Problems in Portugal
Retreating from a Writers' Retreat
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While I was on vocal rest, I decided to finally take my dad’s offer of staying at his place in Portugal. I don’t come from a family of holiday homes, but dad really knocked it out of the park with his third wife. The villa was promised to be quiet and tranquil. It was the idyllic setting to get some writing done: sitcoms, stand-up, and additional material for Drag Race. However, my dad forgot to mention that while he wasn’t staying there, about five builders and five hot-air balloons' worth of dust would be.
In classic self-employment style, the one time I made myself unavailable for work, loads of work came in. This isn’t meant as a humble brag; I just don’t think this is a worry that people on PAYE have as much. Two big self-tapes came in, one for a major movie and another for a returning HBO show. Without my go-to readers to help record the scenes, I had to ask the Portuguese builders, who, without hesitation, greedily agreed. It doesn’t take much to get them to stop working. They would start work at 9am and be in the bar by 11am because they 'were letting the paint dry.' Which was fine, but they were doing a patio.
Adding to the bohemianism of the self-tape, we had to record it on the roof terrace of the villa as it was the only place where I could breathe. For legal reasons, I can’t tell you about the project that I auditioned for, but I think I can tell you that none of its scenes, unlike mine, have a distant Fado band playing in them.
Even as I type this, I hear how gross this sounds. My favourite part of going on holiday is the people. Yuck. I promise I’m not about to profess the generosity and kinship of strangers. The last 13 years have seen me working with the general public. I hold as much love for them as I do toe-flavoured pretzels.. But you’re different.
Whether it’s the unshackling of work conformity, something happens to people on holiday that lets their oddities come to play for all. I suspect it’s either the climate or something in those Wetherspoon-Airport pints.
I met many people that were both equally fantastic and bonkers. I’ll likely spread over the coming weeks or bring it into my stand-up. FYI - Previews for the new show start next month, so look out. I want to tell you about these two though: The Nutter and The Legend.
The Nutter: Bin Bag Lady
At the first bar I went to in Porto, an elderly woman walked in wearing a plastic Lidl bag like a balaclava, with two eye holes and another lower hole where presumably she believed her mouth would be. I don’t know which took me longer to compute: the elderly woman wearing a plastic balaclava or the Bag-for-Life with a human pair of eyes and chin. A part of me wishes she were a robber. Imagine it: 'Hands where I can see them! Put the money in the bag – ah, fuck, it’s on my head.'
She swiftly removed her balaclava, with the showmanship of an inventor unveiling their latest invention, to reveal her classic grandma haircut: a thinning dyed bob infused with enough hairspray to fumigate a terraced house. I was mesmerised, not only by her, but by everyone else’s lack of mesmerisation. An OAP has just walked in here like a member of Kneecap?! Am I the only one seeing this? The couples kept flirting, the bartenders kept tending, and the loners kept watching the couples flirt. No one flinched.
Apparently just as confused as I was, she snorted and sauntered to the bar, perching herself next to me. I forgot to mention, I was sitting at the bar. (It’s a tendency of mine to sit at bars by myself when abroad. I eavesdrop on people ordering and try to pick up foreign words that I might understand. It’s a weird habit, but if you’re doing me the favour of reading this, I might as well be vulnerable.) Swept up in the have-a-laugh holiday spirit, I swivelled and said, “I am so sorry to ask, but why do you wear a plastic bag over your head?” “Because of my hair, darling. Of course,” she replied, in an impressive tone that exuded both belittlement and smugness. “But it’s not raining or windy,” I contested. “You never know when it might drizzle and blow.” I thought she had said ‘dribble and blow’ and had to immediately wrestle my reflex from making a knob gag. This time willpower triumphed, just. “But it’s supposed to be sunny all week. That’s why I’ve come here.”
“Honey, there’s two things I don’t trust in this world: The weather and men, so believe when I say, I ain’t listening the fucking weatherman”. Touché.
We had a drink together, and it quickly became apparent that she distrusted much more than just men and weather. I hate to break it to you, but it turns out bigotry is everywhere these days. Not only was her balaclava reusable, but so was the Daily Mail vomit coming out of her. When people say, 'Hope you bring the sun,' she must have thought they meant the paper.
It was only when she reached her third damning minority appraisal that I realised why none of the locals paid her any attention. You know you’re in trouble when being known as the ‘Bin Bag Lady’ is the least of people’s qualms with you. I made my excuses and left. Did I pay for her drink? Of course I did. Even though I am a massive eat-the-rich, fuck-landlords, dismantle-the-monarchy, woke liberal, I don’t always call out hate when I see it. Sometimes I buy the aggressor drinks. Sorry.
