expressions

•October 30, 2009 • 1 Comment

Today I was fed up and bored for a number of reasons, so I did one of those stupid things I assume most people do – but don’t admit: I typed “che palle!” on Google. Che palle is an Italian expression of sheer boredom. After clicking, a website came up explaining in details the meaning of the expression:

The expression “Che palle!” is one of the most vital and most used in the Italian language. Since it is important that you get this right, we are even going to give pronunciation pointers: “Kay PAWL-lay!”

It means, literally, “What balls!” These are balls, testicles, that are figuratively dragging on the ground from eccessive boredom or irritation. The slightly dated slang phrase “What a drag” is in fact a good approximation – if without character…

I thought it was a brilliant explanation. So I’ve decided – out of sheer boredom – to add more (avoiding some obvious ones like Vaffanculo and similar). I invite all my Italian friends to contribute. Never mind if your English isn’t good

“Che maroni!”: absolutely the same as “che palle” and referring to the same anatomical part of the male body. The only difference is that  the word “maroni” to describe testicles tends to be used mainly in the North. The fact that Maroni is also the surname of one of Berlusconi’s ministers is a pure coincidence. Or maybe not…

“Du cojoni…” Absolutely the same as “che maroni”. Coglione (or cojone in its Roman version) means, like palle and maroni, balls, testicles. “Mi hai fatto du cojoni cosi’” means “you made my balls this big.” If your girlfriend says this too often, you might want to reconsider proposing to her as she’s probably about to run away with the plumber. If your boyfriend says this, don’t assume he’ complimenting on your hand job technique…

“mmmmmmmmm”: This typical expression -or rather noise- isnt to be confused with the noise one makes when uncertain about or pondering something (“Hmm?) nor with the noise one makes when seeing tasty food (Hmm!!) No, this is the typical noise an Italian makes when deeply bored or annoyed by something another person says. Imagine a siren. It’s similar to that. It starts low and quiet and it progresses up in pitch only to go down again.  mmMMMMmmm. Massimo Troisi was great at this. Also Toto’. I’ve been looking for clips on youtube but I can’t find them. I invite all my italian readers to send me one if the have it, or to try a better way to explain such a noise. Basically, like the previous expressions, mmmmmmmmmmm also means “che palle”…

Uffa! More child-like, onomatopoeic expression of boredom, dissatisfaction, and disappointment. “Uffa, mamma, voglio la Nutella!”

I never realised we have so many ways to express boredom. Italians have very limited patience

Rompicoglioni” OR “spaccamaroni”: A person who’s bored you a lot, to the point of breaking your balls. Balls are a very recurrent item in Italian conversation. You can also say “rompicazzo”, which is more painful as it means somebody so annoying they’re able to break somebody’s penis. Which is notoriously worse than having just your balls broken.

Boh: Means “I’ve no idea and I’m not really bothered”. What is your opinion on the issue of cows farting too much in Australia? Boh… What do you fancy eating for lunch? Boh… What do you want to study at University? Boh…

Boh is an absolute favourite with teenagers and with boyfriends who just can’t be bothered. Damp the boyfriend and force the teenager to work in a mine for a week

Palla: fib, lie. Balls never leave us alone in Italy. Why we compare a lie with a testicle I dont know. “Pallista” means someone who lies a lot.

Coglione: There we go again. If somebody says you’re a “coglione” they’re basically saying you’re a dickhead, an idiot. In Milan we also say “pirla”.

Basta!: If an Italian person says “basta” to you and you happen to be British, dont punch them in the face. They’re not calling you a bastard, they’re just asking you to stop (because you’ve bored them sick, breaking their balls etc etc)

Dai!: Even in this case, if an Italian person says “Dai” to you (pronounced DIE), they’re not wishing you dead, so don’t hit them. They’re just saying “come on!” (because you’ve bored them sick, breaking their balls etc)

Once I was with my cousin in the US and she started saying “Basta, dai!” to her daughter and was almost arrested for child molesting as people thought she were insulting her kid and telling her to die…

attaccati!”: Means “sort yourself out, it’s your problem”. It’s actually shorter for “attaccati al tram”, which means something like jump on the moving tram. Dangerous

And to finish, a little “chicca” I found on youtube, because the best Italian expressions are the gestural ones. LOOK:

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I’ll finish here for tonight… Suggerimenti???

Travel advisors…

•October 26, 2009 • 1 Comment

Just a quick one.

I read in the papers last weekend that the New York Subway is in need of modernization and refurbishing, so what did they do? they hired the guy who’s been managing the London Tube.

ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah

Is it a joke?

The London Tube has NEVER been so bad as since the manager in question started his abominable “refurbishments”. The great genius and his men plan works not trying to keep in mind the poor travelers, who are already paying a ridiculously inflated price for a ticket. No, like most things in the UK, common sense goes down the drain when it comes to “reaching targets”.

Computer says: target is finishing Jubilee Line by 2012 or London Olympics will be disrupted.

And of course Mr Tube shuts the whole Jubilee Line every single weekend, so if somebody has the bad luck of living in Canary Warf, Greenwich or Kilburn, they’re either rich enough to go around by taxi, or they’re forced to stay home for 48 hours.  Never mind if a concert is on at the O2 Arena or a football match at Wembley Stadium. The Jubilee Line is unapproachable, as we’d say in Milan “tacate al tram!” (which in such context could be a suitable suggestion. Pity there are no trams in London…)

Computer says: let’s put fancy displays along escalators to advertise musicals. Musicals productions pay money.

And Mr Tube shuts Archway Station for two months (and Warren Street and others, Archway is the one affecting me). Fuck musicals advertised on multiscreens! I need to get on the Northern Line! And I’m even one of those who loves musicals!!!

And the Northern Line… do we want to open a chapter about the misery of the Line that has more branches than a baobab?

Why does every Northern Line train have to stop at Camden for 10 minutes? Signal failure! Why do signals keep failing?

Why do the screens say “Via Charing Cross” if the train is actually going “Via Bank”?

Why can’t the Charing Cross branch go to Morden and has to stop at Kennington?

