The kindness of others, and other things
Hi chums and chumettes!
Life in the world of Michael is just as downright mental as always, full of explosions, fist fights and Crazy Crazy nights. But you probably don't want to hear about all that, because it'd only make you jealous.
So, instead I'll bore you to tears about the minutiae of my life, here in cloudy Genoa. Hold on to your hats.............
First up, as it's clearly the most important thing, and has probably been weighing on your collective minds, I can confirm that yes, the last football match I went to, I was drunk! Huzzah for reverting back to the status quo!
Like an all-conquering hero, fresh from his exploits liberating foreign devils from their chosen leader, I stumbled from the bar near the stadium to the stadium. When I got in and started to climb the Gradinata, an almighty cheer broke out, with flags and a wall of applause washing down on me from the delighted supporters. I may be wrong, but I distinctly remember imagining a chorus of: "Nimmo Nimmo Ubriaco!" It was a very proud moment, and I'm sure the players were happy too, as as luck would have it they had appeared on the pitch around the same time, so they also benefitted from the good spirit emanating from the stands. As it turned out, and is becoming frequently common in my afternoons spent at the stadium, alcohol was necessary. Seriously, I've seen less shit spread out on fields in the countryside.
Even as I type, I feel Death's cold hand upon my nape. Ya see, I've just welcomed in the last birthday in which I can say without lying that I'm 20-something. In one's twilight years, people often become wiser, while also developing the nasty habit of accidentally wetting themselves in public. I've already one of these traits, so I'm going to buy an encyclopaedia tomorrow to try and brush up on t'other. But in all seriousness, I was overwhelmed by the number of birthday messages people stuck up on Facebook, as in its wisdom, Facebook now makes it harder to 'Like' everyone's comments, so it took me a while. It was really very kind of so many people to spare a second for me, and I wait with anticipation (and empty pockets) for the, no doubt, imminent bank transfers people authorised after sending me their best wishes. In Italy it seems a quasi-tradition for the birthday boy/girl/boygirl to buy the drinks for people on their birthdays. Although I now eat pasta religiously, wave my hands around when talking, and believe with all sincerity that I'm God's gift, I'm not so Italianised to do something as ridiculous as that. So, in its place, my gift to you is the gift of reading a poorly constructed and weakly thought-out blog. It's free, and you can re-read it to your heart's content, so it really is the gift that keeps on giving.
You're welcome.
It's a strange feeling to know that I'm almost thirty. Some of you may look back on that age with a wistful and hazy memory of when life was shot in black and white, while some of the rest of you may recoil in horror at the distant hill on the road to death, which let me tell you, gets closer every day. But I'm fairly sanguine about it all, as while I'm old enough to buy alcohol and cigarettes, I still look like a child (albeit with a fag in my mouth and a pint in my hand). The definition of win-win, which I might introduce as its explanation in my classes!
You'll all be bowled over with apathy at the exciting news that I've written a song in Italian. I must admit, it took me a while to think of a word to rhyme with 'pizza', but then it came to me in flash of unfortunate imagery: 'bunga bunga'. While not wanting to blow my own horn, I feel I may have summed up Italy in 3 minutes, obliterating any necessity for further Italian music to grope desperately in the dark for a succinct definition of Italy and Italian life. Job. Done. I was going to record a wee video for you all to see and hear, but it'd seem that the in-built mic on my computer(and I apologise for slipping into technical jargon here) is shite and doesnae work. Hopefully I'll be borrowing one off one of my chums, so I'll get that sorted asap.
Last weekend I went for a wee jolly to Granada, in Andalucia. Friend of both myself and the blog, Dannii, lives there, and it was very nice indeed to visit her and the south of Spain. At the beginning I was very disappointed when I realised that Granada is not in fact in the Caribbean, but I didn't hold that against her, and also explained why the Ryanair flight was so cheap. Granada's a nice wee place, but at the start I didn't think I was going to get there. On Thursday (day of departure) there was a national strike in Spain, and so I was worried that the airport would be closed. Thankfully, it wasn't, but the buses and trains were all off. Luckily, in the airport a stranger approached me and asked me to put his laptop in my bag. Obviously this isn't a recommended thing to do, but we had already passed the security gate, and I cryptically asked him if there were any bombs or drugs in it, to which he replied no. So, I took his laptop and chatted away with him. He was from Granada and offered me a lift when we touched down in Spain, so after a few more questions to ascertain if he was a serial killer or not, I accepted. (Again, he was not). He was a really friendly guy, and true to his word drove me a couple of hundred km's to Granada, where he then took me for a few beers and tapas (no pun intended, I think he was straight) while I waited for Dannii to finish her work (scab!). He also gave me a list of recommended bars, which I expected to be 3 or 4, but turned out to be a list of 27. Having lived in Genoa for nigh on four years, it was really odd to meet a total stranger who was so friendly and kind. For this, Alvaro, muchos gracias.
This week in Granada is Saints Week, what with them being really into God and catholicism. I caught a procession on Sunday night, that taken out of context, would scare the hell out of you. To Death Star-type marching music played by a brass band, there was a very slow procession of hundreds of candle-holding guys that from their look, could only be described as Ku Klux Klan wannabes. They were kitted out in the tall pointy hats and white robes, and it was all very weird. Pretty cool to know that they weren't inbred Southern Staters with some deeply suppressed issues, but were actually just Spaniards (deeply suppressed issues optional). I'm sure they could also be as unpleasant as the KKK, but when I think of Spain, I think of Manuel from Fawlty Towers, and there's nothing aggressive or scary about him.
Overall, I had a great time, and it was very nice to get away for a weekend. Going back to work and reality on Tuesday was not what I'd describe as a joy. But, hey ho.
I think that's all for now folks,
Til the next time
Ciao ciao!
