Author Archives: Andy

On being British

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I like being British.  Am I proud of being British?  Well, to be honest, not always.  It’s not that I’m not proud, it’s just that, well, I’m British and being proud is not seen as a good thing.  After all, as we all know, ‘pride comes before a fall’ – and when someone has been proud, we see their fall as just desserts.

But I do like being British.  Firstly, I speak English (obviously, proper English – none of your mispronounced, misspelt, New World stuff for me).  In spite of the fact that the Chinese language (I forget which one of them) is actually spoken by more people in the world and Spanish is up and coming, English is still the universal language for communication.  I thank our Empire for that (and the Americans power following its demise).

Secondly, we have ‘ways’ of being; ‘ways’ of doing things that I use to my advantage, especially here.

And so I was reading this and the fact that the Immigration Minister has pronounced that there should be instruction on ‘how to queue’ because that is at the heart of Britishness.

There again, in my opinion, is the problem with people.  They get ‘Britishness’ completely wrong.  It’s not the queuing that’s important although, yes, people who jump the queue will result in a load of people who feel resentment and, these days, anger.  No Britishness is all about ‘not standing out’ from the crowd.  Or, rather, not making yourself stand out from the crowd.

Of course, if just ‘not standing out from the crowd’ were essential, we would have no famous British people until they were dead.  The thing is that you are allowed to stand out, providing that it’s not because you have been making yourself stand out – i.e. someone can push you forward as long as that someone isn’t you.

Of course, the correct response to this, should you find yourself standing out there, through no real fault of your own, is to be completely self-effacing; shy but not embarrassingly so; properly attribute your ‘success’ to others or the team; be truly grateful that there are others who think you are there (out of the crowd) even if, of course, you feel you did not possibly deserve it, etc.

Of course, there are always exceptions.  In fact, there is one exception to this overall rule.  That is when you are drunk.  And by drunk I mean very drunk (totally pissed, wasted, rip-roaringly drunk).  Then you can do anything you want – but, of course, you must regret it and suffer for it from the next morning and on until the end of your life!

Which is why I found the article so funny.  Hadley Freeman’s take on what is actually required to be British I disagree with, in the main but I will go through the five points:

1.  I’ve always found that dinner at 8 means that you will sit down to eat at about 2 minutes past 8 – unless there are late-comers, who will be frowned upon as they have made themselves stand out!

2.  We don’t always (in fact rarely) react with squealing excitement.  Understated excitement means not making yourself stand out.

3.  OK, I agree with 3 – or you say something like ‘Oh this old thing – bought it years ago’ as if that makes up for the fact that whatever it is is the most stunning item of clothing in the room.

4.  No one really cares how well Marks and Spencers do – what’s important is that the quality of their underpants is second-to-none and that their food quality is absolutely amazing but sooooo expensive.

5.  Just not true.  We do date.  We also court and, as she correctly says, ‘pull’.  But she misinterprets ‘pull’.  When you go out on a date it is with a predefined person for a meal or a drink or to the cinema.  When you ‘go out on the pull’ you are single and very much hoping that, by the end of the night, you have pulled someone who may, or may not, be a future date.

However, I just loved the end bit to number 5.  This is so true, especially of me (although I found online dating a way around the getting drunk bit).  But, just for those of you who don’t read the article, she says that the British method of coupling is like this:

go to a party, get extremely drunk, drunkenly kiss someone you have been making eyes at for some time but obviously never spoke to because you were sober then, go home with them, move in with them the next day, marry them.

It really made me laugh.

Well, this hasn’t happened for…..ummm….well…..bloody years!

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Yesterday, about 1.30 p.m. I went home.

I felt ill.  I mean, really crappy, shitty and I couldn’t stay any more.

I slept quite a bit, had several Oxo drinks (my own secret solution to any illness) and, later when F came to see me, some Tachiflu (even if it’s not flu, I’m sure) and took my temperature (‘cos Italians like to take temperatures) because he had bought a thermometer, even though I told him it wasn’t necessary.  I did feel he was slightly disapproving of the fact that I didn’t actually have a temperature.  He also bought some orange juice, the Tachiflu, some milk and some beef burgers (he thought I would be off work today which, obviously, I am not!) – very sweet of him though, for sure.

