...at the end of the world

With such an unusual travelling threesome, it was only a matter of time before some tension crept in.
Everything had gone swimmingly for two weeks, as The One With The Common Sense spent so much time fussing over her dad that she didn´t find time to get fed up with my foibles.
But I think it was around the time that I started wearing his underpants that things got a little fraught.
I was having a bit of trouble identifying my briefs in the laundry pile when I noticed the "Primark Essentials" label - the brand of all discerning gents - and fished them out to put in my rucksack.
It was only when I´d had them on for a while the next day that I noticed they didn´t quite sit properly. (Obviously I don´t have the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie´s buns of steel.)
He took the news that I´d taken our relationship to a whole different level rather well - and as I pointed out it could have been a lot worse had he ended up wearing a pair of my wangers.
However, relations between myself and The One With The Common Sense were beginning to show signs of strain as I sulked about our rapidly diminishing bank balance.
Our budget was struggling to cope with The Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie´s daily demands for hot chocolate and penchant for casually throwing back beer and wine. (Of course, I could have sat out the drinks but refusing alcohol has never been one of my strengths.)
So not only did he have to put up with my wearing his smalls but my increasingly grumpy moods and the subsequent marital snipes.
When one morning The One With The Common Sense and I both got out of bed on the wrong side (though she may suggest the right side of my bunk was facing the wall), The Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie told me he could take himself off for a walk to give us some space.
I gruffly replied that I´d rather it was The One With The Common Sense who shoved off on a walk.
What I didn´t know was that when minutes earlier he had asked her if we needed a bit of alone time, she´d snapped: "I don´t want to spend any time with him".

Being so far south, at the very foot of Argentinian Patagonia, Ushuaia styles itself as "the city at the end of the world".
So we dutifully visited the tourist information office to get a passport stamp marking our visit to the "world´s most southerly city" and had a drink in planet Earth´s most southerly (and probably worst) Irish pub.
But the attractive and colourful buildings arranged around its harbour and backdrop of imposing mountains mean there´s much more to Ushuaia than simply a location to tick off the list.
One of our first trips was to climb to Glaciar Martial to take in the spectacular view from about 1,000m above sea level.
It was quite a challenging hike but the chance to get close to the ice and even stand on the edges proved well worth it.
Being so high up proved a little worrying for The One With The Common Sense, however.
Having watched her father graduate from tripping over tree roots to Norman Wisdom-style stumbles into shopping trolleys, kerbs and even bins, her heart skipped a beat as she looked up to find him standing precariously high on a rock, taking photos with an apple wedged in his mouth.
Meanwhile, I had a couple of heart-stopping moments of my own when my troublesome digestive system almost caused me to fall foul of the world´s most southerly pant-pooing incident.
Thankfully, I made it to a loo in time rather than embarrassing myself on a road called Maipú Avenue (I kid you not) but it was a close call.

Another of Ushuaia´s draws is the opportunity to take a boat onto the Beagle Channel, the last link between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans before having to round Cape Horn.
Our two trips were to prove a last hurrah for the bird-watching aspect of the trip.
The first gave us the chance to get up close to sea lions cohabiting peacefully with comorants on a rock before mooring at a restricted island where we could get within touching distance of the birds.
At one point, our guide noted the wind picking up and said we might see some albatrosses.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a pair of the great birds came gliding in.
It was also fantastic to get some rough weather on the way back and stand on the deck of the little boat in waterproofs, sipping at coffee with a nip of liquor, as we appreciated the power of the sea.
An even better treat was awaiting us on our next trip to a penguin colony.
Getting so close to these comical creatures - at times within a couple of feet - was magical.
However, at one stage I was so entranced by a little fellow hiding under a bush behind me that I blundered on top of another penguin´s burrow.
I don´t think I caused any damage but I was glad the guide didn´t spot me - I might have had my RSPB membership withdrawn.
Also on the island were some powerful turkey vultures. They didn´t bother the birds but probably feasted on the carcasses of pesky muskrats, an alien species that are damaging the habitat. More power to their beaks, I say.
A really special moment for us came about by chance when, crossing to the island, we saw hundreds of seabirds picking off fish from a shoal of sardines. Among them were several huge albatross, some which flew right past the boat.

