Portugal 2009 - Day 1

It’s the early hours of Monday June 1^st and we’re off on a three day city break to Lisbon followed by seven days on the coast at Estoril. The flights and hotels are booked and we’re going to make our own way in Portugal using their apparently excellent and cheap public transport. On the way to Heathrow we managed to miss the turning to ‘Long Term Parking’ three times so it doesn’t bode too well for finding our way around Portugal does it?

We arrived at Lisbon airport and found the right bus to take us to the city centre and our hotel but there were a lot of people seemingly doing the same as us. We clambered on board with our cases and Pauline immediately spotted a couple of seats right at the back of the bus and while I struggled to put the cases on one of the luggage racks at the front of the bus she rushed to the back to get the seats. It didn’t help that all the time I was case struggling there was a constant stream of people boarding and packing out the bus – standing room only. By the time I reached Pauline at the back I was already hot, bothered and bewildered and it was only about one hour into the holiday.

“Do we know where to get off?” I said.

“Of course, I’ve got the instructions here, it has all the stops on the route,” said Pauline.

The bus had a small overhead display screen that showed the stops and there was a pre-recorded announcement in Portuguese telling us the stop as well. I couldn’t really understand the announcement and I couldn’t read the display so a fat lot of good that all was. I relied on Pauline to dig me in the ribs when it was our stop which brought to an end me constantly asking her if we were there yet and was she sure she knew when our stop would appear. As the bus progressed it got more and more crowded with luggage being stacked in the racks on top of ours. I noticed that you had to get off the bus from the door at the back and when it was our stop I had to struggle down the length of the bus to get the cases and then fight my way through to the back again to get off. All this time there was a constant stream of people with luggage moving up and down, some getting on from the front, others getting off at the back, with me in the middle chucking cases in the air in an attempt to find ours before rushing to the open doors at the back before they closed and we drove off again.

Nobody said “Let me help you” and nobody got out of the way when they saw me careering towards them with two out of control suitcases until I’d bashed into them a few times and only then did they make the smallest of movements to let me pass. I got off the bus even more hot, bothered and bewildered than I was at the beginning.

Luckily the hotel was only a couple of streets away from the bus stop and right in the centre of things so at least we didn’t have far to walk.

After checking in we took a tram to the Alfama district. This is the oldest area in Lisbon and is situated at the top of a steep hill. Taking the tram up there and walking down seemed like an excellent idea. Alfama is a collection of ancient homes, squares and narrow cobbled streets topped off by the Castle of St. George, surrounded by a dry moat and with far-reaching views of the city below.

Portugal 2009 - Day 2

We were coming down in the lift with a German man and his wife when the man suddenly and without warning said, “Are you in best condition?” When we looked surprised and replied, “Best condition?” he said, “Yes, are you both in best condition? Oh, do you not say in English are you in best condition?” We said, “No.” He said, “What never?” We said, “Not really.” He said, “Oh, sorry.”

Luckily we never saw him again.

Some foreign man at the breakfast buffet counter hesitantly picked up a slice of bread in his hand, realised he should be using the tongs provided, fumbled the bread and dropped it on the floor. Then in a completely useless gesture to hygiene used the tongs to pick it up from the floor and left it on the side of the counter.

We decided to visit the traditional old centre of the city. Lisbon is very hilly so rather than climb up to it we went looking for the Bica Funicular which would whiz us up there in no time. Pauline had her map of the city so we knew we were walking in the right direction, even recognising some of the street names as we passed, but could we find this bloody Funicular thing? Blimey, you’d think there would be some signs pointing in the right direction at least but there was nothing until we walked past a hole in the wall. Suddenly Pauline said, “That’s it!” And it was. About two feet inside this hole was a small ticket barrier and a narrow track rising ahead of us at about 60 degrees with the small carriage of the Funicular clattering down towards us. We waited patiently while the driver and passengers got off and then started to get on. There weren’t too many of us which was just as well as it only had six rows of seats which took three people at a pinch. Two Germans pushed their way into the front row of seats and settled down with their cameras ready. Being German, they filled the row of seats so completely it was like a wall of flabby flesh blocking the only view we had out of the front of the carriage. They were fiddling with their cameras, framing preliminary shots and generally preparing themselves for the photo opportunity of a lifetime when a couple of Portuguese men got on at the last minute and stood on a small platform right in front of them. No photos for these pushy Germans after all. And it gave me a feeling of intense satisfaction.