My temperature was normal.  Of course!  I’m afraid I don’t get ‘fever’ which seems his answer to every slight change in how your body feels.  However, I still felt shitty.  The last time I took time off from work because of feeling ill was so long ago that I can’t even remember it.  Perhaps it’s an age thing.  Anyway, half a day off work in, say, 15 years, isn’t so bad, I think.

Oh yes and we had a FB chat thing about Susan Boyle, who appeared at the San Remo festival last night.  He said she looked really good, which surprised me.  He then replied that she had had her hair done and had a good dress on.  I replied that it wouldn’t make that much difference.  He replied that it made her look like Linda Evangelista – which made me laugh a lot.  I then replied saying that Linda may be very unhappy with that comparison but Susan probably wouldn’t be.

How where we grow up affects us

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I am a little worried.  Only a little – right now, of course.  The actual (possible) events are a long way off.

I was born and brought up, for most of my childhood, in the middle of the glorious countryside of Herefordshire.  For the UK, this was one of the places furthest from the sea.  Yes, sure, when we went on our 2 week holiday, we went to the beaches of North Wales (and, sometimes, even had sun and warmth, I seem to remember).  But most of the 6 weeks of summer holidays, we were, as kids, stuck in the middle of this countryside.  And, so, we played in the garden (which was huge) or went walking or playing in the fields and woods near the house.

Certain things I remember would not be allowed now.  Like the bales of straw in the field opposite, where, every summer, we went and made houses of these bales, lugging the heavy bales to form walls and roofs, creating dens.  I was one of those kids that also liked to walk, across the fields and through woods, on my own, looking at the flora and fauna, enjoying the calming effect.

Now, as I am older, for me, the countryside is special.  It invokes images of tranquillity, of a tamed wildness, of being at peace.  Last summer, in the hills of Piedmont, I enjoyed, for a few days, thanks to N&S, the countryside and the hills that, somewhat, reminded me of Herefordshire.  And, every day, went walking with the boys, which they enjoyed immensely.

And then, for lunch or the evening, there is always a town or village nearby where, in the UK, one can find a country pub with good beer (one hopes) and, possibly, some pub grub or here, in Italy, you might chance upon some nice country restaurant.

One thing about my childhood that I always hated was our summer holiday to the beach.  I hated it for many, many reasons – we went in a caravan and, later, when the four kids were older, we had an awning attached, which was where we slept (of course).  The big drama of packing the caravan (to make sure the weight was evenly distributed), the putting up of the awning which had to be done even when it was pissing down with rain, the showering in some toilet block on the camp-site, the daily preparation and trek to the beach, my parents always preferring to be in a part of the beach without too many neighbours, so a longer walk with all the ‘stuff’, also knowing that one had to return with all the ‘stuff’ at the end of the day, etc.  Oh, yes, I hated it.

And now, of course, I have certain things that make my holiday.  Being in the countryside where one can walk without the need to carry; eating at restaurants and bars rather than taking all your own food; having the opportunity to visit a church or a museum or, here, a vineyard or the like.

But, for those people brought up near to the sea, the beach was the place that they went during their time away from school.  To them it is the perfect place to relax.

And so it is with F.  He has told me that, after breakfast he goes to the beach and stays there all day.  When he returns home, at 6 or 7, he eats having not eaten at lunch.

My worry is that, this summer, assuming we go on holiday, this is what he will want to do.  For me, it is boring and hot and I’m not really one for lying there just to get brown.  Getting brown is a consequence of doing something in the sun, not the reason for the holiday.  I can swim but I’m not good – basic, I think you would say.  But for him it’s his way to completely relax.  For me it is not.

Or, maybe it is and I have just not been with a partner for whom this IS the summer holiday.  Perhaps I should try and see.  My worry is, what if I do get bored and after an hour or so on the beach, want to do something?  Go for a walk, visit the town, do something else?

I know I should wait and see and, if I really don’t like it, I’m sure we can compromise, both of us wanting this to work, after all.

It just niggles at me from time to time, is all.

