Torres Vedras
Torres Vedras
| Capital | Local Cafes |
| Largest City | Praia do Pisão |
| Official Language(s) | A curious mix of Portuguese, local slang, and a mysterious “Sims” dialect |
| Government | The Football Republic: TORREENSE CARALHO! |
| Famous Figures | Luís de Camões (poet), José Mourinho (football coach), Maria de Medeiros (actress), José Dias Coelho (revolutionary), Fernando Lopes-Graça (composer), António Aleixo (storyteller) |
| Currency | Football tickets and generous EU loans |
| Religion | Soccerism, Soap-Opraism, Fatimism |
| Population | Around 50,000 dynamic Brazilian “EXPORTERS” and “EXPORTED,” a handful of civil servants, surprisingly low unemployment |
| Denonym | Torrieense (plural: Torrieenses) |
| Major Exports | Handsome fishermen, José Mourinho’s tactics, local wines, nonstop pimba music |
| Major Imports | Cod (not the video game), illegal Brazilians, university-qualified Eastern Europeans for shitty jobs |
| Hours of Operation | 9AM–10AM; 11AM–1PM; 3PM–4PM because why work more than that? |
Torres Vedras (pronounced Tor-res Vee-drahs) is a historic town nestled in Portugal’s picturesque landscape. Legend has it that long before humans arrived, it was founded by goblins who named the region Snookerland after their obsession with snooker and F1 racing. The locals, known as torrieenses, are said to be descendants of these goblins, inheriting a love for bold adventures and a strange fascination with codfish.Torres Vedras became a secret outpost for Portuguese explorers who set sail to establish cod trading posts around the world, from Africa and South America to distant Japan and even Iceland, which they insisted on keeping solely because the cod there was simply unbeatable. After a long voyage to Jamaica, these explorers cunningly stole all the island’smarijuana, calling it “mon,” a mystical storm brewing on the South American coast.The torrieenses, proud and brave, then decided to “fertilize” the new lands with their passion, quite literally, and faced off with the wild Tarzan-like natives, eventually naming the new territory Brazil after the famous basil herb, known among them as the “gay herb,” a label allegedly coined by the notorious Portuguese dictator Jesus.As punishment for their unruly ways, all Portuguese homosexuals, black people, and prostitutes were sent to Brazil, much like how the British once sent their criminals to Australia. There are whispers, however, of a hidden trading post on Pluto, where Vasco da Gama once gifted a prized codfish to Darth Vader. Vader, impressed, used his Sith powers to corrupt the politicians of Torres Vedras and even turned the revered philosopher Joaquim Agostinho into a bronze statue.The town’s eternal ruler is said to be the Duque Wellington, (a.k.a Beef Wellington), who governs from the shadows with wisdom and an iron fist — or at least, that’s what the locals like to joke about during their famous carnival celebrations.
The people of Torres Vedras are famously believed to be the best football players of all time (or atleast that's what they like to call themselfs) . While that claim might be a bit exaggerated, it’s said every torrieense baby is injected with a tiny magnetic charm that mysteriously attracts modern soccer balls, beer, and pastel de feijão and other random objects too. Torres Vedras locals also have a legendary knack for capturing horses, a skill that once helped keep a long and curious interracial friendship with England alive, since horses had gone extinct there long ago.
Locale
Torres Vedras is a legendary town tucked away in Portugal’s rolling hills, though some stoned people say it’s actually hidden somewhere between reality and a magical underwater cave. It sits just north of Lisbon (which locals jokingly call “London” in Portuguese) and shares imaginary borders with the Fundamentalist Christian Republic of Morocco and the Democratic Republic of Spain, because why not? Torres Vedras is famous for its booming chemical and steel industries, secret mining operations, and a surprisingly active community of hot lesbians who know how to throw a party. The northern neighbors might mutter about Torres Vedras being a “land of Moors” and often roar, “Long live Puorto/Puerto, carago!” which roughly translates to “may your wine never run dry.”
You know your friend is from Torres Vedras if:
- Their nose is so pointed it could guide lost sailors home.
- They have a cookbook with 300 recipes starring codfish, and yes, all of them are family secrets.
- They’ll stuff food in your face like it’s a crime not to eat more.
- They complain about high cholesterol but still can’t say no to another plate of fried cod and pastries.