As we ascended, clattering up the steep incline, the track was flanked either side by houses with front doors that opened directly onto the track. There was about a two foot gap between the walls of the houses and the carriage and people were using the gap to walk up and down as the Funicular progressed. One man was walking behind us holding on to a handle on the back of the carriage getting a helping hand up the slope. No health and safety rules in this part of the country then.

Once we reached the top Pauline got out her map which showed a particular area and a suggested walk to take us past many buildings of interest. We walked around trying to find the street names but they’d either moved the streets overnight or the map wasn’t up to much because, as usual, we wandered around for ages in the heat getting absolutely nowhere until quite by chance we happened upon a street that was shown on the map in the suggested walk guide. Now we knew where we were and could start following the walk on the map but by then, the so-called buildings of interest didn’t interest us and we’d spent so much time trouping about, bumping into other tourists looking at their maps with puzzled looks on their faces that we decided to call it a day. Rather than get the Funicular back down to the city centre we opted for a lift which trundled us down in a few minutes.

By this time it was around 3 pm so after a quick bite to eat we hopped on a bus to Belem. Belem is another distinct area of Lisbon and situated on the banks of the River Tagus and it was here, apparently, that many explorers set sail for Africa and America. It also has far too many museums for its own good. A bit of culture’s all right on holiday but it would take you at least a week to see this lot even if you wanted to…and we didn’t.

It was here that my highlight of the day occurred when I saw a man out walking his three-legged dog. Every time he cocked his leg he fell over. Not the man silly, his dog. No, he didn’t really but the dog did have three legs and fortunately the missing leg was at the front so weeing wasn’t so much of a problem after all.

There are quite a few amputee beggars about the streets of Lisbon. As we passed one amputee beggar with one arm, he appeared to be preparing to get up and move on. “See if he needs a hand.” I said to Pauline. “Don’t be stupid,” she said as I walked away chuckling to myself. Further along we passed another beggar (this one had the full complement of limbs) sitting cross-legged on his blanket with the smallest, cutest, cuddliest dog sitting on his lap holding a small metal bucket in its mouth for donations. The dog sat motionless with huge beautiful brown eyes pleading for attention. “Aaah,” said Pauline immediately reaching for her purse, “I’ve got to give that man something.”

“Don’t,” I said, “if he’s that hungry he can eat his bloody dog.”

I saw Sralan Sugar having a cigarette outside a bar today. What? It could have been him. Why not? This bloke was certainly short, ugly and unshaven enough to have been him. And anyway, why wouldn’t Sralan have a bar in Portugal as part of his business empire? He doesn’t seem to do much else. Apart from rubbishy computers that are no longer being made and a ‘revolutionary’ internet phone that nobody wanted because it was even more rubbish than his computers and is only ever seen these days strategically placed on the desk of his receptionist in The Apprentice and who pretends to answer it every week with the words ‘Sralan will see you now’ – what has he done? Talk about product placement.

Hang on, I’ve just remembered. I’ll tell you what else Sralan’s done: The one thing he’s done is to stick one of his apprentice winners into a top job of marketing an Amstrad beauty device that pumps electricity into your face. (Look it up). How could it possibly fail? A product entering the image sensitive health and beauty market, a smoke and mirrors world with a brand name mostly associated with green screen 1980s word processors and a very gruff ugly man with a stubbly beard. How could it fail? And it pumps electricity into your face? How could it possibly fail?

In order to overcome the image problem, they gave this revolutionary health and beauty product a very Sloaney name of Integra Face Care System. Face Care System. That’s Caring. Systematically. For your face. The £130 (look it up) Integra applies electricity to the face (mostly “on a sub sensory level” – that is, you can’t feel it doing anything) to “improve circulation and muscle relaxation by varying the shapes of the impulses or waveforms” (‘waveforms’ – a word that does not exist but presumably helps your face turn wavier), thus providing “stimulation by micro-current for you to treat your own face in the comfort of your own home”.

I’m feeling visibly more beautiful just thinking about it.

And did it fail?

Have you or anyone you know bought one?

Of course it bloody failed. It’s rubbish.