A little of our slightly tragic passion for birds had evidently rubbed off on our Swedish friends, The Two Anders.
One day they proudly brought their camera to show The Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie a snap of a "parrot" they had seen during a coastal walk.
Unfortunately their identification skills didn´t match their enthusiasm, as a closer look at the photo revealed it to be one of the area´s many powerful hawks.
Still, they had the last laugh by snapping a kingfisher - something we missed on our trip.
To celebrate Tall Anders´ birthday, the lads cooked up a delicious meal of Swedish meatballs and mash - they could certainly teach Ikea a thing or two.
However, the high spirits brought on by the flowing beer and malbec led us to get a telling off (and not the only one) for being too noisy after hours, much to the chagrin of the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie who seems to prefer more of a party hostel.
Ushuaia also saw a sort of "breaking of the fellowship" as our Finnish friend Hanna left our six-strong group, who had inadvertently travelled the length of Patagonia together, for Chile.
We marked the occasion with an all-you-can-eat parilla, which involved whole animals being cooked, spreadeagled, over a barbecue.
We were served just about the best lamb I´ve ever tasted along with chicken and delicious blood sausage - I even managed not to make myself feel sick by eating too much.

The further south we travelled through Argentina, the more evident was the ill-feeling over the status of the Falkland Islands.
At various points, we´d seen official road signs reading "Los Malvinas son Argentinas" - meaning The Falklands are Argentine.
That seems a bit odd - like the Highways Agency informing motorists on the M6 that Gibraltar is just damn well staying British, whether those pesky Spaniards like it or not.
However, feelings obviously run high in Ushuaia where I suspect many of those killed in the 1982 conflict were based.
The town was awash with car stickers and memorial notices in windows to the fallen combatants.
As we left from the town´s airport, I noticed a glass case containing an Argentinian Air Force flag which is being kept until the day it can be raised over the Malvinas.
It´s obviously not an issue that going away any time soon but I´m happy to say I´ve not experienced any antagonism in connection with my nationality.
In fact, the locals have been quick to offer help when you´re puzzling over a map or simply have a chat when you´re in a shop or on a bus.
Here´s hoping our respective governments take a similarly friendly approach in future.

...in a grump at a glacier

Sometimes travelling really brings out the worst in you.
Expanding your horizons generally leads you to the conclusion that people the world over are basically the same - and on the whole quite nice.
But long bus rides and a few too many early mornings (or late nights) can quickly change your attitude.
During my worst Victor Meldrew moods, The One With The Common Sense and I will grumble about the rudeness of such-and-such a nation´s people, the arrogance of some other´s and how people of a certain nationality are just plain annoying.
There we sit, chunnering away at our fellow bus passengers or sightseers like a pair of narrow-minded, bitter old biddies. Hardly an advert for the British or Irish people.
Now, we have plenty of American or Australian friends. But put together four of the louder, high-fiving inhabitants of those great nations, throw into the mix a few shrill cries of "awesome" and have them make ridiculous poses in front of one of the world´s most beautiful sights and it will surely bring out the worst in the most tolerant of people.
So it was as we stared in awe at the Perito Moreno glacier, a 35km-long wall of powder blue ice advancing into Lago Argentino.
Stunning, beautiful, majestic... the words don´t do it justice.
Distant booms echoing like mortar fire around the mountains as the glacier edged past immovable rock only added to the atmosphere.
Gunshot-like cracks usually herald something interesting but the too-trendy, hat-wearing US-Aussie group paid no heed, choosing instead to jump - whooping - into the air for the camera.
It provoked The One With The Common Sense to mutter something about "shutting the feck up" and rarely could her prayers have been answered so quickly.
An almighty ripping sound silenced everyone as a huge wall of ice toppled from the glacier into the water below.
We barely had time to digest what had happened when another chunk plunged into the depths.
It left everyone present breathless with excitement and over hot chocolate later we reluctantly admitted it had indeed been "awesome".

