Warm, Wet and Wonderful

By Benjamin Coakley

'If you think you've been to a party…you haven't been to Carnival!'

 

My adventure across Portugal and Brazil was a whirlwind of cultural delights. I boogied through the vibrant streets of Lisbon, soaked in the charm of Maceió, and salsa-ed my way through the lively scenes of Fortaleza and Salvador. Amidst the dancing and festivities, my skin decided to join the fiesta, turning into an unexpected plot twist. But with the healing touch of South America, the soothing embrace of the Atlantic, and the global camaraderie of fellow travelers, it all became part of an unforgettable comedy script. Life's a carnival, and I danced through it with a side of unexpected skincare drama!

Viva Brazil!

Pics throughout.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin Coakley
• Release date: Jun 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227757685

Book preview

By

Benjamin Coakley

January 4th - March 17th 2023

I have been living in an abandoned nightclub in SW15, London for the last year for free, thanks to the kindness of my brother and his business partner.  On the night before I leave for Lisboa, I’m drinking expensive vodka and ginger beer that went off a year ago. Perfectly stupid or ironically appropriate?

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Last year during the Christmas period, I was inspired by a suggestion from my twin sister, Bonny. She asked me, ‘Why is there not an English version of the movie ‘Bad Santa?’. To which replied, ‘I don’t know...but there should be one.’ And so on this note, I decided to begin writing my first feature film script. During regular nights with Bonny and my phone memo app recording our discussion/ decision making/ character defining/ overall narrative structure, the script progressed rapidly and with lots of laughter.

After exactly 12 months it is complete and stands at 165 pages. The book ‘Lab Write + Sell the Hot Screenplay’ by Elliot Grove has been a constant guide and passionate assistant. Scriptwriters share the notion that each page equates a minute and so this script is 2 hrs 45 mins. With a degree of film knowledge, I think that this is too long for the average cinema goer and would not appeal to an Executive Producer to open their cheque book. So with a cloudy mind of enthusiasm to get the script refined in order to make it more appealing, I have handed it over to a great friend, film graduate, arts lecturer and bombastically bright individual to edit. One cannot chop up one’s own baby, so with a modicum of discipline I am not going to question his choices. It would appear to be the smartest option. I see it simply as either a percentage of something or 100% of nothing.

Tonight was spent adding music to the script and as you might imagine, was very enjoyable.

The day to depart soon arrived after seeing my family during Christmas down in Brighton, one last harang with my dad, and a lust filled date down in Putney, adding long awaited pleasure to my years stay as inmate 101 in drab SW15 right by the Thames river.

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Wednesday 4th January, 2023.

The day of departure began well, with my female friend departing from my bed around seven. With a warm kiss and long awaited lust, I was keen to see her again, but knew truthfully it had nowhere left to run.

I packed up the last of my clothes, bedding and possessions, storing them alongside my brother Danny’s in the decrepit toilet outback conveniently until I get back to blighty and live by the sea in Brighton. The dank space took on water from spurious sources and decay might set in soon, resulting in rotten books and rank bedding. But balls to all that, I’m off to live by the sea and let nature soothe my skin troubles! Very much like it did at the age of twenty five, when I lived in Stockholm for three months after graduating and my lifelong darkness with eczema was rapidly banished.

Its re-emergence of the last two years has been because of a poisoned product. Over the space of a ‘lockdown’ month, I efficiently washed all of my clothes, bedding and curtains in this new product and felt positive about improving my life. The opposite happened as it burnt my skin after the first night. I was up that night and my skin was burning, more so on my forehead as I like to push my head into my pillow at night. It was weeping and I was painfully confused. For the next month it got much worse and I had blisters all over my back. The fire that raged over my body resulted in me hanging out the window, leaning on the metal railings for some relief. The five visits to A&E were deeply sad and lonely, right up until my discovery. After breaking down in my room one Saturday, not knowing why this was happening to me and not being able to stay anywhere due to the Covid outbreak, I had to remain in my poisoned cell socially distant from anyone.

The most prominent thought after two weeks was that it was my vile eczema coming back after having grown out of it fifteen years ago. I had suffered greatly with it from birth and now felt very blue that It was back. With a confused, exhausted mind I still found it hard to accept that the condition came back all of a sudden and for no apparent reason. So with a small investigation and a search of the products website, I was livid to see that the company was recalling two separate batches of the product sold on Amazon. The batches contained dangerously high levels of potassium hydroxide (Bleach) and should be returned immediately. Upon reading such information I was furious and went down to the kitchen, grabbed the product out of the cupboard and poured it down the sink! The victory was sad but true. I had to rewash all my belongings and felt my condition begin to improve immediately. The only issue with such a severe reaction is that now the solicitor who took on my case against the American conglomerate, feels that even with the pictorial evidence of my injuries, the medical prognosis, the obvious connection to the product, plus there open admittance about its chemical failings, I did not have a strong enough case without the exact ‘poisoned product’ itself! I felt somewhat foolish about having poured it down the drain out of revenge. I Will press on as the injustice is too extreme. 

