Surfing in Pipa

It has always upset me how women seem to fancy surfers rather than cricketers. Being a cricketer, I devoted my teenage winters to the loving practice of oiling my bat rather than vainly waxing my board.  

While the cricketer modestly keeps his equally well-honed Scottish opening batsman's physique behind yards of smartly pressed whites, your average surfer lollops along the beach like some sort of half-naked sporting neanderthal. 

No sex wax was required for me to have a good day of honest sporting fun. Just a sun hat, factor 60, a spare rubber and eleven other chaps just as happy hitting the leather as I was.  

Still no euphemisms in this entry. 

Cricket never caught on in Brazil. Apparently, if my history serves, whilst being colonised by the beastly Portuguese, the slave driving brutes packed surfboards when they should of course have packed the more sensible British option.

That is: whites, sun hats, six stumps, two sets of bails, a lawnmower, 3 bats, 2 balls, 6 pairs of pads, a couple of cod piece fitting boxes, batting and keeping gloves, spikes, a couple of batting helmets for the under 15s, a heavy and light roller, a pavilion, covers, a scorer (he'll have his own stationary), two ladies to do the lunches, vaseline, twenty two gentleman and two umpires with a copy of the rule book each.   

The beach on Pipa was a case in point. For some reason, women prefer to waste their time watching this sort of thing than honour the greatest game at, say, Raeburn Place during a drizzly 4 hour Edinburgh Accies' batting performance.  

I have no intention of trying to sound like a know more about surfing than I do, but even a blind novice could how good this break is. Nice even right to lefts that would make an 8 year old look good. And I think the one to the right is a girl!    

And, when I zoomed right in, I saw that that very 8 year old was right there, being made to look good by the easy breaks. To misquote Dennis Hooper: I love the smell of emasculation in the morning. But I bet he couldn't read a tricky leg spinner. He'd play him off the pitch, which is the same thing. 

It's a mystery to me why women fancy these people. Look at this guy. And I know my wife did. I, for one, cannot see why anything here would be considered more alluring that a good forward defensive shot, never mind a cover drive. Women, eh?

Besides, weaving in and out of the boats, riding a wave in to the shore...? That sort of showing off smacks of insecurity. Whereas as a drop into the leg side and a decisive quick single? That'll get a pretty lady's heart fluttering.

I think that might be a pretty girly girl. Long board or long room, you should be making the sandwiches.

I rest my case. Bat Oil 1 Sex Wax 0. 

Skol: The Rebrand.

As mentioned in the previous entry, the biggest surprise I've had in Brazil so far is the prominence of Skol lager. Well, that and the fact that the g-string bikini is deemed appropriate for all 3 generations.

Turns out Skol has undergone something of a Brazilian Rebrand from what I remember.

When I were a lad, Skol was the joke of all beers. I remember Skol being the beer you drank after finishing the Tennants, singing The Skol Song as you did so to detract from the taste. And that's aged 17, when cooking brandy, Mad 20/20 and aftershave are your drinks menu.  

You remember the Skol song? Didn't think so, but youtube and I did. It went like this:

Even the makers of Skol thought their lager was worse than Tennants. The ad looks like old men holding urine samples. The strapline? Horribly good lager. The Pot Noodle of beer. 

Now, the Brazilians know a thing or two about life. Faced with a prospect even an Advertising Supremo like Don Draper would have struggled with, namely trying to translate a product fronted by Hagar the Horrible and his animated chanting friends into a product desirable to a beach and sun loving country who hardly drink.

I can only assume the meeting went something like this. In Portuguese:

- Guys, how are we going to sell this awful beer?

Awkward silence. A moment of inspiration, as a junior ad man with hidden talent raises a nervous hand to unveil the idea that had been worming around his head since Junior High.

- Has anyone thought of using... you know, instead of the animated Viking God... um... we could use... er... big tits?

Emboldened, another young upstart chips in, tentatively:

- ... and buttocks? Again, just if you're not going with the whole animated Viking God... thing...?
- Hmm, says Draper, pondering the idea. Big tits and buttocks? Should we keep the song? The chant? Hmm. OK, it's worth a shot. Creative, get to work. 

And only hours later, they'd come up with these:

 

And who would have thought? Sales improved.

A lot.

Pipa, Brazil

There are very few reasons why an 0345 alarm clock would be a welcome sound. However, the thought of three winter holiday weeks on the beaches of Pipa, in northern Brazil, is definitely one of them.                  That and the fact that we were flying with TAM. Virgin First Class it may not be, but when you're flying with kids, TAM have got to be the friendliest of the family friendly airlines in Latin America. By this I mean that they ignore every single safety regulation in order to keep children from sleeping. Irresponsible? Maybe. But give me a flight with kids sleeping across the aisles, and I don't mind helping lift the drinks trolley up and over their prone little sleeping bodies if it means a scream-free flight. Especially if it is my kid asleep under the chairs of Business Class.        

Brazil. What a great country. At least, what a brilliant country to go on holiday. Caribbean feel - laid back, easy going people with outstanding food, and surely the only place in the world that still drinks Skol. Skol! Who knew? Then again, they advertise it like this.  

We're staying in Pipa Park. Self catering, shared pool either filled with healthy, model-like Belgians or cute screaming Brazilian, Argentina and Peruvian kids. 

The beach is gorgeous, a 6 minute walk from our apartment, closer to 20 with kids. Picturesque cobbled streets, a strip of great bars, beachy cafes and restaurants, and ridiculously handsome surfer men that do not appear to own shirts. The beach has a beautiful little inlet where the boats are moored which breaks the waves making a great little place for toddlers sand babies to paddle and play.   

Following entry on beach football, which kicks off at 0900 sharp here and deserves an entry of its own. It's been one of my lifelong dreams to play beach football with, if not like, the locals in Brazil. Don't see that happening here: it's taken outstandingly seriously, with what appears to be a long waiting list before you're invited to the starting line up. So, the Roy of the Rovers call up will have to wait.

\

So, until I'm signed up as the Scottish Neymar it'll be happy families. And Skol...