Kitchen Sinks

A kind of polite truce now exists at home. Where is that IDEAL apartment / house in the classifieds??? It must have a kitchen sink of course AND a barbecue area essential. Swimming pool optional.

The Meaning of Liff

I'm on a sort of diet based around BEER and GARLIC; it explains why I don't suffer from colds often.
It also explains why I don't have too many friends.
What is the meaning of Liff? Look it up in the dictionary.

Closing the door behind me; opening the door infront.

The title is a challenge. What am I going to put there? The first line can put people off the whole thing. So whatever will be there after I've finished typing this may have nothing to do with the content of this paragraph. I take no responsibility, I've had too many beers today to be responsible for anything.
First off today; I'd like to publicly anounce, through this means, that is my BLOG, my separation from my dear wife. Yes after 12 happy and sometimes not so happy years we've decided to go separate ways. The kids already know, Alice (12) said, "Okay, that's sensible, let's find a nice place for dad to live", Francisco (7) said, "I don't agree!".
The first stage of this separation consists of me trying to find a place to live. I've seen some dumps and some dumps! The first thing that comes to my mind is: JEEZUS WHAT A DUMP. The next thing that strikes me is, when Brazilians move out they MOVE OUT, and take everything, including the kitchen sink - REALLY! "And this is the kitchen...you can put the fridge here, the cooker here..." etc. The "kitchen" is an empty cell block with a water pipe extruding from the wall - "You put the sink here...".
Apart from the trauma of separation, I'm currently working on something that will shake the literary world by its roots; well okay maybe just by a few twigs; all I have to say is: Wait until Porto Alegre Book Fair 2004 !!
The door behind will not be closed completely, I'll leave a space for the kids to get through, and maybe later...

Evil Sausage

My long absence is in part explainable by the fact that I've just had my folks staying with me for three weeks. My Dad, a spritely 68 year old with a slight beer belly, is not difficult to please, but if you get it wrong, and I did a couple of times, you really get to know about it. Just a cold beer and an open not too noisy place seemed to be the right formula. Consequently we spent most nights at Dado Pub, which my old man dubbed "Dai Doe's" making it sound a true Welsh traditional tavern. Their 3 week visit can briefly be summarized thus: Churrasco, Dai Doe's, Cisne Branco, Churrasco, Gramado, Dai Doe's, Churrasco, Porto Alegre Tourist Bus, Dai Doe's, Public Market, Churrasco and on the last night - YES Dai Doe's ! Frequent visits paid off. On our last night the entire staff of Dai Doe's got together and presented my folks with 4 Dai Doe glasses and a letter written in perfect English, "We enjoyed having you in our pub.....etc etc." signed by all the waiters. Tears for beers.
My dad didn't think much of the evil sausage.

Get your miojo working.
Living on one's own stimulates remarkable creativity in the kitchen. When one finds oneself with Old Mother Hubbard Syndrome, miojo is the answer. Despite it being bare, I'm sure she had at least one packet of this wonderful stuff in her cupboard. Here are some miojo recipes for anyone finding themselves in a similar situation:
Miojo á la beufburguer congelé. Lightly fry the beufburguers congelé in any cheap cooking oil. chop up and mix with miojo. Delish with ketchup.
Miojo surprise. Open your fridge and grab the first thing you place your hands on and fling it in the miojo pan. Mix vigorously. Delish with ketchup.
Miojo de Ontem. Put it in the micro with a dab of marg. Delish with ketchup.
Miojo de Ontem Frito. Alternative for those who can't afford a micro. In a frying pan and stir it around a while until it looks reasonable. Delish with ketchup.
Miojo de Ontem Frio. In desperate situations. Delish with anything.

