Airport Musings

Of late, I have been spending far too much time at Gatwick Airport. I am intrigued by the sort of corporate advertising one sees upon arrival on the interminable hike from the plane to Border UK or whatever it's called this week. They are usually horizontal Adshel six sheets. The first one might show a woman running on the horizon of a very green field. The sky is blue. Her face is the picture of concentration. Underneath in Helvetica is Performance and in a logo KS&G. The next one might show two shirt and tied, slim 30-something 'businessmen' shaking hands but not smiling too much. The grip is firm 'though. Underneath is the text Delivery + logo of course. Then there might be a woman post-delivery, in bed holding her grizzling new born, Passion (passion: possibly this decade's most overused word). The next you can make up maybe. Perhaps a 48 storey office block at night with just one light burning at some office on the 23rd floor. What shall we put underneath? I know! Commitment. Then the last one has a sort of fizzed-up Mercator Projection of the world done by some 23 year old whacked out on charlie with arrows all over the shop and underneath Keimann Schultz & Greishaup. Crossing frontiers, delivering change. And I stop and realise that I don't have the faintest idea what these people do. Are they chartered surveyors? Caterers? Investment bankers? Nice work if you can get it I suppose for the ad agency.
Whilst I am on an airport rant, there are some suggestions I would like to put forward which might make travelling by air a little less ghastly.
1. The British are a foul race. Badly dressed, ugly, invariably either terribly overweight or heroin thin, spotty and pallid. They have few manners and their offspring are disgusting. Could we not have some form of entry-testing whereby any UK national who wished to use an airport would be asked a few simple questions like "What was the name of Nelson's cabin boy at the Battle of Santa Cruz de Tenerife?" and "When James Lees-Milne considered Wardour Castle in Wiltshire in 1948 as a candidate building for National Trust stewardship, what was the main architectural feature which made his response a positive one?" If they can answer those two questions they should then be required to sing both verses of "I vow to thee my country" in the key of C after which they should explain typical situations in which one might use the words "please" and "thank you". They should also pay a £600 good behaviour bond which would be refunded (less an administration fee of 50%) when they return from whichever filthy hell-hole they travelled to, provided they were not arrested or accused of anti-social behaviour.
2. Airport police. Why are they dressed as if they are rejects from a casting session for some third-rate Hollywood LAPD Swat movie from about 1983? Why can't they wear a proper bobby's uniform and carry a Webley break-top revolver? The Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle is just not British old boy.
3. Once you get to 75 it should be against the law to fly on a civil airline. The airport was jammed solid with those electric golf carts going beep-beep-beep, their miserable passengers blank-eyed after their 2 hour flight from Spain, their colostomy bags slapping against the side of the carts. There's a departure lounge for them and it ain't in an airport.
4. On a separate note, what exactly do the firemen at Gatwick Airport do all day?

Francesco

I went to Francesco's funeral this afternoon. He fell off his perch on Saturday morning, aged 86. He was glad to die, the doctors having threatened to amputate a leg just to keep him going a little longer. He was one of my most revealing introductions to Real Italy. Francesco was one of that dying breed (sorry), the contadino, the smallholder. Everything his family ate or drank (more or less), he grew. He had a few acres above the local town, vineyards, vegetable plots, a cow, a few goats, a number of hutches full of rabbits, two pigs (always named after the Italian President and the current Prime Minister..the last two were Giorgio and Silvio). They were slaughtered in his yard every February. Everything was used and consumed. I used to go there grape picking after teaching in the morning. I could always find the pickers in the vineyard by their chatter, even if I couldn't see them. Then at six o'clock we would go, knackered, to the tap near the pigsty (Ciao Giorgio! Ciao Silvio!) wash our sticky hands and faces and then go into the house for a supper prepared by his long-suffering wife Giannina. The house (not that much difference actually between the human accommodation and that reserved for the animals) just stank of pork. Salami dangled from the ceiling in various stages of maturing. Great hocks lined the walls. At table, there would be maybe 16 or 18 of us pickers and helpers, Francesco would preside over it all, his sparkling eyes reserving a special glance for any young females present. Plates and plates of food would appear, jugs of wine would be emptied and the singing would start. If it sounds all a bit Peter Mayle-ish and idyllic, well, it really was like that.
RIP Francesco Campasso. A Good Bloke.

Fruits of the Bleeding Forest

 Last year was a disaster for mushrooming but this year, with some decent rain in September followed by heat, is quite the opposite. I may have written about these before but can't be bothered to find out. Caesar's Mushroom doesn't find Blighty the right place to pop up but here is his home. They look like a shelled, boiled egg, then the orange head pops up and turns into a mushroom - bingo! Below is one morning's haul:

 

You have to be careful because if the head that pops out is pale grenish-white then it's one that will put you six feet under. I like to eat them (the safe ones not the dodgy ones ha ha) raw, sliced and sprinkled with finely chopped garlic and parsley and drizzled with decent olive oil. Below was a baked version, lots of garlic and parsley but with Ron's spuds. Unfortunately I didn't parboil the teddies so they were a bit hard, bloody bugger. Good zingy white wine is essential of course so an Arneis is good but I think myself and Victor the Spictor saw this one off with a couple of bottles of Smooth Tony's Pinot Grigio. Or was it his Sauvignon Blanc? Whatever innit.

