Andy's Glasses

I was asked to write a full report on the island of Sicily. Because even though I’ve written about nothing else for the last week, for some people (you know who you are), that’s not enough. No. They want to be spoon-fed the details, they want bullet points and guarantees, issued by me, with full, money-back contracts in case I steer them wrongly.

Yet the fact of the matter is; you can’t steer wrongly. If you get lost, you’ll end up somewhere fabulous. The whole island is just… beautiful. Ok, you could find a slum in Palermo, if you looked hard enough, I dare say, but why the fuck would you? When there is just so much beauty around.

Not necessarily the Sicilians, they’re a dour and quite unfriendly bunch really. If you ‘bonjourno’ people on the street they ignore you or pull a gun. The service in most restaurants needs improving just a little, so that customers aren’t made to feel they’re a nuisance and in the way. When we complained because they’d fucked up Mel’s coffee the other morning, the young misery just said “well that’s what you fucking ordered!!!” (Which it wasn’t) But in Italian. Then Rachie came over and his miserable face lit up with a big smile and he ‘turned on the charm’ (in Sicily that means: ‘put the gun away’). Sexist, ageist little shit.

You drive mainly round the coast, obviously, and, although quite lacking in many beaches, being volcanic-like, it is simply wonderful. Most beautiful place in the world. In the same way that the record now playing on the radio is ‘my favourite song ever’. There’s a recency effect. The places we stopped at were fab, we took a little trip to a town called Noto which is the island’s most magnificent collection of Baroque buildings, but I must warn you that the ice creams there are a rip-off.

Then, due to… restrictions (we couldn’t get a flight back from Catania on the east coast with our air miles), we had to drive diagonally across the whole island back to Palermo. Three-and-a-half hours. And I thought it would be dull. Like, all the charm of Newport Pagnell in the winter; like some drab, grey industrial wasteland. But it surprised. It’s hilly to the point of mountainous and exceptionally beautiful. Most of the mountains are volcanic and almost completely barren of green stuff. Making it a bit ‘other worldly’ but really magnificent. A great drive. Even though the dashboard on the car packed up half way there so I had no speedo. Nor the annoying little arrows telling me to change gear. Because in a Fiat 500 you’re always in a lower gear otherwise you’d never get there.

So there, that’s all you’re getting. I’m done with Sicily. Its history. Not Greco-Roman history (with a few Moors and Normans thrown in) but proper ‘done that, been there’ history. But good history. Fantastic place. Really loved it.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Can’t tell you how wonderful the wedding was on Sunday. So I won’t. Fuck you. You should’a made the effort.

Oh, alright then, it was hot. Not as hot as it could have been because there was a bit of cloud cover, causing a searing, scalding 34 degrees to become a just mildly hot 28, which was tolerable. Made more so by alcohol. I don’t know why the doctors don’t recommend ‘serious drinking’ when you’re in super-high temperatures. Because once you’ve had your third aperol spritz and are moving onto Limoncello-sodas, you just don’t notice the heat. Another few JD and cokes and it becomes perfectly safe to ‘dance like a dervish’ til midnight, sweating like a proverbial ‘mutha’. Studies should be undertaken about the benefits of such imbibement on medical grounds. And then it would be free for the over-60s.

The bride was fabulous and, as she always is, really funny. And loud. Bless her. The food was wonderful… for Italian, and the setting, outside, middle of nowhere on a beautiful, massive estate, Mount Etna in the background, was simply sumptuous. Was truly memorable. Possibly would have been more memorable if not for the spritzes, sodas, JD, etc.

Yet here’s the thing. It was the most ‘inclusive’ wedding I’ve been to. My norm for weddings is inclusive to Jews. Possibly Christians. Long as it’s not too many. People of colour. Many colours. But this one took it further. The bride had two bridesmaids and a ‘brides-man’, who was way more feminine than either of the other 2. The groom had his ushers and an… usherette? A groom’s… sort of butch thing in a suit. Though she was pretty gorgeous. In a DON’T FUCKING PRESUME NUFFINK!!!, kind’a way. Or however you say that in Spanish. Which… they were. She was. Ooops.

