Читать книгу An Idiot Abroad - Karl Pilkington - Страница 11

The heat as we left the airport this afternoon was mental. I never normally sweat on my head but today I was dripping. Even my ears were sweating. Ricky and Stephen told me that all this travelling was going to bring me new experiences, but sweaty ears were not on my list.

As we drove in the sunshine past the golden sands of Ipanema beach I was doing a bit to camera about how much I thought I was going to enjoy my time in Rio. Then I got to my destination, Hostel Piratas de Ipanema, and my heart sank.

‘The rules of the hostel are to clean the kitchen after you’ve used it,’ said Fredericko, the owner, before I’d even put my bags down.

‘You’d best go through the rules again with the bloke who used it last then,’ I said.

The place was well minging. Half-empty coffee cups, crushed lager cans, unwashed cutlery and half-eaten yoghurts whose friendly bacteria had no doubt been battered by the unfriendly bacteria in this place.

Fredericko was a 46-year-old hippy who was popular with the kids who were hanging around. He had a constant grin on his face, smoked self-rolled fags, and wore bleached jeans which had been cut down into shorts. Shame he couldn’t have used some of the bleach in the kitchen rather than on his pants.

He led me on a long, winding walk to where I would be sleeping. We set off down a dark corridor with just one electric fan that was missing its safety guard and was plugged into the wall with bare wires which buzzed dangerously. It reminded me of a previous trip to Alcatraz. Young people in surf shorts and bikinis wandered by. We continued up some dodgy stairs and across a balcony that wobbled until we finally reached my dormitory. It was a dark room with 20 or so beds in it and looked like something out of the film Annie. More young people came and went. I am too old to be here, I thought to myself. The last time I felt like this was when I finally got round to having swimming lessons at the age of 14. Most of the other kids were a lot younger than me – seven or eight. They thought I was the swimming instructor.

Fredericko stopped at a bunk bed near the window. ‘This is the best bed in the hostel,’ he told me proudly. I couldn’t work out why, until I met a lad from Hull who explained that if you needed to empty your bladder in the night you could use the window instead of having to walk to the toilets. Not exactly en suite, but I suppose I shouldn’t moan.

The mattress was badly stained. Mine looked worse than the others due to the fact that I had daylight showing up stains that you couldn’t see on the others. Someone’s underpants hung on the end of the bedpost. I was going to move them then I thought they might attract the flies away from me so I left them.

I asked Christian, the show’s director, how much it cost to stay here. He said £4 a night. And then Christian said goodbye and left with the rest of the crew to check in to their rented house on Rua Saint Roman.

I decided to try to get an early night. I nodded off to the sound of a kid who looked about nine years old strumming away on a guitar on another bunk bed.

I was woken by Christian pointing a camera in my face. It must have been about 7 a.m. I had slept quite well. All the beds now had people in them. Bare legs dangled from the bunks and the odd bollock was hanging out, waiting for any bed bug that was ready for a bit of breakfast in bed. I went to have a wash. The toilets were in worse condition than the kitchen.

We went for breakfast in the back of a supermarket where you pay for your food by its weight. I like this idea. They should put a twist on it and charge people by their body weight. If you’re heavy you get charged slightly more, thus helping you to cut down on your food intake. I had some toast and a bit of papaya. This was the first time I’d ever eaten papaya. It was okay, but if someone told me I’d never eat papaya ever again, I wouldn’t be bothered. I feel like this about most fruit. There is too much fruit in the world, and I don’t like buying a lot of it, as it goes off so quickly. Maybe that’s why we’re told to eat five portions a day, just to get through the stuff before it turns mouldy.

First things first, I went to see if I could find a cheap hotel ’cos I didn’t want to stay another night in Fredericko’s hostel. But everywhere was booked up, due to it being carnival season, or at least that’s what they told me. It could have been because I looked such an unwashed scruff in my shorts and slept-in T-shirt, and they just didn’t want me in their hotel. Madonna and Beyoncé were in town. If Madonna got a glimpse of me in such a state she would probably take pity and adopt me to go with the rest of her collection.

Finally, Christian and Krish said I could stay with the rest of the crew at their house on Rua Saint Roman. That cheered me up.

