martedì 25 settembre 2012
What about Mr Stupid?
If you’ve had the desperate misfortune to switch on the telly in Italy any late evening over the last 15 years or so, you may have come across one of those never-ending, sensationalist but fundamentally inconclusive political discussion programmes where people bang on about various stuff, constantly interrupt each other, shout down their opponents in true Italian style while the presenter (often a creepy looking Dracula impersonator) tries but fails to maintain a semblance of order. Once the cameras are off though, all these politicos, after faking passionate dislike on ideological grounds, probably slide off together, back-slaps all round, to some swanky restaurant in a murky Roman backstreet to slurp champagne and wolf down oysters and laugh about what gullible fools Italians are. Much ado about nowt. That’s the key, talk but DO nothing.
During these programmes, they usually discuss the same things: the need to encourage foreign investment for job creation, the need for a lower tax burden for businesses, the benefits of meritocracy if only someone had the nous to introduce it, conflicts of interest that destroy the democratic process and blah blah blah blah blah. I stopped tuning in years ago for fear of going green with rage.
From the oputside, it all seems fairly simple. 20 or so points to revolutionise Italy that even a teenager could come up with and probably implement. Presnt yourselves at the elections and how is it possible that you wouldn’t be swept into power on a wave of optimism and a desire to change this country?
So why doesn’t it happen? Why do we go round and round in circles, why do they huff and puff and then pop off to dinner with grins and gins all round? Why don’t Italians take to the streets demanding such and such? Why doesn’t Italy get rid of the various mafias, why doesn’t Italy reduce the tax burden, why doesn’t Italy simplify red tape, why doesn’t Italy eliminate nepotism and give the most important jobs to the best people? And blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.
I’ll tell you why. What happens to Mr Stupid? Yep, you heard me right. Mr Stupid deserves a chance too, after all he’s in the majority here, and everywhere else. He may be as thick as two planks but he too wants a successful career as the head of a bank or the boss of the railways. He (and you can bet your bottom dollar it’s a he) too wants a swanky car, a gorgeous mantlepiece wife, a flash motor - why should the clever people rule the land? What have they got that Mr Stupid & Friends haven’t? Ignore that, silly question.
The silent majority that isn’t rules the land here in the Bel Paese and it seems to me to be a fairly natural state of affairs. Looking after your own and covering your own back are after all very instinctive.
Imagine the son of Mr Stupid at any point over the last 50 years. His dad’s a notary and gets paid serious amounts of cash for doing frankly fuck all. He’s ageing like fine wine. He got the job because of his network of Stupid Friends. They look out for each other. They may not be smart but by God they stick together. He looks up at his dad and thinks,
“Dad’s got a boat, a house in the country, we have a maid, Mum has beautiful clothes - I want that too papà, I want that too papà!”
“Don’t worry, figliolo, Italy is your oyster, whatever you want, you can scoff it down.”
“But, papà, they tell me I’m as dim as a badly-lit Roman street at night, as thick as an Italian bank statement that thuds on the doormat, as dense as the Italian legal system, as witless as a Christmas film by De Sica.”
“Don’t worry, figliolo,” says papà, “everything that is mine will be yours. It DOESN’T MATTER if you’re stupid. I’m stupid too, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Be proud of how infuriatingly boneheaded you are. There are lots like us, we are not alone.”
“But, papà, I’ve heard strange talk of meritocracy - what is it?”
“Cazzo ne so, my child but it’s a foreign disease that the Germans and the English have. It brings you out in a rash. It won’t reach the bel paese, tranquillo.”
And so it goes on. The boy is reassured and the lobby of the stupid perpetuates through time.
Most people are stupid after all and if you think about it (not too hard mind, you’ll get a headache but then again that may be the dampness in the air), it’s actually rather refreshingly democratic to fill parliament, the senate, the council, the region, the post office, the railways and the Ministries with folk who’ve never been the brightest sparks in the toolbox.
So is Italy ready to embrace meritocracy (and all the rest) for the benefit of poor old Mr Nobody that no-one seems to care about? Those bright, dynamic men and women in the minority that desperately want a job?
Macché, sei scemo????!!!!
sabato 9 aprile 2011
Wake up before it's too late...
Hang on a sec, I think I may have just woken up. The needle must have slipped out of my arm by accident. I’m awake, alright, I smell coffee. The friendly buxom botox nurse who was administering me a veil of morphine has disappeared. I open my eyes, the dreamscape slides away - those gorgeous Tuscan landscapes lightly toasted by the summer sun with, here and there, splendidly turned out decent upright folk or gente per bene, discussing politics and sport in a lighthearted playful way over some Chianti have gone.
Taking their place now, the lesser-known streets of the sordid rampant sprawling city that is modern Rome (that’s what is known as an oxymoron), yards away from the tourist sights, with its pavements dipped in turd and littered with collapsed drunks, staggering tramps and exotically dressed gypsies with their heads in the cassonetti (big street-side rubbish bins) sifting through people’s garbage.
How about that for a less romantic urban landscape? This isn’t the bella vita that we read about in the press, is it? Where in God’s name am I again? Oh yeah, just off viale di Trastevere, a stone’s throw (a due passi) from the historical centre of Rome, la città eterna, modern day Italy. Did I say ‘modern’ again? Apologies.
So I’m still stuck in this no man’s land between enemy trenches, a willing prisoner, still unable to wriggle myself free in this purgatory that Dante overlooked, still screaming with frustration (in-between doses of the good life that is) in this lawless Wild West where, whatever illegal activity you’re involved in, you’re unlikely at any time of day or night to feel the strong arm of the law on your shoulder, sending a chill down your spine. Even if you begged to be arrested, they’d probably ignore you. It’s the cops who’ve got their hands tied, not the bleedin’ criminals! And you’d think the government had been formed by David Lynch.
And yet I try to be upbeat, I try to ignore the bad and focus on the good, I try, please don’t think it’s a lack of effort on my part, I’m trying my best. Even now. And while I’m trying to summon up some optimism in this topsy-turvy land, some filthy street urchin relieves himself against a dustbin in the street outside and waves up at my window. Ahhh, that’s better. That’s lightened the load. Now I can get my head back down to work. In the bin.
It turns out that I’m not the only one who was privy to the spectacle but that one of my neighbours, unimpressed, retained enough optimism and faith in the system to call the police. “Call the police?”, my students repeated in a chorus of incredulity as I relayed the story a few days later, “Capirai!” – which means “As if!” but literally translates, cunningly enough, as “You will understand”. As if to confirm everyone’s cynicism about police impotence, they turn up an hour later (my students, days later, would nod knowingly), at which point our sprightly Oliver Twisted character is probably somewhere on the Tiburtina. The boys in blue, cigarettes hanging off their lips, shrug their shoulders and say “Ma! Che possiamo fa’?”. “But!” just about says it all.
“Ah, però…” begin the inevitable protests, “the police have a lot on their plate, they have terrible salaries, they have to put their lives at risk every day, it’s complicated, it requires 1000s of hours of endless, useless discussion on 1000s of endless, useless discussion programmes on tv to even begin to comprehend even vaguely the enormity of the subtleties of the issues and the sensibilities of those who….” and oh I can’t even be bothered to finish the sentence. What I say (soap box, anyone?) is if you don’t fancy the salary, look for another job. Punto.
In the complete absence of objective information, it’s difficult to know how serious the crime problem is in Italy. Our fun-loving lad with loose manners is probably the least of our worries. That Rome, unlike other European capitals, isn’t becoming a better place to live is tangibly true, although difficult to prove. The feeling you have is that the fabric of society is held together by a fair number of Italians’ desire to behave well and to look out for each other and not by any fear of the potential consequences of breaking the law or any universal sense of civic duty. Whereas elsewhere, in England for example, random or gratuitous acts of violence or vandalism are probably more prevalent, there is at least a tangible sense of what will happen to you if you commit a crime and are caught. I won’t do that, people think to themselves, because it’ll ruin my future. Here, it’s the opposite. Upside down. Mulholland Drive.
The perverse logic goes like this: if you catch me, unlikely in itself, with my hands around some defenceless OAP’s throat or at tea with some mafia boss, the trial, the retrial, the appeal, the second appeal and the final absolute, this-time-it’s-for-real appeal will probably take so long that the original charge will no longer be valid. Every charge has a eat-by date. That’s the beauty of the system. You couldn’t make it up.
In recent months, we have again found ourselves in the midst of a growing sense of national outrage, fuelled by newspapers (right-wing, probably) who neglect to provide any detailed evidence, about the number of crimes actually committed by extra-comunitari and gupsies. Not the number of crimes committed by persone per bene or politicians, God forbid, we wouldn’t want to waste any column inches on these trivial matters.
While the sandstorm around gypsies and illegal immigrants distracts everyone’s attention, great crimes are probably being committed by the very people who govern us. Probably I say, I don’t want to fall foul of any legal action against me. Any reference here to reality is purely coincidental. Having said that, you wonder why crowds scatter whenever a merry band of gypsies happen to walk down the road with their shopping bags and kids in tow.
Italians are as racist as the rest of us, sure, but the swell of opinion against these people can’t be explained away that easily. It can’t all be manipulation. There’s smoke so there’s fire, right? What is it that they do for a living anyway? Apart from beg and steal, that is, ho-ho-ho. I could dress that up as a joke I guess but no-one’s gonna fall for it. Hold up, wasn’t there a bleedin’ gypsy on United airlines flight 9867? And that Bin Laden character gets about a bit - are we sure he isn’t some kind of NOMAD??????? Wherever the truth lies, it’s all good news for petty criminals who don’t happen to be dressed like ancient Romans (ironic, right?).
Anyway, getting back to the ineptitude of the system, everything happens for a reason, right? The law isn’t enforced as much as it could be and when it is, the painfully slow justice system will always provide a spanner for the works. So why is it so slow? Not because no-one has ever come up with a solution but because every professional body or trade union represents a powerful lobby in Italy – you tamper with people’s livelihoods and they’ll get their revenge at the ballot box.
Even if what they do serves absolutely no purpose whatsoever. You take away work from lawyers, albeit useless paperwork and redundant procedures that serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever, and they’ll come out in hordes to protest. How dare you modernise Italy!!! How dare you drag us into the 1980s!!!! If you’re unlucky enough to witness first hand the civil courts here in Rome, it’s like being, well, to be frank, in a public office in India in the 1980s. The only thing missing are the police with their sticks (hang on, police with sticks, I may be onto something here).