Then, before traveling all the way back to Palermo for the flight home (there is always a price to be paid for £1 tickets; like a car ride across all of Sicily) we popped in to the local Greek/Roman archeological site/amphitheatre/piles of rocks, which every town, village and high street in Sicily must, by law, have. This one was in Syracuse and was… hot. Really hot. Pompeii hot. The Colosseum hot. That super heat reserved for piles of antiquated stone. It was great. Caves. Errrr… rocks. Stuff everywhere from 500BC. And in between, some truly wonderful modern sculptures of ancient legends. I’m talking proper ‘legends’ here, Icarus, Apollo, Zeus, not ‘legends’ like your best mate for buying you a pint, or Phil Foden or you bank manager for approving a loan.

And this pair of Icarii were there, (to be honest, everywhere you turn in Sicily there’s a headless Icarus staring at you), basically, to show the inherent gender ambiguity of the human condition. They represented the ‘multiplicity of being men and women’.

I’m still not sure exactly which of the 57 gender options I wish to pick, or maybe have a few, like the original Romans did, but inclusive is good. Multiplicity is good. Ambiguity is… different.

Happy working day

A xxxx

We went out for dinner last night, place recommended to the younger daughter, who’s here too. Firstly because she has to fly somewhere every three weeks; it’s a rule, and secondly because the bride is one of her best mates. Since they were about 3.

And on the menu was sardines. I love sardines. But this was sardines cooked in ‘typical Sicilian, east Ortigia style’. I begged them to be done Greek style. Portuguese style. Belarusian style. Anything but ITALIAN!!!! Put ‘em in a bun with ‘special sauce’ and bright orange cheese, barbecue them with aardvark’s brain, in fajitas with guacamole, anything but Italian.

They were ok. Not fantastic but ok. Both the ‘gels’ had taglialini with ragu made from beef and Sicilian tomatoes… Spag Bol. It was lovely. Quite tasty. But really, as an aspirantional food? The sort of thing every student learns to cook before going to Loughborough to study Politics and Mediaeval Pottery.

The pics I’ve posed are the ‘money shots’ of Ortigia. Where everything is big, coastal and wide and airy. But the best of Ortigia is really what’s in the middle. A massive network of roads so narrow and windy, alleyways really, that in any other country they’d be totally pedestrianised. Over here cars try to overtake driving down them. And the buildings are old and the shops are beautiful and there are cafes and restaurants everywhere. And, of course, gellaterias. And it’s pretty. Piazzas, duomos, statues, fountains, few’a them knockin’ around the place and bish-bosh, another gorgeous bit of Italy. Although the ‘bish-boshing’ took a couple of thousand years.

During which, the Jews moved in. And, they made good, settled down, loaned money, were loved and cherished… then murdered/forced to convert/evicted (see previous posts on the Jews of: Lisbon, Rome, Paris, Majorca, Madrid, Budapest, Prague, Milan…). So yesterday we went to see Ortigia’s ‘mikveh’, which is a ceremonial bath religious Jewish people use to ‘cleanse’. Not to wash, that’s too easy, this is to ‘cleanse’ and you have to be spotlessly clean before you enter. Ortigia’s was build in AD500 and lasted until the Spanish Inquisition. When they filled it with hundreds of tons of mud, blocked off the entrance (it’s quite a way underground, where there’s an artesian well) and left it so it wouldn’t be found. Which it wasn’t until 1986. Amazingly, then cleared out and its open for looking at, no longer for cleansing in. Quite wonderful. Quite moving.

Now for the nuptials.

A xxxx

Do you like Italian food? Over here, they call it ‘food’, but we know it as the finest of pastas and pizzas and beautifully grilled fishes and octopuses and tomatoes and cheeses, many of which look much better than they taste. So when you go to an ‘Italian’ in London, that’s what offered. And it’s nice. What’s more comforting than Lasagne? Possibly with chips, and a salad on the side. For Mel.

Yet a week on and I’m almost craving… something different. Something with different flavours to those which define Italian food and therefore make everything taste a bit… similar. We’ve mixed it up, we’ve done pizza and pasta and fish, even a veal (yes, calf abuse is not just legal here but to be actively encouraged) schnitzel.

