An exercise in concision

Awright fiends!

How are you on this fine day? Good I trust.

I was doing a lesson earlier, preaching the merits of concision and clarity in emails, a golden rule that first-time readers may be dismayed to find I don't apply to myself. As the saying goes: do as I say, not as I do.

It has been drawn to my attention that in my last post I may have waffled on, with no Belgains in sight. I therefore apologise from the bottom of my being if you came here expecting some kind of revelatory epiphany. I am not your man for that. If, on the other hand you have time to kill and no great interest in broadening your horizons, pull up a figurative pew, sit back, and relax, and let hunners of words wash through your brain like rice through a sieve with holes that are slightly too large for the job at hand.

Since last you heard from me, summer has exploded into life-sucking oppressive heat. As anyone who knows me knows, I'm not one to grumble, but jeeeeeesus, it's too hot to be gadding about in this. Normally I would schadenfreudically console myself that folks back home would be shivering in their thermals, but I see from the news that even in normally-reliably cold Scotland it's warm. Curse you weather! It'd better stay like that in August, otherwise I shall be forced to shake my fist and shout at the wind.

But yes, summer has arrived, and I'm once more forced back under the yolk of shirt-ironing. Despite being a naturally domesticated chap, I find ironing shirts to be such a massive pain in the posterior that I positively enjoy winter and it's jumper-requiring chill. This way, I only have to iron the collar. But nothing lasts forever, and with the changing of the season comes the tyranny of the iron. Oh, how I suffer!

As noted last time around, I've been here five years now, and so I was thinking if I'd had any realisations or discoveries that would be worth mentioning. I think you'll probably come to the conclusion that I've not:

• I assumed all Italians would be good at football. I realise this to have been an error as glaring as the fouls they simulate. I've talked about playing footy with Patrick and his pals before, I think, but it merits saying again: "Jesus wept!" Some of them could teach Scotland a thing or two about perfecting the 'second touch needing to be a tackle' technique.
• As a child, my enquisitive mind was too busy with Games Workshop stuff for me to wonder about what language animals speak. Now that I've broken away from the seductive teet of Dwarves, Goblins and Ultra Marines, I've come to the yet-to-be scientifically lauded understanding that animals speak both English and Italian. Let's examine the facts: my parents' dog responds to English. The roving packs of dogs here prick up their ears when shouted at in Italian. I rest my case. It must be added that they sometimes look at me more blankly than normal when I speak at them in English, but I imagine the animals are simply feigning ignorance, a la Parisian waiters who are said to do this when confronted by non-surrender monkeys.

After all that, I've been thinking that rather than just challenging myself to test your collective patience, I should maybe try to include some of the lowdown on here about Genoa and Italy, and the current situation in the land of the sun. So, as a trial, here's episode one of the series:

"Che cavolo succede!?" (which, very literally translated would be"What the cabbage is going on?!")

Don Gallo, a popular old priest died recently, to much hulla-baloo. By all accounts he was a diamond geezer and seemed to very much be a man of the people. He also smoked cigars and supported Genoa, which on my admittedly poor judge of character-o-meter, means he was top. I went to a free gig a few weeks ago in Piazza De Ferrari to see Paula Turci sing, and she name-checked both Don Gallo and Fabrizio De Andre, which probably accounted for the easiest rounds of applause she's receieved in her performing career.

Elsewhere, the finest and oldest football team in the land (one of these is true), the glorious Genoa CFC have moved and revamped their museum. They decided in their infinite wisdom to translate many of the explanatory panels into English, and to do this they selected the handsomest and most modest young buck they could find. Sadly, he was busy, so instead I did it. As it's a museum, my actions in the present truly will echo on in eternity, or whatever the line was from 300.

And that's more or less it. Of course other things have happened, but I was chased away from the newsagent's stand before I could finish reading the front page - apparently it wasn't a library, so that'll have to do you.

Until next time, buy buy!