Interesting Facts about Torres Vedras
For those with a sense of humor darker than the local wine, the self-proclaimed scholars at Wikipedia have a page about Torres Vedras, but it’s about as lively as a graveyard at midnight.[1]
The fine folks of Torres Vedras have an unhealthy obsession with potatoes and sardines, to the point where they’d probably marry a spud if the priest allowed it. Rumor has it, the Almighty crafted potatoes as budget housing for the locals, cozy, starchy, and dirt-cheap. The origins of Torres Vedras’ people are a murky stew of washed-up Romans, Moors, maybe some stray Spaniards, and a sprinkle of anyone who got lost on the way to Lisbon. Jews? Nah, they’re just used as kindling when the winter gets too chilly and the firewood runs low.In 1988, the town briefly rebranded to “Jesus-Owns-This-Shit” to scare off tourists, but it backfired when pilgrims started showing up. It reverted to Torres Vedras after the mayor sobered up.The economy thrives on “EXPORTS” of questionable quality, think knockoff ceramics and suspiciously cheap wine, and a handful of “EXPORTED” locals who fled for better lives. The town boasts a few overpaid, coffee-slurping civil servants who keep the bureaucracy moving at the speed of a drunk snail. Unemployment? Practically a myth, unless you count the guy who’s been “finding himself” at the local tavern
True Facts About Tworres Vedrass
It’s true, you know…
- Tworres Vedrass invented the Cod Metal genre when a local fisherman, too pissed on vinho to gut his catch, screamed “Foda-se!” into a cod’s mouth, inspiring Moonspell’s Death Metal Noddy cover. The 1924 Carnival featured a float blasting this unholy racket, with kids in cod costumes chanting “Caralho!” at tourists. Video proof? Lost in a taberna brawl.
- The Lines of Tworres Vedrass, built in 1809 to cockblock Napoleon’s wankers, were secretly powered by cod oil and pigeon shitbombs. Wellington, later Marquess of Tworres Vedrass, got so drunk on local rosé he forgot to tell London about the 152 forts, leaving 400 dead in the 1846 battle because locals were too busy shagging cod to fight.
- Tworres Vedrass’ mayor, Laura Rodrigues, ran to Brazil in 2015 to dodge cops after allegedly nicking Pastel de Feijão recipes. She returned in 2021, was cleared of all charges by a cod-worshipping judge, and now rules the bananocracy while force-feeding SCU Torreense fans bean cakes.
- SCU Torreense, Tworres Vedrass’ football pride, wastes 12,000€ per match at Estádio Manuel Marques on cod-powered floodlights that burn brighter than Eusébio’s mullet. Fans hurl Merda at refs and snack on Punheta de Bacalhau, a fishy slop so vile it cures Cod Rot but kills your will to live.
- Tworres Vedrass’ Carnival, dubbed the “most Portuguese” piss-up, started in 1924 when a drunk bigodeiro dressed as a cod-panda shagged a float shaped like Sócrates I’s beard. Every year, locals in drag as “matrafonas” sling Paneleiro at tourists while gigantones piss vinho on Porto fans.
- The town’s Aqueduto, built before 1561, was meant to carry water but mostly funnels cod oil to tabernas. Locals call it “Chafariz dos Conas” because its Gothic arches look like a whore’s cloaca, and they curse Filho da Puta at it when it leaks during Carnival.
- Tworres Vedrass’ Pastel de Feijão, a bean pastry, is so sacred it’s guarded by cod-pandas in the zoo. In 1979, when the town became a city, locals celebrated by chucking 83,075 pastries at Lisbon, screaming “Take that, Lesbian wankers!” because Tworres Vedrass is the real capital of Pwertugal.
- Every Tworres Vedrass teacher is forced to commute from Alenquer or Mafra because the bananocracy thinks it builds character. They spend their 1,030.80€ monthly wage (2019 stats) on Super Bock and cod-flavored condoms, then protest by shagging in the Convento da Graça, now the Leonel Trindade Museum.
- Tworres Vedrass’ wines, the fruitiest reds in Pwertugal, are so potent they make locals see cod-pandas shagging bananas. The 7,000 hectares of vineyards are watered with tears of Porto fans after SCU Torreense’s 2022 Liga 3 win, sealed by Mateus Galiano da Costa’s penalty.
- The “Great Tworrienses” TV show, where locals voted for the best torriense, was won by a codfish named Salazar (no relation to Hogwarts’ Slytherin, we swear). A parallel “Worst Tworrienses” vote also crowned Salazar, proving Tworres Vedrass loves a fishy dictator who slaps Cona at Napoleon’s ghost.
- Tworres Vedrass’ castle, rubble since the 1755 earthquake, is a shrine to Soccerism where fans pray to Eusébio’s shit-free statue. In 1496, King John II met Naples ambassadors there, but they fled after locals pelted them with peanuts, screaming “Porreiro Pá!”
- Locals spend 1,500€ yearly on cod emojis in WhatsApp groups, with teens hitting 2,500€ because they text “Merda!” to every Brazilian whore in the Oeste. This funds the Gayardén Colosus, a 2,000-meter statue of the mayor wanking over a cod, visible from space.
