Our first destination was a nice change after yesterday’s trip around the commercial areas of B.A -- it was a welcome relief to sample the ‘real’ Buenos Aires in the form of Boca.  This was more like it -- gigantic over-sized effigies leaning out over fake balconies:

Bright multicoloured buildings:

Tango dancing in the street:

And loads of stray dogs:

We had a bit of a wander through the streets before heading to the famous Boca Juniors football stadium which was, well, big and multicoloured.  It was nice and massive and bright and all that, but I’m far more interested in things like horror films than football, so my mind was in different places:

So we headed off in search of our next place of interest; a funky market in the up-and-coming district of San Telmo (which I was calling St. Elmo for ages), but not before we could stop for a quick spot of alcoholic refreshment.  Ever since my first encounter with the deadly siren-call of the divine Quilmes Stout the day before, I’d been hankering for a lippy encounter with its Heavenly oil and so jumped at the chance to once more experience the ecstasy involved with its groin-pounding power.  So I bloody well had one and it was wicked.

After my state of euphoria had subsided and the others had managed to get me down from the ceiling (and retrieved my boxers from my head), we went in search of the San Telmo market.  It was quite possibly the weirdest indoor market I’ve ever been to (and I’ve been to that one in Bracknell) and to say that it was creepy would be an understatement -- because, you know, it was REALLY creepy.  It was all but deserted, with many of the shops closed (to be fair, we were probably there on the wrong day -- I assume Halloween is optimum visiting time) -- but that wasn’t what made it unsettling.

What made it so unsettling was all the FUCKING DOLLS.

As I was browsing through the ‘shops’ and the assorted trinkets housed within, all of a sudden I’d notice a sodding Hell-doll staring at me with vacant, (un)dead eyes and it threw me right off course.  I don’t like dolls.  Apart from those blow-up ones.  They’re mega.  But there weren’t any of those here.  Just hollow vessels of pure evil boring into your skull with their deathly stares.  I’d had enough.  I didn’t take any pictures either, sorry -- I was worried that the flash might transport my soul into the doll’s head or some shit.

So off we went to the really scary graveyard to look at really scary graves instead.

Yep, we went to the famous La Recoleta graveyard, resting place to such famous Argentinians as Eva Peron.  It was impressively majestic sure, but I found the whole thing a tad too unsettling for me (it didn’t help that a doll had followed me from the market) and besides, my stomach was shouting expletives at my throat because it hadn’t thrown any nice steaks down there yet.  But satisfaction wasn’t too far around the corner, because it seems everyone else was experiencing similar internal arguments, so we all came to the same agreement.

IT WAS STEAK TIME.

‘PROPER’ STEAK TIME.

We’d been informed that La Cabrera was the restaurant to visit if you needed a steak that represented the best Argentina had to offer, so we scuttled into some taxis and made a beeline to meat city, B.A.

After yesterday’s beef-related let-down, I was champing at the crotch for a thick, juicy cut of cow that I could wolf down like an English pleb.  This is what greeted me:

Conversation was put on hold for a minute. Everyone had much more important things on their plate (obviously) than talking to each other -- voiceboxes were set to standby whilst we salivated over the smörgåsbord of protein that was soon to punch our taste-buds in the nuts.  Then we wolfed it down like English plebs -- it was unbelievable.  Quite possibly the best steak I’ve ever had.

Then it was back to the hotel to lie on our beds and fart a lot.  I needed to relax before the big night -- at that moment I couldn’t really breathe, let alone drink any lager.

***

At about 7 we all met in the lobby, dolled up to the nines, piled into a coach and headed back to Boca, where the World Draught Masters Finals were being held in a gigantic warehouse.  It was an impressive venue, with a giant stage, swanky 60s decoration, classic cars littered about and most importantly of all -- loads of really fit Argentinian women serving pints of Stella Artois into my gormless slack-jawed gullet.

First off, it was time to pour our own pint of perfect Stella Artois, under the expert supervision of Marc Stroobandt, a master beer-sommelier.  Everyone did pretty well considering we’d had no practice, and I poured, according to Marc, a perfect Belgian style beer -- which was close, because I assumed I’d just done a shit one with a massive head.  Still, I’ll take ‘perfect’ any day.

Then, after dropping a posh canapé on the floor and being shouted at by one of the fit girls for trying to pick it up, it was time for the show to begin.  The finals were presented by an amazing angel called Marcela Kloosterboer whose ability to defy gravity ‘racked’ my brain -- if you catch my drift. Oh and some bloke too.  Their chemistry was pretty non-existent but then again, BOOBIES WERE OUT so I couldn’t give a flying shit.