Those who complain there´s little to do in El Calafate except visit glaciers obviously do not share an interest in birding with myself and the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie.
For this tourist town of 22,000 people not only sits on Lago Argentino - the country´s largest lake - but also Laguna Nimez, where we were treated to the sight of bright pink flamingos and elegant black-necked swans.
During a three-hour wander around the reserve, we watched numerous hawks, including a fabulous grey harrier, as they hunted the myriad smaller birds taking refuge in the reeds and bracken, along with many waders.
Our visit to the town also coincided with St Patrick´s Day and we were able to do The One With The Common Sense´s folks back home proud by making a huge pot of Irish stew for The Two Anders - from Sweden - and our Finnish friend, Hanna.
The whole affair was fuelled by the local Quilmes stout. It has a sweeter molasses taste than Guinness but nonetheless did the job.
On my part, it involved an epic trek to find the necessary celery, which is difficult when you don´t know its Spanish translation - apio, I later discovered.
But after much miming its length and describing it as a greenish vegetable, I managed to skirt the proffered celeriac and leeks and eventually secure my bounty from the beaming greengrocer.
Delighted, I told him in my stuttering Spanish that it was to be used in a stew to celebrate St Patrick´s Day. He looked a bit bemused but I still took pleasure that my classroom Spanish was proving useful in real situations.
After a few drinks at the hostel, we donned green T-shirts and rosettes shipped in specially from Dublin and headed for the local Irish bar with the dubious name of Don Diego.
Further doubt over its heritage was cast when the Paddy´s Day "party" consisted of sticking up a few green balloons, although it did get marks for effort for serving green lager and we made a decent fist of making merry.

Our stay in El Calafate proved notable for another romantic interlude with the father-in-law, as a power cut plunged the hostel into darkness.
With little else to occupy our time, we were forced to sit in the bar and drink a couple of bottles of wine - washed down with beer - by light of candles brought out by the hostel´s friendly staff.
We might all have been gazing into each other´s eyes but it was hard enough discerning faces across the table.
Meanwhile, a visit to an estancia - farming ranch - on our glacier trip led to another unorthodox encounter.
We were able to get up close to a young guanaco - a bit like a llama - which took an unhealthy interest in my crotch.
A herd of very small sheep were also present, one of whom insisted on taking up an equally dubious position between my legs.
But revenge, in the form of an all-you-can eat barbecue, was later to prove very sweet indeed.
Another creature we spotted with its eye on a feast was an Andean condor, at a spot where a whole crowd of hawks were fighting over some roadkill. It was the first time we´d seen one up close-ish - and was a pretty impressive sight.

The last leg of our Patagonia adventure involved a 3am bus trip to Ushuaia, on Tierro del Fuego at the very foot of South America.
Involving no fewer than four customs checks, as the road took us into Chile and out again, our journey also saw the bus board a boat to cross the Straights of Magellan, which seemed quite a romantic thing to do - even if we were surrounded by dozens of chattering locals.
The Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie claimed he saw a raft of penguins off to port-side but I reckon he might be getting a bit cavalier with his identification.
One definite sighting, however, was that of The Two Anders, who we saw smiling back at us as the bus pulled off the ferry.
It turned out they´d been at the other end of the boat during the 20-minute crossing, having returned from a couple of days in Chile.
At this point, we´re not certain who is stalking who but there will probably be an injunction in a court somewhere in Europe soon.

... in the empty plains of Patagonia

Two full days on a bus, often rattling over gravel road, with hardly a sign of life outside might sound like a nightmare to many.
But our epic journey on Patagonia´s Ruta 40 proved anything but.
For the first time, I understood what people mean when they talk about "big sky".
All around you see the horizon, giving the effect that clouds seem much lower than normal, as though you could almost reach up into their layers.
It´s quite a powerful effect and one I don´t remember seeing, even in outback Australia.
For some six hours after our 7am departure, the snow-capped Andes were ever-present to our right, while the bus wound between the gentler slopes.
We then turned away from the mountains to a flat expanse of earth, covered with scrubby little plants.
We passed few vehicles and what towns we saw got progressively smaller. By the middle of the second day, the service stations amounted to little more than tumbledown shacks selling empanadas and the odd slice of pizza.
The barren landscape seemed populated only by a few hardy sheep and cattle, with little sign of the huge estancias that produce some of the world´s best meat.
However, the steppes must harbour plenty of rabbits or rodents because it proved ideal territory for hawks, giving the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie and I our first glimpse of the Andean condor along with vultures and other raptors.
We were also treated to a real "Patagonia moment" when the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie woke me from a nap to see a greater rhea (an ostrich-type bird) standing silhoetted on the horizon.
The emptiness gives a real sense of being an insignificant creature on a wild planet - some might point out that´s pretty close to the truth - particularly when at one stage we passed through some red earth hills with a distinctly Martian feel.