Christian then told me I was off to meet a local man who would show me around Rio de Janeiro. His name was Celso. He was 47 years old and walked with a stick. This was quite good, as he shuffled along at a slow pace which was perfect in this heat. Within seconds of meeting him he gave me a gift. It was a condom on a string. I opened it to see a series of diagrams of two blokes putting a condom on each other. There was no need for so many drawings of men’s knobs. You only need one to demonstrate how to pop it on. I asked Celso if he was gay, but he didn’t answer.

Instead he took me to a health spa where he wanted to get his body waxed. Celso invited me into the small cubicle to watch. He told me a lot of men have this done in Rio to get rid of unwanted body hair, so they look better and tan better on the beach. He told me I was too hairy and should have it done too. I said no. Celso told me he has his body done every four months. I read the price list. To have hair removed from the anus would cost approximately eight English pounds. I don’t know why anyone would need this doing. Who needs to get such a thorough, all-over body tan? Celso told me how he had his testicles done once and how much it hurt. Maybe this is why he walks with a stick.

After watching for a bit I decided to just get my lower back done. This is my only body hair that does seem rather long. The fact that I have to tuck it into my underpants made me realise that it was probably time to get rid of it.

It hurt – a lot more than I imagined it would. I said, ‘No more . . . that’s enough,’ and went to get up, when Celso told me that the lady had only removed half of it.

With the waxing complete, Celso decided to celebrate by buying some new swimming trunks. He said he wanted to buy me a pair too. I said I didn’t want them as I wouldn’t wear them. He bought them for me anyway.

The place the crew is staying at is okay. Nothing fancy. It is quite a rough area and police are guarding the street due to a drug raid that happened a few weeks ago, so it feels pretty safe. I have a mattress with no bed and no light in the bathroom, but it’s fine compared to Fredericko’s hostel.

We have a cook who made some nice chicken and beans for tea.

Celso took me to the beach today. He asked me if I had brought my new swimming trunks. I hadn’t. I did try them on last night, but the truth was I didn’t like them. I didn’t know how to break the news to him.

We had a long walk along the beach whilst chatting about various things – from life in Brazil to how kids these days get away with doing whatever they want. I asked about his leg problem. It was something to do with diabetes. We must have been walking for 50 minutes or so, when he suddenly announced his legs were starting to ache and he wanted to sit down. As I turned to look for a deck chair and umbrella, Celso told me how much he liked this part of the beach. It’s known as the gay beach. I said, why don’t we walk another five minutes or so to another part of the beach, but he insisted on staying. Everyone seemed to know him. I asked him again if he was gay. He didn’t give me a straight answer.

I was feeling pretty uncomfortable and a little bit annoyed that Celso had brought me to this bit of the beach, so I decided to sit in silence as he wriggled about in the deck chair loosening his shirt. A camp friend of his then came over to say hello. He was the gayest man I had ever met in my life. Every word out of his mouth was gayed up. Imagine if Kenneth Williams had a gayer brother – that was this man. He told me I should loosen up and strip off some of my clothing. I refused. Even if I had wanted to, I wouldn’t now. Celso took this as his cue to remove his shorts and show off his new purchase. I wanted to leave. Celso’s gay friend said I had great legs and that gay men would love me here in Brazil. He said I had ‘great novelty value’ but then told me I wasn’t his type, as he was into black men. I had nothing to say in reply. He wouldn’t give up though. He commented on my hairy legs and said I would be classed as ‘a bear’ in the gay community. Again, I had little to say.

I remember Ricky telling me once that if a lion could speak English we wouldn’t be able to understand anything it said because the lion would have lived such a different life to us. I never understood what he meant until today.

Celso had a massage by a local man called Nelson Mandela. Celso looked like he was loving it.

I asked Celso’s friend if Celso was gay. He said it was up to Celso to tell me. I turned to Celso, who now had his legs wrapped round his neck and his head wedged between Nelson Mandela’s thighs, but decided that I would ask him some other time.

I left him to it and went back to the apartment.

We had chicken and beans again for tea.

We were up early today. 5 a.m. We were going to the Christ Redeemer. Forget body waxing and sunbathing on gay-only beaches, this is the whole reason I am here.

We set off in a van we had hired while we stayed in Rio. It came with a driver who said his name was Bin Laden. He was a miserable fella. He didn’t like anyone touching the air conditioning or having too many bags on board.

