Did I end up at the Almansor? Well, we went there to ask about the cost for the gala dinner and party to be told it was 175 Euros each, which in real money was about one hundred and twenty quid each, a total of £480.
"How much?" I exploded. "Four hundred and eighty quid? I just want to party in the hotel, not buy it! Who do you think I am, eco/spider?"
Note: Eco/spider is a member on the forum- one with whom I have a 'contentious' relationship. I piss him off and he pisses me off! We both like it that way :-)
So, no we didn't end up at the Almansor! Instead we opted out for a nice dinner and then a bar or two.
The nice dinner was at the Galeria. A restaurant set in someone's living-room. It's a small (OK very small) restaurant, so small in fact that diners have to take it in turns to cut their food for fear of knocking elbows with those around them. At one point a German lady sat four tables from us (about four feet away!) went out of turn and knocked the elbow of a Frenchman at the adjoining table.
The Frenchman then collided with another diner, and before you could say "Elbow frenzy!" a Mexican Wave of elbows resounded through the restaurant. Food was shovelled across plates, onto the floor, into the air, into ears, up noses, in fact food went anywhere but into mouths! By the time the last elbow had finished reverberating the whole restaurant looked like a giant pizza.
We had booked our table two days earlier, and a good job too. While we were eating (in turn, of course) many potential diners popped in to be sent out backwards immediately, even those that protested they'd booked a table. Backwards? Yes, as I said above the restaurant is so small that unless you can actually gain entry to turn around you have to exit it backwards!
Our meal finished we then went onto The Jailhouse. We'd heard there was to be a 'masked party' there accompanied by a disco and live music.
We got into The Jailhouse without any trouble (it was about 22:50), purchased our drinks, took delivery of our masks and repaired upstairs to some vacant seats on the balcony overlooking the dance floor. I use the term 'dance floor' here in its relation to dancing when applied to standing still and oscillating slightly due to the restricted area set aside for such partying. The floor space was so small that when a balloon accidentally fell from a net above it half the dance floor was lost.
We'd just got sat down and was enjoying a Robbie Williams concert on the TV when the 'live' music kicked in. It was a singer/comedian on the guitar. When I tell you his singing and guitar playing was funnier than his jokes you'll have a good idea about how good he was. During one song it was almost over before I realised he was murdering a classic by Eric Clapton, Layla. Anyone who knows Layla will know it's a classic rock song impossible to sit still to, and just cries out for dancing and head-bashing. Well, this version was a little different. It had more in common with a funeral than a New Year's Eve party! It was dire, as in diarrhoea!
I've long subscribed to the belief that Clapton is God! But now I'm not too sure. After all, if Clapton was God, surely he'd have smote him where he sat for such a rendition?
It was after this abomination that the 'singer' asked, "Any requests?" to which my party replied in unison, "Yes, bring back Robbie!" It was this joint utterance that made us all realise the mistake we'd all made; and why it was called The Jailhouse. It's a jailhouse in which to hold people captive while assaulting them with acts that even Pop Idol would be ashamed to air! This realisation called for drastic measures. I formed an escape committee!
A couple sat next to us were to go first. We were to follow a few seconds later. Thankfully our escape went undetected as the 'entertainer' was struggling to remember a joke he was in the middle of telling. Mind you, it was touch and go for on the way down the stairs I almost lost the will to live and was jolted out of it by a prod in the back from Sharen's knees.
We ran as fast as we could, listening for the klaxons to announce our departure and the dogs to set off in pursuit, but they didn't happen and we then sauntered down to the Square. A rumour was going around about a firework display at midnight; that, and the webcam were our reason for staying in the area.
Note: There's a webcam in the window of the ice-cream parlour in the Square.
Pity the webcam was knackered. We did some crazy walks and silly things in front of it; none of which was captured for posterity. Shame!
Now, where to get a drink? Ah, Sully's. What a great little bar. Atmosphere, great music and people having a party - Jailhouse, eat your heart out! Soon we were merry with drink and drunk on the atmosphere (by comparison the atmosphere in The Jailhouse would have been suitable for The Salvation Army to see the New Year in).
Come midnight we were on the beach watching the waves sweep in from the ocean. Someone announced the time and we linked arms and sang Auld Lang Syne. I say 'sang' in its loosest form. It was more of a drunken cacophony that relied more on Robbie Willaims than Robbie Burns. And, like all renditions of this famous song (the words of which no-one knows) it went on without end. In fact it must be the only song in the world without an end. It finally finished when we could no longer sing in tune or coherently.
It was at this time that I decided to take a photo of my daughter and her husband. I lined them up and just as I was taking the snap the firework display started . . . and it was finished before the flash had reddened their eyes. It was simply a firework. Singular. On its own. By itself, struggling to banish the old year and welcome in the new. I don't like to admit it but there was more life in The Jailhouse than in the pyrotechnics!
Ah, well. We had a good night. We continued drinking (does Sully's ever close?) and finally, after texting all our friends (boasting that we were on the beach) and saying our goodbye's to new ones, we set off up the hill to home and bed.
During our walk home, (about 20 minutes) were we lucid enough to make comparisons with seeing in past New Years back in Lincoln, and we all agreed that Carvoeiro was better. No gangs of drunken, sicking youths to bypass; no police on alert decked out with riot shields and helmets; no hint of menace as we passed other revellers. What a joy it was to see 2004 in in The Algarve.
Happy New Year. :)
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