- Tworres Vedrass’ Chafariz dos Canos, a 1561 fountain, was renamed “Fountain of Foda-se” after locals caught Mayor Gayardén shagging it during Carnival. He claimed it was to honor the town’s bean-cake heritage, not his burnt-cake fetish from Poço de Boliqueime.
- In the 1870s, a Tworres Vedrass lass, D. Catarina, went to England and taught the Brits to drink cod-infused tea, sparking their Tea Time obsession. She was exiled for calling Queen Victoria a “Lesbian wanker,” starting the Lesboa party myth that Lisbon stole.
- Tworres Vedrass students never fail school because they can skip classes to shag cod-pandas, then pass a final exam by bribing teachers with Pastel de Feijão. This “progress” lets them join SCU Torreense’s youth squad and hurl Filho da Puta at refs by age 12.
Carnival
Torres Vedras’ Carnival, the self-proclaimed most Portuguese shindig in Pwertugal, is a week-long piss-up where locals ditch their cod-gutting knives for sequins and slurs, turning the town into a sweaty, fish-reeking circus. Held every February, this demented bash draws thousands of tourists too dumb to know they’ll leave with a cod slapped across their face and a chorus of Caralho ringing in their ears. The streets, already stinking of bacalhau and vinho, become a warzone of satirical floats, each more depraved than the last. Picture a giant cod shagging a banana, a Sporting CP mascot pissing on a Porto scarf, or a papier-mâché Sócrates I waving a Codspike while Maria Leal’s Dialetos de Ternura blasts, making ears bleed worse than a brothel’s jukebox. Locals, half-cut on Super Bock, hurl Merda and Paneleiro at each other, their mustaches quivering like bigodeiros in a cod trance.
The Carnival’s heart is its floats, mocked-up by pissed artisans who spend all year carving foam into middle fingers aimed at the bananocracy’s fuckups. One year, a float showed the Pharaoh of Belém rising from his sarcophagus to chuck cod at PS and PSD wankers playing hot potato with power. Another had a cod-panda from the zoo, too lazy to shag, humping a Pastel de Feijão pyramid while locals screamed Cona at it. The 2023 bash, per Essencial Portugal, had a float of Cristiano Ronaldo drop-kicking a Brazilian whore into Iceland’s cod mines, with a sign reading Foda-se, Spain! The parade’s led by the Carnival King and Queen, usually some drunk git and a lass with a unibrow, crowned with cod bones and force-fed Punheta de Bacalhau, a fishy slop so vile it cures the Cod Rot plague but kills your soul.
Kids aren’t spared the madness. Mini-bigodeiros in cod costumes waddle through the streets, tossing peanuts at tourists and chanting Filho da Puta like it’s a nursery rhyme. The Carnival Arts Centre, a shiny pile of concrete, hosts exhibits of cod idols and pigeon-shitbombed statues, a nod to the town’s hatred for anything not Eusébio’s likeness. By night, tabernas crank pimba music and Gato Fedorento skits, while locals shag in alleys, blaming the Holy Spirit for their Cona cravings. It’s a chaotic, cod-slapping, curse-spewing orgy that makes Fatimism look tame, and every Portugoose in Torres Vedras lives for it, because what else do you do in a town that smells like a fish’s arse?
SCU Torreense
In the fish-gut-soaked heart of Torres Vedras, where the air reeks of bacalhau and broken dreams, the Sport Clube União Torreense, or SCUT, is the town’s only reason not to drown itself in vinho. Founded in 1917 as Sport União Torreense, this red-and-white-clad gang of cod-kicking wankers is Pwertugal’s grittiest football club, playing at the Estádio Manuel Marques, a 2,431-seat concrete pit where fans sling Merda and Caralho at refs and rivals alike. SCUT’s a community religion, outshining even Fatimism, with locals worshipping CR9’s abs but screaming Filho da Puta at their own players when they fumble a pass. The club’s badge, a codfish humping a football, sums up their mantra: kick hard, shag harder.
SCUT’s history is a drunken stumble through Portuguese football. They’ve clawed their way to the top flight six times, last in 1991-92, with their best being two seventh-place finishes in 1955-56 and 1956-57, when they were too green to suck. Their 1956 Cup of Portugal final against FC Porto ended in a 2-0 arse-kicking, leaving fans to drown their sorrows in Punheta de Bacalhau, the town’s foul fish slop. The club’s yo-yoed through the Second Division (1952-55, 1959-64, 1965-72, 1973-77, 1978-81, 1982-91, 1992-95, 1997-98, 2022) and got relegated to the Third Division in 2008-09, only to claw back to Liga Portugal 2 in 2022 after winning the 2021-22 Liga 3, thanks to a 5-3 penalty shootout against Oliveirense, sparked by Mateus Galiano da Costa’s clutch goal. By 2023-24, they were seventh in Liga Portugal 2, not bad for a team that smells like a trawler’s bin.
