Illness, maybe prostituting myself, and proof of God

Hello one and all.

First things first, a big heads up to Andrew Marr, who it would seem I've met before, judging by his recent comments that bloggers are: "socially inadequate, pimpled, single, slightly seedy, bald, cauliflower-nosed young men sitting in their mother's basements and ranting". I'm sorry Andy, I don't remember having met you before, but Ah!, I no longer live my mother.
I bet you feel foolish now.

Also, welcome to the flock, new sheep Diana, while just behind her, limping slightly but otherwise unruffled, Clare has emerged from the wilderness of pregnanthood, and owing to the fact that here she's a sheep, confusingly somehow able to read. I should also point out that she took exception to the fact that I mentioned her husband, Patrick, and his desire to help the world through the super power medium of thievery and boob-touching enabled invisibility, while I neglected to mention her super ability to eat whatever she wanted without ever getting fat. Clare, consider this rectified. With this crime-cornering couple on our side, we'll all be able to sleep well, safe in the knowledge that should mischieviousness present itself in the form of food, boobs or unattended money, they'll have our backs. Breathe a sigh of relief, planet.

I mention that Diana is new to the party, this despite her being of my acquaintance for some time now. How rude! But, better late than never. Diana loves jokes like fatties love cake, but unfortunately rarely understands them. Many of my jokes are not exactly overly cerebral (or even underly), and yet they go over her head like the guillotine's blade and midgets. Which is apt, because she is short. I told her this joke a couple of weeks ago, and she didn't get it. However, it's currently my favour joke, so here it is:
Why did Hitler never drink gin?
Because it made him angry.

* I should point out that this is in no way an original Michael Nimmo production.

In the last week or so, I'm not unsorry to say that I've not been in tip-top shape. I feel I've slipped into a bit of a funk, as is my occasional want, and possibly connected to this or not, my immune system has been attacked by the evil agent that Italian's know as The Flu, while hardier northern types know as Just A Bad Cold. When I tell people this, they look sad and ask me what my temperature is, before inevitably meeting my response of "Smmmmokin'!" with confusion in their eyes as it's no longer 1994, and I imagine that the catchphrase from The Mask didn't translate so well. It would seem that at birth all children here are given a divine ability to cook better than any other nationality, a propensity to ignore rules, and a thermometer. I think that if I have a fever I feel hot and a bit spaced out, and if it gets any worse I'll worry about it then. Knowing the exact temperature of my mouth (or other orifice, which frankly doesn't bear thinking about for me, let alone you. But the image is there now, and you're welcome) really won't make any difference to me, as I don't know what temperature I should be. Despite this near incapacitating bout of the sniffles, you'll be pleased to hear I've been a big boy about it and complained only once or twice an hour. Real progress, right there.

Aware that my gamma-radiated mind has a threshold whereafter everything becomes a haze of green and smashing, I've been busy looking for new lodgings, as previously mentioned. Looking at the lower end of the market means inevitably looking at the same places that mysterious ladies of the night would probably call their 'boudoirs'. This is apt, as I've found out that I can monetise this blog, thus whoring myself out for your brief bi-weekly amusement. Oh, and I'm also dead inside. We should be friends, we've so much in common.

A blog by me wouldn't be a blog by me without an overblown part about football. But today I don't want to type at you about football. No. Gather round, as I tell you a story about a humble man. A man born in this century, but of the flowing hair and beard of another man born 2000 years ago. A man born in the cultural heart of Italy, Tuscany, just well-thrown stones from Pisa and Florence. A man called Marco Rossi. A man who is clearly the living embodiment of Some People's Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. A man who lit up a drab game with Catania at the weekend with his celestial majesty. Some would have you believe that he arrived in the Catania box to score by a complex system of moving muscles in his legs. I posit instead that he was carried on the backs of angels to score the only goal of the game, sending the dreaded Siciallians back to their island rueful, regretful and empty-handed. In case you haven't realised, I was a bit drunk at the game, but only really the Goldilocks amount. He really is my favourite player here, and I have nothing but entirely hetrosexual love for the man. If you're a beautiful game-lover, check this out. I think it's Rossi's defining moment on the final goal, as glory grabbing was within his grasp, but he played the sensible ball to win the game:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MDztFQyxIaE&feature=related

Braw.