So I reckon he patently needs this bar in Portugal to supplement the millions he must have lost over the past forty years or so. 

Back at the hotel later we wandered around looking for somewhere to eat. Eating out is reasonable here but the days of cheap holidays seem to be over. House wine is always of good quality and cheap but meals are on a par with average English prices. The days of all you can eat and drink for two quid are definitely over. Mind you, that was back in the sixties.

Anyway, we’d stopped outside a rather large restaurant on the corner of two main Lisbon streets and as we stood there looking at the menu posted up outside I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, flashes of movement through the restaurant window. I looked in and there was a waiter waving at me. I looked away and pretended to be interested in the menu once more but couldn’t help but look through the window again. He was still there, this time giving me a thumbs up sign and gesturing to me to come in. I tried to ignore him but each time I glanced through the window he kept doing it. Time was getting on and we were starting to feel hungry so I said to Pauline, “I think he likes me. Let’s go in.”

As we entered the waving waiter ushered us to a table for two which was so small it could have been a table for one and once inside I settled down and took in the surroundings. It was a very large room furnished with cheap tables and chairs packed in so tightly that people jogged your arms as they walked by. All the way down one side of the room was a very long bar serving drinks and food while waiters scurried around serving the people like us sitting at tables. It didn’t remind me so much of a decent restaurant but of a British Rail station buffet and I was beginning to feel that out of all the restaurants we’d seen that evening and passed on, perhaps this wasn’t the wisest choice after all.

It was a disaster. Terrible food and over expensive average wine. We won’t be going there again.

Portugal 2009 - Day 3

As it’s our last day in Lisbon we’ve decided to explore the country outside of the main city areas. We’ve bought our one-day-go-everywhere tickets and armed with a bus/train map we’re off. Thinking about it now, we should have gone home the minute we found our bus tickets weren’t working.

What should happen is this: Get on bus. Swipe ticket in machine. Machine goes beep and displays green light. Go and sit down.

What actually happened is this: Got on bus. Swiped ticket in machine. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Swiped ticket again. Machine went beep and still displayed red light. Swiped ticket again, more forcibly this time. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Swiped ticket again. Wobbled it about a bit. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Rubbed ticket on T shirt (no, I don’t know why I did it either). Examined ticket carefully. Why? I don’t know, I don’t know. Looking at it serves no more useful purpose than opening the bonnet and staring at the engine when the car’s broken down. Somehow you’re trying to give the impression you know what you’re doing when in fact you haven’t a bloody clue. Swiped ticket again. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Looked at the bus driver. Looked at the queue of people behind me stretching down the road. Looked at the red light. Went and sat down anyway.

On the next bus it was exactly the same. Bloody red light again. The bus driver took the ticket, examined it carefully, gave it back and indicated we were to sit down. On the third bus it happened again. By now it was obvious that our newly purchased tickets were completely useless so every time we boarded a bus we had to explain to the driver we really, really had bought the tickets and weren’t just a couple of English hooligans trying to get a free ride. With this going on every time we changed buses the tour of the countryside was soon beginning to lose its appeal.

We were hoping to make a round trip out from Lisbon, through what looked like a National Park area on the map and back home in time for tea but I think it was after our third bus change that we realised we weren’t actually sure where the next bus would take us. We knew from the map which bus took us in the general direction we wanted to go but the bus we thought we needed next wasn’t shown on the bus stop we’d arrived at. Quite often it didn’t help matters when the bus stop for the next bus was in a different road. Which side of the road do you wait at? We didn’t know. Now when this sort of thing starts to happen it signifies the beginning of the end. An air of puzzlement, confusion, frustration and blame starts to materialise. (All the blame, I might add, was directed at the bus company for not providing the right bus numbers on their bus stop signs so that made us feel slightly better).

We ended up getting off another bus which had stopped outside a college. Why we got off there I don’t really remember but as I have no sense of direction whatsoever it seemed like as good a place as any to me. It was now midday and the students were pouring out of the college towards our bus stop. Pauline was engrossed in the map and surrounded by chattering students when she suddenly decided to ask one of them which of the buses on the bus stop board might take us in the general direction we wanted. The student looked blank, shrugged and said something about asking the bus driver. Thanks student. We didn’t think of that. With a brain like that she must have been taking meedja studies.