Lots of commotion and noise but 90% of the people there are just standing around waiting for something to happen. Tell me about it, I hear you say. If you whisper into the ear of an unsuspecting fag-smoking vigile urbano (traffic cop) that there’s this new breakthrough invention called ‘a traffic light’ (it’ll never catch on), they’ll scream to high heaven that they have the right to earn a living even if the job they do serves absolutely no purpose whatsoever. It’s a Monty Python sketch basically, with this as its punch-line. But the canned laughter ain’t fooling anyone.
So once we’ve established that wholesale change is necessary in the legal set-up in Italy across the board (and in the collective consciousness we’re about as close to this as the England football team are to winning the World Cup, or even getting to the semis, let’s be honest), the next step is to entrust this process of change to - ah, slight snag this – the state.
The Italian state, represented by politicians who live like Hollywood celebrities. Is it really in their interests to force the police to enforce the law every day or make the justice system efficient? Well, the jury’s still out on that one and God knows when they’ll be back. There’s one Forza Italia MP who part-owns a nightclub in Sardinia called Billionaire with that Bennetton Formula One chap - you can imagine how interested she is in the fact that some kid, who’s probably an illegal immigrant, has mistaken the street for a public toilet or that some drunk (no offence intended) with no legal right to be in Italy at the wheel of his van killed four teenagers earlier this year and got a miserly six years (of house arrest, poverino) as a result.
When they’re not faking passionate anger or indignation on TV, Italian politicians live in the lap of luxury, eat in top restaurants with enormous discounts they don’t need, fly for free (even using state aircraft to go to watch Grand Prix), and buy cut-price accommodation in the centre of Rome (while most Italians dream of being able to afford a house in a market that has seen prices go up by up to 150% in four years) because they are privy to information the poor public have no idea about.
Italian politicians are far too busy sorting themselves out to worry about the rest of us. Not to mention their stratospheric salaries (something like 15,000 euros a month) and the minor detail that they have the right to a pension that’s equivalent to 80% of their salaries after only three and a half years of service. Three and a half years. Every ordinary sap of an Italian has to pay INPS for thirty-five years, these clowns only have to do it for three and a half. That bill flew through parliament like a hare with its arse on fire, as you can probably imagine. They probably didn’t even bother to go through the motions of debating it. Whos’ watching anyway?
What do they care about the law or anything for that matter? They’re too busy living it up or breaking the law themselves - how many convicted criminals are there in the Italian parliament? Twenty? Thirty? It’s natural, we’re told by the guilty parties, most magistrates in Italy belong to some bizarre baby-eating communist cult that worships at the foot of Lenin’s statue, so any convictions made by them have to be taken with a pinch of salt, surely? And after occasionally making statements of this ilk, they wave and walk back into parliament to vote on new legislation. Oh, happy day!
Even local administrations have a flexible opinion on the usefulness of consistently enforcing the law – parking fines are issued in Rome on an improvised basis to give people the impression they can get away with things most of the time. So instead of teaching them not to break the law, they are allowed to continue and end up getting and paying the occasional fine. Which is the whole point. Not to make parking on the pavement a thing of the past, not to make double parking anachronistic, not to stop pedestrians being run over on zebra crossings, God no.
You’ve probably noticed how faded zebra crossings are in Rome. Some hard-nosed loveless cynics claim that this is because the council deliberately uses poor quality paint in order to keep the guys who paint the strisce in work. Every zebra crossing in Rome has to be repainted every three months, according to these commie-fascist cynics, and so that means lots of work for lots of council employees, who would otherwise be uselessly employed doing other less useful work elsewhere. What an outrageous claim!! The reality of the matter is quite different and has more to do with magic realism and Gabriel Garcia Marquez than corrupt policymakers: the stripes, like a wife ignored by her husband for years on end, simply fade and disappear because they’re not wanted. Simple as that.
I feel I’m working myself into a corner here but stick with me. If politicians can’t be trusted to introduce real and meaningful change to benefit ordinary citizens and not themselves, then what options are left to us? What are we supposed to do? Look out for ourselves? Take justice into our own hands? Stop reading the papers in order to avoid these explosions of frustration? Stop voting at general elections as a sign of protest? Well, that wouldn’t be a bad idea for a start. I have all the sympathy in the world for Italians but when 80% turn up on election day to vote, I lose my rag a tad.
One day, Italy will stop languishing in the past. One day, Italians will get so miffed with the lack of return on the taxes they pay (and the state has the balls to tell them off for not paying all of them), that change inevitably will ensue. One day, one bright beautiful day, an Italian politician will propose a bill to cut their salaries that are offensive to all fair-minded Italians. It would get thrown out amid derision like a bum from a fancy restaurant but it would be a start.
Capirai! I hear you say. I seriously wonder whether I will, one day, somehow, understand.
Whoops, I’m in trouble, too much talk, too much talk. Been watching too much TV. The powers that be have been earwigging. I’ve been snagged. The nurse has just come back in with my medicine. Sorry, nurse, I was just letting off steam. No harm intended, it was all tongue in cheek, promise! “Smile,” she says, “you’re on Candid Camera”.
Pin prick. Darkness.
Taking their place now, the lesser-known streets of the sordid rampant sprawling city that is modern Rome (that’s what is known as an oxymoron), yards away from the tourist sights, with its pavements dipped in turd and littered with collapsed drunks, staggering tramps and exotically dressed gypsies with their heads in the cassonetti (big street-side rubbish bins) sifting through people’s garbage.
How about that for a less romantic urban landscape? This isn’t the bella vita that we read about in the press, is it? Where in God’s name am I again? Oh yeah, just off viale di Trastevere, a stone’s throw (a due passi) from the historical centre of Rome, la città eterna, modern day Italy. Did I say ‘modern’ again? Apologies.
So I’m still stuck in this no man’s land between enemy trenches, a willing prisoner, still unable to wriggle myself free in this purgatory that Dante overlooked, still screaming with frustration (in-between doses of the good life that is) in this lawless Wild West where, whatever illegal activity you’re involved in, you’re unlikely at any time of day or night to feel the strong arm of the law on your shoulder, sending a chill down your spine. Even if you begged to be arrested, they’d probably ignore you. It’s the cops who’ve got their hands tied, not the bleedin’ criminals! And you’d think the government had been formed by David Lynch.
And yet I try to be upbeat, I try to ignore the bad and focus on the good, I try, please don’t think it’s a lack of effort on my part, I’m trying my best. Even now. And while I’m trying to summon up some optimism in this topsy-turvy land, some filthy street urchin relieves himself against a dustbin in the street outside and waves up at my window. Ahhh, that’s better. That’s lightened the load. Now I can get my head back down to work. In the bin.
It turns out that I’m not the only one who was privy to the spectacle but that one of my neighbours, unimpressed, retained enough optimism and faith in the system to call the police. “Call the police?”, my students repeated in a chorus of incredulity as I relayed the story a few days later, “Capirai!” – which means “As if!” but literally translates, cunningly enough, as “You will understand”. As if to confirm everyone’s cynicism about police impotence, they turn up an hour later (my students, days later, would nod knowingly), at which point our sprightly Oliver Twisted character is probably somewhere on the Tiburtina. The boys in blue, cigarettes hanging off their lips, shrug their shoulders and say “Ma! Che possiamo fa’?”. “But!” just about says it all.
“Ah, però…” begin the inevitable protests, “the police have a lot on their plate, they have terrible salaries, they have to put their lives at risk every day, it’s complicated, it requires 1000s of hours of endless, useless discussion on 1000s of endless, useless discussion programmes on tv to even begin to comprehend even vaguely the enormity of the subtleties of the issues and the sensibilities of those who….” and oh I can’t even be bothered to finish the sentence. What I say (soap box, anyone?) is if you don’t fancy the salary, look for another job. Punto.
In the complete absence of objective information, it’s difficult to know how serious the crime problem is in Italy. Our fun-loving lad with loose manners is probably the least of our worries. That Rome, unlike other European capitals, isn’t becoming a better place to live is tangibly true, although difficult to prove. The feeling you have is that the fabric of society is held together by a fair number of Italians’ desire to behave well and to look out for each other and not by any fear of the potential consequences of breaking the law or any universal sense of civic duty. Whereas elsewhere, in England for example, random or gratuitous acts of violence or vandalism are probably more prevalent, there is at least a tangible sense of what will happen to you if you commit a crime and are caught. I won’t do that, people think to themselves, because it’ll ruin my future. Here, it’s the opposite. Upside down. Mulholland Drive.
The perverse logic goes like this: if you catch me, unlikely in itself, with my hands around some defenceless OAP’s throat or at tea with some mafia boss, the trial, the retrial, the appeal, the second appeal and the final absolute, this-time-it’s-for-real appeal will probably take so long that the original charge will no longer be valid. Every charge has a eat-by date. That’s the beauty of the system. You couldn’t make it up.
In recent months, we have again found ourselves in the midst of a growing sense of national outrage, fuelled by newspapers (right-wing, probably) who neglect to provide any detailed evidence, about the number of crimes actually committed by extra-comunitari and gupsies. Not the number of crimes committed by persone per bene or politicians, God forbid, we wouldn’t want to waste any column inches on these trivial matters.
While the sandstorm around gypsies and illegal immigrants distracts everyone’s attention, great crimes are probably being committed by the very people who govern us. Probably I say, I don’t want to fall foul of any legal action against me. Any reference here to reality is purely coincidental. Having said that, you wonder why crowds scatter whenever a merry band of gypsies happen to walk down the road with their shopping bags and kids in tow.
Italians are as racist as the rest of us, sure, but the swell of opinion against these people can’t be explained away that easily. It can’t all be manipulation. There’s smoke so there’s fire, right? What is it that they do for a living anyway? Apart from beg and steal, that is, ho-ho-ho. I could dress that up as a joke I guess but no-one’s gonna fall for it. Hold up, wasn’t there a bleedin’ gypsy on United airlines flight 9867? And that Bin Laden character gets about a bit - are we sure he isn’t some kind of NOMAD??????? Wherever the truth lies, it’s all good news for petty criminals who don’t happen to be dressed like ancient Romans (ironic, right?).