Why, at Camden, they can’t have a platform for trains Via Charing Cross and one for trains Via Bank, instead of having random trains arriving at random platforms? It looks like that game I played as a child, BANDIERA, where two teams lined up at the two sides a person holding a handkerchief. Then the person called “number… 3!” and the players who were number 3 had to run to catch the hanky..  Same at Camden. Commuters desperately try to guess which platform number will come up, keeping an eye on both – which is impossible because there are two sets of stairs and a corridor in the middle. Then the little man at the tannoy announces “the next train via Charing Cross will arrive at platform… 2″ and go! You’ll see hoards of crazy commuters rushing up the stairs down the stairs and up the stairs again, elbowing each other, smashing briefcases and kicking pregnant women in order to get on their train…

There must be a more rational way…

Last night I was at Heathrow, on my way back from Italy. Well… The Piccadilly Line didn’t work, so I had to get the Heathrow Express to Paddington. At Paddington, I found out I couldnt take the Bakerloo Northbound, because the Victoria Line was also closed, so I couldn’t change at oxford Circus. The Circle Line to Kings Cross was also not working, so I had to walk a mile to go to the Hammersmith and City Line, whose entrance of course is nowhere near the other Tube lines at Paddington. While on the Hammersmith I found out Kings Cross station on the Northern Line was closed. So I had to take the Piccadilly Line (the trait that worked), get off at Holloway Road and from there get a bus, because of course Archway station is also closed.

And ca va sans dire the Jubilee Line was shut, but that is implied, the Jubilee Line is a just a mirage, a trick of the mind.

Let’s not mention that neither Kings Cross nor Paddington have escalators or lift to ground level, and they’re full of tourists with huge bags.

All this for the pleasure 4 pounds a ticket – unless you have an Oyster Card.

So, dear New Yorkers, have fun! Your subway smells of urine and is either warmer than the Sahara desert or  colder than the North Pole, but at least is cheap and doesn’t keep closing!!!

The only good thing is that, unlike the British, Americans and New Yorkers in particular, are good are complaining. So my advice is…

Please kick the damn man’s ass!!!

Buon Viaggio!

Ode to my London neighbours

•October 21, 2009 • 6 Comments

My neighbours love smelly old carpets

they want them on communal stairs.

they’re damp and covered in mud.

Who cares, they like them like that.

I said “Tiles?” but they think I’m mad

Tiles are noisy, expensive and sad!

So what if they’re used

in the rest of the world

Nowhere is as good as Britain…

Britain uber alles

*

My neighbours upstairs have a dog

and their flat smells like a bog.

They walk him at quarter past five

making noise and leaving on lights,

lights I pay for as they’re on my floor

I complained but they slammed the door.

Good thing is they’re scared of my boyfriend

he’s black and they think he’s a gangster.

My boyfriend lives far far away

but he comes round every other day.

*

My neighbours downstairs are so British

they only talk through emails

they’re silent, discreet and they never

say one thing unpleasant e-ven

when big dog upstairs leaves a turd

on their doormat,

as big as a bird.

We’re British, we don’t get upset

we never take sides, you bet

It’s rude to express an opinion!

*

The owner of the upstairs flat

is rich and he lives in Yorkshire

He don’t give a damn if his tenants

are rude, racist and weird.

When they flooded my flat

with their washing machine

he ignored me

because he is mean

His dream is to own the whole place.

but I think he’s a big waste of space.

*

You’d think my house is a nightmare

lucky thing is that I have shop

just opposite run by some Indians

the nicest bunch on the block

There’s a lady who’s always depressed

She sits at the counter all day

perhaps she was forced into marriage

perhaps doesn’t know what to say

and a lady who’s so very chatty

she even forgets to eat patties.

*

There’s Tommaso who lives round the corner

and is from Milan, like me.

Together with drive down to Sainsbury

to buy our food once a week.

There’s Patrick who lives in the basement

and plays the guitar do-re-mi

He just had a baby with Sonya

they speak to me, can you believe?

So not all the British are bad

but the worst live upstairs from me.

Cold Tapas, Poland and monoculturalism: a trip to the heart of England

•October 20, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Next Thursday the BNP (British National Party) will appear, for the first time in history, on the BBC program Question Time, and the news has created one of the most heated debates I’ve seen in 12 years spent in the UK.

Usually the British talk about politics like they talk about their weather: something slightly annoying they have to put up with.

In Italy at every televised political debate you watch the ignoble show of grown up people shouting at each other, their opinions so polarised – right/left, social democracy/liberism, Catholic/non Catholic – they could as well come from different planets. In Italy if you’re a Right supporter, you don’t really have Left wing friends, or if you do they’re used to prove your openmindness. Same thing if you’re a Left supporter. I have a friend who voted Berlusconi at the last elections but I try to keep her secret. In fact  I’ve caught myself several times saying “XX votes Right. But you know, she’s actually quite nice, she doesn’t REALLY care about politics…”

In Britain…

Political debates on TV are usually as exciting as a game of Polo. All fairplay and politeness and smiles and soft words. Which is great, it’s actually a sign of decency that politicians from different parties can talk without going at each other throats and without using insulting expressions.  Berlusconi would fall alseep straight away, “what’s this?” he’d think. “Not even a fat ugly lesbian that I can publicly insult? I’m out of here!”

But the sedate debates don’t help the general impression that all parties in Britain have become the same, that Right and Left are just words meaning nothing. Tony “things can only get better” Blair, led the triumph of Labour in 1997, and left ten years later as George Bush’s best buddy, after creating a government whose policies seemed so conservative the Tory party for years wasn’t quite sure what to do and sort of kept silent.

So it’s perhaps to shake up its audience that the BBC has invited the BNP on Question Time, a program where a panel of politicians from different backgrounds is questioned by random members of the audience on current policies.

The BNP is a party founded by a bunch of Nazi supporters and whose leader, Nick Griffin (photo)

images

is a Holocaust denier, white supremacist and Ku klux klan sympathizer. Exactly what one would describe as a kind, peaceseeking guy, no doubt, who probably wouldn’t mind having slavery re-introduced together with public stoning of white women who sleep with black men (I only have to hope Nazism never returns. I would be killed for so many reasons – from Judaism to “Communism” to black lovers – I could just as well commit suicide and avoid torture or concentration camps.)

