villa for a debrief and some much needed kip.

What a first day!!

Simon