Anyway, getting back to the ineptitude of the system, everything happens for a reason, right? The law isn’t enforced as much as it could be and when it is, the painfully slow justice system will always provide a spanner for the works. So why is it so slow? Not because no-one has ever come up with a solution but because every professional body or trade union represents a powerful lobby in Italy – you tamper with people’s livelihoods and they’ll get their revenge at the ballot box.
Even if what they do serves absolutely no purpose whatsoever. You take away work from lawyers, albeit useless paperwork and redundant procedures that serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever, and they’ll come out in hordes to protest. How dare you modernise Italy!!! How dare you drag us into the 1980s!!!! If you’re unlucky enough to witness first hand the civil courts here in Rome, it’s like being, well, to be frank, in a public office in India in the 1980s. The only thing missing are the police with their sticks (hang on, police with sticks, I may be onto something here).
Lots of commotion and noise but 90% of the people there are just standing around waiting for something to happen. Tell me about it, I hear you say. If you whisper into the ear of an unsuspecting fag-smoking vigile urbano (traffic cop) that there’s this new breakthrough invention called ‘a traffic light’ (it’ll never catch on), they’ll scream to high heaven that they have the right to earn a living even if the job they do serves absolutely no purpose whatsoever. It’s a Monty Python sketch basically, with this as its punch-line. But the canned laughter ain’t fooling anyone.
So once we’ve established that wholesale change is necessary in the legal set-up in Italy across the board (and in the collective consciousness we’re about as close to this as the England football team are to winning the World Cup, or even getting to the semis, let’s be honest), the next step is to entrust this process of change to - ah, slight snag this – the state.
The Italian state, represented by politicians who live like Hollywood celebrities. Is it really in their interests to force the police to enforce the law every day or make the justice system efficient? Well, the jury’s still out on that one and God knows when they’ll be back. There’s one Forza Italia MP who part-owns a nightclub in Sardinia called Billionaire with that Bennetton Formula One chap - you can imagine how interested she is in the fact that some kid, who’s probably an illegal immigrant, has mistaken the street for a public toilet or that some drunk (no offence intended) with no legal right to be in Italy at the wheel of his van killed four teenagers earlier this year and got a miserly six years (of house arrest, poverino) as a result.
When they’re not faking passionate anger or indignation on TV, Italian politicians live in the lap of luxury, eat in top restaurants with enormous discounts they don’t need, fly for free (even using state aircraft to go to watch Grand Prix), and buy cut-price accommodation in the centre of Rome (while most Italians dream of being able to afford a house in a market that has seen prices go up by up to 150% in four years) because they are privy to information the poor public have no idea about.
Italian politicians are far too busy sorting themselves out to worry about the rest of us. Not to mention their stratospheric salaries (something like 15,000 euros a month) and the minor detail that they have the right to a pension that’s equivalent to 80% of their salaries after only three and a half years of service. Three and a half years. Every ordinary sap of an Italian has to pay INPS for thirty-five years, these clowns only have to do it for three and a half. That bill flew through parliament like a hare with its arse on fire, as you can probably imagine. They probably didn’t even bother to go through the motions of debating it. Whos’ watching anyway?
What do they care about the law or anything for that matter? They’re too busy living it up or breaking the law themselves - how many convicted criminals are there in the Italian parliament? Twenty? Thirty? It’s natural, we’re told by the guilty parties, most magistrates in Italy belong to some bizarre baby-eating communist cult that worships at the foot of Lenin’s statue, so any convictions made by them have to be taken with a pinch of salt, surely? And after occasionally making statements of this ilk, they wave and walk back into parliament to vote on new legislation. Oh, happy day!
Even local administrations have a flexible opinion on the usefulness of consistently enforcing the law – parking fines are issued in Rome on an improvised basis to give people the impression they can get away with things most of the time. So instead of teaching them not to break the law, they are allowed to continue and end up getting and paying the occasional fine. Which is the whole point. Not to make parking on the pavement a thing of the past, not to make double parking anachronistic, not to stop pedestrians being run over on zebra crossings, God no.
You’ve probably noticed how faded zebra crossings are in Rome. Some hard-nosed loveless cynics claim that this is because the council deliberately uses poor quality paint in order to keep the guys who paint the strisce in work. Every zebra crossing in Rome has to be repainted every three months, according to these commie-fascist cynics, and so that means lots of work for lots of council employees, who would otherwise be uselessly employed doing other less useful work elsewhere. What an outrageous claim!! The reality of the matter is quite different and has more to do with magic realism and Gabriel Garcia Marquez than corrupt policymakers: the stripes, like a wife ignored by her husband for years on end, simply fade and disappear because they’re not wanted. Simple as that.
I feel I’m working myself into a corner here but stick with me. If politicians can’t be trusted to introduce real and meaningful change to benefit ordinary citizens and not themselves, then what options are left to us? What are we supposed to do? Look out for ourselves? Take justice into our own hands? Stop reading the papers in order to avoid these explosions of frustration? Stop voting at general elections as a sign of protest? Well, that wouldn’t be a bad idea for a start. I have all the sympathy in the world for Italians but when 80% turn up on election day to vote, I lose my rag a tad.
One day, Italy will stop languishing in the past. One day, Italians will get so miffed with the lack of return on the taxes they pay (and the state has the balls to tell them off for not paying all of them), that change inevitably will ensue. One day, one bright beautiful day, an Italian politician will propose a bill to cut their salaries that are offensive to all fair-minded Italians. It would get thrown out amid derision like a bum from a fancy restaurant but it would be a start.
Capirai! I hear you say. I seriously wonder whether I will, one day, somehow, understand.
Whoops, I’m in trouble, too much talk, too much talk. Been watching too much TV. The powers that be have been earwigging. I’ve been snagged. The nurse has just come back in with my medicine. Sorry, nurse, I was just letting off steam. No harm intended, it was all tongue in cheek, promise! “Smile,” she says, “you’re on Candid Camera”.
Pin prick. Darkness.
giovedì 31 marzo 2011
In search of lost time
I'm gonna try and be logical about this. I have a vague idea about what I wanna say but a relatively brief timeframe in which to express it. It's already gone 10 and the kitchen conspiracy stacks up against me yet again - plates, mess, disordine that seeps in from the maelstrom of smoke, dogshite and emotions outside. The door shakes as the tram rattles and squeals past, in pain almost, as it runs over an unsuspecting OAP, oaf, tramp or floosie.
I'm lying really, I have no idea what I want to say. A kind of belated diary entry. It's been over 20 years since I kept a diary in actual fact, that self-indulgent search for identity in the lonely pits of teenage terror. I don't even know what the fook that is supposed to mean.
Reach for your glass, I just have.
Time rattles on and my book drafts remain just that. Who's got the time to revisit old manuscripts written by a former self? We don't change that much from 18-20 onwards I guess but life gets in the way. The mind gets jaded, the memories fade, the indulgence of inadequate words becomes less tolerable. You write and rewrite some clown with a pen in his hand. Endlessly. I read some of that stuff and I think "Jeez, did I write that?". Some other stuff ain't bad, it's forgivable, even with the critical glance of the intervening years.
Now my brother has just texted me. It's taken days to organise a phone appointment. He's ringing in half an hour. Am I going to be free? I'll have to be. The nipper's birthday is coming up so he wants to know about presents. He's coming over and we don't know whether his hand luggage will be enough to fit everything in. There's a metaphor in their somewhere. Pay for a suitcase I'll say. Just to make sure.
Did I answer him? I scramble to the phone. Technology confirms I did. My short term memory is shot to fook. I repeat myself, I do something, I go back and check that I have. Like some old dozy bird. People joke that it's the onset of Alzheimer's. In the words of the late great Walter Matthau: "I fail to see the humour."
The minutes slip by. 22.22 and counting.
Is there any way to retrieve this time lost? The repetition of life that erases all before it. One day slips into another, the seasons slip by in a way that I thought was just poetic licence. It ain't. A dark, mind-boggling winter comes to an end with early evening light and some warmth. My nose clears after 3 months, miraculously, almost overnight. I'm left to reflect on the damage the lack of sleep I've experienced has had on me. Not that I'd want it any other way. Having kids is the only meaning of life: everything else is just straws and ash. Dustbowls. Keep your fancy job, your car, your holiday home.
This deterioration has legs now, it has momentum, pace. Insidious, frenetic, its anxiety seizes me, toys with me, has me frantically checking my existence on the world wide web. I'm fooking everywhere. Just in case you wanted to look me up.
10,000 tweets in 9 months is a slight exageration I feel. Or perhaps, perhaps, it's an attempt to defeat the passing of time. Perhaps I tweet to keep a record of who I am. As my memory slip slides away.
Fourteen years as a foreigner in a foreign land do not necessarily help in maintaining an idea of self. I could be wrong. The inability to accept certain aspects of life here leads to a rampant rage that keeps me young at least. I'm in fantastic shape, aesthetically. Inside I'm falling apart and my brain is gruffalo crumble but I look like a 25 year old. Apart from the telltale grey hair.
When the phone rings I'm gonna cut this shit out.
Deceptively though, I gatecrash my forties thinking I'm still in my 20s. The child inside still has a voice. Helps on the dad front.
Where did all the years go though? I can't really be closer to 50 than 30, can I?
Shelved projects, stale but entertaining enough professional life, parenthood you never enjoy as much you thought you would 'cos you're shattered. Don't get me wrong, it's the essence of life itself.
I'm becoming progressively more stressed out, more obsessive, more explosively intolerant of certain things. I'd like to pause time for a bit, take a breather to reflect on where I am, who I am, outside of this whirlwind.
You know what I mean.
And deep down there remains a gut wrenching desire to run away, from this place while that prize c*°t is in power, disturbing my sleep with that bald, grinning, shortarsed existence of his. Yes, despite the food, the weather, the beauty, the architecture, the cities. Or maybe I should just stop overestimating my role in society. Maybe I should just be keeping my head down and I should ignore what drives me fooking crazy. Hmm, dunno if I can do that.
A random succession of totally random events bring all of us to where we are. The same will be true when we are snatched away. Maybe that's all there is to it.
But where did all the time go? All those lives we imagined we'd lead, those endless heady romantic experiences. I've had my fair share, I ain't complaining.
Does any of this make any sense, does any of this mean anything?
I look into her eyes and I feel calm, just for a second, assured in the knowledge that I at least got one thing right.
