27.02.18 - Cala a boca Galvão

Bom dia,

We're back home having spent a long weekend in Ilhabela, which was typically wonderful and mainly involved choosing which beaches we'd go to and where to eat - pics attached! We brought along Zila as she had never been, and I think she very much enjoyed it, although we all got bitten to shreds by mosquitoes. We stayed in a hotel up the mountain with amazing views of the mainland, and stopped off in Maresias on the way back to say hi to the people we met there last month.

Since then work has started up again in a fashion, I've made another compilation, and have published a longform article covering our weekly football sessions, which you're welcome to check out.  

My phrase of the day comes from the distant archives of Brazilian Twitter and concerns Galvão Bueno, who over the years has become the voice of major sporting events in Brazil, in his position as Head Commentator at Rede Globo.  He first captured the nation’s attention while commentating on Brazil’s World Cup wins in 1994 and 2002, the Olympic Games and Ayrton Senna’s fatal crash in San Marino, but by the time I became aware of him he was very much the John Motson or Jean-Michel Larqué of Brazil – a man who has commented on sports for so long that the words have lost all meaning, and has become such a broadcasting institution that a graceful retirement is unfortunately out of the question.

Although he rolls his R’s too much, relies on stock phrases and is occasionally mildly racist when he doesn’t know the camera is rolling, he’s basically harmless and surprisingly versatile in his coverage of dozens of different sports.  To be honest Globo’s in-house style is far more annoying, with its insistence on a) playing loud fairground music after every goal, b) getting its analysts to plug the channel’s upcoming soap operas in-play and c) displaying the amount of time played as 35” (2^nd half) rather than just 80”, forcing viewers to do complex mental arithmetic at the business end of each match.  Nevertheless, public opinion has turned against him in recent years, culminating in the infamous “Cala a boca Galvão” (“Shut up Galvão”) incident of 2010.

As Bueno blathered on over the opening ceremony of the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, Brazilian Twitterers - no doubt already on edge because of the constant vuvuzelas - decided enough was enough and collectively made the phrase go viral in a last-ditch attempt to, well, get him to shut up. 

Things got out of hand when online pranksters seized on the similarity between “Galvão” and “gavião” (hawk) to convince confused gringo onlookers that the phrase was part of a campaign to save an endangered species of Brazilian bird, with 10¢ to be donated for every utterance of the phrase online.  Before long people were claiming “Cala a boca Galvão” was a new single by Lady Gaga, who had reworked her earlier hit “Alejandro” to raise awareness of the poor birds’ plight.  Even acclaimed author Paulo Coelho got in on the act, in typically highbrow fashion.

By the end of the World Cup the extremely silly campaign had made the pages of the New York Times, spawned several memes and interactive games, dominated Twitter’s trending rankings and become a massive national in-joke at the rest of the world’s expense.  Spectators unfurled huge “Cala a boca Galvão” signs during matches, tactfully avoided by the Rede Globo cameras.  The founder of Wikipedia was forced to address the issue when speaking in São Paulo.   

It was one of the first, and perhaps only instances of fake news being used for good rather than ill, although I’m not sure how the poor guy felt about it all.  In an inspired touch he named his 2015 autobiography “Fala Galvão!” (“Keep Talking, Galvão!”), and is indeed still wittering on regardless.  Ridaut apparently ran into him a few years ago in a Buenos Aires steakhouse, and they cross paths at Interlagos most years.

So there you have it. Speak soon!

People Get Freddy

21.02.18 - Jogou muito

Brazil does love its football.  It is the one great unifier in a country with deep social, political and cultural divides.  During the 2014 World Cup every goal by the national team was greeted by city-wide cheers and fireworks around the country, while the humiliating 7-1 defeat to Germany in the semi-final is still a ‘Nam-like wound on the national psyche, referred to these days only elliptically or through nervous jokes.

At social gatherings, one of the first things I’m asked (after the standard gringo-in-Brazil routine) is which team I support.  I don’t know how Brazilian guys who don’t like football cope in these situations, not least because I’ve never met any.   I say I support Manchester United internationally and Corinthians domestically due to an immediate intervention by my father-in-law upon arrival.  It could easily have been city rivals Palmeiras if Gaby’s uncle or cousin had got to me first, or if Corinthians hadn’t won the league convincingly in my first full season here (I am nothing if not a glory-hunter).  

