‘Nowadays the feeding has become a nightly spectacle,’ I had read in the Lonely Planet Brazil guide. All I had to do was reach the Santuário do Caraça. The staff spoke no English when I arrived, and all the literature was in Portuguese. But I somehow gleaned that the fabled tray of food would be

They’re a prickly lot, the Italians – like human fumaroles, their lava dormant until the opportunity of a dispute. I mean, take a piffling molehill of an issue, add two Italians and a pinch of balmy weather, and watch the sparks fly. Shaken fists and waspish expressions soon crescendo through beetling eyebrows, unquenchable scuttling and

How long have you got? If you’ve dropped by for only thirty seconds or so, shirking Excel spreadsheets or whatever it is that people who work for a living do at desks, then you may as well biff off again and come back later. This is a guest blog of epic proportions. Coming in at

‘Got any pies?’ asked Fat Paul, optimistically. ‘I’m starving.’ His prodigious dimensions suggested that starvation was, in fact, far from imminent, yet I rallied to this desperate cry for provisions, searching high and low in the truck’s fridge. I eventually produced a delicious fruit selection. Fat Paul’s face, a mask of wan discomfort, bore an

Drum roll please. That human blot Eunuch, his brain like a buzz-saw, has typed up a guest blog. And, perhaps foolishly, I’ve agreed to publish it unabridged. Few people so far have managed such an undertaking  – Dad, Big Don, Wrecker, Namibian and Surfy Steve being notable exceptions – yet the winsome Eunuch has not

I’m being ridiculed. What for? Well, for mentioning that I thought Morgan Freeman was sex on legs in the movie Along Came a Spider. What’s worse, though, is that the man passing judgement is my pal Eunuch, a chap who admits to finding it ergonomically impractical to wear one’s girlfriend’s knickers. ‘You’ll always call me

It tasted a little like sawdust. I coughed, liberally doused my feijoada in black bean sauce and managed another mouthful. The second one was better – in fact, mixed up with some juice, the pork meat, white rice, orange and flour tasted quite delicious. ‘This dish comes from the slaves,’ said my friend Barbara, ‘but

‘You want to go somewhere?’ giggled Barbara, as we kissed passionately in her parents’ porch. ‘I can take you to a motel if you like.’ It was a little after midnight. She reversed a black Peugeot through the security gates, its engine purring contentedly on sugar cane ethanol. And we squealed off through the city

Don’t, whatever you do, scroll down. We’re going to play a little game. Now, how good would you say you are at spotting written mistakes? Jeepers, you’ve scrolled down already? Disqualify yourself and spend your time doing something more interesting like watching television.   For those that are left, do you fancy yourselves as proofreaders?