The bread here is fabulous, but only when really fresh. 10 minutes later it has door-stop use only, even though they give it to you when you sit down in the restaurants. Ahhh, but you dip it in olive oil!!! Made, just over there, behind the cinema. And I can give you a buffalo mozzarella so wonderful and white that I can guarantee it has no taste whatsoever!!

I always find that the Italian default is minimal taste. Bland. Maybe my own preferences have been ruined by a lifetime of hummus, kebabs, curry, burgers and food that simply explodes with taste. Oddly the only ‘other’ restaurants you get here are for sushi. My other favourite example of food designed to have no taste whatsoever. Just lick the wasabi with soya sauce, don’t bother with the rest.

I love it here. Love the whole Italian ‘vibe’. Love the women. Men are all short and/or fat. With one or two gorgeous ones thrown in for balance. And Ortigia is wonderful, a tiny little island off Syracuse, accessed by a bridge, or a swim, crammed with fabulous everythings. Except a good Tandoori or Thai. Salt beef bar. Felafel stall… Anything but fucking risotto.

Wedding tomorrow. Should be fab. And hot. Really hot.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

They don’t get cruise ships in Corcheval. They’re banned by the French. So instead, they have Russians. It happened about 25 years ago when a gorgeous little Alpine town, famous for its Croisette, morphed into Rodeo Drive up the Mountains. The gorgeous little boulangeries and boutiques were out-priced by the incoming droves of Tom Ford and Gucci and high-end art dealers and Pateck Philippe who’d discovered where the real money in the world came out of hiding for the winter months.

Cruise ships don’t have the same trouble coming to little coastal towns, but they have the same effect. The promise of thousands of rich people, many with neither taste nor clue, arriving every day looking for ‘local things’ to buy. Like Channel dresses, Rolex watches, Dior handbags. And so the very essence of the town, the very ‘localness’ is stripped away in the name of ‘progress’ and internationalist marketing strategies. Creating the ubiquitous ‘cruise ship town’. Overpriced restaurants, designer shit and endless crowds.

We saw it a few years ago in (once) beautiful Cartagena in Columbia. And here in Taormina the same. The exceptionally pretty, mountainside town, so sweet and gorgeous, totally taken over by corporate excess and greed. This may sound like a communist manifesto but it’s just a ‘casual’ observation.

What the cruise ships can’t fuck up is the natural geographical wonder of places. Unless there’s too many and they just obscure everything (errrr, Venice anyone?)

So what we did here was avoid the town in daytime (when the ship – singular, thank God- is docked) and breeze in during the evening. And if this means we missed the Roman amphitheatre, then that’s our loss. If we missed a museum, we probably wouldn’t have gone in anyway. And if we missed a church, how many churches do you see/enter/pray in (?) during the course of a week? Me and Jesus? We’re cool.

Instead, we stayed in our hotel. Which was perched on the very tip of the peninsula on which Taormina sits. So we had views, like this one from part of the pool area, which itself climbed the mountain (the area, not the pool, for obvious reasons; and if those reasons aren’t obvious to you, check out Archimedes, he lived round here, in Syracuse, out next stop) and every view was to die for. This one is the hotel (brown strip across the top left) from the top tier of the pool area. Even Mount Etna watching menacingly from afar. Hopefully far enough if it all kicks off. Then, when evening comes and the ships sail away, we dare to venture out. Hoping that the ice cream prices have reverted to ‘pre-cruise’ values.

Off to the island of Ortygia, in Syracuse. Let the wedding celebrations begin! I’ve been ready since Heathrow.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

We done Mount Etna. Shouldn’t have bothered, you can see it much more clearly from breakfast here in Taormina. But it’s gotta be done.

You approach from the south and for miles and miles there’s just massive piles of black, volcanic rock. All spewed down in various, past spewages from Etna. Your first thought is: how would you ever get home insurance here? But generally it’s wonderful. And possibly explains why no one builds houses on that side.

