Posts Tagged ‘Portugal’



Ginger Sooty filed this from Copacabananananana Beach last night.


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What a World Cup!

We are through the group stages now and Spain, Italy, Portugal, Russia and England are on the dreaded “plane back home” to vilification and derision.

Well done to the USA, Algeria and Costa Rica in particular for making it through to the knock out stages. The Algerian man of the tournament must be their supporter who shone a laser into the Russian keeper’s eyes moments before they equalised to send them through. Cheating and modern technology in perfect harmony.



The Russian trainer, the granite jawed Capello faced a crisis when his hair dye ran for a longer period in one match than his star centre forward Igor Knickersov. Pity Capello (not) for selecting a goalkeeper who had more chance of catching a mackerel in a shower in Dar-Es-Salaam than the ball when it approached.

Cristiano Ronaldo’s dodgy knee meant that his rhinestone duffel bag was the only Portugese item to shine this year.

2 Ghanaian players were sent home after assaulting a member of the Ghanaian FA in a dispute over wages.  The President ordered $3,000,000 cash to be flown to Brazil to pay the Black Star Stars. They lost.

Belgium, many people’s dark horses (what would a bright horse be? Also you have a Ruthless Streak but not a Ruth Streak?) would be my outside tip to win the thing now. Remember you read it here first.

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The Tussel On Brussels

Here on Copacabana Beach it is hard being a glove puppet – the sand gets everywhere –  but the obsession with the buttocks in this country is so overwhelming that I am having a thong made so I can shake my booty sister!


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Other Things You May Have Missed

The Ivory Coast players were covered in custard for their do or die match against Greece. They lost.

Two of the players from Ecuador had panpipes up their arses when playing. This brought a lovely soothing quality to the teams play and we all warbled a Simon and Garfunkel tune without knowing why. (I’d rather be a nail).

Argentina’s talisman and genius Lionel Messi was named after Lionel Blair

Australian Prime Minister Tony “Abbo” Abbott blamed an over reliance on slip on shoes amongst Australian men to explain the teams early exit.

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Enjoy the World Cup!



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The World Cup Is Here!

Brazil is hosting the tournament.

Prince Charles provides his rounded view of the 32 Nations taking part. Here is his take on the final two Groups (Thank God) G and H.

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Group G

Germany – Leiderhosen laden, oompa loompaing, thigh slapping titanic Teutons – massively hammed to a man – made a few mistakes in the past but who hasn’t? I’d slip Angela Merkel a length! Still have relatives there.

Portugal – Port swilling Latin layabouts obsessed with sardines and hair styling products -World centre for dandruff research.

Ghana – Ex colony (weren’t they all? sigh) – people smile a lot and wear clothes so bright their jumpers are visible from Saturn – cheap place to buy sandals but sadly not brogues for one.

USA – Ex colony – they have a penchant for shooting each other indiscriminately yet keep to a strict oral hygiene regime – invent their own games involving shoulder pads to make sure they win them.  Saved our bacon in WW2 when they finally got their arses into gear! Never forgiven Travolta for dancing with Dia*a all them years ago – no wonder he turned to Scientology (she was barking by the way – in case you weren’t sure).

Group H

Belgium – Mussels, chips and getting invaded a lot – Belgium!

Algeria – Cous-cous chomping nihilists who kicked the Frogs out decades ago – up yer arse De Gaulle! –  not  a fan of cous cous – the bits get stuck in one’s teeth.

Russia – Light hearted libertines with a soft spot for totalitarianism and gay rights – their idea of fun is amoebic dysentery – they burn puppies in the winter to keep warm – the rich ones have bought London.

Korea – Workaholic loons – bastards stole our ship building industry – trapped wind archery is the national sport (use your imaginations – does not make an appealing spectacle).







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To celebrate world chinstrap week, Gingerfightback brings to you some of the great and good down the years who have proudly sported one.

As Shakespeare wrote, “All the world’s a chinstrap”.


Here is Soccerball Legend, Chelsea manager and Portugese Man o’War, Jose “The Special One” Mourinho adjusting his straps


Here Is The Pope!


And here is Steve McQueen!

McQueen – The Great Escape – The Chinstrap

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London 1802. Apologies to W. Wordsworth.
Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Ooh. I’m all worked up.
I need a shower.