The rest is all a blur. I do remember getting yet another bus and asking the driver to tell us when to get off. He nodded and then completely forgot about us causing us to end up somewhere I can only describe as the Portuguese equivalent of the end of the Northern Line – a strange, alien, worrying sort of place with just a bus and metro station and a shopping mall. Absolutely nothing else and in the middle of nowhere.

It was at this point I realised we hadn’t a bloody clue where we were, nothing new for me but more worryingly, neither had Pauline. No idea how far we’d travelled. No idea how far still to go and more importantly as it was now mid-afternoon, no idea how long it would take. We were in this Godforsaken place with tickets that didn’t work and no idea how to get home. When suddenly we saw the metro station. “That’s it,” I said, “Forget about buses, the tour of the countryside, the picturesque drive through the National Park (wherever the hell it was). Let’s get the metro back to Lisbon.”

There was however one big snag. Although our tickets were valid for bus, tram and metro, they didn’t bloody work so would be utterly useless at the unmanned automatic ticket barriers on the metro. “We’re never going to get out of here alive,” I said, “we’re going to die out here in no man’s land. Everything’s against us.”

Pauline suddenly said, “I’ve had enough of this.” And marched off to the one and only bus information kiosk to ask why our tickets weren’t working. The lady took them and for the next hour, in between serving a constant stream of people, she tried to get to the bottom of the problem. And do you know what? We never found out why the tickets didn’t work but the nice lady issued us with two new all day tickets valid for three days as a goodwill gesture. It seemed churlish to tell her this was our last day and we only had a few hours left of it but it was a nice thought on her part. So armed with our new super duper tickets we breezed through the metro ticket barrier and caught a train which took us back to the centre of Lisbon in fifteen minutes.

The day had been a total disaster from start to finish and a complete and utter waste of time. But, hey, we’re off to Estoril tomorrow.

It can’t get any worse…can it?

Portugal 2009 - Day 4

To get to Estoril we took a tram to Lisbon’s main railway station and picked up the train easily. They ran every forty minutes or so and the journey was roughly the same length of time. The peace was shattered however by two blokes who came through the carriage and stopped right by the doors in front of us. The older of the two suddenly started talking quite loudly making me jump and I thought, oh no, there are nutters everywhere you go, when I noticed the other bloke had an accordion. He started to play it and the other man stopped his rant and started to sing. Oh this is really embarrassing. What do you do? You just want them to shut up and go away but they’re now onto ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ and in full flow. Avoid eye contact, stare out of the window, pretend they’re not there. They stopped eventually and the older one went through the part of the carriage in front of us with a plastic cup. He approached everyone and not one person gave him anything. Good for them I thought. He won’t be too disappointed when he comes to me then. But before he started to approach our part of the carriage he abruptly sat down and kept talking and muttering to himself but in a very loud voice. The accordion man had also sat down and cup man suddenly got up again and joined his mate on the same seat. It was at this point that two policeman wandered through the carriage and stood by the doors at the far end. As soon as the train reached the next station the accordion and cup man both got off, followed, surprise surprise, by the two police officers, cup man still ranting.

Luckily we never saw them again.

We got off the train at Estoril and turned left out of the station immediately onto the beach promenade. Pauline asked a man where our hotel was and he pointed along the coast. We started walking but after a while began to realise that our hotel wasn’t suddenly going to appear so Pauline asked again, this time it was a waiter standing outside a beach restaurant. He pointed back the way we’d just come and said we should have taken a small side road leading up from the promenade about halfway back. We turned round and when we finally found the turning it took us to the other end of the station platform that we’d been on when we got off the train. If we’d walked the other way to this end of the platform in the first place it would have taken about a minute instead of the fifteen minutes or so spent dragging our bloody suitcases up and down the promenade.

