I went to Sicilly and all I got was this lousy mafia membership

Hello one and all, I trust you are all well, and as I've not heard any different I shall continue with this blind assumption.

It's been about a month since I last put some stuff up on here, and even though the last month hasn't been massively eventful, I figured that you'd probably need some sunshine in your otherwise monochrome lives. Never fear, for I am here (but only in a metaphorical sense, I'm actually probably nowhere near you. You get my drift though).

So, in the last month I have done the following:

Sleeping
Thinking
A wee bit more sleeping
Not a lot of work
General avoidance of things
Watched Scotland win the wooden spoon in the 6 Nations
Watched some football
Thought a lot about aliens
Went to Sicilly

So, even though you're probably all quite intrigued by the first five points on that list, I'll be a dirty tease and start from the bottom.

I went to Sicilly last weekend to visit Katarina, which I approached with equal parts trepidation and excitement. Excitement because I thought it'd be warm, and I was looking forward to seeing her, but trepidation because it meant I had to take four flights (hence quadrupling my chances of dying in a cool-looking, but ultimately disappointing fireball) and Sicilly is a bit prone to earthquakes and the mafia. Also we hadn't been getting on quite as well in the run up to my visit as I could have hoped, so was worried it might be a weekend of her looking cross and me looking sheepish (this may have led to problems with the locals if she lived on Sardinia).

As it was, we got on very well, which was nice. She lives in Messina, which is in all honesty, not the greatest town in the world. Or Italy. Or Sicilly. But it seeemed ok, with unusually friendly people in shops, which for someone coming from Genova is a wee bit confusing. What the hell do they want with their random acts of customer service!? How bizarre. We also spent a couple of days in Catania, which is more interesting and has Mount Etna in the background, which for any luddites reading, is an active volcano. On the Friday when I arrived the weather was good and the sky was relatively clear, which made for a very good view of Etna. Being very much a 'domani, domani' type of chap, I didn't bother taking my camera out of my pocket for this and assumed that I'd be able to get a snap on Monday when I left again. Well, didn't my assuming make and ass out of me. By the Monday the weather had taken a turn for the worse, and couldn't really see anything apart from lots of rain. But never fear, I wouldn't want to deprive you of a photo of it, so here's one I've borrowed from the internet. I know I didn't take it, but it was just like this, I swear.


One of the first things that Katarina said to me when we met was to remark on how German I was looking. This is very odd, as I wasn't frog-marching, being efficient, not having a sense of humour, or any of the other factually accurate stereotypes that we have of Germans. Apparently my long flowing blond locks and fine Germanic wee beard made me look like my name should be Fritz and I should eat schnitzel while quaffing beer, wearing leiderhosen, and manufacturing acts of aggression from other countries in order to invade them and start a war which I'd ultimately lose. But I was listening to David Hasselhoff on my iPod, so maybe she had a point. This kind of leads me, as if this post was at all thought out, to something that happened in the airport. On the way back up I passed through the security check and was belting myself back up when a policeman asked if he could see my documents. I gave him my passport, which he and his colleagues then inspected for a while and then made a phone call. This was very strange, and I don't why they did it. If it was in Britain I'd ask, but I'm afraid to ask questions here because they have guns and I'm not convinced they're that bright or patient (see story later). After about 5 minutes they seemed satisfied that I wasn't a member of Mossad or Osama Bin Laden and I went on my way. Either I looked shifty, or racial profiling in airports has changed dramatically. It could only have been my beard, so I've now had a shave and it doesn't look nearly as fundamentalist as it did. Phew!

In general, I'm the type of fearless, all action guy that makes girls swoon, I know, but I must confess that I'm not a big fan of flying. The (statistically most dangerous part) taking off and then hurtling through the sky at high speeds in a metal tube isn't a problem, but I do not enjoy landing. I think it would be a a supreme irony and proof that there is a God and that he's a knob, that if after all of these really quite difficult and dangerous things, that I might die during landing, which often seems to me to be quite close to happening. Particularly when landing at Genoa airport. I say airport, but really it's more a collection of kiosks that are always closed beside a barn. It's always very windy here, and so landing feels like you're on a roller-coaster, which regular Michael watchers will know are things I don't like. When I die, I would like it to be as a result of some comically stupid error on my part, not on the part of someone else. Is this too much to ask? I certainly hope not. Maybe the answer is that I shouldn't fly, but when I think this, I think "What has the planet done for me lately?". I could always fly through Milan, but Milan, in my humble opinion, is the post-gym session armpit of Italy, so I'd really rather not.

The airport here's runway is built stretching into the sea, and through some comical design flaw is quite short. A good few years ago, a couple of members of Italy's finest men who didn't want to do actual work but enjoyed having guns and a silly uniform, the Carabinieri, were driving about on the runway at night, and somehow didn't see the end of the runway, drove into the sea and drowned. Like I say, the finest of fine. To counter this potential Darwin award-winning behaviour, the authorities built a wall at the end of the runway. A couple of years later, because the runway is so short, a plane clipped the wall on take off, crashing into the sea, killing some people. After this, they took the wall down again, but as far as I know no more Carabinieri have succumbed to the seas siren-like call. Incidentally, the Carabinieri also have a paramilitary arm (wing?) who get proper machineguns and everything, which is quite a scary thought. The potential for them to shoot innocent people repeatedly, you would think, is quite high, which would never happen in Britain. Oh, wait..... But in there defence, they'd probably be too busy drinking coffee or letching on a barmaid to do anything as stupid as this.

In Messina there were some children begging, but they clearly didn't twig that I have a heart of stone, and asked for money. One Oliver Twist-alike in particular that I scoffed at and dismissed with a wave of my hand was eating a huge ice cream and complained that his trainers were old. So!? If you need money, stop buying really big ice creams! I'm not Santa Claus after all.

In other, non Sicilly news, I've been reading a lot about aliens, and I'm more convinced than ever that A) they exist, and B) they've visited earth. Coincidentally, this has coincided with me not working much, spending a lot of time in my room on the internet and growing my hair. I'm just a probing away from becoming mental. Good times.

So, until next time folks, take care, and watch the skies!

Oh, here's some photos of Sicilly:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=166874&id=557360758&l=0d1d63ea23