Thanks to everyone who read Parts 1 and 2 of the latest Tight Fisted Traveller – I hope you found it as much fun to read as it was for me to daydream about and then piece together last weekend.
I’ve spent the day on a train full of nutters and need a pint or two to soothe me savage breast – hence this lazy cop out of a post.
I did think of a better ending though – but that pint of Donnington SBA is calling – so it can wait.
If you have any suggestions where the Tight Fisted Traveller should venture next please feel free to drop me a line. He may go there. He may not!
With the Soccerball World Cup in Brazil next year, Ma Fightback and I fancied a holiday in this Sambatastic nation. My kneecap melted when the Travel Agent told us the cost of the holiday. We left the shop dejected and a tad miffed.
Luckily around the corner, we bumped into our old friend and explorer extraordinaire, The Tight Fisted Traveller, busy hawking holed spoons to raise funds for an expedition to the Antarctic next year. When we told him of our woes, he smiled revealing his last usable incisor, fished in the crotch of his trousers and whipped out his hardback – “The Coke Smuggler’s Guide to Latin America”.
A lucky coincidence? Or maybe the fates!
Here is Chapter 23 – “Brazil It’s An Amazon Place!”
Day 1 – London – Steal a bicycle from Victoria Station – nip to French mens outfitter’s “Moi?” – purloin traditional French garb of beret, Breton shirt, moustache and string of onions – stare in shop window and practice nonplussed facial expression whilst shrugging shoulders – I am French!
Day 1 – London – Bike ride to Dover hampered by dangling onions – but I am French now so shrug shoulders and blockade motorway to protest.
Day 3 – Dover Harbour - Stowaway on French Minesweeper SS “Mai Oui”.
Day 4 – English Channel – My disguise allows me to mingle with the crew who smoke continually, argue about the true meaning of Sartre and make lots of vegetable soup which is slurped down with Gallic aplomb.
Day 5 – English Channel – The crew take me to heart after Je suis discovered akip in torpedo tube – sing the Edith Piaf classic – “A Citroen Backfires – Paris Surrenders” become overnight internet sensation on Vous Tube.
Day 6 – Cherbourg – no sign of Cher sadly – I am smuggled ashore by crew who wish to continue discussing Sartre and their nation’s affliction for permanent nonplussedness. After emotional farewells which involve mass spontaneous shoulder shrugging I cycle south for Spain.
Day 8 – Cherbourg (still) – Dangling onions still a problem and the false moustache causing further drag issues on Bike – c’est la vie – stop and blockade service station toilets in protest.
Day 9 – Cherbourg (still) – Tour de France sweeps through – Stage 14 to Reims – I join the Peloton – miraculously win the stage and claim the Yellow Jersey. Cite Lance Armstrong and Amphetamine abuse as major factors in my success.
Day 10 Reims – I am uncovered when my dangling onions accidentally throttle leading French rider in Stage 15 – chased by baying mob of French onion loving cyclist philosophers who see this as ghastly les rosbifs attack on a French sporting institution (but the philosophers ask “is it?”) – Make good my escape by removing the onions from bike and take off false moustache – they’ll never spot me!
Day 10 – Reims- Arrested by French police. Blockade my cell in protest.
Day 13 – Reims - Released – hitch hike south – am offered a lift by Heineken sozzled Dutch shykling fansh – Wim and Piet Mine Der Gap who are following the Tour – Their camper van roof sports a giant detachable clog and a windmill – “Krayshee Ja!” Wim and Piet keep saying – I am hidden in Windmill as we pass through the Pyrenees into Espana. Now I know what Anne Frank must have gone through.
Day 31 – The Spanish Pyrenees – Wim and Piet spin on blades of windmill for three days singing the back catalogue of well known Dutch Prog rock band Focus – they swear rotary turbine spinning cures any hangover – I decouple giant clog and slip quietly into the River Sangria and raft to Madrid.
Day 33 – Somewhere in Iberia - Sailing by clog surprisingly comfortable – draw admiring glances from Spanish Environmentalists who are protesting about tomatoes being grown in greenhouses along riverbanks.
Day 37 – Madrid – How a Brit, disguised as a Frenchman arriving in a giant clog could be construed to be the famous bullfighter “El Flatulente” is beyond me – but I am – carried shoulder high to Las Ventas for a spot of “Death in the Afternoon”.
Day 37 Madrid – Bullfighting clothes very tight on the old knackers – mince my way into the ring – confronted by a livid Bull called “El Mangler” – my bowels loosen – prance like John Wayne with piles – realise my sword is actually a shop bought Star Wars light sabre without batteries – I have to make the droning noise myself – El Mangler sees the sword, recalls he is part Sith and then does a passable Darth Vader impression – becomes internet sensation on Tu Tube – I am carried shoulder high by adoring fans out of the arena – with only a wonky shop bought Star Wars light sabre without batteries as a trophy.
Day 38 – Madrid - I hitch a lift in a lorry driven by a reticent Serb war criminal, Goran – cargo is artificially grown tomatoes hidden in statues of Picasso.