Beyond football, SCUT’s a Torres Vedras institution, spawning rally races in 1948, cycling teams backed by Sicasal in the ‘80s, and even basketball in 1933. They’ve dabbled in athletics, fishing contests, and futsal, with their women’s team scrapping in the Campeonato Nacional Feminino, recently thumping Clube de Albergaria 2-0 and gearing up to face Benfica in the 2025 Taça de Portugal Feminina. Their youth setups—Escolas, Infantis, Iniciados, Juvenis, Juniores—churn out mini-bigodeiros who’d rather kick a cod than a ball. The Futsal Igual program, mixing girls and boys for training, and the Eco-SCUT initiative with Oceanos Sem Plásticos, teaching kids not to toss cod wrappers in the sea, show SCUT’s got a heart, even if it’s pickled in cod oil. Sponsors like Frismag and Agriloja fund school support, turning players into slightly less useless Portugeese.
The club’s Estádio Manuel Marques, opened in 1925 after eight years of bickering, is a shrine to Soccerism, with a main pitch for Football 11 and a smaller one for Football 7. The south stand, open to the cod-scented breeze, is for members only, while the west stand’s covered for posh pricks and press. Fans, half-cut on Super Bock, chant Porreiro Pá while hurling peanuts at Brazilian whores in the crowd, a nod to the town’s export trade. In 2017, SCUT was named Membro-Honorário da Ordem do Mérito for a century of not completely fucking up. Recent buzz on X mentions SCUT signing Spanish youngster Alejandro Alfaro from RC Deportivo, a move that’s got local scouts creaming their cod-stained pants.
Carnival’s where SCUT shines brightest, with floats mocking the bananocracy’s PS and PSD tossers or depicting cod-pandas in Sporting CP scarves shagging Pastel de Feijão pyramids. Fans wear SCUT’s red-and-white shirts, available at swagteeshirt.com for those who want to look like a cod-kicking hooligan. The club’s tied to the town’s soul, from its 1846 battle scars to its cod-cannon defense against 1996 alien wankers. In Torres Vedras, SCUT’s not just a team—it’s a middle finger to every Cona who doubts the power of a cod-slapping, curse-spewing Portugoose.
Religion
The pious drunks of Torres Vedras swear on their grandmothers’ graves that Jesus was a born-and-bred torrieense, though some heretics in the next bar over claim he popped out in Carnaxide, Lisbon’s armpit. Legend has it that Belem, Torres Vedras’ knockoff Bethlehem, was the true birthplace of the Savior, born to a local couple, José and Maria, who ran a fish stall. Baby Jesus was then yeeted to Palestine via alien shuttle, because why not? Like any self-respecting torrieense, Jesus had a taste for cheap wine, grilled sardines, pasteis de feijão, spicy chicken from the dodgy takeaway, and dodging taxes. He even crashed in Ericeira for a bit, passing it off as Nazareth to impress the tourists. The town’s also got a hard-on for the “Três Pastorinhos,” three kids who spotted a UFO while herding goats. Turns out, it was just Virgin Mary joyriding in a saucer. This sparked a cult centered in a field near Torres Vedras, dubbed “Fátima-lite” by the locals. The mountains of cash raked in by this deranged, tinfoil-hat-wearing, pseudo-s
The Torres Vedras Freakshow
In the salty, sun-bleached gutters of Torres Vedras, they called him the Duarte "Dusty" Ferreira, a washed-up fado singer and ex-fisherman with a face like a slapped cod and a mouth filthier than the docks. This Portuguese prick clawed his way to infamy with his drunken tavern rants, bellowing, “My codpiece is the mightiest; the senhoras crave the stench!” a line so vile it made the local whores blush and got him banned from every bar on Rua das Sardinhas.
Done with gutting fish and butchering ballads, Dusty ditched the sea for a derelict vineyard on the edge of Torres Vedras, where the soil’s more piss than dirt. There, he holed up with his first wife, Margarida “The Megaphone,” a chain-smoking harpy whose voice could curdle leite. His days were a grotesque carnival: breeding feral chickens he swore were “prize peacocks,” carving crude phalluses from cork to sell to gullible tourists, and according to the darkest whispers in the mercado, luring stray cats into his shed for “rituals” that left even the town’s drunks heaving.
