Let's Have a Moan...

  At the time of starting this article, the time since leaving English soil is 112 days, 23 hours and 14 minutes. I left behind a traditionally frosty gloominess, as the Christmas and New Year celebrations had quickly turned into a new working year. It was grey, drizzly and as British as a Yorkshire Pudding. What awaited me was a different stratosphere; the white sands of Copacabana and the postcard images of Rio de Janeiro in the height of summer. As I went through the routinely processes of Heathrow Airport, I felt like I was trading in a Ford Focus for a Lamborghini.

An initial warning to myself...

  Nearly four months later and I'd find it hard to argue that I was wrong. At times, my time in Brazil has felt like a tour around Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory - not just for the oompa-loompa tans of Rio's beaches - with an array of incredible experiences around every corner, and an infusion of the odd dark surprise to offer a bit of life perspective. I've had the time of my life and there's very little that I can complain about. Then again, I am British... 

  Would I even be a member of our proud (ha.) country if I didn't have a daily gripe or two. An example of this? Well for a start, that Yorkshire Pudding reference earlier would have been wasted on any Latin American readers of this piece. Further over their heads then an expletive fired towards Nigel Farage (there's another one...). I'll go further into my humour based niggle a bit later... 

  I've compiled a list of things that I come across on a daily basis over here in the land of samba and joga bonito. These are the most serious aspects of living abroad. The things that bring a dark cloud of longing to be back on the tarmac of Hitchin. Forget family and friends, it's these things that really pull at those homely heart strings. So, for anyone else currently abroad, get the tissues out, put a bit of James Blunt on and take a gaze at an old £5 note - we're going on a nostalgic ride.... 

The McDonalds Dilemma

  This is a linguistic case study that I have very technically researched through a number of hungover trips to the Golden Arches. It's something that I suspect will be taught in academic lectures at some point in the future, along with the reference '(Colman: 2017)'. It also drives me absolutely bats**t crazy and probably sits as the most infuriating thing on this list. 

  So let me paint a scene for you. I'm queueing up in a McDonalds, glaring up shamelessly at the board of deceptively artistic-looking burgers. I decide that I want to play it safe and go for a Big Mac and a Sprite (other lemonades are available). When I come to order, this is how the interaction goes... 

*Obviously this would be in Portuguese*

If there is a source of the excessive drinking,
it's trying to pronounce these words...

Me: Can I have a Big Mac and Sprite please?

*Confused look of a McDonalds worker that makes me feel like something from Mars* 

Worker: I don't understand. 

Me: Biiig Maac and Sprite, lemondade?  

Worker: Oh, Bigee Mackee and a Sprichee 

Me: Are you mad...

  The factor that really complicates this pronunciation issue is the fact that at almost every fast food chain advertises its products in English. Whether it be McDonald's, Subway or KFC, the menu is all in the original English names, yet unless you say it in a Brazilian 'twang', then you will be looked at like an idiot. I now find my palms sweating as I queue up at these places, questioning in my head how to say an ENGLISH WORD. 

  It's not just food either. A bad one is social media: Facebook (Faceebooky), WhatsApp (What Zappee) and Snapchat (Snapchatchee). It's a bloody nightmare. I try and say what music I like and end up tiptoeing through the syllables of Ed Sheeran (Edgy Sheeran) and The Weeknd (The Weekenjee/Fim de Semana - Portuguese for weekend...). I've now resorted to just sticking to the simple answers - Messi is always my favourite football player - so not to stick my head through a door.  

  One last one: our beloved Queen is called Queen Elizahbechee over here. I rest my case... 

Chip-Gate

  Whilst we're on the theme of fast food, we touch on the beloved french fries. You know, the absolutely perfect accompany to a burger or the perfect side snack to go with a few beers. Before I say this, I'm going to acknowledge that this is incredibly petty. Do I care? No; you don't mess with our expectations of a good chip. 