The BNP believes in the necessity of kicking out of the UK everyone who’d look peculiar wearing a foundation of a darker shade than “ivory” (never mind they were born in Britain and their families  have been UK citizens for generations), leaving the “pure” Anglo-Saxon finally free to roam their sweet green meadowland, producing blond, pale children with blue eyes and transparent skin ready to take Britain back to its Imperial grandeur. I’m not joking: the BNP constitution says that it wishes to restore “the overwhelmingly white makeup of the British population that existed in Britain prior to 1948″ – when postwar immigration of blacks and Asians began.

Yes, sure.

What is it with white blond European people that makes them think they’re better than the rest of the world? I mean, the Americans also tend to think they’re the best, but at least don’t try to justify it on the basis of colour, they were born to rule the world because everyone who’s watched a couple of Hollywood disaster movies – and The Simpsons – knows that God always blesses the United States of America, blondes and brunettes alike.

And besides,  the concept of “pure” race was arbitrary and absurd enough in Nazi Germany, where most of the population, however, did share a certain (scary) look… But Britain? I mean, WHAT are the typical genetic traits of the British race? Propension to drunkness? Love of dirty carpets and Pub Quizzes? Inability to dress according to outdoor temperature? British is a nationality not a DNA trait, you morons! Since Roman times the British Islands have been invaded by so many of people – Latin, Viking, French – the average Briton has a genetic map more mixed up than a Chinese stir and fry… May I point out the Windsors are German? Is Griffin planning to kick them out as well?

Living in London, where white people are in most neighborhoods an ethnic minority, I’ve always thought the BNP was just a bunch of anachronistic idiots with no future. I mean, try and restore the “white makeup” in some parts of Haringey, you’ll have 70% of the population rising against Nick Griffin and eating him alive after roasting him on a kebab. But, surprise surprise, London isn’t Britain, exactly like New York, San Francisco and Chicago aren’t the US…

Flashback. Early October 2009:

my boyfriend Patrick and I (yes, yes, after all my posts about internet dating, speeddating and being single, I have a boyfriend now. Stop the cheering and blow off the candles you had lit to the Virgin Mary) decided to take a “minibreak” to the Lake District, notoriously one of the prettiest (and rainiest) parts of England. We booked a lovely hotel in Windermere, and boarded a train armed with waterproof jackets and laptops (we both write and thought it would be ideal to work at our stories in such a beautiful location.)

The train journey was smooth and we passed some absolutely stunning countryside, a true postcard from England: green meadows, sheep, sweet hills, little stone cottages… Hydillic.

countryside

Windermere was also hydillic. A tiny village with well kept stone cottages and brick houses, a couple of big posh hotels on the lake, the lake itself big and blue, spotted with sails and ducks.

IMG_2032 IMG_2050Image294

All fine.

In Windermere most of the people working in the tourism industry are Polish, from the waiters in the restaurants to our hotel manager, to the lady checking our tickets when we went for a boatride. The Windermerean Polish are  blond, tall creatures who tend to blend in the background as if they were part of the landscape, like  impeccably efficient robots, always smiling but never really engaging with the customers, as if the goal of their existence was to make sure you’d get what you had asked for in under ten seconds.

Being pale and blond, it’s hard to tell a Polish from an English person (unless they start speaking), especially since in Windermere, as we noticed the very moment we arrived, everyone is white. And mostly blond. No Asians, no Afro-Caribbean, no Chinese… Occasionally a group of Japanese tourists appears from a bus, takes pictures of the lake, boards a boat and disappears in the horizon (whether they ever return or they’re thrown off board the moment the boat gets out of sight, I don’t know).

To begin with, I didn’t give such details a second thought. I mean, yes, Patrick did stand out as the only black tourist in the village, in fact as the only black person in the region all together, but such is life. But after our first day I realised something: we were being watched. Like in one of those thrillers where a nice couple arrives in a perfectly quiet pretty town just to found out it’s populated by zombies, we noticed people stopped and whispered every time we entered a shop, arrived in the breakfast room, or walked down the streets.

Was I wearing the wrong pair of jeens?

No.

It didn’t take us long to guess the reason: not only Patrick is black. Patrick is black, well dressed and staying in a fairly expensive otel.

Blimey, you could see people think (real pure English always say blimey), now black men come in posh, how did that happen? It’s all Obama’s fault! (trashing Obama being at present such a popular entertainment as darts or watching X Factor) It’s bad enough to have a black tourist, at least he can have the decency of wearing a hood, baggy jeans and white trainers like every normal black person we see in The Bill.

So we can call the police and get rid of him.

Their eyes opened even wider when Patrick spoke. In fact some of them were so shocked when they saw us at breakfast they tripped over and dropped their porridge on the floor.

Bloody hell (pure English people also say bloody hell), a black man without a Jamaican accent? Is he taking the piss? The bloke speaks posher than me primary school teacher, innit? (ok, now I’m going Eastenders, I got carried away. They don’t say innit in Windermere, I must admit).

They basically stared at Patrick as if he was being dubbed in real time, as if he was carrying a tiny, caucasian, voice over artist hidden in his pocket who spoke for him. (funny the only tiny caucasian voice over artist Patrick did carry with him was an Italian woman – i.e. ME)

But the glazing on the cake was the laptop. The moment they spot Patrick’s computer, the people of Windermere almost collapsed… He can write too!!!!!

Now, if Patrick had been accompanied by a local blond called Claire with big boobs, a pink sweater and a ponytail, the Windermereans might have let it go. Oh yeah, the black guy is Claire’s flatmate, she’s living in London now, she has exotic friends, it’s a phase…

But Patrick was accompanied by me.

I, it turns out, look even more alien than Patrick: not only my big curly hair is unheard of in Windermere (never seen hair like that, have you?? how do you comb it? is it a sort of Afro that starts growing when a white woman dates a black man?). I have olive skin, and my flowery, bohemian clothes must be totally, totally inappropriate in Cumbria, unless one is about to do an amateur version of Midsummer Night’s Dream with the local theatre company.

The funny thing is that the ones who stared longer were the Polish. Hey,wake up, you’re not robot, you’re human beings! And the BNP hates you as well, you’re the infamous immigrants who steal Britishg jobs, like me, we should be friends!

Yes, we were the attraction of the week. Living in London, one forgets how provincial the rest of the world is. I’d never truly realised before last week how white England is. Having spent 12 years in the capital of multiculturalism, I tend to equal London with Britain, but it’s not true. Big cities are multicultural. But middle England isn’t. Middle England stares at foreigners and educated black men, as if we were an enemy army ready to invade, or, in the best of cases, a couple of freaks.