Ring, ring, ring. I await your response.
I'm lying really, I have no idea what I want to say. A kind of belated diary entry. It's been over 20 years since I kept a diary in actual fact, that self-indulgent search for identity in the lonely pits of teenage terror. I don't even know what the fook that is supposed to mean.
Reach for your glass, I just have.
Time rattles on and my book drafts remain just that. Who's got the time to revisit old manuscripts written by a former self? We don't change that much from 18-20 onwards I guess but life gets in the way. The mind gets jaded, the memories fade, the indulgence of inadequate words becomes less tolerable. You write and rewrite some clown with a pen in his hand. Endlessly. I read some of that stuff and I think "Jeez, did I write that?". Some other stuff ain't bad, it's forgivable, even with the critical glance of the intervening years.
Now my brother has just texted me. It's taken days to organise a phone appointment. He's ringing in half an hour. Am I going to be free? I'll have to be. The nipper's birthday is coming up so he wants to know about presents. He's coming over and we don't know whether his hand luggage will be enough to fit everything in. There's a metaphor in their somewhere. Pay for a suitcase I'll say. Just to make sure.
Did I answer him? I scramble to the phone. Technology confirms I did. My short term memory is shot to fook. I repeat myself, I do something, I go back and check that I have. Like some old dozy bird. People joke that it's the onset of Alzheimer's. In the words of the late great Walter Matthau: "I fail to see the humour."
The minutes slip by. 22.22 and counting.
Is there any way to retrieve this time lost? The repetition of life that erases all before it. One day slips into another, the seasons slip by in a way that I thought was just poetic licence. It ain't. A dark, mind-boggling winter comes to an end with early evening light and some warmth. My nose clears after 3 months, miraculously, almost overnight. I'm left to reflect on the damage the lack of sleep I've experienced has had on me. Not that I'd want it any other way. Having kids is the only meaning of life: everything else is just straws and ash. Dustbowls. Keep your fancy job, your car, your holiday home.
This deterioration has legs now, it has momentum, pace. Insidious, frenetic, its anxiety seizes me, toys with me, has me frantically checking my existence on the world wide web. I'm fooking everywhere. Just in case you wanted to look me up.
10,000 tweets in 9 months is a slight exageration I feel. Or perhaps, perhaps, it's an attempt to defeat the passing of time. Perhaps I tweet to keep a record of who I am. As my memory slip slides away.
Fourteen years as a foreigner in a foreign land do not necessarily help in maintaining an idea of self. I could be wrong. The inability to accept certain aspects of life here leads to a rampant rage that keeps me young at least. I'm in fantastic shape, aesthetically. Inside I'm falling apart and my brain is gruffalo crumble but I look like a 25 year old. Apart from the telltale grey hair.
When the phone rings I'm gonna cut this shit out.
Deceptively though, I gatecrash my forties thinking I'm still in my 20s. The child inside still has a voice. Helps on the dad front.
Where did all the years go though? I can't really be closer to 50 than 30, can I?
Shelved projects, stale but entertaining enough professional life, parenthood you never enjoy as much you thought you would 'cos you're shattered. Don't get me wrong, it's the essence of life itself.
I'm becoming progressively more stressed out, more obsessive, more explosively intolerant of certain things. I'd like to pause time for a bit, take a breather to reflect on where I am, who I am, outside of this whirlwind.
You know what I mean.
And deep down there remains a gut wrenching desire to run away, from this place while that prize c*°t is in power, disturbing my sleep with that bald, grinning, shortarsed existence of his. Yes, despite the food, the weather, the beauty, the architecture, the cities. Or maybe I should just stop overestimating my role in society. Maybe I should just be keeping my head down and I should ignore what drives me fooking crazy. Hmm, dunno if I can do that.
A random succession of totally random events bring all of us to where we are. The same will be true when we are snatched away. Maybe that's all there is to it.
But where did all the time go? All those lives we imagined we'd lead, those endless heady romantic experiences. I've had my fair share, I ain't complaining.
Does any of this make any sense, does any of this mean anything?
I look into her eyes and I feel calm, just for a second, assured in the knowledge that I at least got one thing right.
Ring, ring, ring. I await your response.
giovedì 1 luglio 2010
Addio Golden Generation
Writing in itself is cheap self-therapy they tell, a cathartic release from tension and frustration but after last Sunday I could write me a river and it'd make no difference. How many times can you get that dizzying sense of déjà vu with that vague whiff of puke wallowing up from the depths of your gut?
It's the end of a childhood dream for me, at the tender age of 40. Never will naive hope raise its sappy head again. And to think I risked life and limb flying home on my scooter on via Magliana to catch the second half of England – Slovenia! One hapless sap watching a load of 'em.
It was enough to make grown men weep familiar tears and young boys shrug their innocent shoulders because they’ve never known any different. Our collective hopes dashed yet again by those mean, super-efficient and predictably nerveless Germans. So we’re left with our pens in our hands (among other things) to pick over the remains of yet another debacle, of yet another outrageous piece of bad luck/bad refereeing as history repeats itself. Again. Not that we were playing well, we weren’t. You make your own luck, the same people say and they are probably right. We just about got what we deserved, despite clinging onto the hope that we might have turned things around if only. If only. More likely is that the Germans would have raised their game. We'll never know.
Our billing as a leading footballing nation must now be shown up for what it frankly is: a total and utter fallacy. We are not and haven’t been for quite a while. The last time we were even remotely competitive was 20 years ago when we reached the semis here in Italy and were, as is our destiny, unlucky to go out. Even the Germans belatedly admitted we’d probably deserved it on the balance of play. In the intervening years, however, football has moved forward while we have stood still, continuing to develop strong and physical players while more skilful smaller players fall mostly by the wayside. Where are the lightweight English Yossi Benayouns? Add to that the undying adoration, the debatable conviction that our league is the best in the world, consistent Champions League success, the obscene amounts of money, the inevitable sex (and other) scandals, the media pressure and the Hollywood lifestyles that footballers enjoy and we have what we have: one unmitigated disaster after another. Now if we looked away from the blinding glamour of the Premiership for a second, we’d see that our record in the World Cup in the last 40 years is anything but “great”. The main problem here is that we can’t accept the fact that the game we invented is played better by others and has been for a long, long time. Everyone else is better at developing talent, more psychologically prepared for the challenge, less prone to injuries (isn’t anxiety a factor here too?), more tactically astute and more willing to get their heads down and work it would appear. Plus we seem intent on playing more games than everyone else. Even since the relative success in 1986 and 1990, where more importantly we actually played some decent football, our recent history makes bleak reading both for results and performances: in 1994, our heroic turnips didn’t qualify; in 1998, there was that goal against Argentina who we should have beaten but again the Gods were against us (maybe it’s time we gave up the Malvinas?); in 2002 we looked pretty good but again a lack of guile and goalkeeping howlers undid us; in 2006 we were God awful but reached the quarter-finals and this time round we were worse and didn’t. How many shots on target was it in 4 games? Less than ten? What a sorry state of affairs. So we’re a leading nation, are we? Not unless New Zealand, Chile, Mexico, Uruguay (no offence, you’re better than us) can also be considered part of this illustrious group. The Kiwis did a great job against the Italians and almost sneaked it too (we would have been hailed as world beaters if we’d performed as well against the World Champions).
So what exactly do the cocksure, efficient and relaxed Germans have that we don’t? Perhaps it’s that they’re secure in the knowledge that they can pass and move and shoot and control a ball with the ease becoming of a professional footballer? Perhaps it’s their humility? They can certainly handle the pressure better - did our lads look relaxed for one moment of their brief stay in South Africa apart from when they were tweeting around the pool? When I saw them all red-faced and sweaty before kick-off against the USA, I knew we were in for more disappointment. “Let the suffering begin!” I neglected to tweet. How sadly inaccurate all those theories now look in the face of our heroes’ knocking knees ? The weather will suit us, they told us, we have more experience than the Germans, we can top our group and then get an easy ride to the semis, we are good enough to win it and blah-di-blah-di-blah. Our lads swan around like they’re the bees’ knees for most of the year in their luxury cars and swanky (that is the right adjective, isn’t it?) clothes but when faced with the real deal in a World Cup game, they transform into a bunch of rabbits in the headlights. “Don’t look at me!! Don’t pass me that funny ball whose name I can’t pronounce let alone spell!!” Not only are we technically inferior to a lot of teams, we can’t even rely on our goddamn Dunkirk spirit any more – what is the world coming to? Admittedly, the luxury lifestyle that grates with many is par for the course so we shouldn’t complain about that too much – it’s us that pampers them after all – but to see our dummies turn out in nappies against apparently lesser opposition is galling for us ordinary fans. So much talk for so little substance. In the top 16 in the world but not the top 8 sounds about right, though on current form it’s generous.
Hang on a sec, aren’t our players supposed to be some of the best in the world? Didn’t I read that somewhere or hear those words drop convincingly from the lips of one or two of our superstars? Well, on closer analysis, this too falls apart at the seams. Sorry about this but I have to start somewhere: Glen Johnson is not a complete footballer. He already looked unnervingly ill at ease against the Great Slovenians but against Germany he was just woeful. I don’t know whether anyone in England noticed but for Germany’s second goal, as Podolski was teeing up his shot, Glen Johnson (the best right back in the country apparently) instead of trying to put body and soul between the ball and the goal suddenly jumped away from the goal as if he wanted to catch someone offside! Youtube it, footytube it, watch the damn replay, it was one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. It got worse: he then let the guy cut across him before setting up Muller for that third goal instead of clipping his heels like any world class defender would have done, raised arms and “not me, Guv” expression and all. He later got booked for a tactical foul when we were 4-1 down – oh, Glen, well done, son. Even then, James should have saved it – Muller hit it straight at him but James in his wisdom was already going down the wrong way. Why wait for the shot? How ludicrous! How on earth the best keeper in the country can come from a relegated team is beyond me. He may have some qualities that the others lack, like exuding silky confidence (how funny his “we’re better than the Germans” statement now sounds) and doing some modelling on the side, but is he seriously the best keeper out there? Maybe Rednapp was right when he said that it was scandalous to omit Robinson.