We got to the Big Jesus just as the sun was coming up. Christ the Redeemer isn’t as big as I’d thought it would be, but being there on our own so early in the day felt quite special. It’s so high up you can look down through the clouds over the whole of Rio. God knows how they got him up here. The bloke who delivered my washer/dryer from Comet moaned about getting up to my flat on the third floor. I suppose that’s why it could be a Wonder of the World.

I think the other reason that makes Christ the Redeemer one of the Wonders is the setting. I’m pretty sure if it was plonked on a roundabout in Stretford, next to the Arndale Centre, it wouldn’t get a look-in.

As the sun came up so did the flying ants. Hundreds of the bloody things. Big ones too. There is no need for ants to have the ability to fly. They are useless when it comes to walking. I’ve watched them. They tend to cover the same piece of ground time and time again and they are even worse at flying.

We went back down to meet a woman called Dolores who loves the Big Jesus. I had a coconut on the way, which was another first for me. A drink and food all in one. It didn’t look like the normal coconuts you win at fairgrounds. There was no hair on it. I don’t know if that’s how they grow here or if it’s that Brazilians hate hair on anything and they’ve waxed them.

Dolores turned up in a beach buggy and took me back up to the Jesus, pointing out various landmarks as we drove, including the house where Ronnie Biggs used to live.

It was busy at Christ the Redeemer now. It wasn’t half as relaxing as it had been earlier this morning. There were hundreds of tourists crammed around the bottom shouting and pushing about. Groups of 20 people being led by a guide who was trying to shout above the other guides who were leading bigger groups. Even the flying ants had sodded off because it had become so crowded. Dolores gave me some facts. It stands at 130 feet and has a chapel in the base. I told her that I like the setting but wasn’t really blown away by the statue. As I was saying this, a couple from England passed by. I asked them what they thought. They weren’t fans either and said they preferred the statue in Lisbon. Dolores was not happy with this comment and said they didn’t know what they were talking about.

She told me that to get a really amazing view I should take a helicopter ride around the statue.

Chicken and beans was served for tea again tonight.

I was woken at 5.10 this morning by Christian. He said we needed to leave by 5.30 for our helicopter ride. I was really struggling. I didn’t have much sleep last night. I was woken around 3 a.m. by something outside. I could hear movement in the long weeds. I got up and could see a shadow moving in the crack of the front door. I thought it might have been someone trying to break in. I couldn’t ignore it so I decided to just open it and see who it was. It was a chicken. At three in the morning! What is a chicken doing awake at this hour? I don’t know if having a chicken walk across your path is some sort of bad omen in Brazil. I took it as bad news anyway, as it looks like we’ll be having chicken for tea again.

I grabbed a banana for breakfast and joined Bin Laden and the crew in the van. Forty minutes later I was getting onboard a helicopter. I’ve never been on one before. I was pretty nervous, as these things don’t glide if the engines fail. I sat in the back and was given headphones to wear, and off we went. There was no safety briefing, none of the usual info you get given before take-off. There was nothing to hold on to either. Even in the back of a Ford Fiesta there is a handle on the ceiling to hold on to, but there was nothing here.

We skimmed about 20 feet above the sea along Ipanema and Copacabana beach, which worried me as it meant that even if I survived a crash I would then have to try and swim in the roughest waves I’ve ever seen. But once I’d got used to the sensation I started to enjoy it. It’s one of the best ways to get around. We went round Christ the Redeemer four times, and it looked amazing. Dolores was right. I was getting a great view. I looked down at all the tourists crammed round the bottom like ants (mind you, they could have been ants, knowing what it’s like down there). It definitely looked more impressive from this angle. It looked taller than 130 feet. I felt I had to say how good Jesus looked. Let’s face it, while I’m whizzing round his head in a helicopter at high speed, he’s the last person I want to slag off. The only thing that didn’t look in proportion was his chin. He looked like Jimmy Hill. I put the dodgy chin down to the fact that the sculptor may have rushed it due to all the flying ants, but once back on ground and we could all hear each other clearly enough to hold a proper conversation, Christian told me he hasn’t got a big chin, it was meant to be a beard.

I really enjoyed my ride in the helicopter. Probably the best part of the trip so far.

Back at the house and my happy mood disappeared when Steve called and told me that Celso had invited me round to his place so I could find out more about Brazilian life. I said I thought it was a waste of time. I’d spent quite a lot of time with Celso over the last few days and I hadn’t learnt that much from him. I still didn’t even know if he was gay or not. Steve told me to stop whingeing and to go.