The drive though is instructive. My previous journey in Sicily was from Palermo to our first ‘stop’. And what happens is; speed limits are just ignored. Completely and totally. Except in Palermo where, in fear of either the police or the mafia, everyone slows down and drives at precisely the speed limit. No one wants a ticket, and no one wants their mother kidnapped and ransomed without her ears.

On the highways from Cefalu to Etna, there don’t seem to be any police, nor any observable mafiosi. So you can see Italian drivers in more ‘their natural environment’. And I learned about their roads too. When you see a sign which reads ‘110’, you drive as fast as your car will travel. But if the sign says ‘60’, you apparently go even faster. ‘40’ means ‘as fast as you fucking can’, whilst ‘30’ is there merely for humour. And if you’re more than 6 inches from the guy in front’s back bumper you’re a tosser in any language.

And now we’re in Taormina, possibly the most stunningly beautiful town in the entire Mediterranean and, sadly, made famous by ‘the White Lotus’ tv show. Sadly? Because every day, to this amazing place, literally carved into the mountainside in a gorgeous cove, the Devil arrives. Immense, diesel-chugging behemoths floating into the bay, each causing its own shadow as it creeps in. The only sound it makes which can heard over the engines is that of 6,000 Americans shouting ‘Oh my gaahd, Harry, this is sooooo cute!!! Can we buy it?’ I stood on my hotel room balcony demonstrating, shouting “GO BACK TO VENICE!!!” Yet to no avail. Probably because they’re banned from Venice now. Because no one wants cruise ships. Except the local sellers of tut and souvenier rubbish who hike their prices in their honour. Which I don’t care about at all. But I worry they may inflate the price of ice creams. And that I care deeply about.

Cruising is not for me. One day, maybe, when I’m old…

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I was just enjoying Sicily, the ice creams, beaches, pasta, sunshine, pizzas and murders, when I learned that Nigel Farage is standing for MP!!! He’s failed 7 times thus far to enter the Palace of Westminster and is hoping for a straight 8. Though picking Clacton, in Essex, is clever. And I can say this, as one who was brought up in south west Essex himself. The people of Clacton are scum. East Essex is a different world entirely. One made up predominantly of racists, blowhards, tottoed white-van drivers (as pointed out so nicely by Emily Thornbury all those years ago) and skinheads. The perfect demographic for Nigel to try and out-do the Cons and the Labs.

I almost cancelled the holiday and flew home to see if I could… help?

But instead, I heroically decided to stay. Because today we’re headed for Taormina, the place made really famous by a television program I’ve never seen. But on the way, we’re going to Mount Etna. It’s not really a ‘Mount’ anyway; it’s a volcano. So that’s ok. Mountains just, sort of, stand there, whereas volcanos do stuff. Pretty serious stuff too. Etna is described as ‘a very active volcano’. But you’re allowed to climb up it, or take the funicular, because Sicilians don’t care about injury and death.

That’s why they eat ice cream wrapped in Brioche buns. Not that it’s hazardous, only to your health.

Kevin de Bruyne announces that he is considering a departure from Manchester City because of the ‘totally fucking ridiculous’ salary offer. Ok, they’re my words, not his, but same difference. If you’re earning north of about 10million a year and barely getting by after paying all that tax, what do they need to propose to make him go ‘wow!!’?. Even though he’ll be reviled by fans and players because of his new employing nation’s abysmal human rights record, as was Jordan Henderson who left Arabia for Amsterdam after just 6 months.

City themselves are now ‘taking the fight to them’. Being forced to defend 115 charges of financial impropriety, they’re now taking the Premier League to court over the right to impose ‘Associated Party Transactions’ rules which prevent billionaire owners from making personal payments to their club by limply disguising them as ‘sponsorship deals’ by companies run by those same owners. Thus giving a massive advantage over the majority of clubs which aren’t Arab-owned. Other than Chelsea who are owned by an American who is probably lower on the morality ladder than Sheikh This and Sultan That. Yet City’s legal team find the APT rules as ‘anti-competition’. To which I have ask: “WTF???”

