Albufeira 2016 Journal
Oh no, here we go again. It’s time for another travel journal. This one takes us to the south coast of Portugal, but first there’s a gig to go to and a little history.
See, this trip almost didn’t happen. I was off work for most of the week during the build-up to it because of problems with my teeth. On the Thursday, the pain was so bad that even cocodamol barey took the edge off it. The only thing that helped was if I filled my mouth with cold water and rinsed it around, but it needed replacing every minute or so because otherwise the pain was just unbearable. I looked it up and basically the issue was that I had an infection and it had spread to the root of the tooth. The tooth was dead but the nerve wasn’t, hence the pain, and cold water reduced the temperature and therefore the pressure and the pain.
Luckily, after staying up all night on Tuesday because of the water in the mouth thing, I was able to get an emergency appointment at 10:15 AM. I went in, had my face numbed and the damn thing pulled out of my face, and was out of there by 11:30. I went home and promptly passed out.
That pretty much sorted out the toothache, although I was given antibiotics and ordered not to smoke for two days or to drink for a week. Bit of a bummer, considering the timing.
All of this brings us up to Thursday 1st December. It was a surreal day. I went back to work after not being able to do much all week, but then everyone left at about three to go to the airport and, from there, to Albufeira. But I had something else to do first, so I stayed at the office and got to say one of the last goodbyes to Josefina – who was in on her last day because she’s basically being deported – and to be the last person out of the office with Ryan, who locked up.
While everyone else was on their way to the airport, I had to catch the early bus home to sort my house out – I’d brought the mattress through into the living room so I could at least be comfortable while I was in pain. I had to move that back, bring the bins in and do a few other boring admin bits, and I also had to finish packing my stuff for Albufeira.
With that done, I locked up and headed to the train station. Of course, as is always the way when I want to get somewhere, there were delays – a train had broken down between Wycombe and London. Still, I got to Marylebone eventually, where I met Becca and ate a bagel. Solid food, woohoo!
From Marylebone, we hopped on the tube to Highbury and Islington, only to discovery when we got off that the O2 Academy Islington is about a mile away from the station. Should’ve got off at Angel! But still, we got to the venue just before nine, and they even had a cloak room so I could put my bag down for a while.
Even though we arrived way later than we’d planned to, we still arrived in time to see some of the support acts, although I didn’t catch their names. The first was a young ska band from Birmingham who were awesome – very charismatic, and with an interesting mix o influences and three people in the brass section. I’ll have to give it a Google and check out some more of their stuff. They were followed by an old (60 ish?) guy who kept on shouting, “Yeah, yeah!” into a microphone while playing reggae tunes. It was one of the strangest (and most cringeworthy) things I’ve seen in my life, but the crowd loved it. I did not – I snuck outside for a cigarette – but I guess I can see why they put him on. Comedy value.
And then it was time for Dub Pistols, the main event. I’ve seen them three or four times before, including at Glastonbury, but this was the first time I’d ever been sober. Luckily, they still put on a great show – despite Dave Vader’s bass malfunctioning at the start of the set and forcing them to adlib – and it proved that you don’t have to be wrecked to enjoy their music, although it helps. They’re all from London and proud of their London roots, and so the gig was a bit of a homecoming show. They played most of the tunes that I know and love, as well as Peaches (which I’ve never seen them do before) and a new one from their upcoming album.
It was a great show, but it was almost half eleven by the time that they finished and by the time that we got to Waterloo, Becca had already missed her last train home. Luckily, she was able to hop on to another one that took her most of the way, and then she hopped into a taxi. I, meanwhile, was in London.
Drunk, Sad or Tired
This is London,
midnight
as December 1st
becomes December 2nd.
The people dance
while buskers play
Oasis songs;
a homeless guy
asks me for change
and I say,
“Mate, I’m sorry,
I can’t help you.”
I like to watch people
on the underground.
I like how
the light makes
everyone look ugly;
I like to play drunk,
sad or tired.
You see,
you’ll look at the eyes
and find
they’re always one,
two or the other.
The drunks
wear high-heeled shoes
or take off their ties
and undo
their top button.
The sad people
stare doey-eyed
at night
in particular.
The tired people
look like the sad people
and the drunks
and they can’t stop yawning
or checking their watches.
London,
I love you;
you remind me
I’m mostly insignificant.
