The most annoying person ever?

FLORIANÓPOLIS, ILHA DE SANTA CATARINA, BRAZIL - 8th February 2010

Although my original post from Floripa has now been suitably backdated, the unexplainable rush to publish the "Swimsuit Edition" of the Daily Rod (which remains in no way a result of peer pressure from certain Australians and/or Brazilians) has still left a blank or two.

Saturday night (6th Feb) saw our motley crew (the Brazilians, Luis and Bruno; and Aussies, Mitch, Scott; and yours truly) head out to a nearby club to sample the "Magic Island"'s nightlife. My first experience of a proper South American club, it was an experience right from the entrance - passing through airport-security style metal detectors in addition to full-blown identification formalities. The big difference is the payment system - when you enter you are given a form whose number is linked to your name and ID details on the computer. You don't pay for any drinks all night, but just hand over your form and have whatever you've bought checked off on it... and then you pay your whole tab at the end. An efficient system, yes, but for certain friends back home whose control over their credit card is known to become somewhat liberal after a few drinks (mentioning no names, Charlie Spencer), it would be a total disaster.

The club inside was equally surprising. As Mitch beautifully put as we sat in the huge cosy armchairs of the bar room under a vaulted ceiling complete with ornate carvings - "We came out for a pretty standard couple of drinks and a dance, and have ended up in the classiest place in town"* Either they do clubbing very differently here in Brazil, or this place was something a little bit special. The bar room I mention would be right at home in the drawing rooms of central London old boys' clubs, and while the main dancefloor itself was your standard issue mix of lights and noise, the lobby area reinforced the upmarket feel of the place with a big new car to be won on display alongside a stream of massive bouncers. Anyway, the usual blend of drinks and dancing had the added feature of a samba performance by the local samba school, and shortly before we left a guy from the VIP area trying to start a fight with a "common" lad - the former getting razed by the bouncers for his effort. Classic.

Jump 24 hours, and an amazingly relaxing day just kotching on Praia Mole and enjoying the sights was followed by a nice Mexican dinner with the guys (Brazilians and Aussies), before chilling out back at Tocano House and catching the SuperBowl on TV. The evening has taken an unfortunate turn for the worse, however, which is the reason why I am sitting writing this rather than getting some much needed shut eye.

It all began a few hours ago as I walked past the hostel pool, out of which comes the nasally chirp of the archetypal California "Valley" accent that is synonymous across large swathes of the world with stupid blonde girls who can't locate France on a map of the world and think Germany is part of the "Axis of Evil".

"Oh my God! You're Dean? WOW, oh my God, I've heard SOO much about you! Hey, gimme five!"

Standing at the side of the pool looking down at the massive bulk from which this startling introduction had emanated, and having glanced over to Luis whose expression more than confirmed that "heard so much about you" was actually more like "heard your name briefly mentioned", I didn't even know what was going on before a soaring, fat-reinforced, dripping wet right arm came soaring towards my general direction. Great.

Unwilling to engage any sort of conversation at this stage, I sauntered inside to find Mitch and Scott doing exactly the same - I think their exact words were "I don't think I can stand another word with that woman... she asks you a question and after you've said one word, she'll launch into another half an hour of non-stop crap". This, combined with the continued presence of the oh-so-annoying rahs of Sloane Square outside (whose performance the previous evening had done little to endear themselves to the Aussies thanks to incredulous questions like "England owns Australia, doesn't it?"), meant we stayed lodged indoors for as long as possible. The time was passed easily enough, however - American football's unique need as a sport to stop for a commericial break not just at intervals, but seemingly every minute and a half or at any feasible from a point being scored to a ball being caught, meant the histrionics and general pantomime of SuperBowl XLIV went on for AGES. Eventually, however, it came to bedtime, but passing outside both Luis and Bruno were engaged in flowing Portuguese conversation with Miss California who, apparently, had "totally embraced Portuguese culture and everything and just loves speaking the language and conversing and the whole romance and passion and everything." But then her attention turned to me.

"Right then Kent (clearly the "so much heard" included the county I live in) - go upstairs, shit, shave and shower, and come back down so we can have a proper conversation."

I genuinely could think of few things I'd rather do than that, but with Luis and Bruno more than keen to be in her company I felt socially obliged to head back down after my shower. This was a bad move.

Among a ridiculous diatribe about the not understanding English people, English people being "so cold", not understanding English humour, not understanding why I would feel awkward about spontaneously hugging her - a total stranger, and various other things she didn't understand, the sole conclusion in my mind was that she was unbelievably annoying. It is hard not to when you have to sit and listen to someone state a series of statements that are somewhere between insane stereotypes and full-fat bullshit - unable to get a word in edgeways because of their unrelenting verbal diarrhoea, and when you try and dissect their fallacies into simple reasons why they are totally wrong, you are met with an "oh my God, I can't deal with logic - this is exactly what I'm on about - I'm all about passion, not logic".

What she's all about is crass, loud, insatiable idiocy but, in a silver lining of an otherwise shocking dialogue, it is good to know that her oh-so-upsetting experience of England (apparently she thought everyone was just really mean because she didn't have the mental capacity to understand British ironic humour) means that - if nothing else - I can sleep easy knowing there is one less moron potentially landing at Her Majesty's shores.

* slightly paraphrased as the exact wording has been lost with the sands of time.