  What could this problem be? Well, one time I wasn't feeling 100% and decided to order a takeaway. I went for a burger and chips and waited the 50 minutes - excessive but we'll go into timeliness later - for my food to arrive. It arrived in a fancy box with a compartment for the burger and a compartment for the 'chips'. I was very content and eager to get stuck in to my treat.

  It's worth saying that I'm still annoyed about this. 

  The so-called 'chips', that greeted me, were not the potatoey, warm french fry but 'freshly-made', cold crisps. Who the f**k puts crisps as a side to a burger. Don't ask me why that doesn't work but it doesn't. Crisps are for a snack, chips are for a meal. 

  What made this worse was it wasn't the first time. Several times previously, I had ordered 'batatas fritas' in a bar and been brought a plate of curled up, saltless crisps. On seeing the waiter bring them over, there was always a frozen moment in time where I realised that I'd been hustled. This chip-gate was the final straw, as a tirade of colourful vocabulary was fired at this poor box. 

  The fix for this is so simple. Why not have one word for one and one word for another? We shouldn't live in a a world where ordering a portion of chips is a game of Russian Roulette. I'm going to stop being a pretentious b*****d now and donate some money to charity or something. 

*For readers that speak American English: chip = french fries and crisps = chips. I apologise or the carnage of confusion that this part probably caused*

One is a perfect side to a burger, the other is not.

Buy a Watch 

  This problems pretty simple, but one that's bringing small grey hairs to my 21 year old head as we speak. 90% of Brazilian people, and the majority of those in South America, have a physical incapability of arriving on time. I'm quite convinced that they could have a date with the Queen and poor old Elizabechee would be waiting around staring at her jewell encrusted watch with that heavy crown on her head. It's not their fault, it's just an accepted part of the culture here, but at the same time it drives me bloody insane. 

Any excuse to get this gem out..

  I should have seen the warning signs when the Brazilian National Team even turned up 90 minutes late to their World Cup semi-final in 2014 (this will probably get me deported) but, alas, I was naïve.  

  This is a certain sticking point in relations between Brazil and the UK. It's just as much our problem as theirs, as we are so tightly wound that we arrive early to a designated meeting. I'm especially bad at this, often leaving too much time for a journey and giving myself an extra 15 minutes of waiting time. However, after the first 45 minutes of waiting like a loner, I think we can pass on the blame. I've spent a combined 8 days of standing alone at metro stations, watching crowds of people pour over me without a friendly face in site. Those asking for money even start to ignore me and start giving me pitiful looks, as I gradually age and become part of the furniture... 

  It's not just Brazil it must be said. In Argentina I had a farewell party that was set to start at 7pm. I set up the house with my host family and waited in anticipation for my guests to arrive. I kept waiting. I had a swim, dried off, got changed, had a nibble on some snacks. Nothing. As 8pm and 9pm came and went, and only a handful of people turned up, it was getting embarrassing. It looked like I had absolutely no friends at all. Just as 10pm passed, and my spirit was on the verge of jumping into the pool with a brick attached to its foot, I heard a commotion at the front of the house; my whole guest list was arriving. Only the 3 hours late...

This Really Is Top Bant... Ah Never Mind

  So I was at a house party the other day - I know, what a legend - which is traditionally an interesting social situation for people living abroad. You have a few decent conversations with decent people, sink a few shots of something suspect and hop onto a precariously constructed linguistic pedestal. Well, this is exactly what happened on Thursday night, and I was rolling out more Portuguese than a samba band on the Algarve. Then this happened...

What more do you want from me?

Randomer: Anybody got a lighter (fogo/fire in Portuguese)?

Me: Nah, I've just got some fire ban... *realises there's no words for banter in Portuguese* jokes, words, fire words..

*Cue the group around me to turn on me with a look of pitiful disgust*

  Oops. This is just one example of the comedic issue that I have here. Now that fire banter joke wasn't even funny, but one of those stupid little comments that you make with your mates just to take the piss. You know the ones you don't even think about that just fire out of you. Well, you can't do that here.