Tonight,
I shall mostly
be tired.
But by that point it was past midnight, and so…
Friday 2nd December 2016
With Becca on her way back home, I was ready to head to the airport, so I took the tube to Victoria and then hopped on the 1 AM to Brighton, alighting at Gatwick just before two. It gave me a strange sense of déjà vu because I’ve spent the night in the North Terminal before, one of the times I went to Amsterdam. I ended up sitting in the same place that I sat before, where I wrote ‘Automatic Po-Po’ – one of the poems from Eyes Like Lighthouses When the Boats Come Home.
Spending the Night at Gatwick
Waiting again,
this time at Gatwick Airport
North Terminal,
right by Jamie Oliver’s
cafeteria.
I’ve been here
before.
I’ve written here
Before.
It’s funny how
that’s how
I remember it;
I’m on the same seats
at the same time
maybe two years later;
once more
with no gun-toting
automatic po-po.
A woman is asleep
on the seats beside me;
she curled into
an E’s mirror image
because these charts
have arm rests,
in case you want
to rest your arms.
If you want
to stretch and sleep,
you’re out of luck.
Still,
I’ve got a good book,
and pens and paper
to write me another.
Let’s see,
“Once upon
a time…”
I only had to wait for a couple of hours before check-in, and so I kicked back and wrote in here, reading a little Peter James whenever my hand started to cramp. I also had to buy some new earphones (£5.99, so not too bad) because Becca took my headphones for safekeeping and forgot to give them back before she left. But the time just flew by, and soon I was heading through security.
I thought I’d done a good job of obeying the rules, but then my bag was taken aside and tested for explosives because I’m a fool and forgot to get rid of my bottle of water. But security were cool about it and it didn’t take me long for me to finish making my way through and to head to Wetherspoons. I couldn’t have a beer, but I did get a coffee for £2.20 which included unlimited refills. I had three cups, because caffeine.
Unlimited Refills
4:30 AM
at The Red Lion
Wetherspoons Gatwick
and I don’t know about youy
but I could use
a drink right now.
Alas,
I’m on antibiotics,
and while I love me a drink
I haven’t slept a wink
and one doesn’t just
drink alone in an airport
at 4:30 AM,
don’tchaknow?
Fortunately,
filter coffee’s
£2.25
with unlimited refills
until 2 PM.
I like to think
that’s a challenge.
The nice lady
at security
asked me why
my boss booked my tickets;
I said my boss booked my tickets
because your smile is nice,
or maybe I’m thinking
of someone else.
Yeah,
probably someone else;
she was helpful,
though.
Like the man
who checked my bag
for explosives
because I forgot
to remove
my water bottle.
My gate was called after the third cup, so I headed through to board the aeroplane. The flight itself was uneventful, except for when the pilot tried to land, screwed it up and had to loop around for another pass. Besides, I slept through most of it, if you can call it sleep. My main regret was that I didn’t buy a drink; I tried to, but I could only find a vending machine and it didn’t like me. Wouldn’t take my money.
After landing, some time around nine-ish, I made my way through passport control (eventually) and then immediately went out for a cigarette. Then, with that out of the way, I bought a drink (at last), nipped to the toilet and then found a taxi so I could head over to the hotel. Mark had given me 25 euros to cover it, but I guess he underestimated how much it would cost…
In the Back of a Taxi
I spent the flight
reading a crime novel
about a rapist
who drove a taxi…
Then
I made my way
through passport control,
smoked my first cigarette
in approximately six hours,
urinated
in a stall so narrow
I couldn’t fit my shoulders in,
bought a bottle of water,
took my medication
and jumped
in the back
of a taxicab.
I have no idea
where I’m going
and I hope
I don’t
get molested.
The driver speaks
English,
which is good;
I’m the typical
English tourist
with no knowledge
of basic
Portuguese.
It also means
he tried to talk to me,
mainly to say
it’s meant to rain
today.
I guess taxi chat
is the same
in every country.
But now
I’m on my way
to Albufeira,
and the air smells
very different here.
And everything seems
so peaceful.
Still, I made it to the hotel okay and didn’t have any problems checking into my room. I had a twin room to myself because Kelvyn’s couldn’t come, and it had a great view of the pool out back and the sea in the distance. It’s a lovely little hotel, but I didn’t have a chance to enjoy it later on. I just had time to shower, change and unpack before I left again to meet up with people in the lobby.