Those "essential item" packing lists that guide books love to put together usually include things like a penknife, waterproof jacket or first aid kit.
There´s never a mention of a father-in-law.
But it turns out they can be pretty handy - and not just by being quick to buy a beer or a bottle of wine. (Though some may suggest that´s just being a bad influence).
The Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie, it turns out, is something of a conversation starter, with all manner of folk keen to come over and chat to him.
Meanwhile, two Swedish guys have become particularly enamoured with him.
Handily, they´re both called Anders - so they´re a bit like the Two Ronnies except that one isn´t short and Scottish and the other isn´t portly and, erm, dead.
Anyway, they are very funny guys and along with a Finnish lady called Hannah, we´ve formed a little team as we´ve headed south.
It´s funny the way that happens sometimes and it´s nice to feel like you know someone, rather than having to go through the "where are you from, where are you travelling" conversations every time you arrive at a hostel.
However, the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie seems to have taken his relationship with The Two Anders up a notch to the extent they have started calling him "Papi"
And I´m sure I detected a note of disappointment when he realised the beep of his phone signalled the arrival of a text message from his missus back home, rather than an eagerly-awaited reply to an earlier text from "Chunky" Anders. (That´s as opposed to "Tall" Anders).

The introduction to dormitory life proved something of a baptism of fire for the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie.
When we stopped at a run-down place in the one-horse town of Perito Moreno, at the mid-point of our epic journey,  it was the first time he had shared a room - complete with creaking bunks and a tiny equipped bathroom - with a stranger.
The logistics of getting ready the night before an early start, allowing a quiet departure with a minimum of fuss, proved a little too much.
So it was a cacophany of rustling plastic bags, noisy zips, much frantic whispering and a lot of puffing and panting under a scalding shower that greeted the poor bloke in the bunk below me at 6.15am.
Still, it didn´t take long for "Papi" to get to grips with dorm etiquette.
It´s funny how travelling with your father-in-law forces you to re-examine your daily hygeine.
I initially began resisting the usual tricks of getting a third day out of a T-shirt or doing the inside-out thing with my underpants. (If you don´t know, it´s best not to ask).
But when the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie began using the sniff test on his tops and one morning announced it was "a change-of-socks day", I knew I was out of the woods.

After two days on a bus, we were desperate to stretch our legs and there can be few better places to do that than Argentina´s Parque Nacional de los Glaciares.
From our base in El Chalten, we embarked on two day-long walks.
And eating sandwiches while sitting on a rock opposite the pale blue expanse of Glaciar Grande, with chunks of ice floating on Laguna Torre before us, was something special.
We spotted some 16 Andean condors making their slow circles above the snowy mountainside above us - a sighting confirmed by a park ranger.
The sheer variety of birds living around the rivers, lakes and forests of the area, including parakeets and families of a fantastic red and black woodpecker (carpentario negro gigante), has amazed the twitchers among us.
Other sightings have included the rufous-collared sparrow, grey-hooded sierra finch and the fabulous penguin-coloured mountain caracara.
Meanwhile, The One With The Common Sense (latin name Grizzly ClaraClara) does her best to remain patient.
Our second trek was to involve a steep climb up to a viewpoint to look over the Fitz Roy Massif.
But with wet weather closing in, we decided against it.
No matter, as we made our way back via a viewpoint beside another lagoon, the clouds that had shrouded Fitz Roy´s peak all day parted to offer us a few seconds´ perfect view of the jagged cliffs.
The fresh air, streams carrying delicious icy water made milky by minerals and snow-capped peaks ensured quite a welcome to Patagonia. And the rest of Ruta 40 beckons.

... in the bedroom. With his father-in-law.

