Hell's teeth, it's cold amongst other things

Greetings from the winter wonderland of Genoa!

If you're a British based reader, I understand that you are already experiencing some kind of snowkissed bliss of your own, but as I'm not there it's difficult for me to get too excited about this, and when I think of Scotland I remember the summers of chilly looking grumpy people, and other people too who weren't looking at themselves in the mirror. So yes, it's as cold as a snowman's heart here, and snowing quite a bit today. There's snow on the hills behind my flat, but because we're beside the sea here, precious little of it is lying on regular ground. Probably a good thing, as it'd seem that transport systems are the same everywhere (or at least in Scotland and Italy), as when the weather gets a bit inclement, the buses stop/become more erratic than the Pope's announcements re: contraception. (Oooh, mildly topical. There will be no more of that, I promise.)

A quick update on the ol' flat situation. I'm still no further forward in Operation Unlocked Toilet Door. I'm extremely indecisive, I think, and for the moment I've decided to stay where I am, as moving is a lot of hassle. Also, I've not seen anywhere that blew my socks off which wasn't being rented by an agency that weren't a bunch of thieving schmucks. (For more on thieves, see paragraph at the end re: Juve.) The flat that I'd mentioned in the previous post is in the Vicoli (happy, Vi?), which while I described it architecturally, I realise that I didn't describe it's 'sense'. Although there are a couple of places in the Vicoli that could be described as 'Des Res', it's generally full of thieves, drug dealers, prostitutes and rat pee. I'm sure you can better understand now why I wanted to live there. Barring murdering a flatmate or anything unpleasant, I'll relook at moving out in the summer.

With this sense of the centre of the city in mind, if I didn't like Genova it'd be easy for me to draw a parallel something along the lines of the city having a gloomy filthy heart, a heart of darkness, if you will, but I've not been worn down by it yet, so provisionally see myself here for another year. Also, I have literally no idea what else I'd do.

Another thing with the flat is that just now I'm working a lot, so I'd be able to afford moving without any big problems. However, part of the excitement of my job is that my salary varies depending on how much I work, and although squint teeth seem to be hereditary, money-sense doesn't seem to be. Therefore, I'm not too great at saving money for rainy days. And being Scottish, I'm used to an inordinate number of rainy days. But at the moment I'm making more cheese than an extremely efficient dairy, so I can't complain.

I heard this a couple of days ago, and quite liked it, and I was asked to include it on here to see if you good people can get the right answer, unlike Diana and Francesca. Francesco got it straight away, to which I won't draw any conclusions except that he's a guy and got it straight away, whereas the other two are girls and got it wrong. It's bit like the woman on the road to Gloucester with seven sacks, I think, although I don't remeber that one well.
So: In a room, there are four cats; one cat in each corner. In front of each cat there are 3 cats, and on the tail of every cat is a cat. How many cats are there?
Simples.

And finally, to the football. As part of the corporate rebranding of all supporters here as hooligans by the Italian FA, I received my Tessera dei Tifosi t'other day. It's basically a card that I need to have if I want to have a season ticket or go to away games. This is brilliantly cunning, as you can only go to the stadium if you have a season ticket, therefore with one clunking bureaucratic move the Italian FA has eliminated hooliganism! Three cheers for them!

Hip hop hooray
Hip hop hooray
Hip hop hoo.... Oh, wait. That's not right. Except from the clunking bureaucracy.
Ya see, the Tessera doesn't solve the problem, or even lessen it as far as I'm aware, as much as it moves it to a different part of the stadium. Some of the Samp ultra's objected to the card as an unnecessary infringement of their civil liberties or something, so instead of renewing their season tickets, just buy indidivual tickets on the day of the games now. Not exactly unforseeable. And in typical Italian style, a mere three months after I bought my season ticket and filled in the form for the card, I received it. With processes as slow as this it's no wonder they took 4 years to realise that they were on the wrong side in the Second World War. On this note, I'm sure history is full of it, but I'm quite impressed by one country that can both lose and win a war. But not impressed in a good way, more in a snickering-behind-my-hand-and-on-my-blog kind of way.

Last week, to keep TV audiences happy in the Far East or somewhere, the gallant Genoa played the more convicted cheats than us, Juve, compelling me to get drunk in the morning instead of the early afternoon. I arrived at the pub just as a lot of old farts were going to church, and after the pub I went to my church. The morning was quite cold, so I had a few stiff drinks to "warm me up", and the game was terrible, so I had a couple after the game too. Needless to say, I don't remember much except being quite unhappy with the whole affair. The pub was fun though. Didn't feel the George Best after it wore off though. But that was just as I was going to bed, so not a big deal. Morning/afternoon drunkenness: the way to beat hangovers.

Struth mates and mate-ettes, that's quite a lot of drivel right there, so I'll off and make some lunch.

Take care of yourselves, and each other

Bye Bye!

"Dai, Badly!"

Booyacka and Word to you all my brothers, sisters, and mother. (I know that my father doesn't read this, but if you should be, ditto the aforementioned street greeting dad.)

I've been writing this while listening to the Guardian's podcast about Motown and if you're a lover of that kind of thang, I thoroughly recommend you download it. Ace.

