Walkers, runners, rollerbladers
Youngsters, funsters, Little old ladies
Lovers, loners, rock n rollers
Mothers pushing baby strollers
Samba Soccer, Volleyball
Roadside coconut/ hotdog stall
The girls from Ipanema shine
Oh how I wish they all were mine!
I finished off my week in the Ciudade Maravilhosa with a valedictory parade along the prom, a ten kilometre plod to say goodbye to a little slice of heaven. This should have been a pre-breakfast adieu but my rest day schedule lay shredded by last night’s over-indulgences. A sad yet familiar tale in these pages, I fear.
The plan had been to meet in the Lord Jim pub (two of the TOC Americas team staying on after the close of the event, and I) for a snifter before heading off to one of Leblon’s finest eateries. Alas, the best laid plans of mice and exhibitionistas ... well met in the small and increasingly crowded bar, we ordered our drinks just as a lone minstrel took to the tiny stage. He had the dark, craggy visage of Telly Savalas, replete with jauntily-angled trilby (sans lollipop). I was halfway through my second Guinness when he crashed into ‘Sultans of Swing’ before regaling us with a continuous stream of beautifully rendered rock classics. Not many escaped his homage; Bob Dylan, Guns and Roses, Pink Floyd (a hugely brave Wish You Were Here and a Dark Side of the Moon medley), REM, The Chilli Peppers ... he nailed them all. It would have been rude to leave in the midst of such artistry and the man simply refused to take a break. Hence come one thirty am we were still on our island table, surrounded by a foaming sea of what appeared to be twelve year olds imbibing a kaleidoscope of jello shots and indulging in a mass crotch-rubbing ritual that the youth of today apparently refer to as ‘grinding’. I avoided ‘grinding’ but I also managed to avoid supper. This helps to explain the trail of Doritos leading from my bathroom to the bed, where a still half-full packet hid guiltily under the duvet.
Out on the cycle path (running parallel with the white sands and thundering surf) I thanked my lucky stars for cloud cover and a temperature hovering at a merciful twenty-two degrees. Thanks to last night’s intake, I spent most of my fifty-five minutes sweating like Nick Clegg on a polygraph. I trudged along, trying to remember the advice I’d just revisited in my well-thumbed Born To Run bible – knees bent, back straight, shorter strides, foot-falls below the body, not beyond. I must have looked like an escapee from the Ministry of Silly Walks.
Sumptuous scenery distracted from the pain of my frontal lobe thrombosis. Flora and fauna of outstanding natural beauty filled the view. Curves a-plenty, tanned and toned torsos, skin-tight lycra and straining sports bras in every direction, placing my neck muscles at serious risk of terminal spasm. Three chefs, resplendent in pristine whites and clearly on a crafty communal fag break, leered without shame at three passing lovelies.
Welcome, indeed, to the Pleasuredome.
Appropriately enough I’d downloaded a classic album to review. Frankie Goes to Hollywood hit the UK music scene like a bolt of lightning in the early eighties, raising eyebrows in Tonbridge Wells with their soon-to-be-banned single, ‘Relax’. The album from whence that came is ‘Welcome To The Pleasuredome’, as fine and eclectic a musical compendium as you’ll find from that era. Just like this beautiful city, the songs are laced with warmth, humour and a homo-erotic suggestiveness that appears charming in these enlightened times. 'Relax' was banned once it became obvious that the oft-repeated chorus line was actually an instruction on how to enhance ejaculatory orgasm. I’d like to think these days the censors would laugh and let it go, though one suspects Messrs Cameron and Clegg would take a dim view given their apparent quest to drive us all into Dickensian Britain. Other songs contain more subtle references, as in ‘Krisco Kisses’ with its' noises off ‘blow me!’ howls before and after the track, but unless you're looking for trouble (or happen to be AA Gill) these don't detract from the quality of the collection.
There are some excellent covers on this seminal LP (no more ejaculate references, I promise). ‘Born to Run’ – ooh, how’s that for synchronicity! – ‘San Jose’, ‘Ferry ‘Cross The Mersey’ and a version of ‘WAR! (What Is It Good For?)' that not only gives the original a run for its money but has a natty Ronald Reagan voiceover. Add the three (count ‘em) number one singles – 'Relax', 'Two Tribes' and the hauntingly beautiful ‘Power of Love’ and I reckon you’ve bagged a fair pile of good tunes for under seven quid* *i-Tunes download offer
The production is exceptional. Holly Johnson, FGTH's cheeky front man, displays vocal dexterity and the snarling bouncing bass-lines are right up my alley. It’s tough to pick a favourite track so I’ll go for two, both superb to run to and FGTH originals to boot. The title track is rich in apropos jungle sounds samples with a driving beat at its heart that just won’t quit, the rhythm in tune with my cadence. ‘Only Star In Heaven’ is lovingly crafted, delivering pace and power and a nice change of tempo at either end.
And so to Rio, or, rather, thoughts on the sexy city that I’m about to leave. It’s a breathtaklingly beautiful place, surrounded (as all Brazilian conurbations are) by the deshevilled flavelas (shanty towns). Our hosts - Carioca - beam a friendly welcome through soft brown eyes and ready smiles. The food is excellent, with all tastes catered for. Caipirinhas are ubiquitous and popular but I’ll never drink one again after the Mother of all hangovers held me hostage for most of Wednesday following a ‘down in one’ session at the TOC welcome party. The landscape is sublime, from the ‘Close Encounters’ vista of Sugarloaf mountain to the imposing figure of Christ the Redeemer looming over Rio Centro. The ocean is warm, if a little violent at times, generous soft-sand beaches decorated with lithe exponents of Samba Soccer and Beach Volleyball. I ran a five kilometre up-and-back trail along the surfline three times this week, thoroughly entertained by joyful brown-skinned revelers playing for the hell of it whilst displaying a dizzying array of skills. Playing football for fun; just imagine that.
The streets can be mean at night – I was advised to ‘dress down’ and avoid obvious use of expensive phones or overt displays of jewellery. But it’s no more threatening than any other big city I’ve been to, including London; you just have to use your loaf.
I’ll be back. If you get the chance to visit, don’t think twice (it’s a bit of alright).
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