London is fashion, trends, creativity, in London you can walk on the Tube with green hair and a plastic bag instead of a skirt and nobody would give you a second look. In Windermere my hippy jacket was stared at as if it was alligator skin. In London every other restaurant is “ethnic”. In Windermere after the second day we learned that it was better to forget about Tapas (cold and bland) and pizzas and just aim for the pub, where the fish and chips was excellent and so were the burgers.

Windermere seemed to me like a peaceful and nice piece of old England, where immigrants (albeit white) were perfectly integrated and the odd stares we received were caused less by racism and more by old sterotypes resulting from not being used to “different”. However, in different, poorer, areas of the UK, where unemployment among the white working class is raising, things are different. In such places, where multiculturalism tends to be seen as “foreign invasion”, where Europe is seen not as something we’re all part of but as an alien body trying to take over, it won’t take long to resuscitate old prejudice, hatred, suspicion.

The BNP on BBC Question Time is scary because Griffin will use the BBC “fairness and openness” to conquer credibility, acceptance, social respectability. The risk is that some people will fall for it.

La la la la… I’m a believer… la la la la

•October 10, 2009 • 2 Comments

As a tribute to the concept of “PAR CONDICIO”, after posting about Italian politics, I’m now going to dedicate a few lines to the politics of my “adoptive” country: 

…Enter floppy haired, jolly smiled, Eton accented, big jawed…

David Cameron!

Don’t fall asleep please!! I know British politics is about as exciting as watching a game of Polo on TV, but I could have said Gordon Brown after all. That would have been enough to send you into narcolepsy!

The truth is I wish I could say something really really exciting and good about old Gordie, because I think he’s a nice enough chap, just without charisma, poor thing. Not everyone was born to lead crowds and Brown’s talent has always been for acting in the wings. They all loved him when he was backstage drawing the budget.

I know Labour has disappointed people hugely, especially by turning Britain into George Bush’s best friend and creating a generation of ASBOs roaming the streets, but I’m truly scared at the idea of the Tories winning the next election.   My proposal is: Couldn’t voters give the Lib Dem a chance? They’re always around but never get to do anything, it’s not fair. It’s like when you’re little and the older kids let you play with them but never allow you to be captain or decide the name of the starship. It’s not fun, is it?

I’ve lived my last 12 years in Labour Britain. When I first arrived, Tony Blair was being hailed a hero at the sound of “Things can only get better”…    Now it looks like things have been getting worse for quite a while and nobody knows how to save the country from what it looks like an inevitable, fatal disgrace: the return of the Conservative. Help! My Left wing blood is shaking at the mere thought (yes, Silvio, I have, and always will be, a dirty Communist! ROAR!!!!) 

But back to David Cameron and his speech at the Tory conference two days ago.

First of all, what was BONO, yes I mean U2 BONO, Sunday bloody Sunday-we can be as one tonight-let’s save the world-do they know it’s Christmas-peace be with you Bono, doing introducing the leader of the CONSERVATIVE party???

If this isn’t enough proof the world is going banana I don’t know what is. Next Bruce Springsteen will be serenading Sarah Palin and Bob Geldof will write the new Iranian anthem…

Bono! Hey, mate, are you freaking mad? You’re Irish, you’re supposed to hate British conservative nationalism and support Europe. You’re working class. You’re against global warming. More importantly, one of your videos also opened the Labour conference a week ago! You can’t be on BOTH sides, it’s forbidden.    Just shut up and don’t appear in ANY video if you really can’t make up your mind.

 Second, Samantha Cameron was dressed in a M&S £65 frock and £29 Zara shoes.

Right, great.

M&S, I’ll have to explain to the non-British, doesn’t mean Maso-Sadic (even though that would have been far more entertaining, Sam Cam dressed in leather and carrying a whip).    Mark and Spencer’s is the most famous supermarket in the UK, the equivalent of the American Penny’s and the Italian Upim. It’s also the producer of the single most annoying advert in the history of TV, where a sexy female voice says, as if she’s offering a blow job:

“this isn’t just salad, this is freshly cut, uberrichly washed, amazingly packaged, supercalifragilistikespiralidosly presented M&S SALAD!” (subtext: and therefore we can charge 2 pound fifty for it, and you idiots are going to buy it!!!)

Anyway, Sam Cam in supermarket dress, “Oh, wow,” everyone was supposed to say (in the imagination of the overpaid image consultant who came up with such a brilliant idea) “she’s really middle England, she’s one of us, not like posh bitch Sarah Brown who appeared at the Labour conference wearing designer clothes and Jimmiy Choo shoes!”

Now, putting aside my strong faith in the value of perfectly designed high heels and my firm belief that whoever opts for a crap M&S dress while being able to afford Armani is an idiot, the reality is that Sarah Brown looked smashing in her clothes while Sam Cam looked like a pillowcase from Ikea.   I personally feel insulted and patronised by a woman who pretends to dress “normally” while owning hundreds of designer frocks and Prada shoes.

Who is she trying to fool? Sam Cam is rich, like.. really really rich. If she had wanted Valentino to provide her with a dress for the conference she could have had it in no time at all. A few months ago she was at the Galmour’s awards in a pink VIVENNE WESTWOOD dress. Vivienne Westwood! Pink! And now all of a sudden she’s in gray M&S? Oh please…

 She’s probably never set foot in M&S in her life. Her assistant bought the dress online after finding out that last summer the polka-dot frock was the “hit” item among over 40s British middle class females, basically the dress every other woman in the country keeps in her wardrobe. The message was, look! I dress like you! I totally lack in style, exactly like the majority of over 40s in this country!   Hyppee!!!

Because the bare truth about the polka dot number and the Zara shoes is not that they’re cheap, which is fine. They’re actually dreadful.

Why?:

1) The solid fact about dots is that they make you look either under 12 or over 65 years old. Basically only children and grandmothers can get away with them. Anyone in between should just avoid them.

2) Gray. Unless worn with bright red, orange or similar, gray makes you just blend into the background. Now, if Sam Cam had really wanted to blend into background, she would have worn one of her many nicely tailored designer suits. Nobody would have batted an eye. The M&S choice was clearly a statement. She didn’t want to blend in. So she could have at least gone for a more flattering colour.