As Pauline was checking us into the hotel I stood to one side with the cases. The bell boy, a young lad, came over to me gesturing at the cases and offering his assistance. We only had two cases so I said, “No thanks, it’s OK.” He smiled, nodded and hovered. Once Pauline had checked in though, he suddenly appeared by my side with a trolley and indicated I put the cases on it. I said, “No really it’s OK, I can manage – oh OK then,” as he ignored me and started to pick up the cases anyway. Short of having an unseemly tug of war with each case there wasn’t much I could do about it. He showed us to the lift and followed us up in the other one. We were on the fifth floor but Pauline quickly noticed that the room didn’t have a balcony. “Oh, no balcony,” she said to the young lad, who suggested we talk to reception and dialled the number for us. The receptionist said that they didn’t allow bookings for balconies, and she didn’t have any available anyway, even though Pauline had booked one back in the UK. But on reflection and after Pauline’s persistence she finally said there was one available on the first floor but it would be noisy as it overlooked the main road. Funny that. A room with a balcony suddenly turned up all of a sudden. It must have been out for a walk. So, I stayed in the room on the 5^th floor while Pauline and the lad went down to reception to get the key and look at the other room.

They soon came back and Pauline said, “We’ll have it. You’ll see why when we get there.” The young lad, who by the way was called Michael, loaded up the cases again and we were off to the new room and this is when Michael really came into his own.

“You are in Room 107,” he said, pointing towards the lift, “Here, you press 1 for first floor.” Oh I see, yes, I thought, the first digit of the room number represents the floor – how unusual. Is this what he expects a tip for? Showing us where the lift was? You could hardly miss it in the lobby. Explaining that 107 was on the first floor and we have to press 1 once in the lift? And look, you have to walk along this corridor with a sign that says ‘Rooms 102 – 130’ until you come to a door with what certainly seems to look like a number 107 above it. Well let me guess old son, this must be our room. Yep, it is. That’s a relief then. I thought we’d be searching all day for it. I thought maybe 107 might have been 184 in disguise. But thanks to Michael we’ve arrived safely. But wait, there’s more to come. An explanation of how to put the card key in the slot to open the door and then once inside it’s more demonstrations.

“This is the TV remote control,” Michael said. Funny that, because it looked just like a TV remote. Glad he pointed that one out. I didn’t want to be trying to turn the TV on with the complimentary hotel pen and having to call reception to say it didn’t work and the man coming all the way up to our room to tell me I was using a pen instead of the TV remote which was on top of the TV. Oh how we would have laughed at such an understandably silly mistake.

Next it was the air conditioning remote control to try and identify. “Here it is,” said Michael. Oh yes, there it is, it’s got ‘air conditioning’ written on it. Michael carried on, “To turn air conditioning on and off, you press this button,” and he showed us the big red button which had the words ‘Start/Stop’ printed on it. “I think I’ve got that,” I said, “oh hold on, maybe not, just show me that again. Is it the big red button with ‘Start/Stop’ written on it or is it that complimentary hotel pen that I use to turn the TV on and off? I’ve quite forgotten. New technology eh? Always confuses us old ‘uns doesn’t it?”

“No, it’s this big red button with ‘Start/Stop’ on it,” said Michael, “don’t worry, you’ll soon get the hang of it. Shall I write it down for you?”

“Would you? That might be a good idea, here, use this pen,” I said, handing him the TV remote control.

Then we got to a physical demonstration of turning the air conditioning on and off. Having mastered the technology of using my finger to press the big red button with start/stop on it, Michael then showed me how to point the remote at the air conditioning unit, and - this was the hard bit - simultaneously pressing the big red button with start/stop on it.

He did this from the middle of the room but nothing happened. The air conditioning unit was above the pelmet which ran across the top of the balcony patio door, so he moved a few steps closer, holding the remote slightly higher. Nothing fired into life.

“Here, try this,” I said, handing him a complimentary hotel shower cap, “oh no, sorry, that’s the TV remote control isn’t it? My mistake.”

“No, no, no,” he suddenly shouted at me, “that is not the TV remote, that is a complimentary shower cap! This is the TV remote,” and he pushed the complimentary hotel pen into my hand.

“Oh of course,” I said, “silly me.”

“No, no, excuse me, no,” he shouted again, his voice beginning to crack a little, “that is a complimentary hotel pen.”

“Well I know that,” I said, “I was wondering whether you did. It’s easy to confuse the two. They are very similar aren’t they?”

By now Michael was standing about a foot away from the unit, holding the remote above his head and pressing the big red button like crazy but still no air conditioning came on.