Keep these hateful billionaires out of MY national game. Unless you’re happy to see the Manchester City ‘parade’ every year. Possibly Newcastle. Chelsea.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

We’re here. When you arrive at Palermo airport they immediately put a black bag over your head, stick a gun in your back and march you to passport control, in a derelict garage out the back. There you meet a man with ‘connections’, who, for a small but significant sum, will ‘protect’ you for the duration of your stay. Protect us from whom? Or what?? You naively ask. Oh, he says, from me. And my… family!!!!! Because over here, that word, ‘family’ means something completely different from normal. Families elsewhere are things of love, warmth, joined history, blood ties and togetherness. Over here, ‘family’ means your kneecaps could be drilled at any moment. It means machine guns, drug money, whores, gambling, protection, Joe Pesci and Marlon Brando.

Yet what you see is… quite a lot of very fat people. And I just can’t understand that. Just because a meal anywhere else in the world has 3 courses, Italians have four. And the one they so neatly, seamlessly, ‘insert’ is a bowl of pasta. What elsewhere would be called ‘a meal’ in itself. Yet here, it just what you do when you’ve had your soup and you’re waiting for your fish to be grilled.

But yesterday, whilst strolling along the beautiful promenade in beautiful downtown Cefalu (north coast, mountains, sea, old town, gorgeous) we stopped for an ice cream. Gelati. Because we’re in Italy and that’s where it was invented. According to the Italians. And trust me, you don’t argue round here. And we witnessed the local… delicacy? Addiction? Habit?? A brioche bun, slit in half (very good at ‘slitting’, these Sicilians) and filled with ice cream. Add a wafer, a plate and loads of tissues and there’s your path to waddle along. It looked fantastic. Going to get one today.

The other thing famous in Sicily is lemons. Here they call them ‘lemons’, in M&S they call them Sicilian lemons, but trust me, it’s the same thing. Massive. Lemon flavoured. Yellow. Can’t wait to eat one.

We’re here mainly because next weekend we are attending a wedding, in Syracuse, on the other side of the Island. So thought we’d put in a week of ‘hard graft’ beforehand (see pic). I rented a car because I thought it would be a bit unfair if there was a car-chase and I wasn’t involved. And we’re going on in a few days to Taormina and then down to Syracuse for the wedding weekend.

Where the Goldsteins from Hampstead Garden Suburb have strong connections. Historical connections. In that the bride came here for a holiday once and really liked it. But if it’s connection enough for them, it’s more than enough for me and Mel. Who never need asking twice to go and spend a week somewhere sunny. And the flights (you’re gonna hate me for this), so many air miles (who knows, who cares) and 2 quid. Honest to God (and he lives here, I saw him in the cathedral this morning), 2 quid. How could we NOT come?? It ticks such a lot of boxes.

Happy… whatever, they all blend together here.

A xxxx

Hi. My name’s Andy and I haven’t spoken about politics for 3 days now!!!
(All together:) “HI ANDY!!!”

Yes, I’m a recovering political observer. Though I’m not sure I can ever recover from the fact that in America you can not only be president with a criminal past, but can actually do so with a criminal present. The White House can be the White Room in Sing Sing. Which is shared with a drug dealer from Memphis and has a piss-pot in the corner. I mean: President from Jail? WTF????

Donald Trump has now, officially, legally, been convicted of 34 crimes and is a criminal. Obviously he’ll appeal, on the grounds that this is blatant discrimination against orange people, who are now designated as an official minority grouping. But meanwhile, the Republican candidate for the presidency remains unchanged. His official title is now changed from ‘The Fat Fuck’ to ‘The Fat Fucking Crim’. But he’ll still stand, still probably win, even if jailed. Thus rendering the position of arguably ‘most powerful person in the entire planet’ open to any skank around. Which is unbelievable. Yet can Biden stop him? The man who has ‘single-handedly’ (because his hands only work one at a time, bit like his brain cells) created the newest, greatest path to peace for the Middle East, destined to go the way of all previous 762 ‘paths to Middle East peace’. Can he remember where he is, and whose side he’s on, for long enough to repeat an election victory? And if he does, will Trump call for a revolution and a coup? Even from his jail cell?