So, it turns out I look like a 62-year-old man.
Our efforts to check in my father-in-law at our hostel descended into chaos when the receptionist, Luciana, got herself into a state of confusion.
Firstly, she assumed that he was my dad because "we look so alike". (Maybe this beard´s not such a bright idea after all.)
Then she tried to book him into a private room with The One With The Common Sense, convinced they were the couple in this slightly unorthodox threesome.
Mind you, lovely though Luciana was, she was clearly a couple of jalapeños short of a salsa - or, at least, that´s what I´m telling myself.
In any case, it wasn´t long before we were all in bed together. For our third night in Bariloche, in Argentina´s Lake District, we booked into a three-bed dorm.
It was a strange set-up, however, with a bunk perched sideways over a double bed rather than individual beds.
To save the father-in-law the perilous climb to the bunk, or from braining himself on the sloping ceiling, we agreed he should stay in the big bed.
And we decided it was probably best that The One With The Common Sense should join him to avoid any awkward Morecambe and Wise (or Bert and Ernie) type set-up.

It might be an odd threesome but it´s certainly one that suits us all - the trip, that is, not the odd sleeping arrangements.
Chief among my father-in-law´s hobbies are walking, bird-watching, travelling and enjoying a good drink - with its related aspects of socialising and talking nonsense.
In that way, he´s like a more amiable version of Bill Oddie - a Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie, if you will.
And it turns out that it was something of a lifelong ambition of his to travel in Patagonia. So, when we decided to visit this part of the world, it made sense for him to join us and make use of The One With The Common Sense´s excellent Spanish to ease the trip.
So far, at least, it has proven handy for me. While The One With The Common Sense is fussing over her dad, it means she spends less time arguing with me.
And it also means I can indulge in one of my guilty pleasures - a spot of birding - without the usual response of "would you come on and stop looking at the feckin´ birds". It´s two against one now.
Having said that, the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie is showing an unerring - and slightly alarming - knack of finding any available tree root to trip over.
And there are certainly no signs of our trip getting any less disorganised.
When we took a hire car trip around Bariloche, the One With The Common Sense and I returned from the supermarket laden with shopping to find the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie being moved on by a traffic warden.
However, being a bit flustered in the unusual car, he didn´t notice our arrival and drove off.
What followed was a Benny Hill-like performance of the car moving slowly along, hazards flashing, with me chasing behind.
When he turned up a sidestreet, I thought he would pull over but - still oblivious to my presence - he carried on up a hill with me puffing and panting like Linford Christie behind.
Inevitably, he lost me, leaving myself, The One With The Common Sense, and the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie all in different parts of town, with no way of communicating with one another.
No matter, we eventually found each other and spent a very enjoyable day walking the countryside around the lakes and drinking in panoramic views of the Andean peaks (along with hot chocolate and tea).
Situated on Lake Nahuel Huapi, which looks every bit like a sea when the wind whips it up into white peaks, Bariloche is a beautiful spot and we could have stayed longer - but Patagonia beckoned.


Any fears I´d had about Argentinians harbouring lingering resentment against the Brits over the Falklands War dissipated at the border.
When I showed the border guard my passport, he bellowed: "Ah, Liverpool. Peter Crouch. Mascherano."
I chose not to point out they´d both left the club for a better place but did explain that my team was Everton.
He waved rather dismissively but I thought better of taking it further.
It turns out they´re not that interested in past conflicts at customs. Their prime targets when choosing whose baggage to haul off the bus for scanning appear to be Colombians - presumably because of drugs - and middle-aged women.
They didn´t find any coke on the Colombian couple behind us in the queue but they confiscated a whole load of fruit and veg from one lady. (Though why she was carrying spuds across the border remains a mystery).
The guard did relent and allow another woman to keep a jar of home-made jam but only after pointing out to everyone present why he should really throw it in the contamination bin. Maybe she promised him kickbacks in marmalade on the return journey.
Getting out of Chile proved to be more tricky. I was a bit worried because there was a wanted poster featuring a bloke who looked like a fatter version of me but thankfully another couple kept the guards occupied by having problems with their papers and causing a 45-minute delay.
However, we were soon on our way and winding along the road bordered by stunning lakes and mountains.

