oh my greatness

Lusitoland. Those poros are crazy motherstickers.

I can like it.

Cruise into Wemmer Pan, the idyllic southern, dust-bowl setting of Lusitoland, the annual Portuguese festival. Three girls. Four guys. Smash prego rolls, espetada in our collective face.

This place was a riot.

Drink a motherlode of caipirinhas. Cane cocktails, for the lesser informed.
Random Patricia Lewis sighting. Lots of mullets. Lots of hairy bodies.

Oh.
My.
Greatness.

There is a multitude of crap being sold at this place in which we happily and drunkenly threw money at. Come across a stall selling Vegas showgirl-style bras, complete with granny’s lampshade tassles and gems stuck onto the fabric. The boys buy us these. We strip off our upper halves almost too enthusiastically, to exchange our previously tasteful jerseys with truly facking appalling synthetic bustier apparel, much to the shared horror and delight of innocent bystanders.

We think its ok, because we couldn’t possibly know anybody here.

Oh really.

Get up on stage during a live frigging act. (Hello, security?) Accompany a dude pumped on steroids, a mesh vest, jean pant and a microphone who introduces himself as a ‘Boereguese’ to his plethora of fans below him. Dazzle the audience with our showgirl tassles and erotic dancemoves.

Get off stage. Five people rush forward. Four friends previously unnacounted for, and my hairdresser. They want to know what the fuck I’m doing dancing centre stage in the middle of Lusitoland. Of all godforsaken places. Can’t really answer that question.

Take out a small family with our tango dancing. Brief flashbacks of being thrown up in the air a few hundred times, much like a rag doll. Dockers put on my bra, stuffed it with his socks. Like my normal bra. My black Wonderbra. Got hit on by two 65 year old women, who asked me, “That friend of yours…I can like to take him home and put him in my bed and do you know what.”

Sweet Darryl. That’s just nasty.

I remember everything. Even the phonecall from Small Bum: “What you doing?”
Me: Dancing on stage with a lone singer in a vest singing bok treffers twee, in front of 600 people. You?

Can you say what the fuck did we do this weekend?