When I think of 101, I'll publish a book.
HWYL

I'm lying in bed at 1am (ignore what time it says at the bottom here) not being able to sleep and loads of stuff running through my head with a background voice saying - write write write!
So here I am now, naked at my computer (well I can't go naked in the pool anymore) and there were two things: The first is Q's comments to James Bond: after the latter fiddles with a control of a car, the latest of Q's inventions: "Need I remind you, double- o seven, that you have a licence to kill, not to break traffic laws". Then, after examining several devices including an exploding pen and a cable shooting belt buckle, Bond picks up what seems to be a large baguette, Q says: "DON'T TOUCH THAT! It's my lunch".
The second is this:
I am rifleman number 3 on the left half of a section of 10 riflemen; we have a gunner out on the right flank, a 7.62 belt fed LMG. We are dug in, ancient trench warfare, waiting for a frontal assault, facing a gentle slope the far limit of which is a line of bush about 800 yards distance. At this very distance a single warrior appears, running towards us, flat slavic features, we know what he looks like because we've seen him before hundreds of times. The section leader gives a command and a single shot is fired. Later we learn this is a mistake as it gives our position away.
More of the Commie bastards are appearing, first at the greater distance, then coming nearer. They're bobbing and weaving, sprinting and ducking. The section leader screams: riflemen! 400 yards, choose your targets! Gunner! Short bursts! The noise: BANG BANG BANG. That's how guns go you know.
There are 30 rounds in an SLR magazine. We start with 4 full magazines and there are boxes of ammo lying around. BANG BANG BANG. When a mag is empty, if you're good you'd have counted your rounds so it doesn't click on an empty chamber; safety catch on, mag off, cock the weapon to eject anything, new mag on, safety catch off and continue. Then the section leader shouts - Fire at will! Which one's Will?
The noise increases. There are 3 incredibly big BANGs right in front and lots of smoke. Oh hell, gas. The usual procedure, and someone yells GAS GAS GAS! oh yeah, really. Down again, slip the mask over the head and check the seals and shout GAS GAS GAS to warn others and to expel anything that's sneaked in. When the mags run out you have to cower down and refil 'em, having trained repeatidly in this, you slide the slippery brass cartridges into the mags with the same ease you have of, say, tying a shoe lace, or taking a ciggy out of the packet and lighting up. NOT! This is fumble and nerves city, you can't hear for screams and bangs and the anti fogging solution you rubbed into the eye piece of the gas mask has the complete opposite effect than that desired. Up over the top again and BANG away. I must've killed hundreds by now, and they still keep coming.
Well I think I can sleep now.

Here's a list of Good Reads for the summer and could be taken as a small selection of my fave literature, though not in order of preference.

Here be Dragons/Falls the Shadow/The Reckoning: trilogy by Sharon Kay Penman. 12/13th Century England/Wales historical novel stuff
The Quincunx. Charles Palliser; The best Charles Dickens book ever, not written by Charles Dickens (that's why it's the best).
Pillars of the Earth: Ken Follet; A man's dream to build a cathedral in 12th Century England involves nasty knights, damsels in distress, merry monks and belligerent bishops.
Life A User's Manual, Georges Perec; I haven't figured it out yet but it's DAM GOOD.
Around the World in 80 Days. The old Verny classic, don't laugh, it's brilliant. No one tops Phileas Fogg's coolness as he steps into the Reform Club at precisely 8.44 and 57 seconds and announces: "Here I am, gentlemen".
Under Milk Wood; Dylan Thomas; Had to have good 'ole Dyl in the list. This will take you about an hour to read.
Ulysses; James Joyce; not for the faint hearted, drink lots of Guinness and try not to concentrate too much.
London; Edward Rutherfurd; everything you've wanted to know about that seething metropolis from the Celts to 20th Century English lords.
The Mists of Avalon; Marion Bradley; talking about Celts... this is the bible.
The Lord of the Rings; well I guess everyone knows by now...

I'm off to the beach soon. One of the simple pleasures of life: Sitting on the beach, it's around 10am, under the shade; $5 camelô cheap sunglasses (ZZTOP 'Deguello', Warner Bros. Records Inc. 1979) in order to surreptitiously gaze at girls in bikinis. I utter the immortal words "Bar's open!" and reach down to a small cool box which is maintaining 4 or 5 cans of FBA at the correct temperature at which FBA should be drunk, BLOODY COLD! There's that satisfying PSHHHT sound and half the can is emptied before pausing.

It's freezing January night in the Cynon Valley, South Wales, I'm in a car with my cousin Sue, she's driving. The car is slipping up a steep country lane hill when we spot two persons, sex unidentifiable as they are wrapped thickly against the bitter wind. They're men. Are you going to the Lion? They are. Hop in then. The car continues struggling up the hill. Five minutes later we reach our destination: The Red Lion Inn. There are just 2 cars in the car park, the glow from the windows indicates the place is open. We push open the heavy open door step over the threshold into the sound and warmth. Despite the two cars, the place is full, buzzing and there's a great roaring log fire. The bar has a selection of real ales from the cask. I sit in a wooden pew with a pint of Felinfoel Special Christmas Ale, surrounded by friendly smiling Welsh people. I get merrily drunk. We leave at 2.30am, there's no Last Order's Gentlemen Please, here, this is rural Wales.