3) Zara shoes. Zara shoes! Nobody buys shoes from Zara! Zara is bad enough for clothes, shoes are only placed in the stores for window displays! Zara shoes are uncomfortable, badly put together, and chunky. Probably Tesco’s has better shoes than Zara…

What Sam Cam was trying to do with her ridiculous look was backing her husband message: see, we’re Middle England. Simple! Approachable! The Labour is the REALLY posh party! We’re like you! We care about poor people! We want all state schools to be as good as private schools (how? he didn’t explain). We want families to be the focal point in our society (how? he didn’t explain). We want to fix broken communities and fight antisocial behaviour so that we can all walk down the street at night feeling safe (how? he didn’t explain. Is he providing drivers to chauffeur us around?)

Cameron basically did some copy and paste from “famous speech manual”, mixing popular songs with Obama and Martin Luther King (“I see a country…” David kept repeating, just like King repeated “I have a dream…). He made a list of the most obvious things every normal person would wish for – better schools, better hospitals, stronger families, less unemployment – portraying the image of an ideal Britain where everybody’ll all love each other, go to a well run school, bump into well behaved kids who help old people crossing the street and find a fantastic doctor ready to care for us the moment we feel unwell…

Wow. Who could argue with that? The question is: how??? Cameron was full of rhetoric but no clear, practical solution was contained in his speech. He ranted against the presence of the State in society, against Labour turning the government into a cumbersome nanny who’s been trying in vain to fix problems communities and citizens should be let free to fix themselves…

But what does all this really MEAN? What is it that less well off people will have to give up in order to create this dream world?

Cameron pretending to be just a normal lad who cares about normal people is as fake as his wife pretending to be a housewife shopping for clothes in M&S. It’s a show. A façade. What’s really hidden underneath we won’t find out for another year, when they will be in power and start show their true colour.

Let’s not forget the Tories are so against Europe they refused to be part of the Popular Party – the European Centre/Right – preferring an alliance with right wing characters such as the crazy Polish twins and Alessandra Mussolini. They think the way to make public schools better is to “sell” them to companies who will run it for profit. But a school isn’t a business. It’s not just about profit, it’s about content. It’s about education.

Education, education, education, shouted Blair when he was still a real Labour (or at least sounded like one). Now apparently the word is profit, profit, profit.

 

Cameron left the stage while loudspeakers played “I’m a believer”. When I first read this I started laughing because this 1966 song in its Italian version, sung by Caterina Caselli, a woman in a blond bob that vaguely resembled a young Camilla Parker Bowles, was called “Sono bugiardo” which means… guess??? I AM A LIER!!!!!!!!!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jF_lGrD_3gg

The King is naked

•October 8, 2009 • 2 Comments

I’m sorry I haven’t posted for a while.

Yesterday I thought I’d be back to my blog with some funny entries about my holidays and multiculturalism on the Lake District, but I had to change my mind and ask you to wait for those while, once again, I express my disgust at Silvio Berlusconi.

First of all, well done Supreme Court: the infamous “Lodo Alfano”, the law proposed by the PM’s supporters that would have given Berlusconi immunity, was yesterday rejected as anti-constitutional. And so it should be, I mean, even pure and simple common sense can see how absurd and undemocratic the idea of a Prime Minister immune from persecution would be. Berlusconi’s supporters – who tend to behave like worshippers rather than thinking people – say it’s a scandal, that the Prime Minister is too busy with important things to waste his time in a courtroom.

Sorry? I don’t get the argument here. A Prime Minister should dedicate his time to govern and improve his country, true, which is WHY perhaps people who have pending trials SHOULDN’T run for Prime Minister and most definitely SHOULDN’T be voted. Most Italians at the past elections thought nothing of the many charges against “Saint Silvio” and placed their trust in his great “talent” as a statesman (which he still has to prove, considering the whole world treats him as a clown, but of course Silvio’s people refuse to read the foreign press, they’re all a bunch of communists, even the Times, even Sarkowzy and Angela Merkel. Yes, right…)

Anyway, going to back to what I was saying, yes, a Prime Minister should govern undisturbed, but it’s up to him to know his life is so transparent nobody can start digging into his past and find huge skeletons. Being Prime Minister shouldn’t mean one becomes untouchable and beyond the law. Quite the opposite, a Prime Minister, as the representative of a whole country should make sure to abide the law in every single detail of his life, in order to give the good example. He’s more tied to it than a private citizen. If a private citizen breaks the law, they’re punished, no matter whether they’re unemployed, heart surgeons or top politicians. No matter whether they have more important things to do for the community. How can they serve the community when they don’t respect its rules? How can Berlusconi expect the Italian people to abide the law, when they see their Prime Minister breaking it and getting away with it?

But perhaps that’s what Berlusconi really wants. To discredit the law. His despise for the judges has always been open, and after yesterday it’s turned into a war. This is disgraceful for democracy. Even more disgraceful and abominable is his attack towards the President of the Republic. It means he doesn’t respect the basics of the Italian constitution. He doesn’t get its democratic fundamentals. He screams that all judges are communist, and his worshippers repeat it after him. It’s ridiculous. You can’t accuse a judge of being impartial just because he rules against you. The Prime Minister has to show respect for the judicial system. But Berlusconi thinks he’s above the law, he’s sick in the head, in his mind he’s a fabulous Roman Emperor whose role is to lead Italy to its past splendors, surrounded by a cheering crowd and by a series of naked young women.