Throughout the tournament, defensively we were poor all over and that was clear to see. The first goal was route one: embarrassing. In the build-up to the second goal the Germans used that other highly sophisticated technique to split our defence: a one-two. Revolutionary. Our lads must have been well impressed but we do live in a footballing culture where commentators still refer to a professional footballer’s wrong foot! John Terry (so many “leaders” on the pitch when we could have done with a few more real or on-form defenders) looked out of his depth for most of the game but he’s had a tough year, the poor baby (how many German players were involved in money or sex scandals in the run-up to the World Cup?) Okay, so Upson was caught for the first goal (but was Klose onside when the keeper kicked off?) but at least he had the balls to go up the other end and make amends. You’ll notice I’ve had a memory lapse as to the key moment in the Germany match but bear with me. Now Steven, I commend his effort and I feel for him but I fear his barnstorming days of old are gone. Last season, Gerrard lost that yard of pace that used to take him past players and also his shooting has abandoned him. I won’t mention his private life too much but does anyone out there think we’d get away with a GBH charge on the defence that we thought we were going to be attacked? Mmm, I doubt it somehow. He hasn’t really been the same since. Lampard looks absolutely world class when he plays on his home patch but then looks like a duck out of water with the big fish – how many shots is that, 40 without a goal in World Cups (at least he gets his shots off I guess)? Rooney too after either playing on while injured this year or coming back too quickly from injury probably compromised his form for the summer. His bloody-mindedness has cost us dear. On a technical note, I would personally say to Rooney that the next time he comes within 5 yards of the halfway line to pick up the ball, leaving no-one (or worse still, Emile Heskey) upfront to actually score, he’s coming straight off, like it or not, scowls or no damn scowls. World class means doing it against the biggest and the best, consistently, which Rooney doesn’t seem to be able to do at the moment. He seems to lose heart too very easily. Remember his Champions’ League debut for Man U? What happened to that explosive fearless teenager? That caged animal? Barry too looked like a man who’d just come back from injury. On the flanks, Shaun Wright-Phillips and Lennon hardly look like world beaters, now do they? Carragher is too slow to justify a place in Liverpool’s back four let alone England’s. Milner got sick and that was that. I can’t think of a single player who played to his potential (apart from, yes you guessed it, Heskey, who does exactly what it says on the box, i.e. “Will not score under any circumstances”) and generally speaking very few of our players are actually complete footballers. As far as I’m concerned, if you’ve got great positional sense as a defender but you’re slow to catch Klose you shouldn’t be playing. If as a defender, you’re good going forward (Ashley Cole sometimes, Glen Johnson not recently) but can’t actually defend then I’m sorry you should look for another job, on the pitch or off it. He’s as fast as lightning but he can’t cross to save his life (Lennon): sign him up I say!! Haven’t got a left foot? There’s a job going in my local chippie. The fact is that we talk up our players too much and they fall for it thinking they can smack people up in clubs, write what they like on facebook, sleep around, take cash for illegal tours round clubs and that because they are adored they’ll be forgiven, pardoned and acquitted. I’m praying those days are over.
Let’s fantasise for a moment about what should have happened. Even playing as piss-poorly as we did, we should have won the group and then we would have had our best chance in 20 years of getting to the semi-finals of the World Cup. When we were unable to put 2 past Slovenia and the USA scored in the last minute against Algeria, we probably should have known that our time was up before it had even started. At least we didn’t end up bottom of our group with 2 points like some but Italy at least win the damn thing or get to a final every ten to fifteen years.
They may have more than their share of the luck with the ladies but Lady Luck wasn’t on our side in South Africa. In the Germany game, the Gods frowned on us (kinda makes you regret winning the war, almost) and handed Germany an enormous slice of luck that they probably didn’t even need. Journalists in England can go on about not being good enough as much as they like and that the best team ultimately won but that goal that wasn’t was clearly the turning point in the match. We would have gone in with our tails up and who knows what would have happened in the second half. Deserving it isn’t really the point. It’s a question of winning games by scoring more goals than the other lot. If it was purely down to quality then we shouldn’t even have bothered getting on the plane. What’s wrong with these journalists anyway? When we deserve to go through but lose “tragically” on penalties they bemoan England’s misfortune but then this time round they say the “phantom” goal hardly matters because the Germans outplayed them. Make up your minds, lads - maybe Ashley Cole on his facebook page was referring to the English media when he wrote what he wrote. No-one knows what would have happened in the second half – the momentum would however have definitely been with us.
So what's wrong with our heroes? Is it because our manager is a bleedin’ foreigner? Being foreign in managerial terms is quite frankly an advantage but more than anything it’s the lack of English that’s Capello’s problem, along with the rest of his Italian-speaking team. He barely can and his staff can’t. Being able to communicate effectively with your players before, during and after games is, as we can all imagine, an essential part of being a manager. When Capello screams from the touchline, what language is he doing it in? And come to think of it, which of the other great footballing nations have experimented with foreign managers? Only Portugal with Scolari’s and guess what his native language is? Language isn’t a detail, it’s not a holiday romance where you don’t speak the lingo of the person you just picked up because you communicate in kind. Beyond this, his reputation can’t be knocked although some of the choices he made for his squad can be (Walcott, Robinson, Campbell and Darren Bent should probably have made the final 23). Taking Beckham and forcing him to wear a Marks and Spencer suit was both cruel and unnecessary. I won’t even go into the boot camp and beerless bits or having Psycho as his assistant. But he’s had a lot on his plate recently. After a smooth qualifying campaign, he was faced with scandal, injury, loss of form and mutiny. Most of which was probably anxiety-fuelled. I’m sure he was lost for words, at least in English (seriously though, can anyone imagine a stuttering Englishman in charge of the Italian national side apart from in some perverse parallel universe?). At the tournament itself, I’m not sure he made all the right decisions. Should he have replaced Green with James? I’m tempted to think that Green would have saved Muller’s first goal. Should he have played Wright-Phillips? Should Carragher have replaced Ferdinand? Should Crouch have got more of a look-in like he would have expected? Who knows.
Some would cite structural or admin problems, that the FA, UEFA and FIFA are run by ignorant dinosaurs who understand little or nothing about football and it would be difficult to argue to against it. Their steadfast resistance to the introduction of technology is senseless, even a small child knows that it would make football better. Referees refusing to look at the big screen replays was just pure farce. And introducing a new ball during the showpiece for world football is the kind of thing the Italian government would do. Nuff said.
On a domestic grassroots level, it’s clear that we in England don’t invest enough in pure talent and I would even suggest that there’s a racism issue against certain immigrant communities. Only a few years ago, someone at the higher echelons of English football said publicly that Asian kids didn’t have the physique for football. But Yossi Banayoun does, right? It’s just a limited personal experience, but when I was at school in the 70s and 80s, some of the best players were of Asian or Chinese origin so there’s got to be a reason in my mind why absolutely no-one has made it. Apart from Chopra, who probably doesn’t have scouts scurrying down to Friday night prayers to sign up some kids.
There’s so much wrong that it would be difficult to know where to start. Add to that, various mystical forces going against us and I can’t see us recovering any time soon.
So our World Cup is over before it really got going. How we pine for the days of Lineker, Gascoigne and err, Steve Hodge. Now the suffering’s over, we can finally relax and enjoy ourselves. Along with our boys who are probably having a whale of a time alongside some pool somewhere exotic birds and booze to hand. . Addio, Golden Generation, and thanks for the memories (beating Germany 5-1, competing with Argentina in 1998, beating Argentina in 2002, and that’s about it I think)
For the record, my money is on an Argentina – Brazil final. Now those boys can play.
It’s not all doom and gloom, as they say here in Italy, when one Pope dies, there’s always another just around the corner - there are only about 700 days to go to the European Championships in 2012. I must admit though I’m secretly hoping the Mayans were right so we don’t have to sit through more decades of this or sift through more bloody remains.
It's the end of a childhood dream for me, at the tender age of 40. Never will naive hope raise its sappy head again. And to think I risked life and limb flying home on my scooter on via Magliana to catch the second half of England – Slovenia! One hapless sap watching a load of 'em.
It was enough to make grown men weep familiar tears and young boys shrug their innocent shoulders because they’ve never known any different. Our collective hopes dashed yet again by those mean, super-efficient and predictably nerveless Germans. So we’re left with our pens in our hands (among other things) to pick over the remains of yet another debacle, of yet another outrageous piece of bad luck/bad refereeing as history repeats itself. Again. Not that we were playing well, we weren’t. You make your own luck, the same people say and they are probably right. We just about got what we deserved, despite clinging onto the hope that we might have turned things around if only. If only. More likely is that the Germans would have raised their game. We'll never know.
Our billing as a leading footballing nation must now be shown up for what it frankly is: a total and utter fallacy. We are not and haven’t been for quite a while. The last time we were even remotely competitive was 20 years ago when we reached the semis here in Italy and were, as is our destiny, unlucky to go out. Even the Germans belatedly admitted we’d probably deserved it on the balance of play. In the intervening years, however, football has moved forward while we have stood still, continuing to develop strong and physical players while more skilful smaller players fall mostly by the wayside. Where are the lightweight English Yossi Benayouns? Add to that the undying adoration, the debatable conviction that our league is the best in the world, consistent Champions League success, the obscene amounts of money, the inevitable sex (and other) scandals, the media pressure and the Hollywood lifestyles that footballers enjoy and we have what we have: one unmitigated disaster after another. Now if we looked away from the blinding glamour of the Premiership for a second, we’d see that our record in the World Cup in the last 40 years is anything but “great”. The main problem here is that we can’t accept the fact that the game we invented is played better by others and has been for a long, long time. Everyone else is better at developing talent, more psychologically prepared for the challenge, less prone to injuries (isn’t anxiety a factor here too?), more tactically astute and more willing to get their heads down and work it would appear. Plus we seem intent on playing more games than everyone else. Even since the relative success in 1986 and 1990, where more importantly we actually played some decent football, our recent history makes bleak reading both for results and performances: in 1994, our heroic turnips didn’t qualify; in 1998, there was that goal against Argentina who we should have beaten but again the Gods were against us (maybe it’s time we gave up the Malvinas?); in 2002 we looked pretty good but again a lack of guile and goalkeeping howlers undid us; in 2006 we were God awful but reached the quarter-finals and this time round we were worse and didn’t. How many shots on target was it in 4 games? Less than ten? What a sorry state of affairs. So we’re a leading nation, are we? Not unless New Zealand, Chile, Mexico, Uruguay (no offence, you’re better than us) can also be considered part of this illustrious group. The Kiwis did a great job against the Italians and almost sneaked it too (we would have been hailed as world beaters if we’d performed as well against the World Champions).
