The Return to the Fortress of Solitude

Hiyaaaaaa!!!

I write this electronic postcard-thingymyjig wearing just a frown and my pants (savour the image folks) as once again it's too hot to do anything. With that motivation I figured I'd update y'all for the last time before I jet back to the Auld Country on Wednesday. I'm also feeling pretty ropey after a very good, but physically draining weekend of crazy times and suchlike. It seems I'm no longer the spring chicken that my disarmingly youthful appearance would suggest. But a wee bit about all that, in a bit.

I read Charlie Brooker's column earlier, and while blatantly not grasping anything of what he said, I did enjoy it. But luckily for you, I will not bore you with my opinions about Royal babies, BRF or anything like that. My aim is to instead bore you with stuff about me, a subject close to where my heart would be, but sadly which no one else cares enough about to drone on about. So, on with the show...........

You may be wondering about the title, as is your right. For the past few days I've been living in the bliss of my own company. After a minor understanding t'other day there have been no serious arguments, a wee bit of tetchy silent treatment, but nothing too bad. Oh, the joys of leaving the bathroom door open! Of writing blogposts in my pants! Of watching as many action films as I can stomach! Truly, the gloves (and shorts) are off, and I'm living like a king! But as all monarchy know, this State is a relic of the past with no modern function, so can't go on forever, and just as surely as day turns to night, so my solitude has its own dusk, but that might not be such a bad thing, as someone will need to clean up after me. (Don't get me wrong, co-habitation's nice, but I also like being by myself sometimes).

My whole book idea has chrystalized a wee bit more, and I've written what will more or less count as an introduction, which is pretty satisfying. But, as a result you will be dismayed to hear that I'm going to stop talking about football on here. As my book will be about football supporters, I have to go and meet some, and it'd work out better (both in terms of not getting a beating, and in making the contacts in the first place) if I give the impression of not having nailed my flag to any particular team's mast. There are a couple of groups of supporters whose reputations are not entirely positive, so I'd much prefer to try and meet them as a Scottish guy doing research for a book, rather than being tarred with another label. If I meet you in person though, don't worry, I'll be able to talk for hours about footy.

So yesterday, I went to a barbecue out in the countryside, which was most nice. I managed to imbibe a quantity of wine that would make Alex Ferguson proud, and also honed my rugged outdoorsman image that you all know and love. Someone had brought along a bow and arrow, so we all larked about with that in a totally responsible way, absolutely not trying to shoot a haybale with fags in our mouths and a beer between our feet. Incredibly, no one was maimed, and the target got away more or less unscathed too.
There's a wee river near where we had the barbecue, and while I was scouting about I saw a couple of (absolutely not dead) fish in the water. What then ensued will surely pass through the ages as one of the most titanic struggles between man and beast, of the ouevre of Ahab and the doomed-skipper in Jaws. For what seemed like hours we smote each other, with no clear winner. I woke up today with some scratches on my arm, so after that, and now I'm intelligently-guessing, I was set up on by a bear or mythical river serpent. Needless to say, no on else witnessed this, but trust me, all the battles in 'Monkey' have nothing on what happened. I imagine. My memories of it all are foggy, but I assume it's because my brain is trying to shut down the horror, the horror of it all. Finally, having driven off the attacking fiend, I claimed my prize and got a photo taken of it. It is officially the first fish I've caught in my life. Please bear (here comes a flashback; the horror) in mind, that the camera famously takes off about 150 pounds and several feet in length. Behold:

Che cavolo succede!?

You may have seen that there was a bit of a crash in Italy this morning, which for keen Michael-watchers will understand that I've made a point of not reading about it. I really can't stand it when people air their problems and unhappiness on the internet, so will instead focus on the exciting new additions to Genoa aquarium.

On Friday there was the official welcome and unveiling of a new dolphin tank at the aquarium here. There was a gig and then loads of fireworks, which surprised me as I didn't know dolphins liked pyrotechnics. You learn something new everyday. Despite being here for 5 years, I've never actually been to the aquarium as it's about 18 euros to get in, which to look at a bunch of fish seems a bit steep to me. I went to the Sealife Centre near Edinburgh when I was younger, so I get the idea. As a constituent part of any self-respecting aquarium is made of glass, I guess you could say that they see the paying punters coming.

