Category Archives: Italy

A Couple of Little Darlings

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Here’s a rare thing: A British F1 champion with wit, charm and charisma. No honestly, they did used to be fun to watch both on-and-off the track. Of course, since Nigel, Damien, Lewis, Jenson and the like arrived, you could be forgiven for thinking that we only produce motor racing drivers as dreadfully boring as the races themselves, or perhaps an afternoon grouting the bathroom. But once upon a time, they were spontaneous, humorous and with just that tiny little bit of class. So anyway, to mark the end of yet another season of dull and tedious processions around the asphalt circuits of the world, below is just a snippet of when Dick Dastardly ruled the roads, and everyone’s mum went gooey in the middle when he flashed his choppers, looked the camera in the eye and spoke in those magnificent clipped tones. Have a look at these few seconds of Hill, laid up in hospital after a crash, just one of many clips of his naughtiness you can find on Youtube. And check out that tash.

A loveable rogue, a cheeky chappy with a glint in his eye, Graham Hill was unmistakeably one of those chaps who you’d be proud to shake warmly by the driving gloves and by a warm pint of beer (or a cold bottle of poo) in the local village pub. As kids, when we played Scalextric on the front room floor, everyone wanted to be Hill. As we wedged our plimsoles and mum’s shoes under the the corners to hold up the banking, we mimicked Murray Walker commentating on numerous dogfights betweeen Hill and Stewart or perhaps Rindt (extra shoes were used when Jochen was on the track).

It was a time of heroes and feats of derring-do, of flat caps, pencil moustaches and men reminiscent of Spitfire pilots, rather than boys who pretend to be Airfix models in TV adverts and no-one spots the difference. Lewis wanders around in his dull way, with his dull, identikit dad, and they’re all very-nice-and-all-that, but I get no indication that they have any sense of fun, enjoyment or achievement from their titles and riches, or the wish to contribute anything more to the social fabric or culture of society than driving around Monza or Monaco.

Is there a spark of of the boy-racer left? or are they the driving equivalent of Yul Brynner in Westworld, plodding automaton-like between one scene to the next? (to be fair, Brynner spent the whole of his acting like plodding between one scene to the next, he didn’t need to play a robot). They go from corporate sponsor’s event, to press photocall, to TV appearance flashing their perfect sterile grins and their faultless thumbs, before the PR girl whips them off to the next function. Maybe the enormous G-forces have sucked all personality out of them.

Yes, they enjoy a fine line of beautiful girls on their arms (Jenson seems to have a conveyor belt of them), which all rich young sportsmen seem to have at their disposal, but what else do they bring to the table? A naughty smile at the camera? A feeling that they are enjoying life, reaping the rewards of their craft ? That sense of a Lucky Jim? Not a bit of it. They’re more like accountants, less interesting than merchant bankers. And that’s a real shame, cos they’re probably very nice chaps and don’t deserve such an attack on their characters (not that they probably care one jot- they’re not Stephen Fry, after all).

Now as you will understand, I know sod all about F1 and care even less about it, but if I could walk into a pub and at one end of the bar was Mansell, Button and Hamilton (and even Damien Hill) and at the other end of the bar was Graham Hill having a quick snifter with James Hunt there’s no doubt who I’d go and join, and yoiu’d be with me. And I bet Hill and Hunt would hang around for more than just-the-one.

Graham

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The Punter Problem

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Look carefully at the above. I’ll wager those of you reading from overseas may just about have heard of Leeds Utd, a famous old club from the north of England, famous for cheating, foul play, Eric Cantona and the location of that film about Brian Clough.

A few of you who’ve been following these pages regularly might just recognise the name Charlton too. They are, of course, my local football team, the team I follow, the team that has caused me a little pleasure but a lot of heart-ache of the over the years. And the top of the table. Top! Ok, they’re top of the third league in the English game, but top of the league nonetheless. Four wins in a row. Four! The last time that happened there were Zeppelins flying over South East London.

The fact that we’ve beaten teams who most of you have never heard of matters not one jot to me. Walsall, Hartlepool, Leighton Orient and the mighty Wycombe Wanderers may not be regulars on your screens in New York, Paris or Honkers, and you may not have read anything of them on the back pages of Corrire dello Sport or in the back pages of The Sydney Morning Herald (those of us living in Blighty would even struggle to find them on an A-Z or an O.S. map) but Charlton Athletic Football Club have beaten them all and, because they’ve scored more goals than Leeds, are sitting proudly on the top of the tree.

Do not read any further. Bookmark this page—you’ll not see them on top again. Now let us continue.