  Firstly, every joke has to be very carefully thought out before being made, by which time the moment has probably passed. Is the Portuguese right? Is it culturally transferable? Is it even funny?Secondly, every joke runs the risk of leading to a situation where no one gets it, but they demand you to explain it for the next 5 minutes. This has happened to me way too much and I can tell you now that this encounter never leads to the whole group cracking up on realisation of your quick-wit. Quite the contrary, actually:

  A tepid, damp, squib of half-hearted snickering.

  Anyway, these are the main suspects. Pretty serious stuff right? How I've survived over here with such issues is beyond me, but I'm still here. Just in case you don't yet feel infinite levels of sympathy for me, here's a list of the things that narrowly missed out on a full paragraph of ranting...

• As much as I love a bottled beer poured gradually into a 75ml cup, I would love a 568ml smeary pint glass of drafted beer from a pub.   
• Having to watch most of my football on a crisp packet stream from the dark end of the internet - and having almost every goal so far ruined by a Twitter feed that is watching 2 minutes ahead of myself. 
• The fact that every supermarket has a completely different variation of vegetables and meats. One will be full of chicken and carrots, another will exclusively stock ham and peppers. You go for a weekly shop and you never quite know what's in store... (pun intended, I am funny). 
• I'm genuinely convinced that the Brazilian weather forecast is run by a chimpanzee with a bottle of vodka. A day of 'constant rain and thunderstorms' can easily be a 35 degree day of blue skies and sunshine. Stop making the pale gringo go out in the sun wearing a jacket. 
• The word 'Nossa' which translates to 'wow' but is used as frequently as 'the' in Brazilian culture. The enthusiasm for everything is admirable but not quite suited for our British pessimism. Sometimes grey is is the best colour. 
• People walking slowly. By slowly I don't mean at a leisurely pace, but as if they'd just been injected with some intense sedatives. This isn't everyone - and is worse in Rio de Janeiro - but when it happens it really grinds my gears. Put some samba on and they're stepping quicker than a tap-dancer on speed, but on a narrow pavement... pure sloths. 
• Speaking of the musical joy, the final point is every party turning in a samba or funky fest (below left, kinda), tossing aside any music to our taste. If you can't samba to it or twerk to it, it's out the door. And no, I can't samba or move my hips because they were locked up the day my British citizenship was confirmed. Ain't no-one finding that key. 

  Okay, that list was only meant to contain a few things, so I'll stop before it gets out of control. The truth is that I absolutely love Brazil. I really do. The people are great, the culture is excellent and I'm having the time of my life. These are just a few things that have arisen over my four months here that I thought my fellow foreigners living abroad would appreciate being shared.

THIS IS IN NO WAY AN ATTACK ON BRAZIL OR YOUR CULTURE AND I LOVE THIS COUNTRY MORE THAN ANY PLACE IN THE WORLD (that should hold up well at the deportation office).

(Unless you're from Argentina then it's YOUR country that I love the best, as I always said to you, forever and always x)

  At least Theresa May and Nigel Farage have done a good enough job with our country that British patriotism is no longer compulsory. I do miss your little imperfections though you miserable, grey little island - except you Farage, you ratbag t**t-face - and I am looking forward to being back on home soil on 8th June. Of course on this day there's a General Election and I shall immediately be wishing to be back in a Brazilian McDonalds asking for a Bigee Mackee... you never know what you have until it's gone. 

Thanks for reading! This is the 30th article of the blog, which is a lot more posts than I ever thought I would write. The fact it's racked up over 9,300 views so far is pretty mad and we're on track to hit the 10,000 view mark by the time that I hop on my plane home. The feedback's been great - from all over the world believe it or not - and I'm loving having this platform to share my bonkers experiences over here.

So just a quick thanks to everyone that reads this blog on a regular basis, and if you like the articles make sure to tell your friends and family! Likes and Shares on Facebook are also rewarded with extra Jack Respect Points (JRP) just saying...

You're all legends!