Give me a Good Exploiting

This is often how it works here:
The phone rings.
RC: Pronto!
XX: Hello! We haven't spoken before. My name is Mr YY and I'm a good friend of Roberto, you know the friend of yours who works in Milan at the publishing house.
RC: Err, yeeees (who is this?) ah, Roberto, yes I think I know who you mean (faintest recall of someone I met at the Pinky Bar, once, maybe about a month ago, I'd been on Spritzes and gin). 
XX: Well, my son Luca has just got a really good job with a company in Brescia that makes safety equipment for airports and he thinks that their literature is really poor, especially the English versions. Would you consider doing some translation work for them?
RC: Of course, that's right up my street, thank you.
XX: So, it's OK if I give my son your telephone number and he gets directly in contact with you?
RC: Of course, I'll look forward to hearing from him. Thank you again.
XX: Not at all. I'm sure you'll do an excellent job, you know, you need a real English speaker for this sort of work.
RC: Well, it is a help.
XX: More than a help I'd say, ha ha! Oh, while I remember, sorry I was going to ask earlier...... I'm doing some work for a local conservation group, we're working on a castle, all not-for-profit you understand, and I've prepared a little tourism brochure and I've done the English translation myself, not like doing that technical stuff that my son will be asking you to do of course, ha ha, and I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind giving it the quick once over, my English is pretty good but I just thought you might be able to polish it up a bit, if that's OK with you, shouldn't take more than ten minutes. Would you mind?
RC: You'll need my e-mail address then....(and on it goes)

What then arrives is about 600 words that kick off something like this:
"The Cazzo Castle stand proud over enemies from time ever and today is tired. Us worker do hard thing making castle new happy. Castle is all covered in tree with bird and beast. Tower is a heavy monument. The big Lord last drink strong wine here back 1790..." (continues thus for another 550 words).

1. It is a hundred times easier to translate from the Italian than rework this garbage.
2. I am not going to get paid.
3. His son Luca is a trainee forklift truck driver in said company's warehouse. There will be no translation work with payment.

My Tomato Heaven!

After the pomodoro hell of last year, Ron's tomatoes are back, bigger and better than ever! Give me back my crown! Thank you the God of Manure!

On The Road to Ruin

A weekend away in the mountains meant that Bruno decided to bring a Nebuchadnezzar of Refosco (a lively and cheerful red from Friuli Venezia Giulia) to accompany that evening's supper. This 15 litre monster he had bottled and corked that morning. Your correspondent was charged with keeping the beast upright between his legs (cue Affer please) on the 200km journey. All was well until a combination of the motion of the car and the heat made the wine want to leave the bottle at speed. "Christo!" shouted Bruno as he considered the possibilities, the principal one being the loss of a lot of decent wine. Interior damage to vehicle and passengers was, I believe, a secondary consideration.

What to do? I sat there with two thumbs pushing down on the cork which really was straining to leave the bottle.  

"Porca puttana di quella troia"* shouted Bruno, his voice an octave higher. We had to find a bar and lo and behold an anonymous village came up on the horizon. Bruno skidded to a halt, came around to my door and blaspheming without pause lifted the brute out of the car as I continued to press down the cork and off we waddled, both of us holding the bottle.

In the bar, Bruno called immediately for glasses, we went to a quiet corner while the horribly inbred locals looked on, slack jawed but hopeful. We rested the bottle on a table and Bruno stood, poised. On his command I took my thumb off the cork, it shot upwards, ricocheted off the ceiling and hit a peasant on his head. The wine foamed and creamed happily out of the bottle and the locals started cackling and pointing as Bruno let fly with a volley of seriously foul language. "Wine for everyone!" shouted Bruno as the barmaid brought a tray of glasses. "We need to get rid of at least a litre before we get back in the car or it'll go again!" The gap-toothed locals cheered to a man and gathered around, chortling and elbowing each other, barely able to believe their luck.

It was a good start to the weekend.

*Pig whore of that trollop slut in case you're interested.

Upon Driving in Italy


Some of you may be contemplating a driving holiday in Italy this summer.
Having spent a somewhat fraught period on Italy's roads and motorways of late, I'd thought I'd give some driving guidelines for visitors to this fair country:

1. Never stop at a zebra crossing for a pedestrian. If you do they will only glare at you because you are weak and do not deserve to hold a driving licence.
2. On the motorway, never drive so far away from the car in front that you are unable to read the name of the manufacturer of their rear number plate. This is especially important at speeds in excess of 160 km/h. Make sure you have your headlights on full beam.
3. On the rare occasion that someone might let you into a line of slow-moving traffic from a side road do not make any sign of acknowledgement or thanks. It is much better to glare at them because they are weak and do not know how to drive like an real Italian. 
4. If you meet another Italian driver on a single-track road and (this is extremely unlikely) should he or she then reverse to a part of the road that is wide enough to allow you to pass, then follow rule 3 (above). Even better, stop when you are alongside and laugh openly at the driver, pointing and inviting any fellow passengers to follow suit. They are clearly weak and deserve all the abuse they get.
4. When approaching a red traffic light do not slow down. You never know, it might change at the last second. Only weak, indecisive drivers bother with brakes in such a scenario.
5. When negotiating a roundabout or indeed any junction do not use your indicators. That is a sure sign of weakness and people will laugh at you. Indicators are for idiots.
6. When travelling with small children please be aware that all children prefer to travel standing up in the front passenger foot well, preferably playing with a doll or toy on the dashboard. This is even more important when travelling at high speed (see 2 above) on the motorway and you are smoking and/or using your mobile telephone and, like the rest of your gorgeous family, not wearing a seat belt.

Happy motoring!