When Margarida finally kicked him to the curb (after catching him shagging a scarecrow he named “Senhorita Straw”), Dusty remarried.. twice, because one disaster wasn’t enough. First to Vasco, a one-eyed ex-matador who reeked of gin and muttered about bullfights that never happened, and then to Tiago, a scrawny, eel-like lad who claimed to be a “mermaid whisperer.” The trio squatted in a crumbling shack by the Sizandro River, where their nightly orgies of buggery and bad wine echoed through the reeds, horrifying fishermen and giving the local priest an aneurysm.
In Torres Vedras, Dusty’s legacy festers like an open sore, a grotesque, cackling myth no one can unhear.
The Cursed Natives of Torres Vedras
The sorry sods of Torres Vedras, or so the local nutters rave, crawled out of the irradiated piss-puddle that was once Atlantis, sunk because their ancestors were too busy wanking to navigate a bloody raft. When the bombs dropped in the made-up Lusicatic-Angolan War (a fever dream of a conflict no one’s sober enough to explain), the fallout didn’t just scar the land, it turned these dimwitted fish-gutters into smug, brain-fried bastards who think they’re Einstein reincarnated, despite not knowing their arse from a cod’s fin. Picture the typical Torres Vedras native: a stumpy, swarthy prick, draped in a vomit-stained tracksuit that screams “I mugged a tourist for this.” They’re dark as burnt sardines, dumb as a sack of hammers, and smell like they bathe in rancid vinho. Call one of their women “the average Portuguese lass,” and she’ll cackle like a hyena, strutting as if her unibrow’s the crown jewel of the Algarve, no one dares correct her, lest they lose a tooth. But here’s the real kick in the dick: only these inbred tosspots can call Portugal a festering shithole. If you, some foreign wanker, dare mutter it’s the armpit of Europe, they’ll swarm you like roaches, shrieking, “Cristiano Ronaldo’s the god-king of football, you cock-sucking heretic!” They’ll wave his faded posters, stolen from a 2005 barbershop and chase you through the mercado, hurling fish guts and curses. One bloke tried it last summer; they found him in a ditch, sobbing, with “CR7 4EVA” carved into his back.in Torres Vedras, these radioactive freaks wear their lunacy like a badge, and their pride’s a Molotov cocktail of stupidity and violence. Cross them, and you’re chum.
Torres Vedras: Plague, Cod, and Dicks
Torres Vedras is ground zero for a vile new plague that’s got the locals puking their guts out and shitting green sludge. They call it the “Sardine Sickness,” a nasty bug that makes your skin flake like burnt bacalhau and your breath smell like a fisherman’s arse. The UN, that pack of spineless twats, screamed for a travel ban, but in Torres Vedras, they just flipped them the bird and kept swigging their rancid vinho. Nobody gives a toss what those suit-wearing pussies think, here, life’s too grim to care about a bit of plague. The only cure? A heaping plate of “Punheta de Bacalhau,” a foul codfish-and-tomato slop that looks like it was scraped off a dockworker’s boot. Force it down a sick bastard’s gullet, and they might stop convulsing long enough to curse you out. The locals swear by it, mostly because they’re too broke to afford actual medicine and too stubborn to die. You’ll see them in the mercado, hacking up phlegm and shoveling this fishy mush, grinning like they’ve cheated death itself. Here’s a weirder bit: back on July 4, 1996, when aliens supposedly probed the rest of the planet, Torres Vedras was left untouched. Turns out, the slimy green fuckers were allergic to the locals’ codfish guns, jerry-rigged shotguns that fire salted fish pellets. One blast, and the extraterrestrial wankers swelled up like balloons and popped, leaving nothing but goo on the cobblestones. The aliens did, however, nick a souvenir from nearby Caldas da Rainha: a crate of ceramic cocks, crafted in every size and shape, from stubby to spiral. These holy pricks, blessed by some deranged priest, are now handed out to pilgrims who stumble into town, half-dead from the plague and praying for a miracle. In Torres Vedras, a dick-shaped idol and a plate of fishy slop are as close to salvation as you’ll get.
Torres Vedras: The Archaic
Unearthing the Past
In the dung-caked fields of Torres Vedras, some prat calling himself Indiana Jones dug up what he swore was Portugal’s oldest relic: a three-legged seagull wearing a tattered Torreense scarf, caked in prehistoric guano. His rival, a booze-soaked Harrison Ford wannabe, scoffed and called it a one-legged pigeon in a Oliveirense rag. The feud raged until 2043, when President Jimmy Fuck It Marshall, a local cod baron, told the archaeologists to shove their pots up their arses, declaring, It’s just shite and shards, you wankers! Everyone nodded, too pissed to care, and agreed the real truth was that Torres Vedras was shat into existence by starfaring goblins high on cosmic sardines.