So what exactly do the cocksure, efficient and relaxed Germans have that we don’t? Perhaps it’s that they’re secure in the knowledge that they can pass and move and shoot and control a ball with the ease becoming of a professional footballer? Perhaps it’s their humility? They can certainly handle the pressure better - did our lads look relaxed for one moment of their brief stay in South Africa apart from when they were tweeting around the pool? When I saw them all red-faced and sweaty before kick-off against the USA, I knew we were in for more disappointment. “Let the suffering begin!” I neglected to tweet. How sadly inaccurate all those theories now look in the face of our heroes’ knocking knees ? The weather will suit us, they told us, we have more experience than the Germans, we can top our group and then get an easy ride to the semis, we are good enough to win it and blah-di-blah-di-blah. Our lads swan around like they’re the bees’ knees for most of the year in their luxury cars and swanky (that is the right adjective, isn’t it?) clothes but when faced with the real deal in a World Cup game, they transform into a bunch of rabbits in the headlights. “Don’t look at me!! Don’t pass me that funny ball whose name I can’t pronounce let alone spell!!” Not only are we technically inferior to a lot of teams, we can’t even rely on our goddamn Dunkirk spirit any more – what is the world coming to? Admittedly, the luxury lifestyle that grates with many is par for the course so we shouldn’t complain about that too much – it’s us that pampers them after all – but to see our dummies turn out in nappies against apparently lesser opposition is galling for us ordinary fans. So much talk for so little substance. In the top 16 in the world but not the top 8 sounds about right, though on current form it’s generous.
Hang on a sec, aren’t our players supposed to be some of the best in the world? Didn’t I read that somewhere or hear those words drop convincingly from the lips of one or two of our superstars? Well, on closer analysis, this too falls apart at the seams. Sorry about this but I have to start somewhere: Glen Johnson is not a complete footballer. He already looked unnervingly ill at ease against the Great Slovenians but against Germany he was just woeful. I don’t know whether anyone in England noticed but for Germany’s second goal, as Podolski was teeing up his shot, Glen Johnson (the best right back in the country apparently) instead of trying to put body and soul between the ball and the goal suddenly jumped away from the goal as if he wanted to catch someone offside! Youtube it, footytube it, watch the damn replay, it was one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. It got worse: he then let the guy cut across him before setting up Muller for that third goal instead of clipping his heels like any world class defender would have done, raised arms and “not me, Guv” expression and all. He later got booked for a tactical foul when we were 4-1 down – oh, Glen, well done, son. Even then, James should have saved it – Muller hit it straight at him but James in his wisdom was already going down the wrong way. Why wait for the shot? How ludicrous! How on earth the best keeper in the country can come from a relegated team is beyond me. He may have some qualities that the others lack, like exuding silky confidence (how funny his “we’re better than the Germans” statement now sounds) and doing some modelling on the side, but is he seriously the best keeper out there? Maybe Rednapp was right when he said that it was scandalous to omit Robinson.
Throughout the tournament, defensively we were poor all over and that was clear to see. The first goal was route one: embarrassing. In the build-up to the second goal the Germans used that other highly sophisticated technique to split our defence: a one-two. Revolutionary. Our lads must have been well impressed but we do live in a footballing culture where commentators still refer to a professional footballer’s wrong foot! John Terry (so many “leaders” on the pitch when we could have done with a few more real or on-form defenders) looked out of his depth for most of the game but he’s had a tough year, the poor baby (how many German players were involved in money or sex scandals in the run-up to the World Cup?) Okay, so Upson was caught for the first goal (but was Klose onside when the keeper kicked off?) but at least he had the balls to go up the other end and make amends. You’ll notice I’ve had a memory lapse as to the key moment in the Germany match but bear with me. Now Steven, I commend his effort and I feel for him but I fear his barnstorming days of old are gone. Last season, Gerrard lost that yard of pace that used to take him past players and also his shooting has abandoned him. I won’t mention his private life too much but does anyone out there think we’d get away with a GBH charge on the defence that we thought we were going to be attacked? Mmm, I doubt it somehow. He hasn’t really been the same since. Lampard looks absolutely world class when he plays on his home patch but then looks like a duck out of water with the big fish – how many shots is that, 40 without a goal in World Cups (at least he gets his shots off I guess)? Rooney too after either playing on while injured this year or coming back too quickly from injury probably compromised his form for the summer. His bloody-mindedness has cost us dear. On a technical note, I would personally say to Rooney that the next time he comes within 5 yards of the halfway line to pick up the ball, leaving no-one (or worse still, Emile Heskey) upfront to actually score, he’s coming straight off, like it or not, scowls or no damn scowls. World class means doing it against the biggest and the best, consistently, which Rooney doesn’t seem to be able to do at the moment. He seems to lose heart too very easily. Remember his Champions’ League debut for Man U? What happened to that explosive fearless teenager? That caged animal? Barry too looked like a man who’d just come back from injury. On the flanks, Shaun Wright-Phillips and Lennon hardly look like world beaters, now do they? Carragher is too slow to justify a place in Liverpool’s back four let alone England’s. Milner got sick and that was that. I can’t think of a single player who played to his potential (apart from, yes you guessed it, Heskey, who does exactly what it says on the box, i.e. “Will not score under any circumstances”) and generally speaking very few of our players are actually complete footballers. As far as I’m concerned, if you’ve got great positional sense as a defender but you’re slow to catch Klose you shouldn’t be playing. If as a defender, you’re good going forward (Ashley Cole sometimes, Glen Johnson not recently) but can’t actually defend then I’m sorry you should look for another job, on the pitch or off it. He’s as fast as lightning but he can’t cross to save his life (Lennon): sign him up I say!! Haven’t got a left foot? There’s a job going in my local chippie. The fact is that we talk up our players too much and they fall for it thinking they can smack people up in clubs, write what they like on facebook, sleep around, take cash for illegal tours round clubs and that because they are adored they’ll be forgiven, pardoned and acquitted. I’m praying those days are over.
Let’s fantasise for a moment about what should have happened. Even playing as piss-poorly as we did, we should have won the group and then we would have had our best chance in 20 years of getting to the semi-finals of the World Cup. When we were unable to put 2 past Slovenia and the USA scored in the last minute against Algeria, we probably should have known that our time was up before it had even started. At least we didn’t end up bottom of our group with 2 points like some but Italy at least win the damn thing or get to a final every ten to fifteen years.
They may have more than their share of the luck with the ladies but Lady Luck wasn’t on our side in South Africa. In the Germany game, the Gods frowned on us (kinda makes you regret winning the war, almost) and handed Germany an enormous slice of luck that they probably didn’t even need. Journalists in England can go on about not being good enough as much as they like and that the best team ultimately won but that goal that wasn’t was clearly the turning point in the match. We would have gone in with our tails up and who knows what would have happened in the second half. Deserving it isn’t really the point. It’s a question of winning games by scoring more goals than the other lot. If it was purely down to quality then we shouldn’t even have bothered getting on the plane. What’s wrong with these journalists anyway? When we deserve to go through but lose “tragically” on penalties they bemoan England’s misfortune but then this time round they say the “phantom” goal hardly matters because the Germans outplayed them. Make up your minds, lads - maybe Ashley Cole on his facebook page was referring to the English media when he wrote what he wrote. No-one knows what would have happened in the second half – the momentum would however have definitely been with us.
So what's wrong with our heroes? Is it because our manager is a bleedin’ foreigner? Being foreign in managerial terms is quite frankly an advantage but more than anything it’s the lack of English that’s Capello’s problem, along with the rest of his Italian-speaking team. He barely can and his staff can’t. Being able to communicate effectively with your players before, during and after games is, as we can all imagine, an essential part of being a manager. When Capello screams from the touchline, what language is he doing it in? And come to think of it, which of the other great footballing nations have experimented with foreign managers? Only Portugal with Scolari’s and guess what his native language is? Language isn’t a detail, it’s not a holiday romance where you don’t speak the lingo of the person you just picked up because you communicate in kind. Beyond this, his reputation can’t be knocked although some of the choices he made for his squad can be (Walcott, Robinson, Campbell and Darren Bent should probably have made the final 23). Taking Beckham and forcing him to wear a Marks and Spencer suit was both cruel and unnecessary. I won’t even go into the boot camp and beerless bits or having Psycho as his assistant. But he’s had a lot on his plate recently. After a smooth qualifying campaign, he was faced with scandal, injury, loss of form and mutiny. Most of which was probably anxiety-fuelled. I’m sure he was lost for words, at least in English (seriously though, can anyone imagine a stuttering Englishman in charge of the Italian national side apart from in some perverse parallel universe?). At the tournament itself, I’m not sure he made all the right decisions. Should he have replaced Green with James? I’m tempted to think that Green would have saved Muller’s first goal. Should he have played Wright-Phillips? Should Carragher have replaced Ferdinand? Should Crouch have got more of a look-in like he would have expected? Who knows.
Some would cite structural or admin problems, that the FA, UEFA and FIFA are run by ignorant dinosaurs who understand little or nothing about football and it would be difficult to argue to against it. Their steadfast resistance to the introduction of technology is senseless, even a small child knows that it would make football better. Referees refusing to look at the big screen replays was just pure farce. And introducing a new ball during the showpiece for world football is the kind of thing the Italian government would do. Nuff said.
On a domestic grassroots level, it’s clear that we in England don’t invest enough in pure talent and I would even suggest that there’s a racism issue against certain immigrant communities. Only a few years ago, someone at the higher echelons of English football said publicly that Asian kids didn’t have the physique for football. But Yossi Banayoun does, right? It’s just a limited personal experience, but when I was at school in the 70s and 80s, some of the best players were of Asian or Chinese origin so there’s got to be a reason in my mind why absolutely no-one has made it. Apart from Chopra, who probably doesn’t have scouts scurrying down to Friday night prayers to sign up some kids.
There’s so much wrong that it would be difficult to know where to start. Add to that, various mystical forces going against us and I can’t see us recovering any time soon.
