There is an Awful Lot of Bubbly in Brazil: The Life and Times of a Bon Viveur
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The best-selling autobiography of talkSPORT radio show host and ex-footballer Alan Brazil and his life as a bon viveur.
‘That’s mad,’ he said. ‘Well, they don’t think it is. Have you lost your marbles? How pissed did you get last night?’ ‘Not that pissed,’ he replied sheepishly. ‘Karina was telling me she’s going to be thrown out of the country because she hasn’t got a work permit, and I asked her if there was anything I could do to help. But I never asked her to marry me. I’m sure I didn’t. Al, you’ve got to believe me. I wouldn’t do that, would I?’ The celebration was now turning into a wedding breakfast, and
post because he was leaving immediately the race was over. I told Barry we were on our way to HQ. He threw the keys of his Mercedes car to his brother and asked him and his two friends to set off right away and meet us there. Willie’s horse won, and within twenty minutes of the race ending we were airborne from the strip in the middle of the course. It was a four-seater, and for part of the journey at least Willie was at the controls. As we came in to land in the middle of the Newmarket course
dropped, I didn’t really know what to do. Do you smile, put a brave face on it and try to pretend that this is some sort of brilliant tactical ploy by the manager, or do you curse and shout about the injustice of it? I was stunned and very disconsolate, but I trooped off with good grace, shaking hands with my replacement. I felt unable, however, to look any of the coaching staff in the eye. On the bench the proceedings on the field passed me by as I went through a process of self-examination. I
on Ludgate Hill near Fleet Street. On my way there I rang Jill. When she answered she was in her usual state of panic whenever I run into a problem at work. ‘What have you done?’ she said. ‘What will happen if you lose your job? What are you—’ ‘Jill, Jill, forget it,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m not in the mood. Get the skis out. We’re going to Meribel.’ Then I rang my daughter, Michelle, who had skied for Britain, and asked her to organise the flights and hotels. She knew the routine. She didn’t ask
England’s greatest-ever artists. My little girl Stephanie was particularly intrigued by the picture-postcard quality of Willy Lott’s Cottage, which features in The Hay Wain. And as the family grew up we spent many happy Sundays at the point-to-point racing at Higham, a few miles from our home, where we would while the afternoon away with a sumptuous picnic and a few bottles of bubbly. Another favourite place of mine is Milsom’s Hotel, just a few miles from Dedham in a village called