Whenever I return to the UK, I often get asked the same question: “What do you miss about not living here?” My response is always immediate: “I miss my family, the theatre, and British food.” I handle the first by visiting my family, and my family visiting me in Portugal. When I’m in the UK, I also make it a point to enjoy the theatre. As for the food, I’m going to tell you a secret – one of my ‘guilty pleasures’ is a Full English Breakfast!
I wonder if you are asked the same question when you visit your country of origin. If that’s the case, how do you respond? Also, do you have any ‘guilty pleasures’ during your visits, and if so, what are they?
Early morning, the phone rang and it was my friend Caroline (Crazy Dog Lady) inviting me for lunch. Caroline likes to go for lunch early; in fact, it’s usually practically breakfast time. Perhaps she likes to start on the sauce early. We decided to go to Marmelete, a charming local mountain village.
Caroline had taken my beloved mother, Alice, to the village during her last visit to enjoy her Portuguese ‘guilty pleasure’, sopa de legumes (vegetable soup), which she always said was a meal in itself. My mother had a habit of giving people aliases. For instance, my neighbours in the next valley, Phil and Geri, who my mother loved to visit when in Monchique, were referred to as ‘The nomads’ because they had criss-crossed the globe and lived in many countries during their careers. My friends Jenny and Karen were known as ‘The lesbians’, well, for obvious reasons.
Over lunch, Caroline said to me, “You’ll never guess what your mother asked me at this restaurant.” Intrigued, I replied, “Do tell.” Caroline continued, “She asked how ‘The lesbians’ were doing.” I responded, “That was kind of her,” to which Caroline replied, “No, that’s not it, she then asked what do lesbians actually do?” Unwisely, I asked Caroline what her response was, and she divulged, “I explained the practicalities!”
Caroline then said, “You’ll never guess what your mother’s next question was about.” I replied, “I can guess exactly what the next question was about, and there are some things a son doesn’t want to be aware that his elderly Catholic mother now knows about her son!”
The next day, Jenny and Karen called me to see if I would be interested in auditioning for a role in the upcoming play that their amateur dramatic society was staging. They explained the role was about a gay senior manager whose secretary had fallen in love with him. They added, “You’ve practically been typecast,” to which I chose not to respond.
I had previously worked with several secretaries, but my favourite was Laura. She provided incredible support as I concluded my career in London. I love Laura – not in a romantic sense, obviously – but I realised I could draw inspiration for acting from our professional relationship. So, I made the decision to say, “Yes!”
The auditions took place the following week, and I was ready for my ‘Laurence Olivier’ moment. The director arrived, clearly believing he was the next ‘Martin Scorsese’ (you know the type). This is the nature of amateur dramatic societies: many of the people tend to be quite, well, dramatic! I took my cue from ‘Martin’ and stepped onto the stage alongside my co-actor, who looked remarkably like Laura. Instinctively, I slipped into character and began reading from the script.
A few minutes into the audition, the director interrupted and said, “Let’s try a different female co-actor.” I thought ‘strange’ but didn’t say anything. The audition continued with my second partner, then ‘Martin’ made the same intervention, and a third co-actor joined me on stage.
After the third run-through, the director said, “Can we have a chat about your character?” I agreed and stepped off the stage for a private conversation. ‘Martin’ then asked, “Can I give you some feedback?” I nodded in response. He continued, “I’m sorry, but you are just not gay enough for the role!” I left the theatre and went to the café next door, feeling bemused.
Shortly after, Jenny and Karen arrived, and kindly said, “You were fabulous! The part must be yours.” I replied, “I didn’t get the part.” Jenny then said, “Why not?” I explained, “Because you, Karen, and I have something in common.” Curious, Jenny asked, “What’s that?” I replied, “Apparently, I’m too butch!”
On the way home, I stopped by the ‘British supermarket’ and spotted something intriguing in one of the frozen food cabinets. Like a frozen mirage, could it be? Yes! It was a ready-made Full English Breakfast, a true ‘guilty pleasure’. So, I stocked up and headed back up the mountain.
The next morning, I woke up to a beautiful day and saw the magnificent Fóia Mountain glistening at the head of the valley. I called Caroline to see if she wanted to join Beagle Ben and I for a walk. She replied, “Yes, but can we go out for lunch afterward?” Clearly, she wanted an early start!
But first, it was time for breakfast, so I placed the ready meal into the oven. When the oven timer went ‘ping,’ I eagerly dug into the meal. However, in my haste, I hadn’t chewed my favourite item, the sausage, enough, and it became lodged in my throat. As I fought for air, the bliss of the breakfast turned into a nightmare.
At that moment, Caroline arrived and noticed that I was turning blue from a lack of oxygen. She said, “I’m going to give you The Heimlich Manoeuvrer.” I thought, I’ve never heard of him, but he sounds interesting. So, I nodded, as Caroline sprang into action. Unfortunately, the sausage broke in two: one half remained in my oesophagus while the other half headed toward the nasal passage.
Caroline exclaimed, “That’s it, I’m calling an ambulance!” When the Bombeiros arrived, they said, “We need to get you to the hospital, and fast!” We sped down the mountain towards Portimão. Following triage, I was given a coloured wristband that allegedly indicated the urgency of treatment. When Caroline saw the colour of my wristband, she said, “I’m off; you’ll be here for hours.” Clearly, she was no Florence Nightingale.
After several hours of waiting, undergoing X-rays, and unsuccessful attempts to dislodge the sausage, I was told that an ambulance would take me to Faro Hospital to see a throat specialist. As I sat there waiting, I decided that I had had enough. So, I attempted to pull off ‘The great escape,’ but the nurse caught me in the car park! The doctor then insisted that I sign a ‘Self-Discharge Against Medical Advice’ certificate. But he explained that, over time, the sausage might dissolve due to stomach acid, and that was good enough for me.
So, I took a taxi from the hospital to Jenny and Karen’s house, where Caroline was waiting to take me home. Upon my arrival, I found them enjoying nibbles and wine. Although the nibbles were off-limits for me, Karen offered me a glass of wine. I nodded in acceptance and attempted to sip the wine, and then something unexpected happened: the sausage began to move. So, I raised my glass and quickly motioned for a refill, and, like a miracle, the sausage became dislodged!
We celebrated with glasses of bubbly, and Jenny quipped, “Of all people, you’re the last person I would have expected to get a sausage stuck in his throat” to which I chose not to respond.