‘Hello, mate. What’s going on? How’s it going at the hostel?’

Stephen

‘Oh, I left that in the end. It did my head in.’

Karl

‘Well, how long did you last in there?’

Stephen

‘Just did a night.’

Karl

‘Lightweight.’

Stephen

‘It’s not lightweight, honestly. It wasn’t even safe. I shouldn’t have been there. I mean, I had injections before I came that protect me from being bitten by a dirty chimp. But I’m a bit worried that stopping there. I wasn’t protected. So a night was enough.’

Karl

‘Well, I’ve got a bit of good news for you.’

Stephen

‘Go on.’

Karl

‘Pack up your stuff because I don’t know what place you’re staying in now but I’m sure it’s nothing compared to where we’re going to send you. . . You’ve already met Celso, your local guide. Lovely fella. You got on with him, and that’s a treat. He has personally invited you to stay with him in his place.’

Stephen

‘But what’s. . . what’s the point of this, seriously? Steve, do you know him? Have you ever spoken to him?’

Karl

‘But he’s already your mate. You don’t just turn down hospitality like that. Not when you’re in another country.’

Stephen

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

Karl

‘If someone gives you a bed for the night, you take it, my friend.’

Stephen

‘Listen, if he’s a mate, why hasn’t he told me if he’s gay or not? Why’s it such a big issue?’

Karl

‘But what’s that got to do with anything? That’s got nothing to do with it, mate! He’s just offering you a bed.

Stephen

‘Yeah, but that’s what worries me.’

Karl

‘He’s giving you a bed for the night, alright? You’ve already been whingeing about how you’re not happy where you’re staying. He’s offered a bed for the night – nothing wrong with that.’

Stephen

‘But, honestly, he’s a right queen. It will be like staying with Aunty Nora. I bet he’s got ornaments all over the place. I bet everything’s got a valance on it. I bet everything’s sort of frilly everywhere. I mean, it would be nice for an hour. . .’

Karl

‘If your Aunty Nora invited me to sleep with her, I’d be round there in a flash.’

Stephen

‘Well, what am I doing with him? Is it a night in? Can we just have a game of cards or. . .?’

Karl

‘It’s just a game of cards. You haven’t got to go out partying.’

Stephen

‘Honestly?’

Karl

‘Yes.’

Stephen

‘Has he got Wi-Fi?’

Karl

‘I don’t know if he’s got Wi-Fi. But that’s a question you ask him. That’s the first question through the door. "Thanks, mate, have you got Wi-Fi?" Karl, treat it like a B&B. You know you don’t have to be sensitive.’

Stephen

‘Ain’t that a gay term? I’ve heard that B&B is a gay term for bum and bollocks. Honestly, I heard someone talking on the train, and he said, “Oh, I’m having a bit of B&B tonight – a bit of bum and bollocks.”’

Karl

{laughing}‘Let us know how it goes. . . ’

Stephen

‘Yeah, alright. I’ll talk to you later.’

Karl

‘All the best, mate.’

Stephen

‘See ya.’

Karl

We got the Metro. It was chaos. People were pushing and shoving to get on the train worse than they do in London. It took an hour to get there. When we got off I was surprised to see the sort of area Celso lived in. He came across as a man who would have quite a fancy lifestyle. In reality, his place was a flat in a five-storey block. Old people sat outside playing dominoes. Kids played football and two toothless women stood chatting at a cola stand. It wasn’t really grim, in fact it reminded me a bit of the estate I grew up on, except the old and young people seem to mix here.

‘Hiiiiiiii,’ shouted a camp voice. It was Celso, topless and waving a hanky between the security bars of his front window.

We made our way up the stairs, avoiding a snappy dog whose owner sat behind a locked gate staring at us.

I knocked on Celso’s door. It was covered in posters for various carnival events and an advert for condoms. I wondered if these were put up for visitors to read to pass the time it took for Celso to shuffle his way to his front door. Eventually, he opened the door wearing just his silk boxer shorts and flip-flops. He had been spraying his plants and was moaning how hot it was. He seemed quieter and less confident today.

It was a tiny flat. About the size of one I used to live in, except it was cluttered, which made it feel even smaller. There was so much in the room my eyes didn’t know what to focus on.

