It’s Saturday o’clock, most definitely, but I’m using that thing whereby it’s possible to write something and then set a date in The Future when it will automatically publish to Bloggy – and these words are primed to go off, limply, on Thursday at 6:07pm. Random, fresh, needlessly exciting and way too pointless to resist. But did it work? Does it matter? I’ll be safely up a hill, regardless, far away from computers and shampoo, long before this outbreak of modernity. Back to Portimao next Saturday, though. Whatever.
Anyway, hello to anyone out there…..
Portugal is abuzz and aghast at news of snow in the north. This has been going on for a good few days and every able-bodied journalist has been dispatched to look at the snow. Once they’ve fulfilled these snow-staring obligations, they interfere with shoppers and demand an explanation.
A very long-range shot of a tiny white patch at the top of a mountain was cited as proof of snow. I’m reluctant to discount malicious sheep, however, having a laugh at the expense of excitable journos and the beleaguered population at large. (“No no no, just stay totally still. I’m telling you, John, they fall for it every time – the great big human freaks. Crazy shit, man. Watch.”)
Even down here in the south - blissfully depopulated as tourists stay at home in slovenly droves to curse their own greed and the seemingly inexorable "logic" of capitalism - we’ve not been spared the chilling arrival of journalists.
As temperatures continued to saunter idly downwards last week, threatening to throw the entire region into an approximation of an Irish Summer – for the love of God, would someone, please, call an ambulance - the press swooped on Faro to try to gauge the extent of our tragedy.
I don’t know. I was out every day last week, enjoying the sun, toasting my soul, languidly assessing surfer-boys as they danced on the waves with a disturbingly impressive athleticism. I thought it was pretty hot, really, and only discovered that we’d all been freezing to death once I got back to the apartment and switched on the news.
The telebox people said as much. They were adamant and seemed to have proof, too, in the shape of some thoroughly vox-popped pedestrians clutching their ears and shiveringly confirming the depth of our sorrows.
I mean, okay, the air was occasionally a bit nippy, sure - but really. Whilst this outpouring of overreaction has never quite reached British levels of weather-induced hysteria, right enough, it’s still hardly been taxing to distinguish between a Portuguese journalist and mental stability these past few glorious days.
Anyway, whilst taking pictures of the TV – as you do – I came across this northern Portugeezer (see below) casually denouncing the weather and predicting the end of times etc. The fuzz is due to poor reception and has nothing to do with blizzards:
Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Surely even the most jaded and despondently drunk Kremlinologist will see through such a flimsy disguise? Lose the earring, Leonid, and come out with your hands above your hat. It’s over.