HO HO Bloody HO. 'Tis the season to be pissed tra-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la. Having having sunk another bottle of Bohemia's newly concocted brew, "Weiss", and feeling decidedly ill again Christmas Eve, one comes to the conclusion - IT'S FIGGIN' AWFULL STUFF! Please leave complicated brewing to the Germans, Brits and Czechs. And what in the Divil's wrong with the construction "Having having..." ? Nothing at all I tell you, if Donald Rumsfeld can say such things, then so I can.
Yesterday, by way of celebrating Jesus Christ's birthday, we ate, not a Turkey, but a "Fiesta", "Brought from the Highlands of Scotland exclusively by Sadia", according to the bumph. Yeah, I bet. Yes, and breaking all Brazilian traditions, I forced my family to wait until the morning of the 25th before even SEEING any presents. As we all know, Santa Claus comes around during the night while all the kids are sleeping. Whoever invented celebrating Christmas on Christmas Eve should have his turkey stuffed. Where on earth to the prezzies come from? - "Oh, look there goes Santa! Oh dear you've missed him, he just disappeared around the corner!" , "But wait LOOK, he left all the prezzies under the tree suddenly!" or "Santa left THIS present in MY house for YOU!". OH COME ON! NO prezzies 'till Christmas morn!
Christmas Eve should be spent drinking beer and whiskey and definately NOT eating turkey (or Fiesta for that matter).
Something worse than living in a shoebox in the middle of the road must be living in a condominimum - that is maximum houses, minimum space. There's a whole new concept to borrowing a cup of sugar from your neighbour - just lean out of your front room window into your neighbours front room window - could I borrow some sugar please? Oh, I beg your pardon, were you having sex? Make 'em thin and high seems to be the architects' new rule - we couldn't fit the 14 inch tv in the front room but we've got 5 floors, including cellar and loft! One of these atrocities has just been completed on the land behind my abode. Whereas before there was deep jungle, snakes, vultures, an infinite number of frogs and toads, criminals and one or two 'gators, now there are twelve identical tall thin houses with twelve identical tall thin families living in them. Can't go naked swimmin' in my pool anymore without someone complaining to the police - officer that man's got a bigger














swimming pool than me!

This may sound a bit weird but it's a Friday night and I'm NOT drinking beer. Had a skinfull yesterday at the Shamrock as a matter of fact and sunk about 7 FBA's and a large weissbeer. I think it was the weissbeer that made my stomach gurgle like a 1950s washing machine this morning. I was giving class despirately trying not to chuck. I made it home without that humiliation and lay me down for a few hours.
The reason for this mid-week quaffing session being that a meeting of the entire Welsh community of Porto Alegre, me and Kim, was called in order to... well in order to just get pissed and talk about Wales. As we sat there remembering how green our valley was, we could almost hear the Aberbachgenbach Male Voice Choir singing "Myfanwy" in the background and clutched in our right fists was not a small glass of ice cold FBA but a full creamy pint of Feelin' Foul Double Dragon. Yes, we were transposed to the backroom of the Mochyn Digywilydd Arms where Eli Jenkins, sitting at HIS table, was smoking tea bags through his pipe and Dai was stood at the bar extrapolating in a loud voice, Llancunty's chances of winning the match on Sunday what with his brother-in-law being their new loose-head prop. In walks the man with the basket of cockles and muscles alive alive o, after him, the next sober person is the Sally Army selling All Along the Watchtower, or was that Jimmy Hendrix? The boys from the Bryn are getting pissed again, there'll be trouble soon enough. Is there going to be a lock-in? There's always a lock-in at the Mochyn. John Jones starts up "We Wish you a Merry Christmas.." Christ it's only the 12th mun, everyone joins in but it soon peters out 'coz no-one knows beyond "....and a Happy New Year!", this sets a precedent for "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" followed by "While Shepherds Wash their Socks by Night" and so it goes and so it goes.
Bizarre, I woke up with a splending ressaca in my bed in Porto Alegre, Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil.
HWYL FAWR!

Here's a quick middle-of-the-week bonus. The world MUST know about this. Donald Rumsfeld:

"Reports that say that something hasn't happened are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns - the ones we don't know we don't know."

Needless to say he won a "Foot in Mouth" award for that classic.