So, what's been going on? (Clever, huh? No, you're right, not really.)

Well, a few weeks ago I bought a rather snazzy trench coat, which while making me look like a member of the Gestapo, is also pretty cool. It's not that I think the Gestapo are cool, but those cats looked sharp. Combined with my blond hair and pasty white skin, I'm really rocking the German look. I just need to get some organisation in my life and I'm there. But please, all mention of the war is strictly verboten.

The hunt for a new place in which I can lay my hat is ongoing. A couple of weeks ago I saw an apartment in the Veicoli (tiny narrow streets in the centre of town, think of the closes off the Royal Mile if you need some kind of Edinburgh-based reference). American soldiers are brighter than the flat was, but despite this it would have suited me nicely. I asked the agency lady how much they wanted as a fee for advertising the flat, and she told me that the fee was 2 months rent. That's 1100 euros for putting an advert in the paper and on a website. I thought maybe that I'd misunderstood, as the agency woman wasn't wearing a mask or had a gun, so I called them back, but lo, it turns out that I was. Needless to say, I won't be moving in there. So, my search continues, and I'm no closer to not needing to lock the toilet door. I dream big.

I've started teaching a group of kids at school, which has perhaps coincidentally coincided with a change in my thinking re: spawn. This may be a knee jerk reaction, but I just don't like children. I'm sure that parents think that their little Princes and Princesses are just adorable, but for me they're about as adorable as diarrhoea. They're ok if the parents are around, I guess, but when they're left in my care I find it hard to connect. They don't find my jokes funny or talk intelligently about the difference between 4-3-3 or 4-4-2 (the only football reference for today). Also, they annoy me intensely and I worry that they might break. They're only small after all. Sadly, the course lasts until May or something ridiculous like that, so it's just a case of gritting my teeth and thinking of happier places til then.

Last week, for some inexplicable reason, popularish English troubadour Badly Drawn Boy came to Genoa to play a gig, which I went along to. It was good, even though I don't particularly find his music inspiring. Francesco remarked to me during the gig that I was probably the only person there that fully understood what he was singing about and saying between songs, and he probably wasn't a million miles away with that assertion. B.D.B., as his mum and non-fans call him was probably a bit disconcerted when a couple fo people shouted "Dai, Badly!", which sounds very much like "Die, Badly!" This was only at the start of the gig too, so he was probably worried that we'd be a bit of a tough crowd, but it just means kind of "come on, yeah!" His band looked strange though. I'm sure I recognised the keyboardist from somewhere, the drummer had a mouth too small for an adult male's face, and his bassist looked like a newsagent. Rock'n'roll! Good times though.

Right, shortish one today, need to go to work and it smells like my banana bread has finished baking. Delicious times.

Ciao for now, party people.

'Bonus'?

Hey Ya

I know what you're thinking, "2 blogs in a week?!". And it's true, this week is a special week mirroring my shower routine, for no reason other than today's a holiday and I don't think I can find any new football based information to read on t'internet.

This particular slew of drivel will be a bit shorter than normal probably, you'll be relieved to hear. It will also include the apparently obligatory shoe-horned reference to Halloween somewhere. Think of it as a 'fun' challenge for you if you will, as I'm not going to spell it's location out for you.

First up on today's agenda, and the positioning reflects it's importance, as fans of facial topiary, lament. Yes, my bonzai-sized 'beard' (I feel quite uncomfortable calling it this. Brian Blessed has a beard, but at the same time, I don't think it paints the right picture if I call it a growth. Alternative suggestions would be welcome) has gone. It's been very windy recently, and in a sudden gale it blew away. Much sadness, and without it I look 12 again, instead of the manly 16 year old I was imitating. I now seem to suffer from phantom limb syndrome, because when a student says something so blindingly incorrect or generally wonkily thought out, I go to stroke my 'beard/growth' only to be left grasping thin air. I also draw the logical parallel between myself and Samson and blame my puny arms on the lack of facial hair.

On Friday I went to the stadium to watch a bit of football (more of which later). After though, I went to see my friend Giampy's band, 'Come Quando Non Puoi Ridere'. I've seen them now about 4 or 5 times I think, and every time is very good. They always put on a really good show. Giampy also said that he likes reading this, so hello Giampy! However, as a result of what I imagine to be derived only from high spirits, he is quite energetic and his balance and spacial awareness are not often great, so I always feel worried that he's going to fall over and hurt himself. He's a rugby player though, so he should at least be used to a couple of bashes.

Genoa played Inter on Friday night, which frankly is no time to be playing football, as a combination of this and me mistakenly leaving my ticket at home really cut into the pre-match drinking time. Inter are a big, physically strong team with some great players, but on Friday they were crap. They only scored through a rick by Eduardo, our keeper, which had it been on TV in Britain would have been accompanied by a voiceover describing it as horrifying. It really was though. We kept on at them, but unfortunately we couldn't find an equaliser. Still, they'll probably win the league, and it's an improvement on last year's game against them (5-0, and terrible drunkenness), so reason to be phlegmatic.

Can't think of much else to tell you, so ciao for now

:)