He believes in his greatness to the point of thinking it gives him total immunity. He can do as he pleases, say what he pleases, and whoever disagrees has to shut up or face consequences. But his crazy dream isn’t what happens in a democratic republic, his crazy dream is a scene from “Caligula”. But despite his power, despite his presence on every TV channel, despite his rants against the “communists” (where are the communists in Italy, somebody must explain to me, as I want to meet them and give them a WWF badge – they’re far rarer than Pandas nowadays, even Fidel is about to die…), Italy has proved once again that it’s not just “il paese dei campanelli”, a happy-go-lucky country where people are happy to forget their brains in exchange for PANEM AND CIRCENSES. And when all hope seems lost, this country gets back on its feet and starts fighting. Berlusconi with his behavior has signed his own condemnation. He has managed to operate a miracle: he’s forced the Left to get together in a united front. The Left parties are terrible at getting on when it’s time to govern, but God they’re good at opposition! And Silvio is making them stronger by the day. After his attacks against the “red” judges and the Communist President of the Republic, he has openly offended Rosy Bindi during a TV debate, saying she was more “beautiful than intelligent”. For my foreign readers, Rosy Bindi is 60, overweight and notoriously unattractive. With his words that swine who calls himself Prime Minister has managed to imply she’s ugly and also stupid. Which is undeniably a very mature, politically deep, articulate way to close an argument. Shut up you ugly bitch, he practically said. And, even worse, one of his “lieutenants”, also present during the TV show, while Rosy Bindi was speaking yelled, “you’re an acid spinster”. The level of the debate in Berlusconi’s circles is always very intellectual… Now, after all the scandals with the escorts, pin up girls etc etc, Berlusconi should have learned to respect women – at least in public – but no, of course. He obviously thinks that any female who isn’t blond, slim and adoring should just disappear.

At every passing day a bit more of his real character is revealed. His megalomania is now totally undisguised. His disrespect for the institutions open. His paranoid belief in his sex appeal and in his right to treat women like geishas openly thrown at the world. He’s sick, he’s obviously lost it.

Then my question is, why do people keep supporting him? Why do people in his party prefer to cover their eyes and ears, accept what are clearly the angry rants of a seventy-plus millionaire who wants to rule the world, rather than get together and GET RID OF HIM? Why don’t they support Giancarlo Fini, the only intelligent mind in the Right? I’ll never vote Fini, but I have the greatest respect for the man. Italy at least won’t be the world’s laughing stock if he took Berlusconi’s place. The Left parties will have no common enemy anymore and will start fighting each other again. I’m suggesting this against my own interest… Right wing voters, please wake up! Have you been hypnotized? This is truly scary. I have incredibly smart, strong, independent female friends who still want to defend Berlusconi and his behavior with women. I know some very law-abiding, serious, motivated men who think the Lodo Alfano should have passed… What’s happening to you? What are you scared of? Are you terrified of loosing your big guy with the big fake reassuring smile who was going to make you all as rich as him? He’s the Wizard of Oz!

He’s made of smoke!

He’s deluded you all.

There’s nothing behind his façade. Just emptiness!

You’ve all turned into munchkins!

But you can return to being human beings if you want. Just say it. Go away. Back somebody else, anyone else! Honestly, this is a dream. A nightmare.

It’s like in the Emperor’s new clothes, they don’t want to admit the King is naked. But he is! He is, and they can see it but still they pretend he’s wearing gold! Please, stop this farce. The King is naked (yuk).

Now, let’s get serious, elect somebody else and allow Silvio to rot in prison. But perhaps that is also a dream…

Italians, accents, dialect test and Roman actors… OR “Quelli che a Como sono tutti de Trastevere…”

•July 30, 2009 • 4 Comments

I don’t often agree with Northern League representatives. In fact, I deeply despise their racism, narrow mindness, and public display of “masculine and Nordic dominance”. I’m often scared of their abusive outbursts. Other times I find them totally hilarious, like when they recently proposed that teachers from the South working in the North should take a local dialect test to prove that they can really blend in and understand the people they’re teaching (how many kids speak dialect in Northern Italy, really? If you know one, please, take a picture of him/her, as they’re as rare as white bears as far as I can see).

The idea of the test immediately reminded me of comedians Aldo, Giovanni e Giacomo and the sketch where a Southern Italian Vampire sneaks into some farmers’ house looking for “victims” only to be confronted by two racist “Northerners” who not only aren’t scared of him, but immediately suspect him to be a “terrone” (derogatory for Southern Italian). In order to confirm their suspicions, they test him with “l’inganno della CADREGA”. CADREGA is a Northern word for “chair”. When the farmers ask the Vampire, “would you care for a CADREGA,” he panicks as he has no clue what they’re talking about. He tries to buy his time by using all the Milanese expressions he can think of. But the farmers aren’t impressed…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqmTdtoCmEs

A few days ago, another member of the Northern League complained that all actors on Italian TV spoke with a Roman accent. No matter where a series is set, Roman is what we hear. He went on to mention a TV drama about the life of Pope Giovanni XXIII. The much loved pontiff was from the mountains near Bergamo, and spoke with the distinctive accents of that area. However, Massimo Ghini, the (usually very good) actor who portrayed him on TV spoke with a Roman accent. This, according to the Northern League’s guy, was unacceptable and another proof of disgusting Roman dominance. Of course, once again, his “externation” was followed by choruses of criticism. The mentioned Ghini said that he tried to portray the man, his essence, his humanity, not his “exterior”.

Ay me, ay me… what am I forced to say….

Ghini is blantantly wrong.

I totally support the Northern League guy. AHHHHHHH

Before you call an ambulance to check on my mental state, let’s make one thing absolutely clear:

I agree with the complaint raised by the politician for diametrically opposed reasons, ie not out of narrow-minded parochialism and irrational hatred for “Roma Ladrona”, but because Italian actors, if they really want to be as good as their foreign counterpart, have to grow beyond the limits of our little country and go further. Bey0nd provincialism, neoralism, beyond the boundaries of their native regions! They’re ACTORS for God’s sake. They have to stop playing themselves and learn what their profession is really about.

Acting is hard work.

Of course, yes, there are actors who become a sort of “universal archetype”, actors who can just be themselves and by so doing portray something that is so specific, so true, so human, it goes beyond geography and time. I think of Chaplin, Tati, of the Italian Toto’, comedians who became eternal masks, like Arlequin. But such actors don’t usually play “roles”, really. Stories are written around them. They’re a separate category.

Outside that narrow category are all the great, professional actors who play roles. They are blank canvasses ready to receive characters, turn into them, prepared to be moulded into a new creature who might vaguely look like them but who isn’t them. Of course they will always bring their own humanity into a role, their emotions, truths. I don’t believe much in pure “method”, in loosing yourself into somebody else’s story to the point of forgetting who you are. It’s dangerous, and it’s unnecessary. How can anyone, really, ever stop being themselves completely? We all bring our own humanity and being to the characters we play.