Our final destination in Chile - Puerto Varas - was beautiful, apparently.
We couldn´t see the impressive views of the volcano, however, given it was shrouded in cloud during our whole stay.
Our previous stop of Pucon had been a different story.
Reached via a brilliant 12-hour overnight journey from Valparaiso during which I managed to sleep practically the whole night, we knew we´d arrived in Pucon when we caught sight of Villarica.
At 2,847 metres, with the slopes below the crater blanketed in snow, this smoking giant imposes itself on the whole area.
It´s quite something to see it fizzing menacingly at the top of the street when you nip to the shop.
We spent our first day there swimming in the cold, clear waters of Lake Villarica in perfect sunshine, with the volcano behind us and the hills all around.
We were the only people in our guest house, meaning we could enjoy the rare luxury of relaxing in the lounge to watch a film. (Okay it was Forgetting Sarah Marshall but you can´t have everything).
The next day, we took a bike ride up in the mountains to some waterfalls known as Los Ojos (the eyes) del Caburgua.
It was tough going over the rough roads but the view at the falls was well worth it. Having enjoyed the morning so much, we decided to take a diversion from the 36km route to head to some thermal pools.
There are several in the area and we thought these would be quieter than the most popular, where busloads of people go at night.
What we didn´t bargain for was the buttock-numbing 3km climb to get to them, nor the 10 quid entry fee that we didn´t actually have enough cash for.
The guy who ran the place let us off with a few pesos but when we got inside it still wasn´t worth the cash.
Far from the warm natural pools I´d visited in Australia, this set-up consisted of something that looked like a swimming pool, some concrete ponds filled by spring water and a couple of tubs heated by burners - what a cheat!
Even though the water was warm(-ish), it´s pretty hard to notice when you´ve spent the previous half-hour getting hot and bothered while battling uphill.
And the last thing we wanted to do after a soak was to get back on a bike and pedal ourselves sweaty again.
But it did feel pretty good when we rocked back into town and took ourselves for a meal.
The One With The Common Sense had been dying to try chorrillana, a Chilean speciality.
It basically consists of all manner of fried meat - chorizo, pork, beef, whatever - piled onto a massive plate of chips, with three fried eggs on top.
It looked like the whole thing had been assembled in a chip pan basket, fried to oblivion and then tipped onto a plate. Still, it tasted pretty good, washed down with beer and a side dish of (fried) bread rolls.
This sort of cuisine - along with the national dish of completos (hotdogs) goes some way to explaining the physique of some of the local women.
You wouldn´t want to arm-wrestle some of them. Built like linebackers.

... as the VIP guest of the best football team in Chile

It´s hard to imagine giving the general manager of a Premier League club a quick call to say you´re in town and then getting invited round for a brew and a chat.
But that´s exactly what happened when I called Juan Pablo Salgado at Everton de Viña del Mar, the namesake of my team at home.
Despite months of fretting, I´d been unable to find out the fixtures before arriving in Chile so it was by luck rather than judgement that it turned out Everton were playing at home just in time for us to rock into town.
And having been put in touch with Juan Pablo by the Ruleteros Society - a bunch of Everton nuts whose mission is to strengthen links between the clubs - I was delighted by his invitation.
We walked into his office to find resting on his desk the pennant given to the Chilean club before the teams met for a friendly at Goodison Park last year.
And we were soon chatting about the delights and frustrations of our respective teams, while first-team players drifed in and out of the office.
I think The One With The Common Sense found the experience a little surreal (although she later confessed the young midfielder who wandered in was "quite fit").
And she remarked how it had been just like listening to me when Juan Pablo said he didn´t much care how the Chilean national team fared, so long as Everton won.
It was so nice that he gave up a couple of hours of his time on the eve of his team´s first home game of the season but Juan Pablo topped that by presenting me with a book marking his club´s centenary along with two tickets to the following night´s game.

As if that wasn´t privilege enough, we then sat through Everton thumping the opposition (Antofagusta) 4-0 - sadly not something the fans back home have been accustomed to lately.
There were only 6,000 or so in El Sausalito - a bowl-shaped stadium set amid picturesque surrounds of a lake and park - but they would put any Premier League fans to shame with their noise.
They didn´t stop singing throughout, occasionally unfurling giant banners dedicated to their team.
The performance helped their mood. It was driven by a baldy central midfielder known as "El Loco",  who scored a rocket of a free-kick, and brought Thomas Gravesen to mind with his nutty antics.
Even The One With The Common Sense was joining in the chanting but things got even better at half-time.
Having spotted my royal blue shirt, a couple who´d made the trip to Liverpool for the friendly match came over to us.
They´d had such a great time on Merseyside, they wanted to show us a good time in Chile. Not only did they drive us back to our hostel, they invited us to a barbecue at their place the next day.
It was great to get a taste of Chileno family life with Rafael and Caroline - not to mention the succulent steak, delicious pork chops and spicy chorizo.
They also took us to a beautiful lake near their house, the fascinating ex-home of poet Pablo Neruda, high above Valparaiso, and even through the "Commanche Zone" - the homes of hardcore fans of hated rivals Santiago Wanderers - to see not only a fantastic view but some of the poverty that exists in Chile.
While it feels like a prosperous country - prices here are equivalent to home - Rafael was keen for us to realise that many struggle in a place where there is next to no welfare system.