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It is the nature of most sport fans to believe their team to be world-beaters when they win, and utter tripe when they lose. I am not one of those sports fans: I believe my teams to be utter tripe whether they win, lose or draw. I always want them to win, but I never expect them to. As mentioned previously here, being a pessimistic supporter means you are rarely disappointed. Charlton may win another game or two but, in the end, will wither away into mid-table anonymity next to the like of the MK Dons (who they???) and Milwall (ditto). Don’t put your life savings on them winning the league. I bet on them once. What a complete waste of money that was.

A bloke on the radio this morning, of a similar mindset to me, said he was gonna pay the bookies a tenner to help England win the Ashes (we’ve gone on to cricket now, chaps). He reckoned if he could get odds of, say, 10-1 on Aussie and put a bet on them, then with his luck England were sure to win but if somehow they managed not to, he’d be 100 quid to the good, thus sweetening that bitterest of pills. I like that kind of thinking. There are many who wouldn’t dare bet against their own team, but I see nothing wrong with it: patriotism is patriotism and betting is betting.

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Example: I have a friend (to protect the innocent, let’s call him Trev) who has lost the equivalent to the Mexican National Debt by persisting on betting on his beloved Welsh Rugby team, regardless of all the evidence and odd stacked against him and his Boyos. Throughout the nineties the sluicegates of Trev’s bank account opened up and spewed the contents therein into the gaping reservoirs of Messrs J.Coral, P Power and S.Index, Turf Accountants. Yeah, ok, a resurgence in Wales’ rugby fortunes means he’s been able to recoup some of his losses, but Trev suffered long and costly Saturday nights as the points mounted up against his team and the cash made its merry way out of his wallet. Great fun to watch though.

It’s now 12.20 on Sunday, August 23rd and England are, or at least seem to be, romping home to regain the Ashes at the Oval. Everything points to an England win. They are miles ahead in the game. The pitch resembles the crust of a semolina pudding. Any given bowl thrown at an Australian batsman could either go through the surface of the pitch and dribble along the floor, bruising his big toe, or hit a lumpy bit, rear up and knock the batters block off. They cannot possibly predict what’s gonna happen next: Big Advantage England.

Just two things stand in the way of an England series victory: The England players themselves and Australian Captain Ricky Ponting.

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Ricky “Punter” Ponting is possibly the best batsman around at the moment. He’s technically excellent and mentally tough. Like many great men (Napoleon, Nelson, T.E.Lawrence, Mickey Rooney) he’s rather short and perhaps this focuses his mind. Short-man syndrome is well-known and perhaps this one compensates for his lack of height by wielding his bat and smiting the ball to all corners. Whatever the reason, he sure is a tough little bugger to get out. He gets boo-ed on and off the pitch and that only seems to strengthen his resolve to protect his wicket. His nickname “Punter” was given to him for his love of a betting office. As a young man he loved a bet. Loved a bird too. A bet and a bird. And he took a drink. A bet and a bird and some booze. Now, though, he’s a reformed man and a superb cricketer, free of distractions (apart from his little legs). He knows his odds, and he knows that while he’s still at the wicket, even the London bookies wont be giving a decent price against an improbable Australian win. He knows that if anyone can do it, the Aussies can, and the bookies know that too.

Anyone who’s watched and supported England play football, rugby, cricket, you name it has seen us throw away much stronger positions than this before. We seem apologetic for winning. A lack of killer-instinct. Somehow we seem to think winning well, stuffing the noses of the oppo into the dirt is not the done thing (hence the phrase “just not cricket”). We like a competition, a near-thing, a close-run race. The whole of the English sporting psyche is built around the “it’s not the winning that counts, it’s the taking part”. What a load of cobblers. If we ever do trounce an opposing team, the first thing said in the pubs and the papers is that the opposition were “not very good”.

Perhaps because of the many times we’ve lost, we’ve always had a very different view to the rest of the World of what constitutes a victory or a defeat. Dunkirk is taught in english schools as a victory, for Christ’s sake. If the Charge of the Light Brigade had happened to any other country’s military, the story would be torn out of history books in Russia, China and parts of the Conservative American West. Douglas Haig and Bomber Harris would be filed under ‘E’ for ‘Embarrassment’ if they were German. Not here: we erect statues to them. Scott was beaten to the pole by Amundsen and died a heroes death, freezing his nadgers off in a tent. Our history books are chock-full of dead heroes. Why can’t we have a few more very old codgers walking around who once beat West Germany by 11-0? or who captained the European Ryder Cup team which beat the yanks 28-0? or was 100 Olympic 100 meter champion for 16 straight years. I’ll tell you why: it’s cos we don’t like winning, and if we do, we don’t like winning well.

