So the draw for that Taça de Portugal thing for 2025-26 is out. Everyone here in the Algarve gets all het up about it, a proper palaver. It’s a funny old business. You get these massive clubs, worth squillions, drawn against a crowd of lads who probably fix air conditioning units during the week. It’s like watching your neighbour’s kid enter a talent show on The Late Late Show. You know he can’t sing for toffee, but you have to clap anyway. The inevitable conclusion is a foregone one.
It’s the hope that’s the killer. A fleeting, magnificent dream before they get thumped back to reality. Reminds me of a bet I made on a dodgy horse at the Curragh once. Had a great name. Tripped over its own feet coming out of the gate. Some things are just written in the stars.
➤ So, About That Final in May
Yeah, one of the Lisbon giants or Porto will win. Water is wet. But the real conflagration isn’t on the pitch, it’s the price of a lukewarm Super Bock at the stadium. You’re paying nearly ten euro for the privilege of watching a preordained ceremony. My da would have a fit. He’d say you could get three proper pints in Dublin for that, and still have change for the bus. I suppose it’s something to watch, isn’t it. Better than staring at the wall, waiting for the tourists to arrive. Or leave. I can never decide which is better.
➤ The Shape of the Second Half
Right, so the second half kicks off. Same old, same old. You see the logo of some betting company on their jerseys. Reminds me, my nephew wanted one of those shirts for his birthday. Ninety quid! For a piece of polyester made by a ten-year-old somewhere. Ninety. I remember when you could get a full kit, shirt, shorts, the whole shebang, for a tenner. Now you’re paying for the “authentic fabric technology.” It’s just shiny plastic, for God’s sake.
The world’s gone mad with prices. A pint costs a fortune, a bag of crisps feels light, and they have the neck to charge you for a squirt of ketchup in the chipper. It’s a conspiracy against the common man, I’m telling you. All these lads on the pitch are millionaires anyway. What do they care.
➤ A Tactical Switch Up Front
Look at the manager on the sideline, pointing and shouting. He’s wearing one of those smartwatches. Another racket. It tells you your heart rate while you’re having a heart attack over the price of a replacement screen. My old Nokia phone from twenty years ago, you could build a house with it. Fell down the stairs, threw it at a wall, dropped it in a puddle – it still worked.
Now you have to sell a kidney to get the latest phone, and it shatters if you look at it the wrong way. And for what? So you can get emails while you’re on the loo? Progress, my eye. Give me a simple phone and a reasonably priced pint, and I’d be a happy man. Ah, they’ve scored. Who scored? I missed it. Doesn’t matter.
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