I’m learning a new language

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Well, you might say “of course you are” but it’s not quite what you think.

I’m having various conversations with a girl who’s about 14.  Don’t get the wrong idea here – it’s not a bad thing.  She is the daughter of Best Mate.  And the conversation is the sort of general conversation that one would have with the teenage daughter of your Best Mate – except for one thing – it’s via Facebook and so is more like texting or chatting online.

And, as she’s 14, although she uses English it’s not quite the English that I write here.  And on more than one occasion I have had to ask Best Mate what a certain word or acronym means.

Because, let’s face it, I am old.  I remember mobile phones when they first came in and were almost as big as a small briefcase.  And the first portable computer was like a laptop – but the screen was a normal screen that you had to carry separately.  So, texting and chatting online requires that I learn a different language.

Some examples would be soz.  This is short for sorry.  Said is written sed.  How gets the ‘h’ dropped off the front.

All these things make remarkable sense.  However, I do find it difficult to do this.  I’ve just about mastered using ‘u’ instead of ‘you’ and ‘r’ instead of ‘are’ but I don’t even do that all the time, so writing ‘i sed i wuz soz’ I would still be writing as ‘I said I was sorry’ – even in text form, even going to the trouble of making the ‘i’ a capital.

And, in addition, I text Italians.  For me it is almost unthinkable as an ex English Teacher to write the short form.  The best I can do with F is to write ‘cos’ instead of ‘because’ (and even with that, the first time I did, he asked what it meant).

English is a wonderful, rich language (although the Italians always think theirs is better and richer – and, being a guest in their country I would not disagree – at least in front of them) but having been with V’s family (many of whom are first-generation from Jamaica), I became very aware of the the fact that there is no really ‘pure’ English.  It’s all bastardised all over the world.  Even here they take words and give them slightly different meanings (e.g. relax, which they don’t use verb even when it should be in the context in which they use it).

And so, this new form of English, widely used (I guess) by most English people (maybe even English-speaking people) under the age of, let’s say, 30 – where will it end up?  In 20 years will the common spelling of ‘said’ be ‘sed’ and ‘sorry’ be ‘soz’ – at least in the UK?

Every language changes over time but I suspect new technology and the need to type words on keyboards, touch pads and keypads could accelerate the changes to the language.  And since I know the same thing happens here (‘che’ becomes ‘k’, ‘per’ becomes ‘x’), I wonder if all languages are now under some pressure to change to meet the growing need of the younger generations to be able to communicate in ways that we never even imagined when we were at school.

Just a thought.

Online Dating – Dos and Don’ts and Scams

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Well, those of you who have been following my ‘adventures’ through 2009 will know that I used online dating websites to find the man of my dreams.

So, obviously, I have a good opinion of them.  But there are a couple of pieces of advice I would give.

1.  Some are good and some are bad.  You will learn which are which but, if you’re serious, use as many as you can find to start with, weeding out the ones that are not good or don’t have the right mix for you later.

2.  Don’t part with any money to start with.  Just get a feel for the site and the type of people who are there.  Once you find the site(s) that have the right feel and the right people, only then consider paying.  Don’t worry about emails and stuff until you’re sure the right people frequent the site to begin with.

3.  Be very specific about what you want.  Specifying, for example, an age range of 20 to 70 is really not what you want, I suspect.  I thought that people just above my age would be fine but found that, in reality, I didn’t want anyone that bloody old. Nor, indeed, did I want a ‘kid’ who lacked maturity (and even below about 35 was pushing it – we are talking about men, here).

4.  Remember, people will put forward their best side.  This is a bit like going to a club or bar but without the loud music or drinking or dancing.  You see someone you like, you chat to them for a bit and, then, maybe, you get to see them.  Seeing them in the flesh (or ‘second date’) may be a bit of a shock.  Be prepared.  I have to add that, sometimes, I was amazed at how awful the photos were when compared to the real person, so it’s not always the best photos they put up.

5.  Remember that some people are looking for, how shall I say, one night stands.  That’s OK if that’s what you want.  Just be aware that, maybe, they’re not looking for what you are looking for!