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In 1879 just under 150 Welshmen from the 2nd Battalion, 24th Regiment of Foot successfully defended the mission at Rourke’s Drift against about 4000 Zulus, winning umpteen Victoria Crosses, (and providing us with a great story for a movie, 85 years later).

Trevs’s Great Grandfather was there. He bet on the Zulus.

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The Talented Mr Rapley

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After all the previously discussed misery and mayhem, imagine my delight when the Italian chapter of the Dave Rapley Appreciation Society serenaded us on our last night in the mountains. Their instruments included garden shears and toilet cysterns, and they’d make very Worthy Old Dartfordians, one and all. I could have stayed and listened and sung along all night, had my eldest daughter not dragged me away in embarrassment. I did get a little carried away at the end. CDs available in the foyer.

You Darts.

Zwei Birra, und Quattro Cokes, Si Vous Plait

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So I was worried about the flight, and I was worried about the drive across Italy. A little bit of me worried how I’d handle four kids for a week. But for some reason it hadn’t occurred to me to be worried that we didn’t possess a map , a phrasebook or the minutest smattering of the language between us. Whether it was an oversight, what with everything we had to organise and fret about beforehand and all that; or whether my subconscious considered me far to wordly-wise to bother about not being understood I’m not sure. Anyway, we had the Tom Tom, right? Nothing goes wrong when you have a Tom Tom, does it? And this was, after all, an EU country where everyone spoke English, right? Wrong! This was a part of the EU where they had been mercifully ignored by plane-loads of Brits tearing up their towns and abusing their waiters. Sure there were always a few families passing through, but not enough for the indigenous population to feel the need to gen-up on the Oxford English Dictionary.

So, Ich nicht sprechen Italiano, je ne comprends your banter pas, old boy. By the way, can you tell me when the hell I am please, Signor Garcon? What a berk.

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No matter, we picked up the motor at one of Rome’s airports (a battered and bruised Fiat Ulysses, prefect for our Odyssey, I thought) and sped east along the Autstrade. 17ks later we hit (almost literally) a string of Toll booths, stretched across the road. In a singularly British way I plumped for the wrong gate. I pressed the red button. Nothing. Pressed it again, still no ticket. Two cars had pulled up behind me. I started sweating-up in the paddock. I pressed the green button, next to the speaker. A conversation was had between 2 people who had no idea what the other was saying. The word “ticket” was the sole common denominator. Four cars behind me now, the third gave several honks on his Italian handbrake (his horn). I made the International Sign for bugger off, back-up, I’m coming out and they begrudgingly obliged and I reversed onto the hard shoulder. Somehow Italians can steer a car, press the horn AND wave both arms in the air all at the same time (yes, I know this sound like a stereotype, but it really is true).

I found a tall, imposing, para-military-type at the help desk, complete with mirror-shades and, dare-I-say, jackboots. He spoke very little English, so he had the jump on me. “Where you go?” he asked.
I’d forgotten where, indeed, I was going, so I picked a nearby city at random “Ancona” I replied. A puzzled look came across his face. Why would anyone want to go to that sh*t-hole?, he was thinking. Ah wait!: He’s English. He wrote several unconnected words in block capitals onto a scrap of paper and handed it to me.
“You no pay” he said. Then gesturing the International Sign for giving, said “you give this to Ancona”.

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What he wrote I cared not one wit, as it was clear he was letting us through without charge. And away we went.

An hour down the road we approached a second set of tolls. This time I was determined not to embarrass myself as before. I chose the one with the International Sign for money above it. But there was no slot to insert neither coins, notes nor credit card. I started to panic again. Then a cardboard ticket spewed out of a hole just in front. In my haste I lunged at it, snatched at it and dropped it on the tarmac.

“Oh sod it ! Sorry kids” I exclaimed.
“Dad, Daaaaaad” yelled one from the back row of the car “it’s open!”.
I looked up to see the gate had indeed opened. WooHoo!!!, I had an escape route. I stuck her into what I hoped was something near 1st and released the clutch. We stalled. I’d stuck her into 5th. All week I would struggle and fail to find the right gear. Left-hand-drive motors call for right-hand gear-changing and I would discover that I was crap at it. I restarted the car, found 2nd-ish and we kangaroo-ed out of the trap.

Ninety minutes of scary motorway driving later and we’d reached our exit. Down the slip road, around the tight hairpin (5th instead of the desired 3rd gear) and up to our final toll booth. I pressed the green button. Nothing, but an LED message in Italian. What good was that to me? I pressed the green button instead.