He offered me a glass of nut juice. Of all the things to get juice out of, I can’t think of anything less juicy. I was still getting my head round the fact that carrot juice existed, now nut juice.

I told Celso that I found it odd that I’d only known him for a few days and yet I was welcomed into his flat. Celso explained that it is a Brazilian tradition that if you are invited to stay over it is rude to refuse. I could tell by his face that he was serious – more serious than the way he looked whilst trying on the trunks in the swimwear shop. He said I must stay in his bed. I’m normally quite good at nipping situations like this in the bud, but he kept going on about Brazilian tradition and how he would be upset if I didn’t stay. So, in the end, I agreed.

I was left with Krish in the lounge while Christian went with Celso into his bedroom to interview him. I browsed through his CDs. Dinah Washington, Dionne Warwick and Bette Midler. A lot different from the rap music that was blasting from the cars outside.

Forty-five minutes later Celso came into the living room wearing a dress, wig and make-up. I told him he reminded me of my Aunty Nora. Other than the eye make-up being a bit over the top, he looked quite good. He said I should now call him Lorna Washington. He was a drag queen. He had to go off to do a birthday party and a wedding. I asked him if this meant he was gay. He said something along the lines of ‘What do you think honey?’ Still not a straight answer.

Celso then told me to make myself feel at home. He told me to help myself to more nut juice. He left me his phone number, and showed me how the TV remote worked and gave me a selection of DVDs to watch, including My Fair Lady. It reminded me of times when my mam would go out when I was younger and give me money to get some toffees from the off-licence and tell me not to answer the door to anyone.

His cab came. I watched through the bars on his window as Lorna Washington went to work under the watchful gaze of his neighbours.

It was warm in his flat. A fan hung from the ceiling but made little difference. I sat wondering if it was part of Brazilian tradition to invite someone to stay but then fuck off out for the evening. Seems a bit odd to me. I couldn’t get the DVD to work so watched a little bit of TV. I then went to the toilet where I disturbed four massive cockroaches. I can’t stand those things. They move too quickly for my liking. There was also so much clutter that it made it easy for them to hide. I felt itchy. I then noticed a few bites on my legs. I think I found a new species on me that evening.

It’s hard to explain the amount of clutter there was, but put it this way, it was difficult to see a space to put anything down on any surface due to stuff. I don’t know why Celso kept some of the items, as I couldn’t work out what some of the things were. Christian actually lost his phone in there and couldn’t find it. Finally I snapped. I decided I couldn’t stay any longer. I don’t like being in tight spaces. The more I looked around, the more I got worked up. Plus the cockroaches didn’t help. I found a dead one in the kitchen. The fact that I’ve heard cockroaches are one of the toughest creatures on planet earth – they can survive a nuclear attack and live for a week without a head – yet this one couldn’t survive in Celso’s place made me realise it wasn’t healthy for me to stay there.

It was 1.30 a.m. I thought it would be rude to just leave, so I called Celso and told him it was too hot and noisy to stay. He didn’t sound that disappointed.

I was back in my own bed at 2.45 a.m.

I woke up this morning feeling guilty about leaving Celso’s place. But then it occurred to me that maybe Celso had only invited me round ’cos he wanted me there for security whilst he was out working. Krish and Christian agreed that it was best that we’d left, so I didn’t feel too bad.

We went to a block party today. It was the worst party I have ever been to. Aimlessly walking about as people blew whistles and made noise with air horns. I would normally avoid things like this. I remember not enjoying the Queen’s Jubilee street party when I was a kid. Scruffy Sandra ate loads of the trifle me mam had made and didn’t bring anything to the party. This block party was worse. There was no trifle whatsoever. People just stood around looking a bit bewildered. It was like wandering amongst the staff of an office block who are stood on the street ’cos a fire alarm has gone off. At least the noise from a fire alarm is necessary. The noise these lot were making was just noise pollution. There was a bloke walking around dressed as a pink poodle in some pants that left his arse exposed. Maybe this isn’t a block party and this is an office block on fire and he’s singed his arse. He got annoyed when strangers pinched it.

I saw Celso’s gay friend. He was with another man. I’m not sure if it was his boyfriend as he wasn’t black.

I told Krish that I’d had enough. We went back home.

I didn’t really enjoy today. I had some Toblerone to cheer me up.