The Legend: Billy Joel
This passage is going to be brief, but not because there isn’t much to say; rather, there is so much to say that I am still processing it and trying to determine the best way of presenting this encounter. This is going to sound superlative, but I haven’t made such a strong and rewarding purely platonic friendship that quickly and deeply since childhood. Even in that short period, just a week, there were scattered transformative, reassuring, and beatific moments.
In Porto, I met this elderly gentleman, in his mid-80s, but with the sprightliness of a man half his age. As an ex-miner, he wore his wisdom on his face, and his experience on his hands. If you were asked to draw a granddad, you’d draw him. But there was a lingering residue of gruff charm; he’d definitely turned heads and tables. Forget a Zimmer frame; the only frame this chap needed was a picture frame, because that’s how he composed himself. Well presented, assured and ready to be looked at.
You know how, no matter their years, a cheeky chap always has that glint in his eye? Well, his eyes were beaming. He told me this story, and I laughed so hard that the bartender asked me to ‘take whatever this is outside.’ A lot of this is going to be purposefully vague for the sake of anonymity. You’ll see why soon. Afterwards, we nicknamed him Billy Joel, so let’s just go with that.
Back in the 80s, Billy spent all his hard-earned pit money on a Jaguar XJS that he had no business owning, all for the sole purpose of picking up women. Unfortunately, he was doing so well that the upkeep of the car was becoming unaffordable.
Then, on a fateful early Saturday morning, as he was returning from one of his romantic rendezvous back to his wife, he only mentioned his wife at that point to us as well: a sheep walked into the road, causing Billy to swerve and scratch his car from bumper to bumper along a stone wall. He didn’t need to look at the damage to know that the car was a write-off. He just sat there screaming, 'Fuck off.' I don’t think the sheep understood what he was saying, but it got the message.
Billy was in a pickle. He couldn’t tell his wife about the crash because then she’d know about the cheating. Also, he couldn’t sell the car because it was no better than scrap. Backed into a corner, and with both his wallet and balls on the line, a plan began to form. He would fake a robbery, burn the car, and claim the insurance back. A classic car deserves a classic con. But he couldn’t do it there on the road; he’d be spotted. Even the countryside, usually a hotbed for nefarious deeds seeking the escape of judgemental eyes, was a no-go as it was filled with morning walkers. Healthy bastards. “Where is it quiet on a weekend?”
Then, also remembering that he was supposed to be seeing his kids that weekend, again that’s when to decided to first mention them to us too, the final piece of the puzzle found it’s place. SCHOOLS. Of course, no one is at school on the weekend. As quickly as he jumped into bed with another woman, he jumped into his car and drove to the nearest school.
Despite his car now being a moving cacophony of scrapes and crunches, he got to the school car park unspotted. Time was of the essence. Working at top speed, he sprinted to the petrol station around the corner to nick a jerrycan of petrol. While running to the petrol station, Billy noticed the street stirring worryingly into life. '“But no one is supposed to be up now!” thought Billy. On his return to the car park, Billy started to hear the smattering of closing doors. Oh no.
Not even allowing himself time to breathe, Billy doused his once-beloved Jaguar XJS with fuel. He frantically searched for his matches. He found them. He struck a match. Then he stood, flame in hand, like a miner's appropriation of the Statue of Liberty. Just allowing himself a fleeting glance to say goodbye to his dream car while an life-changing ember abseiling towards his fist.
Suddenly, the school’s main doors flung open. A score of people carrying signs and clipboards poured out. “Oh no,” thought Billy, twigging the full severity of his mistake. “It’s fucking Election Day.”
Looking to carry out his criminal activities in a quiet place, with discretion in mind, Billy had, in reality, arranged and driven his car, Burning Van, to the busiest place in town. He quickly stubbed out the match on the floor with his boot, and, trying to avoid drawing attention from the car wreck, walked towards the school, pretending to be an eager voter. It was the first and only time he’s ever voted.
Later, he had to push his broken car home, scared that turning the car on would spark something in the engine, thus setting the car on fire. Though, burning down a polling station might distract from the cheating. Returning home in yesterday’s clothes with a broken car, and smelling of petrol does comes across as suspicious. That day, Billy lost his wife, dream car and any desire to be part of this country’s democratic process.
Have you worked out why we called him Billy Joel yet? Because he didn’t start the fire.
See ya next week
But did he try to fight it? 😊