They weren’t there when I first checked – they were all hungover and so people were running late – and so I had a quick wander down the street to get some tobacco and to find my bearings. By the time I got back, people had started to gather, and it wasn’t long until we headed off to Sol Rosa.
It was a lovely little place, a terrace bar with a sea view, and fst paid for drinks and for a tapas lunch which, while reasonably tasty, wasn’t particularly filling. To begin with, I stuck to soft drinks, but it wasn’t long before I figured ‘fuck it’ and had a beer. I eased in to begin with, alternating between alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, but it quickly became apparent that mixing booze and antibiotics was having no noticeable side-effects and so I decided to commit myself and to go all out on the beer.
It was my first real chance to catch up with people, although there was no particular gossip. The main thing was that Becky had a burn on her forehead because Charlotte accidentally stabbed her in the face with a cigarette. After a few drinks, we even had the bright idea to play football on the beach, even though it was raining. We played barefoot and my team won 5-4 – I was in goal and people said I was man of the match. They also want me to play for fst Athletic once we’re back in the UK. I got sand all over the place though, and I also ended up with a huge rip on the back of my jeans from my arse down to my knees.
After the game, we had another beer and then headed back to the hotel for another (much needed) shower. It started raining on the way back and carried on raining – on and off – for the rest of the weekend. Then we headed downstairs to the Dog and Duck – the hotel’s in-house boozer, basically an English style pub on the bottom floor – to have a few drinks while we gathered the crew and prepared to head out.
For dinner, we went to a place called ‘Urban Pizza’, where they had a band playing Johnny Cash tunes while you ate. I was able to game the system – it was cheaper to order the vegetarian pizza and get extra mushrooms than it was just to order the funghi pizza. It was delicious, even though it had olives on it. Annalize had the same pizza, and she also hates olives, but she agreed that it was tasty as hell and so I got my third-party confirmation. I also put some chilli oil on it, which helped, although it probably wasn’t the best idea when it comes to my teeth.
Charlotte, meanwhile, ordered a calzone but asked them not to fold it. So a pizza, then.
From there, everything starts to get a little hazy. After the food was finished, we headed into a bar called Route 55, which had a police car mounted on the wall and live music. It was dead when we arrived, but we all went a bit mental and the band got more into it as a result. They even got heavier and did some Metallica and Nirvana after we requested it. Kerryn and I gave ourselves neckache from headbanging, half of the company went crowd surfing, and Cicely tried to stage dive and ended up falling off the stage and bruising her legs instead.
I left at about 2 AM because I was exhausted – I’d been up for 42 hours by then and needed some sleep. For some reason, though, I decided against a taxi and decided to walk home, alone, in the rain. As you can probably imagine, I was ready for bed when I got back.
Saturday 3rd December 2016
I didn’t wake up until 1:30 PM, by which point everyone else had already got up and gone about doing their activities. I downed a bottle of water from the hotel minibar, took my medication, showered off as much of the hangover as possible and then went for a little walk.
It didn’t take long for the hangover to properly kick in, and I was also sore from headbanging and playing football. My first stop was the supermarket for some juice and pain au chocolat; then, I went through some of the different tourist shops to get gifts and shit. For myself, I got an Albufeira t-shirt and a ‘Pug Life’ lighter and bottle opener. For my mom, a fridge magnet and a couple of postcards, plus a bookmark. And for Becca, a postcard, a purse made from cork (a local tradition), a set of colouring pencils, some hand-made olive soap and the toiletries from the hotel bathroom.
With shopping done and my wallet considerably lighter, I stopped off at an ATM and then paid a visit to McDonalds. Portuguese McDonalds are weird. You order on a self-service machine and can get beer, and they had a bank of a dozen or so iPads for kids to play on. I ordered a McVeggie meal with a pineapple Fanta, which is apparently a thing. It was fricken delicious, and so now I’m annoyed that it doesn’t seem to exist anywhere else. Sorted my hangover right out.
I ate it back in my room while watching a car restoration show on the Discovery Channel. I still hadn’t seen anyone, and I was about to have a relaxing bath with my Peter James book when the cleaner knocked on the door and turfed me out of the room. I tried to get her to go away, but she didn’t understand English and so I gave up and went to the Dog and Duck instead.