I said it would be nice to go to a quiet beach to get away from all the noise. Krish said he knew where a nice quiet beach was but we’d have to get up early to get there. I agreed.

We ate chicken and beans again. Christian said he would speak to our fixer about getting the cook to do something different for tomorrow.

Got up at 5.20 this morning to go to the quiet beach. Even Ipanema and Copacabana beach would be quiet at this time of the day. Krish said it would take an hour to drive to our destination. Bin Laden seemed miserable. I don’t think he likes an early start.

Unsurprisingly we were the first on the beach, apart from a man who was serving drinks under a canopy. We found a nice patch and got comfortable. I was sat enjoying the view when I was disturbed by a banging noise. I turned and saw the man under the canopy smashing ice. I also noticed he had his knob out.

I told Krish, and he didn’t seem that surprised. It was a bloody nudist beach. I’ve never understood why people like to do this, least of all at 7.30 a.m. It wasn’t that hot yet, as the sun hadn’t come up properly. He still had his T-shirt on, so why couldn’t he keep his shorts on? I watched, as he kept bending down to pick up more ice. It’s like he was trying to wind me up. Every time he bent down his arse and balls swung in my direction. He looked like the back end of a bulldog.

More fellas turned up, chatting with their arms folded and their knobs and bollocks out. There were a few women too. Two large ladies in their late forties sat behind me. I had no idea if they were completely nude because their breasts hung that low they covered the more private areas.

A man came over and gave me a leaflet listing the rules of the beach. It had lots of useful instructions, including advice on what men should do if they had a moment of excitement. The leaflet suggested sitting down as soon as possible or entering the sea and staying there until the excitement goes away. With the women I had on view, I don’t think there was any chance of any of that.

Half an hour later, the man who gave me the leaflet came back and asked me to get nude or leave. I said, ‘I’ll leave, thank you very much.’

I couldn’t go far though. Krish and Christian and Jan (cameraman) and Freddie (soundman) had to get more pictures for the telly programme.

They were told they would have to be naked if they wished to carry on filming. So they got naked. It was the first time I felt like I got my own back on them for all the stuff they’ve been putting me through.

Back at the house Krish told us we were going to a favela tomorrow. They normally liked to keep everything a secret up until it happened, but Krish said he had to tell me about this, as the favelas are the roughest parts of town where drugs and guns rule and he would have to give us a Health and Safety briefing. What’s going on? I didn’t come to Brazil for danger. Krish was suddenly acting all serious, which was hard to handle when earlier today I’d seen him walk about a beach with his knob out.

A different cook was cooking tonight. She made spicy beef with beans.

I got up 30 minutes earlier than I needed to today as I wanted a ham toasty for breakfast and the toasty machine takes 20 minutes to warm up. I thought about how this could be my last ever meal as we were going to a favela today. In that context I suppose I shouldn’t complain about having to wait for the toaster to warm up.

Over breakfast there was a lot of talk about the film City of God. Apparently, the favela we were going to was similar to the one that was in the film. Everyone but me had seen the movie. I seemed to remember hearing about it, but was put off ’cos I heard it had subtitles and I don’t like films with subtitles. I may as well read the book.

Krish explained that we would have to sit on the back of a motorbike, as the favelas are not really suitable for vans. It’s the first time Bin Laden looked happy the whole time I’ve been here. Easy day for him. So I got on the back of a big bike that was being ridden by a bloke called Johnny who was a local from the favela. We darted round corners and went down alleyways. As we whizzed through the streets I saw guns on every corner.

Big ones too. The crew followed behind. At certain points we were told not to film, as the gang leaders did not want to be captured on film. We had to point the cameras down to the ground so they could see we were not secretly filming.

Finally the bikes pulled up, and I was introduced to a man called Henrique. He had no weapons. He was not a gang leader. He was going to teach me a Brazilian dance called the samba.

Henrique took me to a derelict building where for two hours he taught me various moves. I showed him a few of my own moves, which he described as ‘crap’. Bit harsh, I thought. The first 30 minutes seemed like fun, and I wasn’t taking it too seriously, until Henrique told me I would be dancing in the Rio Carnival. Even though I’m not that well travelled I had heard of this and started to feel worried. I trained harder now. Henrique told me 4,000 people would be watching, and it was a big deal for the team I would be dancing with. They had been training all year and were hoping to impress the judges enough to go up a league in the main competition.