Life in the world of Michael is just as downright mental as always, full of explosions, fist fights and Crazy Crazy nights. But you probably don't want to hear about all that, because it'd only make you jealous.
So, instead I'll bore you to tears about the minutiae of my life, here in cloudy Genoa. Hold on to your hats.............
First up, as it's clearly the most important thing, and has probably been weighing on your collective minds, I can confirm that yes, the last football match I went to, I was drunk! Huzzah for reverting back to the status quo!
Like an all-conquering hero, fresh from his exploits liberating foreign devils from their chosen leader, I stumbled from the bar near the stadium to the stadium. When I got in and started to climb the Gradinata, an almighty cheer broke out, with flags and a wall of applause washing down on me from the delighted supporters. I may be wrong, but I distinctly remember imagining a chorus of: "Nimmo Nimmo Ubriaco!" It was a very proud moment, and I'm sure the players were happy too, as as luck would have it they had appeared on the pitch around the same time, so they also benefitted from the good spirit emanating from the stands. As it turned out, and is becoming frequently common in my afternoons spent at the stadium, alcohol was necessary. Seriously, I've seen less shit spread out on fields in the countryside.
Even as I type, I feel Death's cold hand upon my nape. Ya see, I've just welcomed in the last birthday in which I can say without lying that I'm 20-something. In one's twilight years, people often become wiser, while also developing the nasty habit of accidentally wetting themselves in public. I've already one of these traits, so I'm going to buy an encyclopaedia tomorrow to try and brush up on t'other. But in all seriousness, I was overwhelmed by the number of birthday messages people stuck up on Facebook, as in its wisdom, Facebook now makes it harder to 'Like' everyone's comments, so it took me a while. It was really very kind of so many people to spare a second for me, and I wait with anticipation (and empty pockets) for the, no doubt, imminent bank transfers people authorised after sending me their best wishes. In Italy it seems a quasi-tradition for the birthday boy/girl/boygirl to buy the drinks for people on their birthdays. Although I now eat pasta religiously, wave my hands around when talking, and believe with all sincerity that I'm God's gift, I'm not so Italianised to do something as ridiculous as that. So, in its place, my gift to you is the gift of reading a poorly constructed and weakly thought-out blog. It's free, and you can re-read it to your heart's content, so it really is the gift that keeps on giving.
You're welcome.
It's a strange feeling to know that I'm almost thirty. Some of you may look back on that age with a wistful and hazy memory of when life was shot in black and white, while some of the rest of you may recoil in horror at the distant hill on the road to death, which let me tell you, gets closer every day. But I'm fairly sanguine about it all, as while I'm old enough to buy alcohol and cigarettes, I still look like a child (albeit with a fag in my mouth and a pint in my hand). The definition of win-win, which I might introduce as its explanation in my classes!
You'll all be bowled over with apathy at the exciting news that I've written a song in Italian. I must admit, it took me a while to think of a word to rhyme with 'pizza', but then it came to me in flash of unfortunate imagery: 'bunga bunga'. While not wanting to blow my own horn, I feel I may have summed up Italy in 3 minutes, obliterating any necessity for further Italian music to grope desperately in the dark for a succinct definition of Italy and Italian life. Job. Done. I was going to record a wee video for you all to see and hear, but it'd seem that the in-built mic on my computer(and I apologise for slipping into technical jargon here) is shite and doesnae work. Hopefully I'll be borrowing one off one of my chums, so I'll get that sorted asap.
Last weekend I went for a wee jolly to Granada, in Andalucia. Friend of both myself and the blog, Dannii, lives there, and it was very nice indeed to visit her and the south of Spain. At the beginning I was very disappointed when I realised that Granada is not in fact in the Caribbean, but I didn't hold that against her, and also explained why the Ryanair flight was so cheap. Granada's a nice wee place, but at the start I didn't think I was going to get there. On Thursday (day of departure) there was a national strike in Spain, and so I was worried that the airport would be closed. Thankfully, it wasn't, but the buses and trains were all off. Luckily, in the airport a stranger approached me and asked me to put his laptop in my bag. Obviously this isn't a recommended thing to do, but we had already passed the security gate, and I cryptically asked him if there were any bombs or drugs in it, to which he replied no. So, I took his laptop and chatted away with him. He was from Granada and offered me a lift when we touched down in Spain, so after a few more questions to ascertain if he was a serial killer or not, I accepted. (Again, he was not). He was a really friendly guy, and true to his word drove me a couple of hundred km's to Granada, where he then took me for a few beers and tapas (no pun intended, I think he was straight) while I waited for Dannii to finish her work (scab!). He also gave me a list of recommended bars, which I expected to be 3 or 4, but turned out to be a list of 27. Having lived in Genoa for nigh on four years, it was really odd to meet a total stranger who was so friendly and kind. For this, Alvaro, muchos gracias.
This week in Granada is Saints Week, what with them being really into God and catholicism. I caught a procession on Sunday night, that taken out of context, would scare the hell out of you. To Death Star-type marching music played by a brass band, there was a very slow procession of hundreds of candle-holding guys that from their look, could only be described as Ku Klux Klan wannabes. They were kitted out in the tall pointy hats and white robes, and it was all very weird. Pretty cool to know that they weren't inbred Southern Staters with some deeply suppressed issues, but were actually just Spaniards (deeply suppressed issues optional). I'm sure they could also be as unpleasant as the KKK, but when I think of Spain, I think of Manuel from Fawlty Towers, and there's nothing aggressive or scary about him.
Overall, I had a great time, and it was very nice to get away for a weekend. Going back to work and reality on Tuesday was not what I'd describe as a joy. But, hey ho.
I think that's all for now folks,
Til the next time
Ciao ciao!
posted by michael | 06:43
|
0 Comments