Rage, Rave and Rain
Don’t rage at the rain
or at the aches and pains
of a hangover brain,
and don’t go to Spain
when you could go
to Portugal.
My bowels
are irritable,
and so are
my throat
and my liver.
My lungs?
Forget ‘em,
they’ve gone on strike,
and now I’m trying to breathe
without breathing.
But it’s all fine
I think
I don’t know
how my body
works;
sometimes,
I sometimes think
it doesn’t.
Don’t rage at the rain
because the rain
ain’t rainin’;
not anymore,
now the palm trees
are blowing
in the wind.
That’s the answer,
my friend;
we’re all just
migratory birds
travelling south
for the winter.
Thank you
RyanAir –
you make
human flight
possible,
and you’re
reasonably priced
to boot.
I still
hate flying,
though.
Charlotte and Jessica were already down there, along with Becky Yates, who was feeling better after spending Friday in bed with food poisoning. We chatted literal shit for a while – Jessica had a story about an ex-boyfriend and a toilet brush that I’d love to repeat but probably shouldn’t – and I had my first pint of the day to ease myself in. Then we all headed upstairs to get ready, which for me involved taking a bath and reading my Peter James book.
Blind Bitter
Blind bitter
biting badly
burned butter
big buildings
better built
before birth.
Bastard brothers
breaking bread
before being
briefly badgered
because bored
babies buy
blind bitter
biting badly.
Brilliant beauty
being bearable
by borrowing
Bryan Bilston’s
book beside
Borders’ bright
borders but
bad bibliophiles
buy backwards
before bribing
blind bitter
biting badly.
Beatles beat
beetles because
beetles bleed
blue but
Beatles bleed
bright blood
by being
brilliant bassists
basically being
broken by
Belgian burglars
because Belgian
burglars beat
both beetles
by brewing
blind bitter
biting badly.
Biting badly
blind bitter
barrel bottoms
before bread
blames beer
by being
bloated brown
burning big
bad burps
brought by
blind bitter
biting badly.
Bite big
baby boy.
Bite big
bad boring
blind bitter
bitting badly.
When I headed back down again, I had a little time to write in my journal before Kerryn showed up, and people started filtering down shortly afterwards. We had enough time for a quick drink and a chat – while someone played jazz guitar for a little background noise – before we had to head off for dinner.
The place that we ate at was a seafood restaurant with fairly limited choices. In fact, there was only one veggie starter and one veggie main, and they were basically the same. The main was just the salad I had as a starter with some sort of stuffed pastry to accompany it. But the food was good and so was the company, even if there were one or two people starting to flag after too much heavy drinking.
It was almost midnight by the time we finished eating, but it was the last night and so we headed back to Route 66, because we have a habit of repeating ourselves on Christmas parties. But it wasn’t as good there on the Saturday, and so we doubled back on ourselves and went to a different place, also called Route 66, which they went to on the first night while I was put watching Dub Pistols.
Luckily, it was a good night out. It was a karaoke night, and so I ended up singing Torn by Natalie Imbruglia (in the wrong key) and Merry Xmas Everybody by Slade with Annalize, as you do. I was on an early flight back in the morning, but that didn’t stop me from staying out until closing time before passing out at 5 AM.
Sunday 4th December 2016
I managed to sneak in a whopping two hours of sleep before getting up at 7, getting my shit together and checking out of the room. I was heading back with Dan and Aisha (a new recruit) and so we met up in reception and then hopped into the back of a taxi.
No New Poems
No new poems
because new poems
take time
and time
is a commodity
that’s left me
a short
supply.
I was exhausted of course, but the flight wasn’t too bad – we had just enough time to have a coffee before heading through security, and not long after that we boarded. There was a bit of a delay before we left because the air conditioning smelled like something was burning and so they had to get an engineer just to check it was all okay, and a kid was crying for most of the flight. Luckily, I had my headphones, and so I put a little music on and dozed the flight away.
We landed at around 1 PM UK time, and Super Mark had booked a taxi in advance and so I had time for a quick cigarette before we hopped in. It dropped us off at the office in Marlow, but I’d missed my bus and so I took the chance to stay for one last pint at the Cross Keys before heading home. The adventure was over… at least until next year…