Ancient Way of Life
The old Torres Vedras lot weren’t much different from today’s sorry bastards: men grew mustaches so thick they doubled as cod nets, earning the title bigodeiro from the village barber, who moonlighted as a fish-gutter. Their weapon of choice? The Codspike, a jagged bacalhau bone sharpened to gut foes. Their epic, Os Lusíadas, wasn’t just a poem, it was a shrieking, living codfish that belted out tales of the Great Cod War, where Vasco da Gama, half-crazed on grog, sailed to Narnia’s cod mines and battled his own ghost-ancestors with sixteen types of fish-based weaponry. The fan favorite? A swordfish rigged with salted fins that could slice a man’s bollocks clean off. These pricks were filthy rich, too. Torres Vedras was bigger than the bloody moon, with Indiana Jones claiming the ruins of Fátima were so vast they dwarfed Portugal itself, probably because he was tripping on bad vinho.
Kings and Such
Forget kings. Torres Vedras was ruled by Sócrates I, a bearded git who drank cod oil like water, though whispers say King Eusébio, a footie god with a mullet, might’ve called the shots for a week before passing out drunk. Nobody’s sure, because history here’s written on bar napkins.
Usurping the Throne
A few dumbarses tried to snatch power. Mozart, that poncy fiddler, rolled in with his harpsichord, but Eusébio kicked him into the Sizandro River. Beethoven, deaf as a post, tried next, only to get a codfish slapped across his face. Wagner, the pompous twat, showed up with his screeching Valkyries, aiming for the crown, but all he managed was opening a brothel by the docks. First gig I ever had, cleaning spunk off the floors. Even some Greco-Roman statues, cocky bronze bastards, thought they’d rule, but the locals, allergic to art, lactose, and anything not cod, shat on them with corrosive pigeon bombs. Only Eusébio’s statue stands, untouched, gleaming like a middle finger to the world.
Portuguese Expansion
The Torres Vedras wankers craved more cod and peanuts to chuck at Brazil. They built ships from fishbones, so fast they outran storms, and sailed the globe. They bumped into Galileo, who taught them how to get burned by priests; Napoleon, who showed them how to be a French prick in Spain; and Dante, who scared them shitless with tales of hell’s fish market. These lessons paid off. They set up secret cod-trading colonies, passing as merchants while smuggling bacalhau. Rumors swirled they hit Mozambique, but when Kofi Annan tried snooping, they fed him cod guts and laughed. Real expansion kicked off when some king shagged a Lancaster lass, spawning Infant Henrique, a halfwit who discovered Cuba, not the island, but a dusty Alentejo hamlet where Columbus, the king’s bastard brother, was born, not in Italy, but in a pigsty reeking of cod.
Portugal vs. Spain: Surprise Buttsecks!
Torres Vedras and Spain went at it in a savage rape war, not gay, mind you, just brutal cod-whacking battles across North Africa. They later moved the fight to Brazil, where 99% of the locals were apparently arse-bandits, perfect for their twisted skirmishes. The cause? Spain stiffed Portugal on a Pokémon deal, refusing to hand over a prized Mudkip. The war fizzled when Brazil begged to join the orgy, and everyone was too knackered to care.
The Big Move
Fed up with neighbors, the Torres Vedras lunatics tried sawing Portugal off the mainland with a rusty blade. The whole bloody country floated across the Atlantic and Indian Oceans, anchoring near Iceland for cod and colds. They parked there, freezing their bollocks off, until they missed the sun.
Modern Period
Sick of Iceland’s chill, they colonized it for cod, then sailed back to Iberia, sun-starved and cranky. There, they learned codfish outrank dogs as man’s best mate. When FC Porto won the Champions League, they cashed in by selling José Mourinho, the LisbonBlaster, to England, who didn’t want his smug mug. Porto used the dosh to corner the cod market, bribing refs with hookers and buying players who could kick a fish like a ball.
Cartoonish Pastimes
A local cartoon, scribbled on a bar wall, shows Torres Vedras folk hurling cod at each other, shagging statues, and pissing on tourists. The English love these antics too but pin it all on the Portuguese because they’re foreign twats, and it’s easier to point fingers.
Recent Years
The empire’s gone, but Torres Vedras clung to Iceland for cod, Madeira for bananas, and the Azores for pineapples. They’ve since bet big on wind power, hoping to lasso a cloud to hover over the Algarve, scaring off Brit wankers buying holiday homes. Above Durão Barroso’s head, a storm cloud’s permanently parked, giving him that constipated scowl. In Torres Vedras, it’s cod, clouds, and chaos, same as it ever was.