With all of my life either sold, packed away, consumed or gladly forgotten...I left the building, happy to be away from the intense dust and drab surroundings. I hope never to have to return to Putney.

The weather is damp on this day of departure and with intentions to conclude two gardening jobs, I’m slightly un-anchored as I travel from SW to North London. I chose to hand the jobs over to my friend Tom and take a small percentage of the pay. As a thriving artist, he too was always looking for ways to earn a living, plus I knew he was a good sort and had a big future should the slack music industry get a grip.

After hanging around in North London, slopping from venue to venue in my damp clothes, from coffee to green tea in a quest to waste time before catching my evening coach to stansted, Tom gets in touch.

A welcome text from a fellow artist and friend, that led to jovial chat, a book gifted, and four pubs visited, with my leaving day being a happy one. I left the Hornsey tavern swiftly after two pints and out into the ‘pissing’ wind and rain.

I flirted with a beautiful woman from West Africa at the coach stop in Golders Green and after she told me I was handsome, she disappeared. Probably cautious as to my outwardly positive, slightly drunk Celtic manor. Should she hail from a more promising part of London, things might have evolved differently. With a positive shtick and upwardly mobile mind, I chose to talk to no other strangers, opting instead for recollection of my cheerful day. I saw two friends and was the centre of attention, being the one flying out to Lisbon and then Brazil a week later until my return on Paddy's day.

On the coach a young couple quietly romanced at the back, where he (Young man in a skirt) played Radiohead on a ukulele and she simply rested her head on his shoulder. This pleased my ears and I half drifted off, glad to be warmer and out of the rain.

The Premier Inn at Stansted would be my luxury stay before waking early (5:30) to catch my flight at 7:50. I’m still unsure whether it was good or bad, as I barely slept (excitement) and awoke with a few small insect bites on my stomach....ce La vie.

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Thursday 5th January.

Excuse my acute paragraphs, as I lay in bed in Lisbon catching up on memories. A new, heavy-handed dormitory guest has just walked in at 1:40 am. ‘Ya get what ya pay for’...and it’s not like anyone has to work in the morning. Am I complaining or observing? Who knows. Anyway, the flight was fun and the bright blue skies upon arrival here In beautiful Lisbon are glorious. So much so that I chose to walk from the airport to the hostel called ‘Bluesock’. It was south and about three/ four kilometres away.

The first night was uncomfortable as my eyes began to hurt again. On the 23rd December I travelled to Brighton and could barely keep my eyes open from a severely painful eye infection. It came on just before the train journey and made me extra careful about ‘minding the gap’. With searing pains behind the eyeballs when I blinked and a deluge of liquid when they were open, it’s a wonder I didn’t celebrate my Xmas fried on a train track. The bastard eye pain came back this first morning on holiday. And as usual I chose to Rambo it through the pain, and not let it dictate my life, the attempt at adventure continued.

That evening it was mildly painful and dealt with quite easily as I wandered to the coast, saw the great bridge (Looking like the Golden Gate Bridge) I flew over earlier that day, visited a grand food market with the intention of feasting on a paella type Portuguese version and then onto a bar. I was tempted by a number of food joints but rejected them out of desire for paella and not being able to speak Portuguese. I felt moronic and loutish having firstly apologised for my lack of the native language and then relying on the knowledge that they would probably speak mine.

I had two uncomfortable pints of Guinness at the cliched ‘Irish Corner Bar’ and went home to write and begin a book gifted to me by a newish friend, Welsh Tomos. It was hemingways ‘To Have and Have Not’. I have yet to be impressed by Ernest, although this book began with excitement and I rapidly read five chapters.

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Friday 6th January.

The next day I had to visit A&E because my sight was severely blighted by an unknown enemy. Was it the detergent the sheets were washed in? Was it the pillow that had probably not been washed in a long time. Or was it...Lisbon in some surprising and depressing way. I just don’t know! It was as tough as you might imagine not being able to see, in a foreign land, on your own, not speaking the language...but with a cab arranged by the lovely staff at Bluesock Hostel I was off to be seen by an expert at the local Accident & Emergency Room. I wandered into the busy room of sick people, unsure how to proceed. With a blank rejection from two men, who looked in good health and remained tight lipped when I asked  for help. My sight made it almost impossible to use the check in machine that spewed out tickets, with your Code to be seen by a band of receptionist women. After staring up and down at the roll call machine, I was finally up and sat in front of a middle aged, plump, handsome woman. She was tough and direct, swiftly getting me to fill out my basic details of name address and birth date, before paying 18 euros and being directed into another room that appeared to be stage 2.

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It was indeed the next stage and after another 20-30 mins of raising my sight to look for a friendly invite by a medic, and being furious at my adhering to the ticket number, screen call out proceedings, I saw a number of healthy looking youths just float in and sit down with the doc!

I was joyfully approached after my head bobbing and gesticulating was noticed by an outside medic, assuring me in broken English that I would be seen soon.