“Si” came a woman’s voice after a short pause.
“Hello”, I said in my best David Niven, “do you speak English?
“Put in your ticket” she replied, by way of an affirmative.
“I don’t have a ticket”
“Put in your ticket”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a ticket”
“Put in your ticket”
“I don’t have a ticket, sorry. I have a piece of paper”, remembering Signor Jackboot’s gift to me earlier.
“One moment please” There was a pause of no more that 4 seconds.

The LED message changes from the unintelligible message to one I understood clearly. It was the International Sign for 75 Euros. Signora Tollbooth had suddenly gone mute. Hmmm… I knew I was stuffed. I hadn’t the command of the language to argue the toss, even if I had an argument. Two crisp 50 Euro notes were slid into the machine, the change was spat out into the tray bellow. I stuck her into reverse, then 3rd, then finally 1st and limped out under the open gate, my tailpipe between my legs.

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“I bet they did that cos we were English” offered one of the small mammals in the back seat.
“Yeah” said another, “They hate the Brits” declared a third.

“Nope” I told them. “We didn’t have a ticket so they charged us for the whole length of the motorway. It’s fair enough. British Rail do similar. We’ll know better next time.” Famous last words.

On day 3 of our trip one of the lads and I parked outside what we took to be a supermarket, but which turned out to be a chemist. Exiting with what little we could find worth buying (Aftersun and loo roll) we noticed a parking ticket for 38 Euros slapped on the windscreen of the car. A tad miffed we yomped to the local Cop Shop. “Hello” I said (trying my Alan Whicker this time), handing him the Duty Sergeant the ticket,”do you speak English? ”
“A little” he smiled.
Sadly, he apparently knew only one English phrase: “Thirty-eight Euros”, he said, holding out his palm and making the International Sign for give me the money.
“What did I do wrong?” I asked
“Thirty-eight Euros” he grinned again. Hmmm…. we’ll know better next time.

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Later, in a take-away restaurant I managed to order 6 whole pizzas when I wanted 6 slices. The kids were thrilled and chomped their way through the lot. When we finally found the supermarket I bought 12 litres of water which no-one would drink as it was of the fizzy variety and they’d “clearly asked for still, daaaad”.

Map-less, we managed not to find the biggest water-park in southern Europe, drove up two one-way streets and, on the home trip, spent ninety minutes looking at the airport from a distance of 700 yards while we encircled it trying to find a route in. When we finally did so, I drove into the wrong car park to return the car and had a fruitless two-language argument trying to get out of said car park to go find the proper one. This time the lady took pity on me and opened the gate for nix.

So would I go back? You bet. Apart from the odd jobsworth and copper, the Italians were a superb bunch. Most were very happy to help us through the language barrier, and keen to teach us the few words we needed to get by. Birra, Conto, Prego, Formaggio, Pomadoro and the like now seem second nature to me, which will be handy when I go to France tomorrow.

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The weather was hot, and the birra cold. The region in which our villa was situated was absolutely beautiful, tiny little medaeval villages dotted around a stunning mountainous landscape. An hour down the road (take a map) is mile-upon-mile of beautiful, clean welcoming beaches, full of elegant,friendly locals, spectacular ice cream parlours and, according to the Incumbent’s 14-year-old boy, beautiful, topless, Italian women (though I never saw any, and if I did, I wasn’t staring, honest).

I’ve never stayed at a better appointed nor better situated villa than The Villa San Raffaello, run by Damien and Sharon, two charming Londoners (albeit, he’s a Gooner) who set up shop there five years ago. Plenty of room, a pool, tv etc etc etc everything a family would want, complete with hot n cold running vegetables and herbs from their gardens surrounding the dwelling. Stick yer straw hat on and play being Don Corleone among the tomato plants (though, hopefully without the final consequences). The vines mature next summer so there will be wine too (or vino, as we like to call it).

Driving through a neighbouring town one afternoon the driver of a parked car I was poodling past opened his door and sliced off my wing mirror. K-LUNK. I pulled in down the road, got out and trudged back to the scene of the accident. The man, elegant, middle-aged, grey hair, mahogany skin and perfect teeth, shirt open to the navel, stood there grinning at me, arms outstretched, palms pointing upwards, the International Sign for sorry mate, but what you gonna do?. I did the only thing I could: I taught him some Anglo Saxon words beginning with ‘F’ and ‘C’, picked up my ex-wing mirror and went back to the car.

Normandy tomorrow, courtesy of Mr Horrible‘s generous hospitality. Now French I’m good at. Cul de Sac, mon amis.

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