The Moose: 'Ay my Frien' Smoke? Hash? Weed?

Is a good price.

And I don't doubt it is a good price too. What troubles me is why upwards of fifteen
Portugeese drug gealers per day can look at me and Mrs Bucko and think, "Mark!"

My drug use is no different to your average polotician - I experimented in college.
However, We must give the impression to these Porto pushers, that the only reason we came
to the Algarve was to get continually smacked off our tits.

The Algarve. It's not what I expected. If you've been and you know, please feel free to
visit the blogroll as I'm not going to talk about much else in this post.

The Algarve is one big tourist village, nice on the surface but very raggy around the edges.
A lot of the busineses are closed and you can tell it's not just because it's early season.
It's a resort on it's deathbed. The streets are crawling with drug dealers, there are gang
tags grafittied on all the street corners, and when we ventured outside the town we passed
what can only be described as a Somali shanti town.

We found a nice bar to watch the snooker and so far we have had it to ourselves. The owner
said I could bring my laptop and he would let me use his wireless internet, so if you are
reading this, he kept his word. I think he's just glad of the custom.

We will be spending most of the day in there today watching the snooker final. After that
we are running out of options. Mrs Bucko came to get a tan (I'm not much of a sun worshipper),
but so far it has been raining pretty much constantly. And when I say rain, I don't mean
the crappy, drizzly British style of rain, it's monsoon season over here.

It's expensive too. £4-5 a pint in most places and it cost me five quid for a bloody Sunday
paper. It's only two quid for a pint of the local grog in our very own snooker bar, so that's
not bad but I'll have to think of a way to wean Mrs Bucko off the Pína Coladas.

We met a coulourful German chap who runs a crappy jewelery shop selly crappy jewelery.
He told us that you can take a taxi out of town for £4 and pay £5 for a meal that would cost
you £30 in the resort. We asked him (repeatedly) where this is but he either didn't
understand or he wasn't for telling us. Although, he could have just been talking arse wibble.

The booze in the shops is cheap though. We got a take away pizza and some beer to have in the
apartment before we went to our very own snooker bar yesterday evening.

£1.90 for a bottle of rosé and £3.90 for a six pack. Back home that's called 'Pre-loading',
and it's what binge drinkers do. We're not back home though so we can call a spade a spade.

Which back home is called racism.

All in all, it's not the best holiday ever but I got what I came for. I'm not in England
and I'm chilling till I can't chill no more.

I'll just have to get Mrs Bucko doing some gift shopping and it will all come to gether.

I'll raise one for you lot this evening while we're watching Judd Trump stuff John Higgins.

*SIDEBAR*

I beleive Osama Bin Laden is dead. I know nothing about it yet because the only news I've
seen so far has been Portugese. "Morto do Bin Laden". I think I will reserve comment on this
particular story until I return to England, although I may be tempted to buy another
gold plated newspaper tomorrow.
I have been trying to think of a post title for an Osama story. I beleive Sandals in the Bin
was used when Mother Theresa died, god rest her wrinkly soul.
Taking the Bins Out might be another option.

It seems strange that this has happened so soon after it was leaked the the mozzies might have
a nuclear bomb in Europe that will bne detonated if Messers Laden and Co. are caught or killed.

I wonder what new security measures we might be in for. I wonder if I need a tinfoil hat?