This friendliness has been typical of the welcome we´ve received in Chile - a country oft-neglected by travellers.
On arriving in Valparaiso, a guy spotted us looking at our map and took time out to walk us to our hostel.
The town proved to be one of the best places we´ve visited so far.
Like a Sheffield-on-Sea, its steep hills climb out from the bustling port, while residents use ageing "ascensors" to preserve their legs.
And while it´s as rough and ready as any seaport, with more than its share of neérdowells, there can be few places on earth with as much character.
A favourite haunt of artists, its streets are lined with murals - be they witty or political, most are pretty good - while in the central square hip-hop artists vie for attention with breakdancers, skaters and jugglers.
Add to that the fact ancient trolleybuses still rattle through the streets and its enough to keep any public transport saddo happy.
We also stayed in a cracking hostel, which served a free breakfast of eggs, fresh bread, jam, tea and fruit juice - although I did get bitten about 30 times by fleas picked up from the owner´s cat.

Jet-lag meant we didn´t really do Santiago justice.
However we did manage to do something we never did in London by watching the changing of the guard.
The pomp begins when the band march to the square in front of La Moneda, scene of the coup which saw Augusto Pinochet - one of Maggie´s old dictatorial chums - seize power from the Marxist government in 1973.
Once there, the soldiers perform a lot of standing very still in silence while their colleagues in the brass band do their stuff.
This is a much jauntier affair than the Trooping the Colour, mind. Instead of slow marching tunes, they bashed out a series of numbers that wouldn´t have seemed out of place on the soundtrack of a Carry On film.
At one point, they even broke into a splendid rendition of Everton´s 1985 FA Cup Final song "Here We Go". (Yes, I´m sure that´s not what the original was called)
I was tempted to sing along but feared arrest. The conductor would acknowledge the ripple of polite applause that followed each piece with a proud salute to the crowd - brilliant.
To finish, the guards march behind the building, across a huge main road - where drivers no doubt sit cursing - and face the other side of La Moneda, where they salute probably the world´s biggest flag. (It´s quite mesmerising watching it billow in the wind)
My favourite bit, however, was the very end when these immaculate guardsman (and women) break ranks to stroll over to a clapped out old bus to take them back to barracks, or wherever.
Some of the officers even stopped to pose for photos with kids and crazy old women.
Aside from catching up on sleep, our three days in the capital also allowed the One With The Common Sense to catch up with a university friend.
We went for an excellent seafood platter at a local restaurant, while I chatted to her Chileno boyfriend about football, beer and general nonsense.
I was later accused of indulging in something of a bromance. But it wasn´t like that, it´s just that Pancho spoke the same language as me. (Well, after a few drinks he could understand my Spanish, at least).