“Perhaps it’s the batteries. Here, change them, I’ve got a couple of new AA batteries in my pocket,” I said, handing Michael two complimentary hotel chocolates that were lying on the bedside table next to the ‘Pillow Menu’ – (Pillow menu? Don’t ask, just don’t or we’ll be here all day).

By now he’d removed the complimentary chocolates that he’d inadvertently put into the TV remote by mistake and was about to put them into the air conditioning remote when he stopped, looked at the chocolates, looked at me and realising what he was trying to do, suddenly broke down sobbing.

“It’s OK,” I said, “calm down, blow your nose, wipe your eyes, here’s a tissue,” and I handed him a coat hanger.

“Thank you,” he said, “now where was I?”

“You’re trying to get the air conditioning unit to switch on,” I said, “but none of the remotes you’re using seem to work.”

“The problem,” he explained, and this is absolutely true, “is the remote control signal is being blocked by the window pelmet. The only way to get a signal is to get as close as possible to the air conditioning unit.” And with that he stood on a chair and pressed the remote physically against the air conditioning receiver. He pressed the big red button with start/stop on it and, guess what, nothing happened. He pressed again – nothing. The third time there was a beep and the air conditioning switched on.

“This is how you work the air conditioning,” Michael said with a grin as he clambered down from the chair, “you see?”

Wonderful. Wouldn’t it have been better to have had a switch on the unit and a long stick?

As Michael left I said, “Thank you Michael, for all you’ve done. Here, have a drink on me,” as I pressed a complimentary hotel sachet of Nescafe into his hand. 

It’s a 20 – 25 minute walk along the front to Cascais and we spent some time looking for somewhere to eat before we found a narrow side street with bars and restaurants down each side. The street was so narrow that by the time each bar had its tables and chairs outside there was only a narrow centre aisle for pedestrians to walk along.  We spent a few minutes looking at a menu outside a bar on our right, decided to eat there and a man said good evening sir and ushered me to an outside table on the left side of the street. I sat down and Pauline shouted over to me, “That’s a Thai restaurant, we don’t want that do we?” I looked at the man who was indeed oriental and I got up with a sheepish grin, apologised, took two paces and sat down at a table on our right which was for the restaurant we’d decided on in the first place.

Good oriental ploy though eh? Invite confused Englishman to sit at their restaurant after confused Englishman had decided to eat at the other restaurant. You could almost see the oriental staff inside, sniggering and slapping their hands in glee as another confused Englishman is suckered into the wrong establishment. 

Portugal 2009 - Day 5

I saw Michael today. He explained how to use the toilet which apparently was the thing in the bathroom that looked like a water container with a lid on it. It’s the second day so I can stop weeing off the balcony at last.

 We woke up to clouds and rain so we took a bus to a large shopping centre – for no other reason than to get out of the rain really.

Portugal 2009 - Day 6

Rainy and cloudy in the morning.

I saw Michael today. He pointed out the front entrance of the hotel to me. “Ah, thanks very much Michael.” I said, “I can tell it must be something like that. What with the hotel on one side of the door and the pavement and cars on the other.”

It seems the holiday fashion for men of a certain age is still those long short trousers or short long trousers – the description depends on how long or short their legs are – but as they stroll along I can’t help thinking they just look like over-grown toddlers out looking for their Mum.

To reach the seafront from the hotel involves a five minute walk across a main road and then a railway line. It’s strange but crossing a busy road where you’re unable to see more than a few hundred yards in each direction while negotiating speeding Portuguese drivers is much less stressful than crossing the railway track where you can see in a dead straight line for two miles to the horizon in each direction. Why should that be?

We always reach the edge of the track, stop and look in both directions. Pauline grabs my arm and we stand there making absolutely sure there’s no train coming as far as the eye can see before stepping quickly onto the line. And the irrational thought that as soon as we reach the middle, the Lisbon Express is going to suddenly appear clattering down the track towards us is always in the back of my mind as I hurry across doing a strange sort of hop, skip and jump to avoid getting my feet stuck in the metal rails. Because if that happens I just know a train will come hurtling out of the emptiness while I’m struggling to get my foot loose. It will. It will. I just know it will.

We saw our first ‘living street statue’ of the holiday today.