Day 41 – Lisbon – scurry aboard Recife bound ship “Obrigado” – the principal cargo is buttock emollient cream, samba costumes and whistles – wriggle into a nice floral headpiece, matching sequinned bra and thong – No problems of blending into Brazilian culture when I land.
Day 43 – The Obrigado – Unmasked by Boson as not “Hector” the vessel’s happy go lucky First Mate but as a non-paying transgender guest with well-honed buttocks – thrown in The Brig.
Day 43 – The Obrigado – Brought to ship’s captain – he is an unreconstructed romantic who is in a state of high dudgeon after reading the Bronte Classic Jane Eyre – he clutches me to his swelling breast and sobs uncontrollably – “Poor Rochester,” he cries – tells me of his loon of a wife – a woman with a predilection for salty old tars – she is sealed away in ship’s bulkhead on account of her madness and “needs”.
Day 46 – The Obrigado – Mass panic as Captain’s wife escapes and ravishes the ships Bursar, First and Second Mate, Boson, Petty Officer, Cook and a lad who happened to be passing in a Tuna fishing boat she spotted on the starboard bow – swam over to and ravished – she is captured and restored to her cell – the Captain sobs – I read him extracts from Wuthering Heights – “Poor Cathy,” he cries.
Day 50 – Recife Harbour- Leave Obrigado - Captain donates lifetime supply of emollient and shiny new headwear to thank me for my support – his wife ravishes me before I skip ashore – “Poor Cathy” are the last words I hear from this doomed vessel.
Day 51 – Trans-Amazonian Highway – Sashay my way towards Belem – my bottom is revered by a nation of buttock cognoscenti.
Day 54 – Belem – Join Samba dance band impressed by my strong calves – band rooted in bizarre Marxist theory that believes buttock wobbling in camp outfits will eventually destroy capitalism – I have my doubts.
Day 68 – Mouth of Amazon – Say farewell to my Samba Band colleagues with a toot on my whistle – Capitalism still intact I believe - chop down big tree – shape it into giant clog and paddle towards Manaus.
Useful Tip in the Rain Forest #1 Never paddle in a thong
Day 71 The Amazon – See off attack from shoal of synchronised swimming enthusiast Piranhas by dazzling them with my sequin studded brassiere – smear myself in emollient to fend off flesh-eating insects and mosquitos.
Day 75 – Fishing village of Maracaibo - Befriended by Geoff a double glazing salesman from Cornwall who. “turned left at Plymouth instead of right” – barter my whistle with him for a set of triple glazed French windows he happens to be carrying – lash them to clog and sail up the Amazon!
Day 80 – Manaus – Leave clog and trek into Forest – see all types of creatures – Jaguars, Monkeys, Lions, Tigers, Penguins, Polar Bears, even a Giraffe – realise I am in Manaus Zoo and head for exit – easy mistake to make. Turn left at MacDonalds and find myself deep in the Rain Forest.
Useful Tip in the Rain Forest #2 – Never walk in a thong and stilettos in the Rain Forest.
Day 84 – Somewhere In the Rain Forest – Felled by dart fired from blowpipe – fall into delirious fever – imagine erotic romps with Bilbo Baggins.
Day 86 – Somewhere in the Rain Forest – Fever breaks and awake to find short lad with big ears and enormous feet next to me! I am in Middle Earth!
Day 86 – Somewhere in the Rain Forest – Lad wakes up and smiles – he can only communicate by twanging his inordinately long nasal hairs in complex melodies – I discover his name is Whothefuckareyou? Chief of a long lost tribe who still don’t have a clue where they are – The Wherethefuckarewe?
Day 86 – Somewhere in the Rain Forest – I am the first white man in samba outfit with smooth buttocks the Wherethefuckarewe? have encountered – I am worshipped as their long lost God and christened Wherethefuckdidhecomefrom?
Day 87 – Somewhere In the Rain Forest – The Wherethefuckarewe? are a proud people – traditional costume is an Adidas Shellsuit – it is good to see that they have not been tainted by western culture - Whothefuckareyou? organises a feast in my honour!
Day 88 – Somewhere In The Rain Forest – The feast comprises the traditional Amazonian dish of Burger and Chips washed down with a highly intoxicating liquor made by fermenting the bark of dogs – we partake in a fertility dance with a number of toothless harpies – nasal hairs plucked with such ferocity – Before passing out all I recall is a nasal hair plucking rendition of The Hokey Cokey, followed by Hi Ho Silver Lining……..
Day 93 – Somewhere Else In the Rain Forest - Whothefuckareyou? leads me deep into the jungle – day after day I toil moving ever further from civilisation towards what? I know not – I am wilting – cannot go much further – chafed and blistered – my headgear a bit adrift – Finally he holds out a slightly wonky Light Sabre without batteries towards a clearing in the Forest.
Day 93 – Somewhere Else In The Rain Forest – A place of serene beauty – never before seen by a white man dressed in a samba outfit – giant statues – thousands of years old and bearing a remarkable resemblance to the cast of US Sitcom Friends – guard this place – I hear water nearby – Whothefuckareyou? twangs on his nose hair – the sounds tell me that we have reached the source of the Amazon – A washer is needed to stop the dripping – slightly disappointing.
I think of Simon Cowell with a sausage on his head.
Read Full Post »