As one of my teachers said, acting is about being totally true under a set of made up circumstances. Being true, though, doesn’t imply speaking only in your every day accent. That would be simply lazy. It’s as if Meryl Streep had refused to do a Polish accent in Sophie’s choice and gone for her native New Jersey twang saying “the important thing is the humanity of the character not how she speaks.” Sophie was a Polish immigrant! Of course how she spoke was part of who she was, her identity, her humanity. In the USA or in the UK or even France, no actors will ever think that they can spend their all careers just using their native accent. A good ear for accents is considered a crucial skill anywhere outside Italy.

Because an accent isn’t just a way of pronouncing or pitching a word. It’s a whole way of being. I know it very well, as a foreigner living abroad. I’ve been trying to master my British accent for a number of years now, and recently my coach said something that was totally illuminating: “Lara, you’re Italian in the way you move, in the way you do your hair, in the way you look at people. You’re Italian before you even open your mouth. Think English, dress English, use your body as an English woman and you will also sound more English.”

It’s so true. The English sounds are produced by placing the whole of your body in a different position. Each idiom, each accent is only the final result of a whole culture.

Pope Giovanni XVIII was a simple man from a small mountain village. His delivery had the sweet, dark, slow cadence typical of that area. It had nothing to do with the more uptempo cadenza of the Roman accent. He came from a cold, hungry, underdevelopped region where winters were harsh and God could be seen in the beauty and the terror of the surrounding Alps. In his accent he carried this whole world.

If Ghini had been born in the US he would have spent two months in Bergamo in order to master his accent before beginning to shoot. But in Italy old Massimo feels perfetcly entitled to say “it’d be ridiculous for a Roman actor to do a Bergamo accent, it would have been fake and prevented me from portraying the character’s real soul.”

No, mate, it ’s ridiculous that a Roman actor can only play Roman, that is ridiculous. It’s ridiculous that Italian viewers are so used to the equation Roman-accent-equals-TVlanguage that they didn’t even NOTICE! If you had used a Bergamo accent, it wouldn’t have been ridiculous. It would have been “acting”. Ever heard of it? Unless what you’re saying is that YOU would have been ridiculous, because you can’t do accents, in which case it’s your problem. If you can’t do an accent without sounding funny or loosing your ability to be believable you’re lacking a skill, pure and simple. 

I actually rate Ghini quite a good actor, and if even such a professionist can be so adamant about the unimportance of an accent, it means that Italian acting is totally out of sync with the acting we see in the rest of the world. This because our TV and Film industry are still set in the past. In a pre-multicultural, pre-multilingual, pre-internet, pre-alphabetized Italy, where people didn’t really know much about what was going on outside their own town, and couldn’t understand any idiom other than their native dialect and standard Italian. In such a world, the media had the important role of educating the masses, getting them to speak proper Italian – often with hint of a Roman accent because TV and Film companies were based in the capital and so were most of the actors.

This is why it’s normal in Italy to hear actors speak with Roman accents no matter where something is set. It’s normal for actors not work on their accents as if it wasnt’t part of their characters and it’s normal for viewers not to notice. 

The Italian soap “Vivere”, that concluded in 2008 after running for 10 years or so, was set in Como. People in Como have a STRONG accent. Not a particularly pleasant one, let’s face it, but very distinctive, almost Swiss. Do you think the production bothered keeping that detail in mind? Of course not. In fact, mainly because of political reasons, they ended up with a cast of mostly Roman actors. The few Milanese actors who did get a job in the soap and who could have at least brough some more authentic Northern flavour, spoke Standard Italian. They sounded like a dubbed version of themselves. DOPPIAGGESE is the term… If they had used a Northern accent I’m sure they would have sounded ridiculous to most viewers. Because Italians aren’t used to accents on TV. Especially, and the League guy is unfortunately right, to Northern accents. Proof is that when they cast the soap “Un posto al Sole”, set in Naples, they wanted Neapolitans. For “Montalbano”, set in Sicily, they use Sicilian actors (or people who can do the accent). So why is it that every inhabitant of Como in “Vivere” sounded as if they’d just arrived from Trastevere? Why can’t we have actors from Como, Milano, Genova, Bologna, Trento, Torino, speaking in their own accent rather than being forced into a standard diction that takes spontaneity and personality away? 

It’s time for a revolution here…

There are cases when standard diction is necessary. On stage, for instance. If you act Shakespeare in Italian, or Checov, or Ibsen, it makes sense to have a neutral diction. In period drama set at the court of some noble man, neutral diction is also welcome.

But in 2008 Como??? Where are the COMASCHI? e be’ be’, il comasco l’e’ un po’ bruutto neh?

Another example:

I was probably the only person in Italy that, at the end of the excellent movie “Giorni e nuvole”, wondered why was the film set in Genoa when Margherita Buy had a Roman accent, Alabanese a neutral accent and the girl playing their daughter a strange East Northern accent. Were the characters from somewhere else and had only recently moved to Genoa? They didn’t act as they were. Why didn’t the daughter speak like her parents and why in fact she didn’t speak Genoan, as any kid in that city would? Italians don’t think such details are important, the film is good, the actors were good, what’s the difference?

There’s a big difference. The difference is that I would have asked Margherita Buy to do a Genoan accent. Because she speaks the same in every single movie. She’s good but she will never be as good as a Kate Blanchet or a Meryl Streep because she’s a prisoner of herself, of her Roman accent and of her repetitive delivery. She can just play neurotic Roman. And she’s lucky enough to work in an industry where that is not only accepeted but demanded. So good for her. But don’t be surprised if our actors aren’t rated much abroad. They don’t push beyond their own limits. They comfortably sit on their own glories and go on playing “generic”. Because that’s what happens when you don’t care about they way a character speak. You turn them into “anybody”.

This trend in my opinion is the sum of two opposite fenomenons: dubbing and neorealism.

Neorealism brought Italian cinema to the big screens of the whole world back in the ’50s thanks to films portraying the situation of the country in the aftermath of the war. “Bicycle thieves” or “Rome open city” are incredible masterpieces where real people were taken literally from the streets to act their own life. This led to the idea that good acting equals being natural and being natural equals being yourself.  Slowly but surely neorealism died but the prejudice it created remained. Leading, for instance, to the silly idea that stage actors can’t do films because they’re too “trained”. Because stage actors speak standard Italian and sound fake, while film actor speak… er… Roman, mostly. Sometimes Neapolitan, because somebody at some point in history decided Neapolitan is a “language” so Neapolitan actors in Italy have a special status and they’re allowed to do their own thing. Or, some times, they speak other accents, but only if they’re “characters”  verging on caricatures (like Abbatantuono always playing the arrogant Milanese, Angela Finocchiaro playing the “sfigata” Milanese).