Well I say ‘statue’ but that’s a bit of a misnomer really. All it was, was a bloke who looked like he was covered in white-wash wearing a floor length white sheet draped over his shoulders. It was also very windy so this bloke was standing there with his sheet flapping about in the wind looking like some sort of demented ghost. Not exactly someone who could be mistaken for a statue. I’ve seen many statues over the years and I can safely say none of them have been wearing clothes that flap about in the wind. I mean, if you really wanted to be taken seriously as a statue, surely you’d encase yourself in some sort of metal alloy or lead-based paint and stand still for a few hours or weeks wouldn’t you? Not flap about in a sheet trying not to move for, ooh, five minutes? No commitment you see.

We can all stand stock still for a few minutes not moving a muscle can’t we? I can do that. In fact I do, do that – whenever the Jehovah’s Witnesses ring the doorbell. It’s not clever, it’s not funny, it’s not entertainment and it’s certainly not art. And to expect members of the public to pay for the privilege of seeing some lazy-arsed layabout standing still is just ridiculous. Get a proper job statue man! Preferably one with a modicum of movement involved. Try standing still with walking, running, jumping and sitting some time. It’s called having a life.

We made our first visit to the hotel’s rooftop pool this afternoon. It was totally empty. All the poolside beds, tables and umbrellas were neatly stacked up in one corner and what looked like it could be a poolside bar was boarded up and padlocked. That didn’t deter us though. We dragged some beds out and took advantage of the weak sunshine and chilly wind to lie there shivering for a few hours.

Portugal 2009 - Day 7

I saw Michael today. He showed me how to use the windows for looking out of. Be careful though, he said, although you can see out other people can also see in unless you move these things across. Bits of cloth called curtains apparently. What will they think of next?

Haven’t had a decent value for money meal since arriving in Estoril. It seems to be a prosperous area with the bars and restaurants reflecting that. This evening we went to a place not far from the hotel for our evening meal. It didn’t appear to be anything special but once inside the waiters were attentive to an embarrassingly grovelling degree. The cutlery was placed on the table with a flourish and slow precision the Queen would have been proud of and while pouring the wine, the waiter held the neck of the bottle over the glass for such a long time I thought he’d nodded off. He hadn’t, he was just waiting for the final minute drop of wine to land into the glass and not sully the tablecloth. It was all rather Basil Fawltyish, eager to please with an obvious false bonhomie.

After serving the wine he said, “Would sir like some water for the table?” Now what does that mean? “Hang on,” I said, and putting my ear close to the table, I looked at him and said, “No, the table doesn’t want any water thanks but we will please.”

My ‘Beefstek Portugal Style’ turned out to be a bit of tough stewing steak with a few olives thrown in to give it that authentic touch and some accompanying sauté potatoes – not bad for bloody £16 eh? And when I’d finished and the waiter asked if everything was all right, I said, “Yes, very good thanks.” Why did I say that when it was one of the worst meals I’d had in a long time? And do you know what the waiter said? He said, “Thank you sir, if I’ve made you happy then I’m happy as well. Thank you sir”

“No, thank you.” I said, “I’m so happy I could sing and dance. Shall we?”

“Thank you sir, I would be honoured,” he said.

“Sit down and don’t be stupid,” Pauline said.

So I sat down.

On the way out we encountered another waiter who placed his right arm across his chest and clicked his heels as we passed him. “Thank you sir.” He said, “I’m so happy you’re happy I could cry.”

“Shall we dance?” I said as Pauline dragged me out the door.

Luckily we didn’t go back there again.

While we’re on the subject of restaurants I might as well admit that for me eating out generally is something that has turned from being a relative pleasure to a bloody provocation from beginning to end. And it all seems very recent to me. London restaurants are all run by people off the telly made famous by their funny haircuts or their willingness to charge you an arm and a leg for a mushroom. You’re made to feel inferior as soon as you step inside the place when the maitre’d takes your coat and inspects what you’re wearing as he says, “Oh, you’re the first of your party to arrive sir.” He even manages to make you feel bloody guilty about that. Then you’re asked if you want a drink at the bar or if you want to go straight to the table. If you answer straight to the table it doesn’t go down well. There goes the chance to charge you a small fortune for a gin and tonic. And then at the table it’s the old water ploy again. “Would you like some water for the table? Still or fizzy sir? We have some excellent water, gently carbonated if you prefer.” Rubbish. What does that mean? Gently carbonated?

