IT ALL COMES TO A MESSY END WHEN I HAVE A HEARTY STAB AT ABBA
Well, I'm back, guitar in hand. There's standard piped rock downstairs, but the thing that hooked me in off Largo Do Terreiro was the enormously good racket coming from the upstairs window. There's 5 or 6 other acoustic guitars in the room with everyone else singing and shouting along at the top of their voices, and banging away on the tables. I'm sat with Iago from A Coruna, and another guy from Donastia, (San Sebastian), who persuade me to jump in when there's a little gap between songs. It's mad trying to play anything, cause you can hardly even hear yourself shouting, and the Super Bock is beginning to take its toll. Halellujah gets a big singalong, but I completely lose control of Brown Eyed Girl. It's utter lunacy in here. One guy has a guitar without a headstock, with mad writing all over it, and he's banging away on it like it's a conga drum possessed. We all empty out onto the street at four, but some Portugese girls get me to start up again in the praca. It's ok to begin with, but the brandy and that final rushed big glass of Super Bock are starting to kick in. It all comes to a messy end when I have a hearty stab at ABBA, but partway in, I'm still trying to remember which ABBA song it is I know. Chords? Nope. Lyrics? Gone. It's hard enough trying to stand up, never mind perform. I've broken myself with booze!