But the harder I tried, the more frustrated I became. There was too much to remember. In the end Henrique suggested we stop for food.

We went to a local café. The food was really, really tasty, but then I guess if your customers are coming in with grenades, machine guns and rocket launchers you wouldn’t want to serve them mush.

After eating we trained some more and Henrique gave me a costume I would have to wear. It was a ridiculous thing, an Andy Pandy-style outfit with blue feathers. It made me look gormless, but Henrique told me that was the least of my worries. He told me to remember to smile. This isn’t something I do a lot. I do smile, but not as much as some people. Even when I’m happy inside, my face does not always show it.

We trained for another hour or so, then stopped, as Henrique was tired due to the fact he’d been dancing at the carnival for the last three days. I was knackered after three hours. There is nothing I can do about my fitness though. There’s not time, so I’ll just make sure I try to get an early night and eat well.

Beef and beans again tonight. I just had beef, as I am now sick of beans.

Before I went to bed I practised my dancing in my room and then did some smiling in the bathroom mirror. It didn’t look very natural to me, but then I couldn’t see myself very clearly due to the fact that we had no electricity in the toilet.

Carnival day. I felt more worried about having to dance in front of a large crowd today than I did this time yesterday when I was heading into the druggy, gun-ridden favela.

We were at the carnival site for 1 p.m., but when I arrived, I was told I wouldn’t be dancing until 8.45. I was already dressed in my big, feathered Andy Pandy outfit and had no other clothes with me, so I just sat in the van with Bin Laden while everyone else went to set up the camera equipment. It was a long afternoon. Bin Laden and I didn’t speak due to our language barrier. Mind you, he’s such a miserable sod, it wouldn’t surprise me if he had good English but just didn’t want to chat to me.

I fell asleep for an hour or so until Krish and Christian woke me and said Henrique was in the parade close by. We tracked him down, and he gave me a few more moves that were easier to remember than the stuff he taught me yesterday. He then said if I forgot my moves to just use lots of energy and remember to smile a lot.

We had a Bob’s Burger – Brazil’s equivalent of McDonald’s – and after that everything is a bit of a blur. I don’t remember much about what happened from then until the start of the parade. Henrique told me where to stand and repeated his tips about ‘giving off energy’. He kept reminding me to smile. Fireworks exploded, and so did my stomach. I don’t know if it was my nerves or the Bob’s Burger I’d eaten earlier, so I quickly used a toilet, as I didn’t like the idea of getting halfway down the parade and doing a Paula Radcliffe in front of 4,000 spectators and half as many judges.

I found a toilet and was charged two reals (about 60p) to use it. It was grim. I sat on the dirty toilet and saw myself in the mirror hanging on the back of the door. There I was wearing the Andy Pandy outfit and a stupid gormless hat. How did it come to this?

I didn’t have time to worry though, as the owner of the loo was banging on the door. I hate being rushed on the toilet. She banged again. I got outside where the woman was pointing at the price on the door and repeating ‘Two moments . . . two moments’. Sixty pence only buys two minutes of usage. Maybe I should have had the beans last night. The way them things go through you, I could have saved myself 30p.

I made my way through the crowds to the start of the parade. It was busy now. Henrique put me with an oldies’ group. There was a woman wearing glasses who looked like Jim Bowen off Bullseye. It didn’t really help me being put with the old ones though, as it just added to the pressure. I suddenly thought, if I can’t keep up with this lot, that’ll really knock my confidence.

And then the drums sounded and we were off. I was in the zone and gave it my best shot.

Fifty-five minutes later I crossed the finishing line. I haven’t felt that knackered for years. I had a huge blister on my foot, and felt really dizzy and weak but glad it was all over.

Henrique looked pleased with me, which was good. I asked him if the class would be going up a league, but he said he wouldn’t know for a few days.

We went home today.

I left for the airport at 1.30 p.m. and flew home via Lisbon, as there was no direct flight. I tried to look out of the plane window to see if I could see the statue that the English couple I’d met said was better than Christ the Redeemer, but it was too cloudy. I was back at home in London for 12 p.m.

I preferred Christ the Redeemer to the Pyramids. 1–0 to Brazil.

Christian just told me that Henrique’s dance team missed out on promotion by 0.2 points.