So our World Cup is over before it really got going. How we pine for the days of Lineker, Gascoigne and err, Steve Hodge. Now the suffering’s over, we can finally relax and enjoy ourselves. Along with our boys who are probably having a whale of a time alongside some pool somewhere exotic birds and booze to hand. . Addio, Golden Generation, and thanks for the memories (beating Germany 5-1, competing with Argentina in 1998, beating Argentina in 2002, and that’s about it I think)
For the record, my money is on an Argentina – Brazil final. Now those boys can play.
It’s not all doom and gloom, as they say here in Italy, when one Pope dies, there’s always another just around the corner - there are only about 700 days to go to the European Championships in 2012. I must admit though I’m secretly hoping the Mayans were right so we don’t have to sit through more decades of this or sift through more bloody remains.
venerdì 23 aprile 2010
When is Barclays bank not exactly Barclays?
This may sound like some kind of cunning Italian trabocchetto, but it ain’t a trick question and it ain’t no laughing matter. Not for me at least. I’ve been trying to keep this under my hat, to keep the lid on my fuming rage but when a letter arrived from my “English” bank yesterday (Barclays Italia), for which I was unnaturally charged, I thought, “Ok, mo’ basta!”. Enough is enough. I’ve got something on my chest and it ain’t my chin. Weighing approximately the same as a packet of sugar, it contained reams of indecipherable nonsense in ridiculous smallprint and arcaic Italian about various terms and conditions about debitori and creditori, all in the name of Italian transparenza. Fifteen pages of stuff that means nothing to no-one and that no-one is actually meant to read but all designed to cover their backsides when you happen to complain that you’re been overcharged for something silly. “No, no, guardi,” they’ll say in that oh-so-friendly way as your butt cheeks instinctively clench, “we sent you all the terms and conditions for your account. It’s here on page 14, point 3b, plain as the nose on your face.” And they smugly state that Italian banks have been immune to the crisis – slowly, quietly, sweetly screwing their customers every day of the week helps to boost that immunity no end. Now, you may say that perhaps my Italian isn’t up to it. It is. I’ve given similar letters to students of mine in the past in a desperate attempt to glean some sense but it’s Greek to them too. “Oh, Deep, you’re not supposed to worry about that. No-one actually reads these things, you silly, silly, naïve, darling boy!” “But what if, inbetween all the flowery medieval Italian, it says that the bank manager can now have dinner at your house every Friday and sleep with your wife afterwards?” I protested. “Come on, Deep, non esagerare." The story is long and old so I’ll start at the beginning. Bear with me and sit down. It’s painful. I used to be with Monte dei Paschi di Siena, a nice friendly Italian bank conveniently located under our school where I was always greeted in that intimate Italian way like one of the bleedin’ family. Okay, so I had to pay a few euros every month to have an account which was initially galling but then I just stomached it (along with everything else – don’t go there, not now) because, you know, they were so damn friendly and all. Occasionally I was escorted into an office and told about various investments I could make and on more than one occasion, amid the amiable chit-chat and warm hands on shoulders, I found myself signing five or six sheets of indecipherable smallprint in a grinning daze, high on caffeine. “This clause here that mentions dinner, Friday nights, my wife and the Direttore – what’s that about then?” I was sometimes awake enough to ask. “Oh no, nothing to worry about,” they would say, “ tranquillo.” Tranquillo. Can you feel that tightening sensation around your rectum? Sadly on those occasions I didn’t trust my arse. My investments went tette in su and when I complained that I had lost not only all the interest accumulated over five years but also 30% of my capital and no-one had had the nous to even call me up, my words were met with the oh-so-typical-Italian shrug of the shoulders. Swiftly followed by the extended arms I-relinquish-all-responsibility gesture that's as common as a tooting horn. “We aren’t legally obliged to contact clients until they lose 50% of their investment,” I was told. So I huffed and I pùffed but no houses came down. It'll take more than the words of some unconnected schmuck to break the hold of Italian banks on Italian society. Ever seen any articles in any Italian newspapers criticising the banks? Nope. And why? Err, 'cos the banks own the newspapers, dummy! So I walked out of the bank no longer as a customer, vowing never to have anything to do with Italian banks again. They couldn't have cared less. On my scooter riding home one night, Barclays appeared on the horizon like a mirage in the desert, like a bottle of beer before an alcoholic. Little did I know that appearances can deceive. I went in and my laments were met with knowing nods, compassionate understanding. I've come to the right place. “Here we do things differently, we’re Barclays but you know who we are already, I don’t need to tell you what we’re about.” Relief washed over me like sweet Pugliese primitivo. I should have known better. There was a slight charge for current accounts every month but they threw in a credit card and 50 withdrawals from other banks’ machines a year so I figured it made sense. I bought it, I lapped it all up like dome sap of a religious fanatic because I wanted to believe. I had to believe, goddammit.I slipped my new cashpoint card into my wallet next to my UK Barclays debit card and my Barclaycard – home at last, thank God, I’m home at last. Soon enough, clouds began to gather, a rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. Within a few weeks, I applied for a €2500 loan to buy a new scooter. It was flatly refused, no explanations. I protested, my complaints were answered with a standard letter addressed to someone called Dear Customer after about 6 weeks. Barclays was beginning to feel a bit more like Baacleis, if you know what I mean. I stomached it, bought the bike with my own savings and figured “Oh well.” I clung on desperately to the belief that my bank was the same bank I'd been with for 20 years. After a month or so, my credit card still hadn’t come through. I waited. I called. I emailed. After 5 months, in a strop of biblical proportions, I told them to stick the card where the sun don’t shine. Yep, exactly there, clenched buttcheeks or not. And now this letter. Exactly the same as any letter from any Italian bank, so long you’d have to take the day off work and employ a legal expert to extract any sense from it. They were so damn sure that I wasn’t going to read it that they even forgot to print page 5 (of 15). You gotta hand it to them. ‘Cos if you don’t, they’ll just take it anyway. Your soul and your savings. So there you go. When is Barclays not Barclays? I don’t mean to interrupt the fervent back-slapping at Barclays for yet another year of record profits, but the answer to the question is palese, clear as crystal: when it’s Barclays Italia. Ma che vuoi fa’? What exactly are you gonna do? There’s not much you can do. Apart from scream to high heaven every time something little happens because your stress threshold is so low and because you quite frankly can’t take it anymore and not because you like complaining but just because you thought Italy was a first world country and of course if I was living in India I wouldn’t complain about the inexplicable blackouts and the state of the roads because that would be ridiculous but here it’s just a non-stop rollercoaster ride of incazzature and ohhhhhhh, okay, give me some tits and arse on telly and let’s go to the beach and crack open some beers.
martedì 2 febbraio 2010
Double take
The family cheques came through, by the way. Back-dated to 20 months ago, too, to when the baby was born. Straight onto my pay slip for January. Needless to say, my boss gave it a double take - he wasn't best pleased at having to fork out bucketleads of cash! We've come to an arrangement. He made me an offer I couldn't refuse (very cheap, I know). A nice, tidy €130 a month will come in handy. Fags and booze money at least (ho-ho). And, lo and behold, my mother-in-law was right, again - you've gotta have some faith in the system sometimes. I guess. Just occasionally. But if you could see me, you'd see me looking like Woody Allen again though, at the end of his mesmeric Manhatten. Not everyone gets corrupted (Go on, son, you can do it).
venerdì 13 novembre 2009
A brush with bureaucracy. And I survived.
It all began when the baby was born some 18 sleepless but joyful months ago now. My mother-in-law gave me a nudge and said I should apply to the state for family cheques.
"You pay tax, you're due it," she said, which was at least partly true.
I looked at her and asked, "Well, how difficult is that going to be? Will I need a degree in public administration first to be able to negotiate the quagmire of rules and convoluted archaic Italian?".
"Now, now, Deep, non esagerare. It's easy, one, two, three, it's done. Have a little faith in people sometimes."
As you can imagine, I pictured Woody Allen's face in the closing scene of his absolute classic 'Manhatten', years before he lost his talent and his marbles.
"You'll have some more orecchiette with ragù, won't you?" she continued.
"Does the Pope shit in the woods?" is what I wanted to say but I wisely kept my mouth shut but I'm losing the narrative thread here.
So I asked at work what forms I needed and what supporting documents were necessary. Silence. Boh. Ask the commercialista. So I did. Via email, like some fool drunk on cheap punch. Silence. Weeks went by. I chased it up.
"I actually sent an email about it weeks ago."
I heard uncontained sniggering on the other end of the line. The line was being repeated around the office to much mirth.
"I'll let you know," the voice said eventually, after the laughter had died out.
A few days later, the answer came.
"You just need to fill out the forms with the right details and Bob's yer uncle."
"And that's all? Nothing else?"
"No, nothing, tranquillo."
This word always sent a chill down my spine. Tranquillo.
"Niente niente?"
"Niente, don't be paranoid!"
Okey doke. Have a little faith. I filled out the forms and left them with the secretaries to send to the commercialista's office together with the prima nota, the monthly office payments in/out documents. And I waited.
After another couple of weeks, I started getting the shakes. I called and was passed onto the consulente di lavoro, a certain faith-inspiring Mr Beans. He hadn't received any forms.
"And anyway, you need the autorizzazione from INPS (the social security office). Get that and send over the forms again and we'll get this sorted," he said, all upbeat.
So I called INPS and explained the situation once I finally got to talk to a human being.
"Can I do this via the phone or email?"
I could hear uncontrollable giggling again from the other end of the line. What am I funny? Do I amoose you?
This was June/JUly time and I was wrapping things up for the summer and getting ready to leave town so I put the thing on ice for a bit. Until after the summer and then I plucked up the courage and went in on September 1. I picked up a ticket and waited with my ipod and some McEwan for company. I didn't have to wait long though. While I was, I heard many a violent screaming match between these power-drunk officials and Italians on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
The far from friendly guy behind the desk looked through the forms I'd brought.
"All this seems to be in order. And the letter from the mother declaring she isn't receiving family cheques?"
"What letter?"
"You don't have it?"
"Can't you just check on your computer whether she is or not?"
He smiled broadly like I'd just slipped on a banana skin.
"Err, no, that's not how things work. I really need that letter."
"Nobody told me I needed it," I protested, too much.
He shrugged his shoulders and pressed his button to summon his next victim. I walked out effing and blinding.
Trying to maintain my calm, I rolled up the following day, clutching the aforementioned letter. My partner hadn't been around so I'd faked the signature like a good Italian. I had a different bloke this time, no less mean and self-important.