This happened and I was processed quickly to stage 3.

The final stage was a small room of sitters, all looking unwell and like the procedure of the A&E was a form of pain distillation. Which I think is in the UK but felt more apparent today. The room was yellow walled and warm. I chose an unforgiving black metal seat in the centre but after noticing two cushioned, cumfy looking armchairs I soon sat in comfort without letting it out of my sight. With my extravagant holiday shirt on, shorts, an English gent long coat and dark sunglasses I felt I looked a bit rock n roll. And a girl with clear pain opposite me, eyed me on a few occasions. I asked her if she would kindly tell me when my number was up, as the seat was below the screen and my eyes were out of action, to which she informed me that ‘They call out your name here.’ I thanked her and sat, waiting another 30 mins or so. She visited the bathroom a few times and appeared to have some abdominal issue, causing her to lift her legs up onto her ajescent seat. 

When my name was called I bounced up in relief, looked down at the cute girl and she simply said, ‘down there, room 14.’ Thanked her and flew down the hall to the last room. Slightly blocking the entrance was an old man in a trolley bed. I squeezed by him and sat in front of a very pleasant looking female doctor. She examined my eyes on a special face rest, flashed a very bright and painful light in them, before squirting a liquid in both and telling me to blink. Halla Loo ya! Within seconds I could see without pain. I was ecstatically happy. The kind doctor gave me a small box of drops and told me to use it four to five times a day and the ‘severe eye infection’ will be gone. Two weeks! Ok I said, thanked her in Portuguese, and danced down the hall, prepped with my only business card I had on my, ready to offer it to the cute girl and suggest I buy her a drink to say thanks.

With this done and my confidence high, my first thoughts after traversing a stoney hill in the direction of the hostel was, ‘would love a smoke and a beer!’

I think it was Saturday night and I had yet to be drunk on holiday due to my eyes and skin problems remaining a constant threat. Upon reflection I should have stayed in Brighton three days prior to my departure and flown directly to Fortaleza in Brazil. This would have meant a bill of good health upon leaving and not the sick note I am now, as I sit in Sao Paulo airport on Wednesday evening, waiting for my connecting late flight to Maceio, with troubled skin all over but gladly somewhat cured eyes, meaning I can add to this book for the first time since that Friday night.

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Saturday 7th January.

Anyway, Saturday evening was a good one. I prepared myself at the hostel, felt ok enough to socialise and so headed to a ‘cool’ part of Lisbon according to Lonely Planet. I chose to walk there and soon regretted it after being faced with many steep, stony hills that curve and wind in all directions, that even keeping a close eye on one’s google maps is no guarantee you will not end up taking a wrong turn...constantly.

And so after a dodgy kebab, served by Indians that was donna meat in a burger bun and covered in mayonnaise, I found the nominated area by walking up another fierce hill. As I hit the top of it with exhaustion I veered left, seeing a fun looking bar with live music coming from it directly opposite, with only a half cocked eye on the place a barman burst out of it and thrust a beer into my hand, gently escorting me inside. Glad to be engaged with and soon filled with alcohol and music, the night was feeling great. It was appropriately called ‘The Jam Club’ and was full with tourists and a young man playing and singing music, sitting on a stool. My empty beer was rapidly filled with another and I was even introduced to the room as Ben from England by the boisterous Barman. I chatted to randoms from around the world and even offered to pay for a nice man’s beer, who had treated us to some Beatles renditions. With my skin feeling unsteady and about to boil over, I left with fond goodbyes and an invite to return the following night. I was very happy to see that my total bill, including the act of kindness to another, was only 18 euros!  I bounced home and into bed, with an attempt not to stretch my hot skin, this only remained partly true.

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Sunday 8th -

The rest of my time in Lisbon was miserable due to my continued lack of eyesight and stinging pain, plus my skin taking a shit hot tumble from grace. Fuck knows what was to blame. I decided it was the cheap detergent used to wash the bedding by an outsourced company that was the cause for all my pain. This led me paying out an additional 58 euros on a nearby hostel, that never got visited but still took the full payment, and then an air bnb for another 60 Euros out of desperation to be well enough to begin this holiday. Wasted money on a sleeping bag was also made, and that was a horrible venture on the metro to a huge mall. Being out of my mind with grief I was considering giving the whole adventure up and going home

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Tuesday 10th January.

I’m still unsure whether staying on this course is the right move. I happily left Lisbon two days ago, after mild relief from staying at the air bnb. I arrived at the airport at 7am and was soon told I would have to rebook my departure for the following morning, having forgotten to check in two days prior to the flight leaving. I knew this but was so out of my head with grief and no sleep, I forgot.

The kind staff at the airline allowed me to rebook it for free, and to leave the following morning. So all I had to do was stay In the airport for 24 hrs. It was dull and uncomfortable, adding to the list of nights without any proper sleep. Which I think has added to my physical demise of late.

The only positive that evening was when I located a bar, found a comfortable corner with adequately comfortable seating and settled in. After two beers and a step out to the