Trump is not merely ‘the worst loser the world has ever known’. No. The reality is that he is such a total, complete, 100% pure narcissist that his mind simply cannot accept any kind of reality in which what he thinks or wants is not what everyone in the world agrees with. He loses an election? It was rigged. They cheated. (Even though he cheated, bribed, coerced). He loses a court case? It’s a witch-hunt. The press did it. The judge is ‘evil’. Conspiracy of the Democrat press.

Yet before we judge this man too harshly for becoming (possibly) the world’s first criminal president (except in certain east European countries a where criminal record is mandatory for high office), we really really need to take a long hard look at those people who are willing, eager and happy to put him there. That’s the real tragedy of modern America.

Over here we’re more flexitarian in our politics. In that we are divisive in many different ways. The most occurring now within the Labour Party itself. As Crown Prince Kier seems to be pushed around by ‘Fat Slag Ange’ (as her friends call her) who is now calling the shots, making the decisions, choosing the direction. Kier will take a stance, Ange will differ, three hours later Kier is towing her line with total conviction, seemingly oblivious that his increasing list of U-turns is a running joke. And the scary bit about that is that Ange was given the normally fairly useless but honourable-sounding position of ‘Deputy Party Leader!!!’, just to appease the left wing of the party after the assassination of Corbyn (sadly only in the figurative sense). And now she’s taking over. Which is great news for Diane Abbot. For the trade unions. And for the Palestinians who ‘she’ has promised to ‘officially recognise as a state’. Even though they have no leadership who aren’t convicted terrorists (so it’s not just America), no official land or even an accepted definition of what ‘Palestine’ might be.

Ok, back to rehab.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Well this is all big news. About the brother. The crocked one, currently lollygagging in the Royal Free. He’s come out of Intensive Care. Holy shit. The next step. In a forwardly direction.

Ok, so the good news is: you’re out of the ICU!!!! (Where there is a nurse at your side 24 hours of every single day and the care is brilliant and the consultants drop in 5 times a day to talk to you and they have more machines going ‘ping’ than a video game arcade in Leicester Square).

The bad news is: you out of the ICU!!!! (Onto a ‘ward’ – even though he’s in a room on the side- where normal NHS rules apply. Which are: as few nurses as possible, taking longer than is actually possible to respond to a call. No doctors around; who needs ‘em?, and thankfully not a lot of machines because he doesn’t need them any longer. Just the one that has been feeding him for 4.5 months).

And this was a problem because, as he told me ages ago; he had become completely institutionalised. Got fretful when his nurse left him for a few minutes. Then, on a ward, cold turkey. Though he can’t eat cold turkey. Nor anything else. But…

Yesterday, just before I arrived, he managed his first ‘swallow’. That reflex which we all take for granted, had long stopped functioning through disuse, so he’d been doing various exercises to fire it up again. And yesterday morning it fired. And he was actually sipping water. Without coughing!!! How good must that taste after all that time with nothing whatsoever passing through his mouth? We would have been ‘high fiving’ but due to his restricted mobility we settled for a sort of mid-level-five instead. Because this was a massive moment. The path to recovery. The path to getting out (eventually). The path to… chicken biryani, pilau rice and garlic naan!!! Eventually. You have to walk before you can run to an Indian restaurant. And walking is at bit… difficult currently. But improving with a new ‘super-zimmer’ with wheels.

More importantly is that ‘the return of the swallow’, as we’ll call this sequel, has changed his mood, his mindset, his psyche. Lifted the inevitable depression due to the “I’m never gonna get out’a this fucking place” thoughts to some light at the end of a very long tunnel. Which has changed his motivation, almost instantly. Now he’s almost eager to do his physio, rather than just turn into a temporary teenager with a ‘but what’s the poioioioioint???’ attitude.

Plus, the general ward is not really somewhere you’d wanna be hanging out for too long if you didn’t have to. Not being a ward-snob or nuffink but after the ICU, it’s like staying in the Taj Palace in Mumbai for a month then moving to the Premier Inn.

He’s doing so well, I’ve just arrived in Sicily. In the next thrilling episode of Andy’s Travels; the hunt for the Mafia (horse’s head not included. I hope.)

Happy Sunday

A xxxx