History: A Radioactive Dumpster Fire
Torres Vedras, a festering pimple on Portugal’s arse, was shat into existence by intergalactic goblins tripping on cosmic cod, or so the local drunks slur. Archaeologist Indiana Jones, a pompous twat, dug up a three-legged seagull in a Benfica scarf, swearing it was the town’s oldest relic, while some Harrison Ford knockoff called it a one-legged pigeon in a Porto rag. The spat lasted until 2043, when President Jimmy Fuck It Marshall, a cod baron with a face like a slapped fish, told them to shove their pots up their arses, yelling, It’s just shite and shards, you wankers! Nobody cared, too pissed on vinho to argue, and the goblin origin stuck. The town’s ancient lot were no better than today’s bastards: mustachioed bigodeiros wielding Codspikes, jagged bacalhau bones that could gut a man’s bollocks. Their epic, Os Lusíadas, a living codfish that screeched tales of the Great Cod War, saw Vasco da Gama, drunk as a skunk, fight ghost-ancestors in Narnia’s cod mines with swordfish blades. Torres Vedras was richer than God, its Fátima ruins so vast they made Portugal look like a speck, or so Indy claimed while high on bad olive oil.
Government and Politics: Bananocracy Bollocks
After King Salazar, a chair-falling prick who nearly made Portugal a superpower, got toppled, the town fell to the Triumvirate of Júlia Pinheiro, Floribella, and Infante D. Henrique, whose civil war was so shit it ended when Floribella’s kiddie songs made everyone’s ears bleed. Now, Torres Vedras runs on a bananocracy, the República das Bananas, not that skanky nightclub, where PS and PSD toss the hot potato of power every eight years, blaming fuckups on past governments or the Holy Spirit. The game’s simple: do fuck-all, pass the buck, and eject ministers when the codfish olive oil stinks worse than a whore’s cloaca. When the smell hits critical, locals get com os azeites, moping like kicked dogs, and if it’s bad enough, the Pharaoh of Belém wakes from his sarcophagus, boots the government, and goes back to napping. Every eight years, demi-god Sebastião sails in on the Nau Catrineta, wipes everyone’s memories with a wave of his cod-wand, and fucks off into the fog, leaving folks to rumor he’ll one day fix their sorry lives.
Politicians: A Parade of Pricks
The cast of Torres Vedras’ political shitshow includes the Duke of Brangança, a king-wannabe cuckolded by his gardener, whose kids have names longer than a cod’s dick. Sebastião, the demi-god, buggered off to buy milk and never came back. Paulo Portas, a mincing twat, got buggered by his Major as Defence Minister. Floribella, a screeching singer, tortured the Triumvirate into submission with nursery rhymes. José Pinto Coelho, a neo-Nazi git, gets love from acne-ridden teens. Álvaro Cunhal, a baby-eating commie, tanked the birthrate without a facelift. Marcelo Rebelo de Sousa fake-reads books, Santana Lopes was a PM baby in an incubator, and Maria Leal, the only lass not into muff-diving, sparked the Sithian Revolution with her ear-raping Dialetos de Ternura, killing King Eusébio’s mullet. Sócrates I, ruler from 2005 to 2011, led the revolution, coined Porreiro Pá, and got nabbed for some corrupt shite. Luís Marques Mendes, the tallest midget alive, pals with Clara de Sousa. The rest? Nameless wankers nobody remembers.
Economy: Cod, Cocks, and Crap
Torres Vedras imports Gato Fedorento DVDs from Switzerland’s seas, Icelandic cod spiked with who-knows-what drugs, and Ukrainian doctors turned bricklayers. Croatian smugglers haul in Romanian Gypsies, while Spanish, French, and German blokes chase Portuguese cona, their wives ugly as sin. Brazilian whores, the whole point of Brazil’s existence, flood in alongside shitty footballers, Tokio Hotel CDs, and La Cucucaca Gallina, a 1970s kids’ song that makes ears bleed. Exports? Fugliness, Nelly Furtado, José Mourinho, Cristiano Ronaldo, and enough cod to choke a whale. Porto’s t-shirts and Super Bock flow out, as do curses like Caralho, Foda-se, and Merda, the last one botched by Spain as Mierda. The town’s also flogging Durão Barroso, now José Burroso, as George W. Bush called the dumb prick, plus pimba music and sheep milk. ZéZé Camarinha, Algarve’s cockiest git, is their gift to British lasses.