Right, I think that's all for you for now

Until next time, keep watching the skies.

Ciao :)

Stuff and nonsense

Ciao tutti!

Greetings from the city that never gets up, Genova!
(Actually, in one of the most contrived introductions since the births of Michael Jackson's children, I should point out that Genova wakes up incredibly early in the morning, owing as it is largely comprised of old farts. So, let's try that again...)

Greetings from the city that sleeps, but only for a few hours before getting up early and clogging up the public transport system with it's hordes of shuffling, grey-haired-but-really-quite-trendy-sunglasses-sporting old people......(pant, large intake of breath)....Genova!

Phew, thank God that's over, she said.

As ironic as this may seem given the start of this post, I feel like I should apologise for the fairly vague, self-indulgent ramblings of my previous post. Writing regularly is pretty tough going, especially when one feels that one owes ones dedicated readers something mildly readable. So, yeah, sorry for that. That said, I make no promises regarding the exclusion or cutting down of rambling self-indulgence in this or any other post.

Life in the world of Michael has been its usual roller coaster ride of constant work and occasional drunkenness. Truly, life at 27 is all I'd hoped for and more. Since last I spoke at you, I've watched football, which was AMAZING, I've had a few beers, a few cheers, and a few more beers. Plus, an update on super hero powers. But, let's start at the beginning.....

Last weekend I went out with my new flatmates to what could be described as a massive doss house that was once some kind of palace. I presume it has been built in the last couple of weeks and then realistically aged by a crack team of whatever the job title of the people might be that do this type of work, because despite it being quite close to my place, I've never heard of it or seen it. But the beer was cheap, the acoustics pretty loud and terrible and the end of the night pretty much a haze, so all in all it was a successful outing.

The next day the all conquering Genoa CFC played the weasly onion pizza loving peasants of Bari. Now, I saw Bari play us last year, and then they scored an early (jammy bastard) goal and then proceeded to park the proverbial bus in front of the goal while time wasting like their pointless insignificant lives depended on it. Needless to say, we had the last laugh, equalising before the end. This time round, we scored early doors before they won a penalty despite the foul taking place about a yard outside of the box. The striker who was bundled over immediately sprung up and started celebrating with the few supporters who had managed to sell their donkeys for the train fare up to the promised land. If looks could kill he would have exploded into dust. They then scored and wasted so much time that the referee saw fit to add 6 minutes of injury time. Cue Luca Toni, the living embodiment of all that is good and just in the world to score 5 minutes into the aforementioned injury time. The stadium erupted, bathing the rest of the day in a heart-attack inducing happiness which still washes over me like I imagine the knowledge that you are right 100% of the time brings. This pretty sweet pill was sweetend all the more because the Bari fools had previously sung Sampdoria songs because they're twinned with that lot of jokers. Needless to say, we had the last laugh.

In flat-based news, my flatmates all seem very nice, however, they're not the cleanest lot ever. This is ok, I guess, but in what came as a surprise, I'm apparently quite keen on having a clean and orderly kitchen. Sadly, this does not seem to be the way things are happening, so this combined with my general desire to walk about in my pants means that I'm looking to move out and get a place for myself, which I believe I may have mentioned before. One of my friends suggested that this could lead to me becoming a bit weird, but this strikes me as worrying about whether or not you remembered to bolt the gate while the horse runs free through the countryside.

And finally, I alluded earlier that there was an update on the superhero chat. I asked Patrick, a semi-regularly mentioned person here, what power he'd have, and within a heartbeat he'd said invisibility because then he'd be able to steal money and touch boobs. I'm sure he'd do these things with some kind of altruistic idea in mind, but I'm not sure what that'd be.....

Until next time amigos and amigettes,
Ciao ciao