Now, as opposed to abroad where bottled is always the preferred choice to their dysentery flavoured tap water, in England we have a choice. Bottled or tap. But after being given the marvellous choice of still, fizzy or gently carbonated you say, “Still please,” when all you really want is a glass of tap water. What it comes down to is that you would rather pay as much for a glass of bottled water as you would for a glass of decent wine than risk the embarrassment of asking for what you actually want. Tap water, with fewer impurities in it these days than the bottled water you are paying through the nose for. Have we totally taken leave of our senses?

Then they give you a menu written in French and in what we are presumably meant to believe is the chef’s handwriting. Now why do they do that? What is the point they are trying to make by writing menus in French? You wouldn’t write it in Thai in a Thai restaurant would you? Or Urdu in an Indian? You don’t enjoy the food more because you’ve bloody ordered it in French. And if you can understand the menu what does it say? It says, “Corn-fed and hand reared Cornish chicken that have luxuriated in warm baths and enjoyed gentle rub downs each day until it was allowed to choose its own method of death and then lovingly hand plucked by happy peasants, marinated for three weeks in a consommé of pure egg yolk, truffles, marjoram and butter made from the milk of wild goats from the foot of the Andes. Then it’s lightly broiled in a pan made out of copper which was mined using well-paid local labour from Zambia and then tossed with a mixture of herbs and spices first discovered by Marco Polo…”

What bollocks.

And to end it all, your plate arrives and someone has drizzled a pattern of some red sticky liquid all around the edges and the quantity of food is always in inverse proportion to the price. By this time you are starving so the two inch square portion of fillet steak is gone in three minutes flat.

Jesus Christ.

And square plates. Square plates! For hundreds of years we’ve been using perfectly serviceable round plates and then some trendy, arty-farty designer comes along and decides on behalf of all humanity that round plates are so yesterday. What we need today is not round but square plates. What for? Jesus only knows. In fact it doesn’t stop there does it? You never know what your food’s going to be served up on (or in). It’s a constant surprise. Baskets, basins, vegetables in separate dishes, starters on flat pieces of wood – what’s wrong with plates? Plates. Round plates. Not square, hexagonal or triangular. Round. Round. Round. Square plates? Piss on them. Actually, don’t do that.

And then there’s the service charge. Different from a tip in several ways: it’s not voluntary and it doesn’t often get to the staff. You never know whether the restaurant will split the service charge with the staff or just keep it all for themselves. So it’s not even a ‘service’ charge, a charge in appreciation of the staff who might reasonably expect to get paid enough anyway. It’s just a charge. Someone asking you for extra money for no reason whatsoever which they will then simply keep. You can see why they don’t put that on the menu.

The thieving shits.

And if you are still drinking ordinary water, you must be some kind of bleeding loser. I wouldn’t drink ordinary water – bottled or tap – if you paid me. I now only drink ‘ultra-purified’, ‘restructured’ Penta – “the Choice of Champions”. (Look it up).

Too bloody right it is.

This water is scientific. Consider this blurb from their advertising: “Top athletes use Penta for ultimate performance.” Drinking this stuff makes you run faster: FACT.  “Busy mums and high flyers use Penta to rise above the daily grind.” Anything endorsed by both athletes and mums, well that’s got to be some serious water hasn’t it? Which it is. High flyers are usually real bastards but never mind they need water too and it’s reassuring to know that when some bastard in the City is bankrupting the country, they’re very, very hydrated and much more likely to pee in their pants.

So what’s in it? Water! Yes. Just bloody water – but more water than in old fashioned water. That’s right. There’s more water per centilitre of water than your Earthling water, you crap water drinking fools. If you had 500 millilitres of your crappy water and I had 500 millilitres of Penta I’d have more water than you. Having trouble getting your brain round that? Try getting “Bio-hydrated”. It makes you alert, more intelligent and more likely to get off with fit people. Not only is Penta “easy to drink” (how difficult can water get?), it’s also “fast acting”. Because old water while perfectly adequate for the Steam Age is now just so bleeding slow. If you’ve got broadband but still use taps, you’re clearly some kind of chumpy monkey.

In fact next time your local water authority comes knocking on your door demanding to know why you haven’t paid the bill, tell them to shove it up their arse, their water’s shit!