Italians were put here, as a nation, for aesthetic purposes only. They look good. Some of them, really good. A few, breathtakingly good. But that’s ‘form’. As for function, Italy is fairly useless. Always has been. Shops close up so they can rest or fornicate in the afternoons, factories close for 6 weeks every summer, you walk past a group of soldiers guarding the US embassy, and they look like they’re modelling the new, Gucci-camo line, but would you want them guarding your back in a fight?? Jesus, NOOOOOO!!! So it’s pretty amazing anything ever gets done here. The only activity that is guaranteed to overcome the country’s deep-lying entropy is eating. Which they do very well. Long as you love Italian food, as previously mentioned. Pizza, pasta… well that’s it. Pick a carb, stick some tomatoes on it, maybe some cheese and that’s the meal. Every day, twice a day. Occasionally throw a lump of meat in, for ‘variety’. Sorted. And they drink. Oh my, do they drink. Mainly Aperol Spritzes. I had ‘one’ at the wedding. Ok, I had 19. I get the point.

But where function actually meets form, around here, is in Renaissance art. Specifically, in ‘Shmackel Square’, depicted here today.

If you’re not versed in Yiddish, a ‘shmackel’ is a penis. And, ok, the Florentines probably have their own name for the Square, and it will be a saint’s name, rather than anatomical description. But I’m a literal kind’a guy. I calls it as I sees it.

Years ago, the (now ‘late’) Anthony Sher, the actor, director, writer, knight of the realm and veritable GOD of the theatre, directed a play, in which he starred, (obviously; its all about MEEEE), about the making of Michaelangelo’s David. In which, a group of ‘models’ stood around on the stage, naked and a’danglin’, whilst Sher (Michaelangelo) lusted after ‘David’. Both of whom were, for the purposes of that play, gay. Whether the greatest artist of the entire Renaissance was in fact gay or not was beside any point. It was how Anthony Sher ‘understood’ and ‘interpreted’ the world’s most famous sculpture. It’s like me doing a version of West Side Story in which the rivalling factions are Spurs and Arsenal fans and Spurs win. (I had Alan Gilzean playing Maria). The play was awful (Sher’s one; my West Side Story was brilliant and still spoken about in revered terms all the way from Park Lane to Bruce Grove). Possibly the worst play I’ve ever seen. We only stayed the distance because Anthony Sher is guaranteed watching, even if what you’re watching is shit. (You can see why no-one’s ever asked me to become a theatre critic).

Today we’re going to see ‘the origianl’ David. The one in Shmackel Square is a reproduction with all missing bits replaced and yes, an exceedingly small Shmackel. But ‘the twins’ want to see the original and I want to see if that has is better endowed. It’s a boy thing.

Then we fly home. The wedding’s done; totally fabulous event out in the Tuscan hillside with views all over… well, Tuscany, I’m guessing. It was beautiful and a really wonderful day for all. Aperol Spritzes notwithstanding. And thus will end the ‘grand world tour’ of Florence. I’ve loved it here. There again, I love everywhere when you can eat pizza. Without the normal guilt associated with such an activity.

Happy Monday

A xxxx