The show was pretty spectacular, as in between all the pint pouring, we had Argentina’s current star of Evita popping our ear drums, a high-flying dance act popping our eyes out of our head and some go-go dancers popping our pants right off our privates.  But these performances weren’t what we were here for -- we were here to cheer on England’s competitor; Mark Simmonite, in his quest to perfect Stella Artois’ nine-step pouring ritual:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=YW8UQ57PZXw

Alas, it was not to be.  Mark unfortunately just missed out on the final four.  In the end, Dubai’s Nanda Nkumar Sethy took the prize, in a final which was so close I had literally no idea how on earth anybody would have been able to differentiate between each pint.

After that it was time to party on down dudes, as the warehouse turned into a massive, sweaty rave and everyone danced the night away to repetitive banging and monotonous bass.  MY KIND OF MUSIC.  We were also treated to complimentary Stella Artois at our leisure, which was nice -- particularly when it was served by girls like this:

Topless wouldn’t have gone amiss, but there’s always next year.

Here’s a little video we made of the finals:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=_l0il02gKB0

Finally, it was time to head home.  This comprised a bus journey, another pint in the hotel bar, a bed, a shower, another coach, an airport lounge, some duty free, an awkward moment when I told everyone I’d bought some ChrisTINE Dior aftershave, a spacious business class airplane seat, the TV, Mr Popper’s Penguins (I like Jim Carrey), Something Borrowed (not sure why I watched this), The Lincoln Lawyer (bloody brilliant), Horton Hears a Who (fell asleep), a quick bus to the baggage reclaim, some tearful goodbyes, a taxi to my flat, a quick wee, a final silly face in the mirror and another bed.

It was all over.

I’d had a wicked time -- cheers Stella Artois.  Same time next year?

Finals better not be in Skegness.

(I’ll still come though)

Step 1 – The Purification: Use a clean glass with the Stella Artois Logo facing forward – make sure there’s no excess water in the bottom, remove fag butts (they ruin the taste of the beer supposedly).

Step 2 – The Sacrifice: Unsheath the sacrificial knife (only joking).  Just open the sideways tap in one quick, smooth action and let the first drops of beer flow away.

Step 3 – The Liquid Alchemy Begins: Hold the glass just under the tap at a 45° angle and let the beer flow onto the back of the logo.

Step 4 – The Head (they say that ‘Crown’ is more appropriate, but ‘Head’ is much funnier): Lower the glass to allow the natural formation of the foam head.

Step 5 – The Removal: Close the tap quickly and move the glass away so beer doesn’t drip into the glass.

Step 6 – The Beheading: While the head foams up, cut the top of the head off in the direction it’s flowing out of the glass with a special head cutter.

Step 7 – The Cleansing: Clean the bottom and sides of the glass

Step 8 – The Two Finger Rule (stop being so childish): The right amount of foam is usually about two fingers

Step 9 – The Bestowal: Put a ‘doily’ over the base and present the beer on a clean beer coaster with the logo facing forward.  Smile, and be polite to the customer.

Step 10 (For the consumer) – The ‘Down It You Fresher’: Down the beer whilst shouting words like ‘Fresher’ and ‘Lightweight’.

So there we go, that’s all you need to know if you want to pour the perfect pint.

Which we did – as everyone was then invited to pour their own, with the person crafting the best one going on to the UK Final of the World Draft Masters competition on October the 13th.  After that, it was just a case of drinking lots of free Stella Artois and chatting to the room full of newly-created beer pouring experts.

OH, ALSO, WE POURED THE BEST PINT AND ARE GOING TO THE UK FINALS.

Did NAT expect that one – turns out that the gormless, vacant, dribbling expression we usually display when standing at a bar is actually the look of intense, clenched concentration as we slowly absorb each and every beer pouring skill that we encounter.

We’ll let you know how we get on at the finals.

We’re bricking it a bit to be honest.

The Zedonk The Cama

The Vacheval

Despite him not being there in person, the influence of Cannes legend Jacques D’Azur remained, thanks to Stella Artois 4%. Here you can see you the kind of things they got up to.

Looks pretty swish, but when Popbitch was at the VIP Rooms this year all we saw was a midget dressed as Darth Vader dancing on a podium, surrounding by women dressed as sexy Royal Guards.

Classy.

* Claude is brought to you by Stella Artois.