"Tutto bene, tutto bene," he said leafing through my papers. "E lo stato di famiglia?"
There was a quiver in my voice when I meekly replied, "Stato di famiglia? What's that?"
What it is is a document issued by the Comune that declares whether you're single, married, living together or whatever. What difference it makes is beyond me.
"Can't you just ring them?" I ventured.
"Don't worry, you can fill out this autodichiarazione. It may delay things however."
Finally it was my turn to blurt out a nervous, anxious chuckle. Delay things? Are you pulling my pecker, buddy boy?
That was two months ago. A few weeks ago, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to go back in. In the meantime, I'd received an email from the future chirpily saying that I could email INPS directly to chase up applications. Yeah, right, I thought but then I figured that very few Italians would be green enough to fall for the invitation so I scribbled a few lines and sent off the email. What did I have to lose?
This morning I was about to lug my sorry arse in and ask what was happening but luckily I didn't. This afternoon something strange happened. I got a call. From a very friendly woman.
"Signor Deep. I'm calling from the INPS office about the email you sent two weeks ago. We just wanted to let you know that your autorizzazione is in the post."
I gushed like a shy teenager.
"Thanks a lot. Thanks, really, really, that's ever so kind. Thank you for the call."
So all's well that end's well although it's far from over. The letter has to arrive. I have to fill out all the forms again and personally hand them in to the consulente di lavoro. Then maybe, just maybe, I'll get my family cheques. Hopefully before the baby turns 18.
I've told this story to my Italian friends and they've just shrugged in that resigned but knowing way.
"Only two months? Ti è andata bene," they say.
Maybe they're right. Maybe at the end of the day, all things considered, I did get off lightly.
"You pay tax, you're due it," she said, which was at least partly true.
I looked at her and asked, "Well, how difficult is that going to be? Will I need a degree in public administration first to be able to negotiate the quagmire of rules and convoluted archaic Italian?".
"Now, now, Deep, non esagerare. It's easy, one, two, three, it's done. Have a little faith in people sometimes."
As you can imagine, I pictured Woody Allen's face in the closing scene of his absolute classic 'Manhatten', years before he lost his talent and his marbles.
"You'll have some more orecchiette with ragù, won't you?" she continued.
"Does the Pope shit in the woods?" is what I wanted to say but I wisely kept my mouth shut but I'm losing the narrative thread here.
So I asked at work what forms I needed and what supporting documents were necessary. Silence. Boh. Ask the commercialista. So I did. Via email, like some fool drunk on cheap punch. Silence. Weeks went by. I chased it up.
"I actually sent an email about it weeks ago."
I heard uncontained sniggering on the other end of the line. The line was being repeated around the office to much mirth.
"I'll let you know," the voice said eventually, after the laughter had died out.
A few days later, the answer came.
"You just need to fill out the forms with the right details and Bob's yer uncle."
"And that's all? Nothing else?"
"No, nothing, tranquillo."
This word always sent a chill down my spine. Tranquillo.
"Niente niente?"
"Niente, don't be paranoid!"
Okey doke. Have a little faith. I filled out the forms and left them with the secretaries to send to the commercialista's office together with the prima nota, the monthly office payments in/out documents. And I waited.
After another couple of weeks, I started getting the shakes. I called and was passed onto the consulente di lavoro, a certain faith-inspiring Mr Beans. He hadn't received any forms.
"And anyway, you need the autorizzazione from INPS (the social security office). Get that and send over the forms again and we'll get this sorted," he said, all upbeat.
So I called INPS and explained the situation once I finally got to talk to a human being.
"Can I do this via the phone or email?"
I could hear uncontrollable giggling again from the other end of the line. What am I funny? Do I amoose you?
This was June/JUly time and I was wrapping things up for the summer and getting ready to leave town so I put the thing on ice for a bit. Until after the summer and then I plucked up the courage and went in on September 1. I picked up a ticket and waited with my ipod and some McEwan for company. I didn't have to wait long though. While I was, I heard many a violent screaming match between these power-drunk officials and Italians on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
The far from friendly guy behind the desk looked through the forms I'd brought.
"All this seems to be in order. And the letter from the mother declaring she isn't receiving family cheques?"
"What letter?"
"You don't have it?"
"Can't you just check on your computer whether she is or not?"
He smiled broadly like I'd just slipped on a banana skin.
"Err, no, that's not how things work. I really need that letter."
"Nobody told me I needed it," I protested, too much.
He shrugged his shoulders and pressed his button to summon his next victim. I walked out effing and blinding.
Trying to maintain my calm, I rolled up the following day, clutching the aforementioned letter. My partner hadn't been around so I'd faked the signature like a good Italian. I had a different bloke this time, no less mean and self-important.
"Tutto bene, tutto bene," he said leafing through my papers. "E lo stato di famiglia?"
There was a quiver in my voice when I meekly replied, "Stato di famiglia? What's that?"
What it is is a document issued by the Comune that declares whether you're single, married, living together or whatever. What difference it makes is beyond me.
"Can't you just ring them?" I ventured.
"Don't worry, you can fill out this autodichiarazione. It may delay things however."
Finally it was my turn to blurt out a nervous, anxious chuckle. Delay things? Are you pulling my pecker, buddy boy?
That was two months ago. A few weeks ago, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to go back in. In the meantime, I'd received an email from the future chirpily saying that I could email INPS directly to chase up applications. Yeah, right, I thought but then I figured that very few Italians would be green enough to fall for the invitation so I scribbled a few lines and sent off the email. What did I have to lose?
This morning I was about to lug my sorry arse in and ask what was happening but luckily I didn't. This afternoon something strange happened. I got a call. From a very friendly woman.
"Signor Deep. I'm calling from the INPS office about the email you sent two weeks ago. We just wanted to let you know that your autorizzazione is in the post."
I gushed like a shy teenager.
"Thanks a lot. Thanks, really, really, that's ever so kind. Thank you for the call."
So all's well that end's well although it's far from over. The letter has to arrive. I have to fill out all the forms again and personally hand them in to the consulente di lavoro. Then maybe, just maybe, I'll get my family cheques. Hopefully before the baby turns 18.
I've told this story to my Italian friends and they've just shrugged in that resigned but knowing way.
"Only two months? Ti è andata bene," they say.
Maybe they're right. Maybe at the end of the day, all things considered, I did get off lightly.
There's magic in the air...
And when you can get away from the head-spinning chaos of the eternal shitty sprawl, gobsmacking, awe-inspiring magic awaits...
The sun
Waking up to warm winter sun is priceless though. Gotta get ready, then will step out and brave the traffic in this brave old world on my flash new scooter. A dopo.
giovedì 12 novembre 2009
It's a love-hate thing
Of the merry crew I used to know, years back, I’m the last man standing. Wooed over here initially on the dizzy promise of lusty romance and simplicity, I longed too to return to the 1970s, those halcyon days of childhood before the brutal dismantling of British society in the cold but necessary 80s. I yearned for long lazy summers, sideburns, simple pleasures, touchy-feely relationships. Which I got. I guess. Together with the inefficiencies, the strikes, the broken pavements, the defective streetlights, the blackouts, the hanging on the phone for hours at the mercy of public offices, the cliquey corrupt police force, the miscarriages of justice, the woeful supermarkets, the grisly standard of service, the potholed roads, the monopolised services screwing the consumer, the voiceless citizen, the extreme right-wing rumblings of discontent, the football violence.
Be careful what you wish for, right? What in God’s name was I thinking?
So you’ll occasionally hear me drooling over some gorgeous detail of Italian life (ahh, the sweet hills around
It’s not what I want, believe me, I’d love to be ranting and raving about how great for example Italian TV is, how it’s full of ugly old female presenters with their mute half-naked toyboy sidekicks (not too convinced about this bit really), how you can’t get to see a good cabaret programme for love nor money, how it’s a shame that some old housewives’ favourites are phased out too early to make way for talented young people (did you see the Gianni Morandi Speciale on Rai Uno the other night with him singing inside a huddle of youngsters who were singing along in playback? – I was reaching for me sick bag, knowing full well that in 10 years time they’ll be digging him up for another Speciale paid for with our licence fees), how efficient the parliament is and how great it is that Italian politicians not only look out for the interests of ordinary citizens thereby risking the wrath of the grandi interessi but they also accept a pittance of a salary that is also taxed (cute this, the biggest legalized evaders of tax in Italy are Italian MPs themselves) and which they wouldn’t dream of spending on prostitutes and coke, how fast and effective the legal system is (if your life expectancy is like 250 years), how smooth and hole-free the roads are and blah di blah di blah. I really would be a happy man to be banging on about how other countries should be following
Italians do it better? What exactly, la focazz? (Barese focaccia is fabulous).
Before you start booing, you’re right of course. If I don’t like it, I can just bugger off back home, right? But I’m fighting the good fight for everyone, you too. And, believe me, I’m fighting, every damn day of the week.
Not that the grass is greener over the Manica. Watching British telly and reading the Guardian can be misleading. Their wit, intelligence and eloquence aren’t necessarily a reflection of real Britishness, far from it. When you listen to the foul-mouthed senseless rantings of Celebrity Big Brother, when you see someone puking up outside a pub, when you see someone coming at you with a knife, you think: oh now this lot could do with a dose of Italian bella figura. They, we, whoever, could do with being at least a tad worried about what their parents are gonna say if they come home minkered or with puke or blood splattered all over them. In the total absence of the law in
It’s a no-win situation, for which the only solution would be a nice via di mezzo. A country called Itland or Engaly. We are beasts but our State isn’t. Here it’s the opposite, it’s the State that behaves like a beast, a drunken, drugged up
The venom in my blood has subsided somewhat on the back of this damn dirty swine flu. But it’ll be back. It’s just a question of time before I pay 3 times as much for something here than I would in England, before I can’t go for a walk with my daughter in her pushchair without going into the middle of the road because the parked cars are blocking the pavement, before I tread in some dog shit, before I come across a merry band of piss-drenched tramps and their leashless dogs, before I destroy my bikes suspension on Rome’s roads, before I have my next dealing with Italian bureaucracy, before I next have to pay tax, before I next have to go to the dentist, before I next look into the window of a local estate agents.
But the moment I’m cool. I’m cool with
It won’t last though. It’s inevitable. When the Pope dies, up pops another. There’s nothing you or I can do about it.
Notte.
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