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Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa
Safely o’er the friendly main;
He’rts will a’most break in twa
Should he no’ come back again.
Will ye no’ come back again?
Will ye no’ come back again?
Better lo’ed ye canna be
Will ye no’ come back again?
No I bloody won’t, if I want plug holes full of pubic hair
I’ll holiday in France, ok it won’t be ginger but where I come from that’s not a big selling 

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This week Hermione turns her proud pen to travel…….
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men
We folk, good folk
Trooping all together
Green jacket, red cap
And white owl’s feather!
Ginger dwarfs in skirts
Waving their swords
Not the best advert
For Scotland’s Tourist Board.

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Today we introduce you to a new contributor to Gfb; Poet, Seer and Woodland Sprite, Hermione Moist.

The following piece is labelled “Desperation” from her short collection of works bravely titled, “Trinkets From My Box”.

Yesterday upon the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there.
I hung about a bit today
He didn’t show; I’ll bet he’s gay.
The bastard.

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There was definitely a faint smell of piss.

That’s not the sort of thing you expect in the check-out queue at Waitrose. It was either the old woman in front of me or God’s way of telling me to start wearing underpants again. It must be the old girl. They’re renowned for it.

I’d popped in at lunch time for a 7 Up and a packet of ‘Donkey Cock’ snacks and didn’t want to spend longer in there than I had to. I breathed out and looked over her shoulder. Jesus, she must have been shopping for the entire Care Home.

I coughed and shuffled, hoping she would turn round, see my purchases and with an “Is that all you’ve got love?” let me go first. No chance.

“Would you like help with packing your bags Madam?” asked Maureen on the till.

“Oh, yes please dear.”

I could have picked her up and cheerfully thrown her over the bread counter. Let me tell you, I’ve been shopping here for nearly ten years, have heard the ‘bag packing’ thing a million times, I have never, ever, ever, EVER heard anyone say “Yes”.

“Whassamatter you rancid old bag, you look capable enough to me!” This of course was a passing thought. I’m British, we’re reserved, we don’t do that kind of thing. Instead, I turned to the guy behind me, pulled a face and let out the required amount of air to register discontent. He, being British and not wanting to cause a scene ignored me.

I tried my luck with a sly look at Maureen but being a Corporate Partner she was oblivious to my tantrum and was on the blower to ‘Packing’, despite my dramatic efforts to draw everyone’s attention to the ‘Sell By’ date on the ‘Donkey Cocks’ which I though was a terrifically amusing.

By now the ‘Packeror’ had shuffled up and to be honest looked no more capable than the ‘Packeree’. If they’d got down on the floor and wrestled, it would have been a draw. After watching most of my lunch hour going up in groceries, the packing finally came to and end with a packet of ‘Werthers’.

“Ninety- seven pounds please Madam.”

“Ninety-seven pounds! I thought old people were supposed to be poor.” I muttered.

“Now where did I put my handbag?”

“Its under that pile of shit you’ve just bought,” said Maureen. (No she didn’t, but it would have been nice.)

“Oh, here it is!” The packet of Werthers went flying. I turned round with dramatic effect to pull some more faces but the rest of the queue had gone to other tills. Probably on their way to the Canaries for Christmas by now.

I had to endure though. The elusive purse. The cash. The lack of cash. The credit card. The pin number. The remembering of dead relatives birthdays to help with the pin number. The finding of more cash in a different purse hole. And then Callooh Callay, she was gone.

The dust settled.

“Good afternoon Sir, thank you for your patience, would you like any help with your packing?”

“Well, let’s start with the ‘Donkey Cocks’ and see how we go from there shall we?”

“Very well Sir. By the way, can you smell urine?”

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We hope to hear more from Banjo Sanchez in the New Year. ……….
“Merry Christmas blah, blah…..chutney & stuffing and tits on a tree,
S and M garments, ah something for me.
Those pink rubber dildos look mighty fine,
Stuck on the mantel, architectural sign.
It’s Christmas and Banjo is ready to go.
With some prescription speed and a large bag of blow.
A bottle of Brandy, who’s singing? Paloma?
As Banjo Sanchez slips into a coma.”

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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”.

A Typical Frenchman - well if you're gonna do a cliche do it properly

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.

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