6.  Be safe.  Be careful about where and who you meet. I wasn’t particularly and one of them could have been a bit hairy but wasn’t in the end.  But, then, I’m lucky in that I’m a bloke.  Tell someone where you’re going and give them phone numbers or any other information you can about the person you plan to meet.

7.  Beware of scams.  There are people out there who are just trying to get money.  I had one of them and, on looking at the photos again, I could see that it was a model and not a real person.  But here is a link to an article from the Guardian that is an interesting read.

But, for me, it was just like going out but easier since you could send a ‘wink’ or a message or an email and, well, if they didn’t respond it was nowhere near as painful as going up to someone in a bar and getting a rebuff.

And F is the result and so it worked out really well for me.

If you are looking and try it out, I hope it works out well for you too.

I will, probably, retire when I’m 75 or so.

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I was chatting to my colleague.  He was telling me about some ‘new’ thing they have with hedge funds.  It makes even more money, apparently.

“But”, I said to him, “it’s not real money!  It only exists on paper but it doesn’t really exist”.

I despair, I really do. When will people understand.  We’ve all been mis-sold or sold down the river – take your pick and live off that.

Let me explain.  Imagine there is a family all living together.  There are the two grandparents, the mother and father and there are two children.

When all six of them are working everything is very good.  Money is no object and they are having a great time.  Eventually, the grandparents retire, saying to their children – don’t worry, everything will be fine.  Soon you will have grandchildren yourself and they will be working and everything will be great.

So the grandparents are having a great time – money no object (being supported by the other four) and going on holiday, enjoying their spare time, etc.  The parents look at them and envy them and can’t wait till it’s their turn for the good life.

Eventually, the father retires.  No grand kids yet and none on the horizon.  Hmmm.  this is getting a bit tricky now.  The grandparents still want their good time, the father, having paid for the grandparents already and the kids education, etc, wants his good time now and the mother is going to retire in about a year.  But now there is half the previous income and soon there will be less.

At what point do either the grandparents (and father) have to suffer and cut back, drastically, on their good times?  Or should the father continue to work?  But for how long?  10 years?  20 years?  But what of the promise not to worry – everything would be OK as his grand kids would look after him?  And the mother.  Surely she can’t retire now?

And who to blame?  Is it the grandparents for living the good life now and in the last few years?  The mother and father for allowing it to continue even when there was no sign of grand kids to come on and shoulder the responsibility?

Is it the kids themselves?  And just for how long are they going to suffer once they are the only ones working?

And it is something I have been thinking about for some time.  It is my opinion that, very soon, things really have to change.  By very soon, I mean in the next five years.  And by change I mean the following:

The retirement age will be pushed up above 70 with immediate effect.

Those people who have retired and have not reached retirement age will have all pension and benefits taken away (thereby encouraging them to go back to work).

Pensions will be reduced anyway and help for the aged limited.

If we don’t do something like that then the people who actually pay for this will walk away from the responsibility and I, for one, wouldn’t blame them.

Read something here but it simply doesn’t go far enough.  Also it is too busy trying to lay the blame on someone or some group.

Now, at this stage, when there’s really very little we can do about it, why bother blaming?  Just get on and fix it.  We can sort out blaming later on – and we should all end up shouldering some of it, for sure.

Now, this moment, it needs fresh thinking by everyone.  But, of course, the politicians to do this won’t be elected by a people that are still thinking like the father and mother and wanting the things they have been promised by a generation who were never going to be in a position to provide it for them anyway!

We’re all crazy if we think it can go on for ever.  Get used to it and grow up.

I miss you so much

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Actually, no.  that wasn’t what was said.  What was said was:

“I miss the babies.”

Not a line from me and nothing to do with real babies at all.

He phones me last night, about 7.  He’s been at the shop all day and so is finishing early (well, early for him).

“What do you think about going for a pizza?”, he asks.

“Sure”, I reply.

“We could meet at Liù in 10 minutes?”, he suggests – this being the restaurant/pizzeria in Via Eustachi, so very close to me.

“Perhaps then I go home and come back and stay with you”, he says, before adding how he missed the babies.  Not me!  Well, of course not, since I am with him every night, even if we are at his place.