I keep an eye on Corinthians’ results and have been to a few home games, but it’s a fairly new and tenuous connection; Gaby, for her part, has no patience for the professional game at all and insists all the results are agreed beforehand, presumably to advance the interests of some shady global betting syndicate.   I prefer to play myself - the second way football brings the country together – for two hectic, sweaty hours most Thursday nights.

Our arena is a dilapidated school gymnasium in Casa Verde that’s seen better days.  Since the school has shown no interest in its upkeep, we’ve had to kit it out with new nets, repair the roof to protect against flooding and even put up scaffolding to perform a highly risky rescue job on the overhead lighting so we can keep on using it.  The upside is a cheap rate and exclusive use, which I’m told is a rarity round these parts.  Our administrator and talisman, Toninho, lives next door to the pitch and keeps things ticking over by collecting monthly dues, ironing bibs and locking up when it’s all over.  Apparently he and Ridaut have been playing together since Gaby was in primary school, picking up a motley crew of futsalistas along the way, and he continues to act as ringleader once we get to the pub afterwards (more on that later).

In the run-up to the game our Whatsapp group chat sparks into life and Toninho begins the somewhat demeaning process of rallying players to confirm their attendance.  It’s always touch-and-go whether we’ll get the 10 names required for a functional session because of holidays, work commitments, rain, cold, excessive heat or general ennui putting people off - half the guys in the group simply ignore the call and either turn up on the night or don’t.  Things reached an extreme late last year when, with just one working ankle, I had to stand in (literally) in goal so we could have a 4-a-side kickabout, which wrapped up early because everyone was understandably knackered.  We’ve had a good turnout in the past few weeks though, Carnaval notwithstanding, and I’ve finally persuaded a few friends from outside the usual football clique to join in.

We arrive at 8:30, make small talk, do our stretches and warm-up, and are sorted into two or three teams which alternate throughout the evening.  This is a touchy subject since some of the players are extremely, almost comically competitive and resent being put in the same team as the, shall we say, lesser players such as myself.    Futsal and five-a-side is a huge deal on the social calendar, often the only excuse harried men have for leaving the house and their partners for a few hours to hang out with the boys (and even then, I have seen relationships fall apart because of it).   Accordingly, everyone in my peer group has been playing for years and is annoyingly good at it by comparison, although my initial fear that everyone would be streets ahead just by virtue of being Brazilian proved to be unfounded.

What I lack in talent I try to make up for by running around a lot, and not being old, overweight or hungover.  Although I rarely score (usually one opportunistic toe-poke per game, no more, no less) I like to think that by running around up front I create enough of a distraction for the more talented players to work their magic.   I tend to have more luck towards the end of the night when most people are tired and with one eye on the pub.   Since they’re a nice bunch, players offer post-match encouragement and tactical analysis; sometimes they’ll tell me “jogou bem” (“you played well”), more often they’ll say “jogou muito” (“you played a lot”).   While I’m sure the latter is meant to be complementary too, I’m aiming to improve the quantity/quality ratio over time…

The rules of play are simple enough – 10 minutes per game, the game ends when the ball goes out after the stopwatch beeps, winner stays on.  No pass-backs to the goalkeeper, throw-ins are kick-ins and if the ball hits the corrugated-iron roof or the basketball nets overhead, it reverts to the other team.  There are no referees so we’ve adopted an honour system where, if someone feels they’ve been fouled and says so, then it’s a foul and a free-kick, no questions asked.  In practice this leads to a lot of heated discussion but that’s fine – I get the feeling some of the regulars show up just so they can have a good shout out of earshot of their loved ones.  All is forgotten at full time, or at least by the time we reach the pub.

The small playing surface and team rotation ensures there are very few lulls, although when there are only enough players for two teams and one huge, two-hour game, it’s usually broken up into ten-minute chunks so we can get our breath back.  There are no fixed positions either – goalkeepers can go marauding forwards if they wish, as long as they don’t use their hands outside of their area – and any discussion of tactics is usually reserved for damage limitation during particularly heavy defeats.  It’s basically an attacking free-for-all where your best bet is to pick someone and try to mark him out of the game, before sprinting free on the counter-attack.