I want to plug a cookery website which I've started proof-reading (any mistakes should be kept to yourselves), so if you like recipes and all that jazz, ch-ch-ch-check it out: http://foodfulife.wordpress.com/

That's about it kids, til next time, stay safe and look after each other!

Chow!

An end to the bacchanalia?

Bonjour mes amis!

And with that, my knowledge of French is pretty much exhausted. Five years of it at high school sure paid off. Cauchemar!

Life here in the land of the sun crashes on relentlessly, sweaty day turning to sticky night turning to sweaty day turning to sticky night in an endless cycle of futile repetition, like trainers in a washing machine. But you're not here to hear me grumble, you're here because you followed the wrong link. Unfortunately, by your careless clickery you have contributed one hit to my blog's stats, which do not count accidental clickage, only total views; giving the entirely false impression that you wanted to get caught in this increasingly long and winding road to nowhere, thus perpetuating the myth that people read what I electronically scribble, thus resulting in more scribbling. And so the farce continues ad nauseum, like the aforementioned trainers in a washing machine.

But what can I say? In the last few weeks I've found a project, then kind of lost interest in it, then become enthusiastic in it again, then not so much. It's essentially a microcosm of most of my life. 

But back to the start: After five years here, I was balanced precariously on the knife edge of staying or going somewhere else to spread the word of English and generally avoid reality. True, my bacchanalian life is no doubt envied by many, but just as surely as 99% of Italy adults don't know well the English grammar like they say they does, so the party has to stop eventually (of course, if you know me, you know this party I speak of is purely figurative). Which leaves me at a crossroads, with no guitar-skills gifting Devil in sight. 

Ho hum.

With this, and my crushing mortality tumbling around my brain like so many trainers in a washing machine (yes, I did enjoy Alan Partridge's autobiography), I decided that I either needed to do something semi-useful, or go. With this in mind, I decided to write a book. But now I'm somewhat uncertain that it'd be ok. Sure, I have a certain je ne sais quoi (maybe my French did pay off) with words, that's a given, but, and this is the most critical question:
Can I really be arsed?

The answer is most accurately transmitted with a facial contortion and an accompanying exhalation of air. I think my idea is good, and would add to the canon of 'football in Italy' books, and having checked the market, my idea has not been done yet. But is this because it's no good? Almost certainly, I don't know. I'm hesitant to spill the proverbial beans (the cause of the previously mentioned expulsion of air), in the fear that one of you clever sausages would beat me to the punch and be able to rack up a lot of debt writing a book that five people might read if the weather's really bad and a lightning bolt takes out the TV, radio, and internet while simultaneously setting fire to all the other books in a hikeable distance. Wonderfully, as noted above, I can see how many people access my posts, and assuming that only my parents return to duty-read, and everyone else I know has read once and then gouged their eyes out, it would suggest that I could potentially guilt many unsuspecting fools into reading what may become known as "The Greatest Story Ever Told" (not my caps, and I think a pretty catchy, and as far as I'm aware, as yet unused sub-title).

Time well tell, and to be honest, I don't really know what I'm doing anymore, so I should probably do something.

In other news, my continuing struggle to be a modern-man/not-totally-backwards-child has been continuing apace with the purchase of sandals. I already had the white, mid-calf length socks, so I'm pretty much the canine's testicles now. 

Now, I know you've been waiting for it, so here's part two of the occasional series, called:

Che cavolo succede!? 

(cue theme tune and dancing girls)

Hi guys, and thanks Michael. 

Two weeks ago I went down to see a couple of free concerts in the port, and it was most pleasant. One of the groups was En Roco, which my mate Fra plays in, and having not been blogging when their last video came out, I didn't post a link, but you can see it here, now.

Also, around the time of my last posts, there were a few earthquakes going on, which as always were super fun to be in! Thankfully, there haven't been any lately, which is something to be applauded and continued with, so "good on you, seismic plates"!

That's all for now folks!

(papers are shuffled, theme tune starts again and dancing girls return)