But, for me, it’s great that he misses the ‘babies’ as he calls Rufus and Dino.  I like it a lot.  And it’s great that he misses them and loves them.  I left the flat to take them for a walk and we waited, just outside the building for a few moments until I saw him coming.  Then we walked on as he likes to ‘surprise’ them – especially Dino.  And so we are walking.  He catches us up and is a few paces behind.  Suddenly Dino spies him, does a double take (for one second it could be anyone) and then launches himself at F, so excited he is to see him.  I like this too.  I like that Dino is so pleased to see him and that he is so pleased to see Dino.

This morning I text him to tell him that it’s been a great four months and that he makes me happy.  He texts back to say ‘I love you’.

I can’t stop smiling.

I live in a Pigs

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No, the title is not a mistake.  I could have said that I live in Pigs but I don’t live in all four of them but only one of them.  Apparently, I live in the ‘I’ of the Pigs.

The ‘I’ of Pigs is, of course, Italy, with an economy so bad that it, together with Portugal, Greece and Spain, are collectively bringing down the Euro.  Of course, Buzz Lightyear (my nickname for Berlusconi) is still saying ‘to infinity and beyond……’, convincing the Italians that they have a strong economy.  The really strange thing, for me, is that they must believe him otherwise they wouldn’t keep bringing him back and, yet, they know that the situation is bad.

Anyway, the Guardian take on it is here.

Snowing in the garden

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We are lying in bed.  I turn my head and look out through the open door of the bedroom, through the hall to where the dim daylight – it is dawn – shows through the window that looks out on to the garden and lets me see that it is snowing.  I see the snow falling and the trees covered in snow.  I turn and tell F, who is just awake, that it is snowing.

Except, of course, that didn’t happen.  Yesterday, my colleagues wanted me to look up the weather on a website that I use and I found that within three hours, it had changed and forecast snow for today.

And this thing that happened, happened in a dream last night.

He doesn’t have a hallway through which I can see a window.  His flat is on the third floor and, like most houses in Milan, he has no garden in which there are snow-laden trees.  And I didn’t wake up to know that it was snowing.

However, as I stepped out of the door of the block of flats, it was, indeed, snowing.  Not as heavily as in my dream and not covering anything but, still………

Not really so strange but, for a moment, it made the dream seem all the more real.

The Lamb and the Penguin

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They sit there, the penguin in front of the lamb staring straight ahead.

As you may remember, Christmas was a difficult time this year.  Not difficult being with F, which was wonderful, nor was it difficult doing the meal, even if we didn’t have goose or Christmas pudding or bread sauce or brandy sauce or any of the usual things.

No, it was difficult because we had been seeing each other for only a couple of months and I had no idea what the hell to buy for him and, in the end, on my wonderful Christmas Eve shopping trip, I bought lots of little things, some very cheap – but, in the end, it was OK and I think he liked them.

The last shop I went to was a toy shop.  I was looking for something particular.  We have become big fans of Shaun the Sheep, an animated figure appearing in stories and by Aardman, the people who bought you Wallace and Gromit.  Below is Sheepless Nights which is the funniest bit I have ever seen.  Unfortunately, it keeps being removed from YouTube and so may not work for long.  Enjoy.

And so, there I am, passing this shop that I know but have never been in and I pop in to see if they have something like Shaun.  I explain that I want a sheep.  She takes me to the rack with the soft-toy sheep.  she picks one up. I just burst out laughing.  I explain that it can’t possibly be a sheep as it looks like a gorilla.  She laughs too because it is true but assures me it is a sheep.  However, since I want something that looks more like Shaun, a gorilla simply won’t do, even if it is supposed to be a sheep.

We (I) settle on one that, although similar to Shaun, does not have the black face or legs.

The other thing he had said he liked was penguins since they were new things on FarmVille, just before Christmas and so, previously, I had bought a small penguin.

And now, on the edge of the wide arm of the new sofa, they sit staring out.  I don’t know if he really likes them or if he puts them there because I bought them or because of how he feels about me or some combination of all of those things – but it makes me feel good anyway.  And I smile even now, as I think about it.