...over tea with Auntie Margaret

Sometimes in life you just have to stop, sit back and enjoy a nice cup of tea.
Actually, that´s usually about eight times a day for me during normal life.
But the chance to spend a few days with my Auntie Margaret drinking copious quantities of English breakfast, enjoying the benefits of regular hot showers, delicious meals and a comfortable bed was particularly welcome.
Generous portions, supplemented by scones, biscuits and apple pie, have done little for my waistline, mind you, which seems a shame after a diet of rice and noodles had left my shorts feeling decidedly roomy.
We had grown to really like green tea served without milk but the taste of home came at just the right time after what was a pretty relentless march through southeast Asia.
In truth, we spent most of our last days there sitting down.
From Luang Prabang, we spent two days aboard a slow boat to the Thai border.
These boats have taken on legendary status among backpackers - perhaps others who, like us, needed to slacken the pace of life.
The scenery changed little but looking up at the steep, tree-covered mountains on either side never got boring - particularly as I spent most of the trip with my head buried in books.
The journey was pretty uneventful, punctuated only by locals showing the agility of mountain goats to hop on and off at unlikely rural stops and one man boarding while apparently carrying an assault rifle.
Puttering to our overnight stop by moonlight, we marvelled at how well the skipper must have known the river, as he sent smaller speedboats darting out of our way by blaring a horn seemingly borrowed from a double-decker.
Likewise, the seats had been removed from a bus to line each side of the boat. Unfortunately, they had not been bolted down, so it was pretty common to end up on the lap of the passenger behind whenever you got up to spend a penny.
The seating arrangements were the only disappointment for me, in that I had envisaged people lounging around the boat on the floor, soaking up the sun at an open section.
The owners had evidently installed the bus seats as a way of advertising "soft seating" rather than the wooden benches that had numbed the rears of backpackers for years but for me it just took away from the experience.

Typically, the border had closed a few minutes before we arrived and so we had to stay one last night in Laos before heading to Bangkok to catch our flight.
The 14-hour bus journey did not begin until 3pm the next day, leaving us little room for delays.
However, we needn´t have worried. Thai buses seem like limousines compared to those in the rest of the region.
The One With The Common Sense felt like she had died and gone to heaven in the almost-fully reclinable seats, as we were served snacks and drinks by a lovely hostess whose command of English amounted to saying the most polite "hey yoooouuu" we´ve ever heard.
Of course, had this really been a heavenly coach trip, we´d have pulled up at the Pearly Gates service station where I´d have been hauled off and sent south down the fiery highway.
As it was, we instead arrived at the usual anonymous eaterie catering for busloads of overnight travellers.
We were very excited on account of the ticket price including a meal which we had been told was soup.
However, we suspect the language barrier tripped us because instead of one last bowl of noodle soup we ended up eating a bit of salty egg, some stodgy rice, a few bits pickled cabbage and a serving of something which I thought was meat but to this day am clueless as to its identity. Pickled mushrooms, maybe?
Whatever, you know it´s bad when the locals don´t clean their plates.
That disappointment failed to dampen our spirits, however, particularly as we were woken near Bangkok with a cup of the delicious sweet coffee that´s served in the region.
It´s made with what we once saw listed as "sweetie milk" - condensed to you or I - and I could certainly get the taste for it.

The long journey allowed plenty of time for reflection and I was surprised to find myself getting, if not homesick as such, a little nostalgic for the UK.
I suppose it was the result of covering such large distances in a few weeks but it made the prospect of a few days with family in Sydney all the more comforting.
It was great to spend time with my aunt and cousin, sitting down and chatting about familiar things, being extremely well-fed, and visitng Palm Beach (Summer Bay to soap fans), the Opera House and Bondi.
Our quick stop in Oz also gave us the chance to catch up with our old housemates from London, and their baby boy, at beautiful Avoca Beach and to get blind drunk with one of The One With The Common Sense´s old pals.
Staying at my auntie´s wasn´t without its pitfalls, however.
Waking one night in the dark, I bolted upright and declared to The One With The Common Sense that there was a strange man in the room.
I wasn´t altogether reassured when she pointed out that the bearded freak in my sights was simply my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe doors.

Sydney has a special place in my heart, thanks to four fantastic months I spent working there a few years ago.
This time around I loved pounding the streets around where I used to work.
However, I was left with the strange sensation that I didn´t really want to be there as a tourist. It was living there that had made it so great and I wanted to feel that way again.
Many sights brought memories flooding back but often my recollection of places would be slightly askew... it didn´t help that one of my favourite bars had disappeared completely.
One thing I could not get over was how the weakened Sterling had made Australia horrendously expensive for anyone earning the pound - so, thanks for that Gordon (remember him).
It was with mixed emotions that I boarded the flight to Chile.
On the one hand I wished I was earning the dollar and staying longer to soak up Syndey anew - and I was kicking myself for not making it back to my favourite pie shop behind Coogee Beach.
Conversely, it once again felt good to be heading to pastures new, unencumbered by emotional baggage - and in any case that pie shop has probably been turned into another coffee bar.