When it’s all over a small contingent based around Toninho, Ridaut and myself hop in the car and heads down the road to the Gaucho bar, a fine establishment specializing in grilled meat and cold beer.  Gaby wouldn’t be seen dead there, but for a post-football hangout it’s pretty much perfect, so much so that over the years we’ve become best mates with the waiters and owner, still known to me only as “Gaucho” (similarly, Ridaut only ever gets called “Senninha”, and one of the goalies is dubbed “Cabelo” because of his silly haircut; everyone else seems to go by their own names or diminutives).

After a hearty appetizer of bread with vinaigrette and olive oil, we usually order a steaming platter of ribs or fried mandioca, accompanied by an endless supply of huge Brahma bottles which are gathered at the end of the table for the purpose of calculating the bill later on.  Sometimes we’ll branch out and try some Wagyu beef which Gaucho has managed to get his hands on, but otherwise it’s a pretty unbeatable formula after two hours of running around like headless chickens. 

I get the impression the football is merely a flimsy pretext to go to the pub most weeks.  Conversation generally revolves around football, work, politics and beer - you know it’s the other person’s turn to talk because your head is filling up with fluid.  At midnight we are given a saideira (one last Brahma, for the road and on the house) and turfed out on to the street so they can close up for the night, then it’s home to bed.

20.02.18 - Já te conheço de outros carnavais

Hallooo,

Lovely to speak/sing to you last week, since which time we have been hanging out, visiting grandfolk, going to the odd birthday party and wrestling with our urge for food that isn't salad - we eventually cracked on Sunday night and made a mean pumpkin and carne seca risotto...

Gaby's uncle has put me in touch with a group looking for a singer - at first glance they appear to be an old, old cover band whose repertoire doesn't extend beyond the 70's, but it could be a good excuse to belt out the classics and apparently they have a fully-equipped studio ready to go, so I'll go in for an audition.  In the meantime we're heading to the beach again on Thursday, as you do...

I have made a new compilation (featuring Bowie doing a very Eddie Izzard-esque rendition of "Heroes" in French) and another, Youtube-based mix for mainly non-Spotifiable tunes; may they serve you well as you ward off the cold. My phrase of the week - "I already know you from other Carnavals" - basically means "I've got your number sunshine, so don't play the slippery eel with me", etc.

Speak soon,

The Queen is Fred

13.02.18 - A água bateu na bunda

Halloooo,

Carnaval is in full swing but work continues apace at home, so I've grumpily shut myself off from all the fun - except for Saturday, when we went to a rock bar headlined by a very odd covers band, who alternated between Guns n' Roses and Phil Collins like it was the most natural thing in the world. Much fun was had in any case.

In other news this lettuce isn't going to eat itself, we had a few people round yesterday for, well, lettuce, and a rather spiffing new café has opened up down the road, providing a new venue to work on spreadsheets or whatever it is I do these days.  

We speak soon for birthday merriment, but in the meantime here are two compilations and a phrase that's often associated with Gaby's coursemates these days - when the reality of an impending deadline (for example) hits home, it is said that the "water hits one's bottom", presumably in some kind of sinking ship scenario. Time to get building that ladder, basically.

Ciao for now,

Don't Fred on Me

PS: here's another article I enjoyed this week, about an odd-sounding nomadic worker's cult...

PPS: and I've already shared this Quincy Jones interview with Jub, but it really is something else.

06.02.18 - Kuku kaki kakak kakak ku kayak kuku kaki kakek kakek ku

Hallooo,

Hope all well witchoo.  Another week and another barrage of medical tests as part of our annual MOT, including a rather daunting trip to a nutritionist, who has assigned us a strict weekly regime of eggs and boiled vegetables.  We started yesterday, after a last desperate binge of stroganoff and takeaway pizza on Sunday, and we'll see how we get on.

In other barely-news, I'm back on the football field and back in the pool, and on Saturday we went to a birthday party which I only found out was fancy-dress once we arrived (I blended in with a borrowed Hawaiian lei).  Work continues to flatline, which is fine by me...

Word on the street is there's a new compilation in town. And my phrase of the day, courtesy of QI, is an Indonesian tongue-twister meaning "My sister's toenails looked like my grandfathers." Need I say more?

Yours sincerely,

Phantom Fred

PS: found this long read on the Amazon pretty interesting, if you're into that kind of thing...