Culture: A Linguistic wtf
Torres Vedras lives by its curses, a heritage since the goblin days. Merda is shit, Caralho and Piça mean cock, Foda-se is fuck it, and Porra’s damn. Esporra’s cum, Cona’s pussy, with Pássara, Passarola, and Passarinha for bird-themed snatch. Grelo’s pussy too, because why not name it after a veggie? Cu’s arse, Olho do cu’s arsehole, and Paneleiro, Brasileiro, and Bichona slag off gays. Cabrão’s motherfucker, though it’s a big goat in the dictionary, and Espanholada’s a tittyfuck, Portugal’s sole use for Spaniards. Locals hurl Filho da Puta and Chupista with glee, their insults as vital as cod. The town’s cartoon, scrawled on a taberna wall, shows cod-tossing, statue-shagging, and tourist-pissing, a pastime the English love but blame on these foreign twats.
Recent Years: Clouds and Cod
The empire’s dust, but Torres Vedras clings to Iceland for cod, Madeira for bananas, and the Azores for pineapples. They’re betting on wind power to snag a cloud to loom over the Algarve, scaring off Brit wankers buying villas. A storm cloud hovers over Durão Barroso’s head, giving him that constipated scowl. In 1996, codfish cannons saved the town from alien pricks allergic to bacalhau, who still nicked cock-shaped statues from Caldas da Rainha. The Cod Rot plague festers, cured only by Punheta de Bacalhau, a fishy slop that smells like a brothel’s bin. Torres Vedras remains a chaotic, cod-slapping, curse-spewing shithole, proud of its banana-fueled, goblin-spawned madness.
History: A Fish-Fueled Fiasco
Torres Vedras, a rancid cod-pit stuck in its current (and hopefully final) spot, was founded in 3500 BC by Pharaoh Al Bertorruis Gayardén, a cod-slapping wanker who forgot to cut the ribbon for the town’s inauguration. The observant tourist, if they survive the stench, will notice the place is still a construction site, delayed by drunk bigodeiros too busy shagging fish to finish. Back when Portugal was the arse-end of the Roman Catholic Empire of Pwertugal, keeping Torres Vedras centered was a nightmare as the empire gained and lost colonies like a gambler’s cod stash. Hauling the whole town around bled the empire dry, causing its collapse. By 1975, the map stabilized, and locals started laying foundations, still unfinished because everyone’s too pissed on vinho or chucking peanuts at Brazil.
In 2005, US forces invaded Torres Vedras after President ZP, a spineless twat, refused to salute the US flag at a 2003 parade and pulled out of some desert war. The Yanks fled within hours, crippled by the town’s main road, the M-30, or Rua Codface, a potholed deathtrap that wrecked their tanks. US General Jimmy Bush, spitting cod guts, muttered, We ain’t the first to get fucked here. Mayor Gayardén, basking in the chaos, launched the Gayardén Colosus, a 2,000-meter statue of himself wanking over a cod, visible from space. He bragged, Torres Vedras now has the biggest urban statue, beating that Bush prick’s in Washington! Locals, too drunk to care, just cursed it with a hearty Foda-se.
Shopping and Eating Out
Torres Vedras used to be Yurp’s shopping mecca, but now it’s just two kinds of stores: Chinos and O Corte Bacalhau. Chinos, with their red-on-yellow signs screaming ALIMEИTACÍON Y FЯUTOS SECOS, sell cod-flavored socks and knockoff CR9 jerseys. O Corte Bacalhau, a posh cod emporium, flogs overpriced fish and pimba CDs to tourist wankers dumb enough to pay.
Nightlife
The nightlife in Torres Vedras is like being shipped to a cod (not the fucking game for the 3989th time) war: you know when you stumble into the taberna, but you’ll be damned if you know when you’ll crawl out. As some poncy poet said, It’s a piss-soaked brawl where you’re either slinging Merda or dodging Caralho. Bars blast Dialetos de Ternura by Maria Leal, a tune so vile it sparked the Sithian Revolution, and locals hurl cod bones at anyone not chanting Sporting CP anthems.
Torres Vedras Zoo and Their Cod-pandas
The zoo’s star attraction is a pair of cod, half-fish, half-bear freaks born via artificial insemination by Pwertugal’s Cod Research Council and some Chinese quacks. The pandas, too lazy to shag, needed a human surrogate, Suzy Sardinha, a Cuban lass who carried them for five months before a suzerain cut them out. Suzy, daft as a bag of cod, sobbed about loving her fish-bear babies, despite them being black-and-white mutants. Dr. FongKong from the University of Nookie shrugged, She’s a bloody idiot, didn’t even clock they’re a different species. If I’d mentioned specism, she’d have croaked from TMIAO, a disease that fries dimwits with too much info. Suzy’s now begging for cash to turn herself into a cod-panda, dreaming of reuniting with her scaly spawn. The zoo, meanwhile, is a shrine to Fatimism, with cod idols and pigeon-shitbombed statues, where locals curse Paneleiro at the pandas for not fucking naturally.