Weeks have passed and I've been neglecting my millions of fans from around the world. Yes it's true - I've had visits from Italy. HI! You there in Italy! BUENGIORNO or whatever. Canada; the US of A - did ja'all have a nice thanksgivin' ? And the Nederlands, where, I believe, there are lots of naked people in saunas. Oh, and some dude in Australia - G'day Bruce/Sheila, we'll hafta crack a few tubes together soon. Bad luck about the rugger, those pommie bastards didn't deserve it, where were the tries??? They thought they were playing football that's why they won.
You may or may not be gladdened to know the grass has been cut, I spent the best part of last Saturday morning sweating behind a hot lawn mower and cutting away at wayward creeping plants with an enormous scissors, better known as shears. I spent the best part of last Saturday afternoon getting steadily drunk on Fine Brazilian Ale. Needless to say, the dogs didn't get shampooed. They will!
This year has been the first in 12 years that I've missed the Porto Alegre book Fair; FOR SHAME! I had some terribly pathetic excuses (being drunk was the main one). The book fair is a wonderful annual event in which to get drunk and pretend to be an intellectual. A year ago I was drinking Fine Brazilian Ale with Victor and we were reading Aechylus' Prometheus Bound in loud voices and with appropriate gesticulations. ( I must point out here in fact that I and only I was the one drinking FBA for Victor is one of those fine, rare young gentlemen who can enjoy themselves without the necessity of such fripperies. He was drinking cachaça. )
What fun it was. In the past I've picked up some exellent examples of fine literature at the Feira, especially Victorian erotic tales, 'My Secret Life' by 'anon' etc.
It's a Friday night and I'm drinking beer again.
I'm going to pause here. Eat. And reflect on life.

Should I get up at 6am to watch the final tomorrow?
Uhm...I think no. Of course I shall never know the true answer until 5.55 am. And of course as we all know, or at least somebody out there knows... (haven't I used that line already?)... THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE! yes it is.
It's Friday night again, and yes as you may have guessed, I'm drinking beer. It's quite a bizarration that I have all sorts of things in my head to write about during the week...must remember to write about this about that....then Friday night comes and POOF.
Here are some developments in my life: the dogs are getting smellier and the grass is getting longer. I guess that's non-developments really, the weeks are passing by and every weekend I find some pathetic excuse, that's what you're thinking right? Well that's basically it. Tomorrow I've got to do something to get off my fat arse and get the dogs washed and grass cut.
Providing the weather's okay.
England don't play good rugby, they've got to the final by playing football. Look at the results, there's hardly a try to be seen, it's all kicks. Penalties and drop goals. So in answer to the question, who am I going to support tomorrow? Well I'll think about it dreaming.

SHWMAI! It's over for the Welsh team then, we can return proudly though, it wasn't a shameful defeat against the saeson, if that blasted ref hadn't awarded so many penalties...
I'm still on my no-beer-during-the-week diet, I'm not sure it's working and I really really feel a great difference... NOT! Maybe I'll go back to drinking beer during the week, or maybe I'll get a bathroom scales or pop into a chemists to check out if I've lost some pounds. The good news is - it doesn't hang over the belt yet!
Today is Friday so I'm drinking beer, listening to Frank Zappa - Broken Hearts are for Assholes - and, right now, Leonard Cohen.
Friday's a nice day for me, just private students and no group of screaming 12 year-olds, that was yesterday.
Let me get another beer.
Brazilian beer... deelish.
I must stop right there because I'd sort of promissed myself I'd try not to use this as a platform for my moans and gripes about Brazilian things, from beer through driving to politics. Brazilians are allowed to say lots of lovely inflammatory remarks about their country, but us foreigners are not.
"I saw you naked in the early dawn", 'Greensleeves' - Leonard Cohen. I'm sure Henry VIII didn't write that line.

Sunday morning 11:00, I waved the Red Dragon flag around and yelled WHOOOO HOOOO several times. Wales were ahead at one point, at a few points in fact. On the taxi on the way, we got the driver to constantly beep his horn while we waved the flags out of the windows, just like the Brazilians at World Cup Soccer. The taxi driver thought it was great fun and didn't charge extra for the beeping.
If you were watching your favourite football / rugby / volleyball / basketball ..... etc. team on tv playing an important match and a lovely girl came and danced naked in front of the tv, what do you do?
Later today, the sun has been shining and it's been fairly warm. No I didn't cut the grass or shampoo the dogs, they can stay smelly for another week.
Oh, by the way, that didn't happen at the Shamrock pub, the naked dancing girl in front of the tv I mean. Somebody out there knows what I'm talking about.

It's a cliché, it's Nature's bad joke, revenge probably. Yes, once again, bright sunny and hot all week then Friday night and all Sat'day - rain! My lawn is getting hairy and the dogs smelly, or is it the other way around?.
Hope you're all having a great Samain, that is Halloween to you Christians. While the kids were out dressed as Mickey Mouse and E.T. trick or treating, we were dancing naked in the moonlight, having midnight orgies and sacrifying virgins. Great fun. Pass another virgin would you Beelz! Cheers!