Perhaps if stage actors were allowed to act, and therefore cast as coming “from” a particular place (requiring a particular accent, rather than as some generic “person” who speaks as if they’d landed on Earth from an Episode of “Sentieri”) they would do a better job. If somebody for a change forced them, required them to act, to learn a skill, to use a REAL accent, they might actually prove that they have the capacity to do it.  

But let’s talk about dubbing, and I’m walking a very thin line here because I’m speaking against my own interest, since dubbing is what has been feeding me for a long time…

Italian dubbing is by far the best in the world. And I’m not saying it because I’m part of it, it’s a simple truth. We work at the highest standard. Italian “dubbers” are far more than voice over artists, they’re great actors who really re-create the acting of the big screen stars they voice on the dark. Sometimes, even to improve it, believe it or not. To the paradoxical point of turning, for instance, a poor actor such as Silvester Stallone into a very fine thespian thanks to the talent of an artist such as Ferruccio Amendola.

However, for all its highly accurate technique, finely tuned skills and amazing talents,Italian dubbing has one huge flaw: No dubbed film bothers with accents. No matter whether actors are British or American, speaking with a Tennessee or a York accent, no matter if they’re foreigners speaking English with a German or Spanish accent, no matter what, dubbing is done in STANDARD ITALIAN. Full stop. With very few exceptions such as the Godfather – dubbed with a Sicilian accent – or My Fair Lady, where Eliza was given a ludicrous Pugliese accent (which raise another issue: who do you translate accents? Impossible task?). 

Now, traditionally the great dubbing (the one for films) happens in Rome. Roman “dubbers”, despite protesting the contrary, very often slip into Roman habits (“sarebbe” with a closed “e”, “vabbene” with two “b” and various double consonants appearing in the wrong place…) Even those who aren’t from Rome try their best to colour their impeccable diction with some Roman hints, in the attempt to achieve the much requested ”naturale, buttato via” tone…

Can you start seeing a pattern developping here..?

The result of 80 years of dubbing is first of all a general standardisation of acting. The moment you take accents away, all films pretty much sound the same.

Second, the Italian audiences have grown up, generation after generation, with the innate, never questioned convinction that great acting equals standard Italian (with a hint of Roman). Regional accents from anywhere else are just funny, you cant take them seriously, they make you laugh. Standard/Roman Italian is what all Hollywood actors speak in every film showed in Italy. Consequently, Italian actors think that Standard/Roman Italian is how you need to speak in films. Or TV. Simple.

The world has changed so quickly in the past 80 years that dubbing is, regrettably, a thing of the past, but Italians are conservative at heart and I suspect another 80 years might pass before people in my country will seriously consider subtitles.

Dubbing and the residues of neorealism have generated this shared belief in the acting/directing/producing community that characters on TV and in films exist as “entities” totally independent from their surroundings and the language spoken around them. As if there was a dicotomy between what a character is and how he/she sounds. As if the voice wasn’t part of the body, as if it didn’t have any history, any background. People, real people, are the way they sound. The soul doesnt only speak through the eyes, it also speak through the quality of the sounds we produce. Even now, in Italy, beautiful but inept girls are cast in main TV roles and then dubbed (with a neutral, slightly Roman accent). As if a voice could be forced upon a person, as if the voice was an exterior thing, an accessory – like a hat or a dress – as if the voice was always a voice “over”, as if we were all born mute and waiting to be dubbed.

PS:  To Romans. You live under the  – unfortunatly wide spread - delusion that Roman equals “general Italian”, as if it was a sort of Esperanto or a Swiss passport guranteeing neutrality.It is not. Roman is spoken in Rome. Roman is a REGIONAL, not national accent. And a very strong one. Get real.

Dear me, I do sound like Bossi now….

Oh mia bela Maduninaaaaaaaaa

Swine comedy

•July 26, 2009 • 1 Comment

Today I woke up feeling postively shit. Aching all over the place, slight nausea, a sore throat… Under any other circustances I would have blamed my insane idea of going to a Pilates class despite my tracksuit being soaked in rain after being caught in a storm of monsonic proportions (welcome to Britain’s summer: it’s been raining since the beginning of July in this God forsaken country…) Any normal person at my place would have forgotten about the class and returned home to change and take a hot bath. But I decided to proceed to the gym and go through an hour of excercise watching my wet clothes dripping and leaving a puddle under my Swiss Ball. Add air conditioning blowing on me (WHY do they need air con when the temperature outside is 17 degrees only the Lord knows) and you have a sure recipee for bronchitis. 

But, as we all know, the UK is in full swine flu panic these days, the Tube is covered in disgusting posters of people sneezing – drops flying from their nose all around them as if a sneeze was some sort of atomic bomb. “CATCH IT, BIN IT, KILL IT” says the poster in capital letters, meaning you’d better sneeze into a tissue unless you desire to be lynched by the crowd standing on your same train. Japanese tourists wear little masks, Italian young people on study holidays carry disynfectants with them and obsessively keep washing their hands like Lady Macbeth while checking whether they’ve taken the correct branch of the Northern Line. Only the British pretend not to care, too “superior” to be bothered by pandemias, stoic to the very end… 

catchitkillitbinit

So I drag myself to the lounge feeling sorry for myself and wondering how the hell I’m going to contact my boyfriend to tell him I cant meet him in Waterloo (his mobile is broken and he’s not home… The joys of technology…) I turn on the TV and, of course, swine flu is the first news. The governement has issued an order for anybody suffering from flu syntoms NOT to go to a doctor or an emergercy room. Right. You’re asked instead not to leave home and to ring a helpline, where some random call centre operator WITHOUT MEDICAL BACKGROUND (and probably just arrived from Poland) will go through a series of questions with you to establish whether you have contracted the abominable disease.

NFS2

Alternatively, you can take the same test online. Of course, being an hypocondriac but also suspecting a chance for comic relief, I immedately switch on my laptop and take the test.
“Is the patient in a state of confusion? Do they cry a lot (babies only)”
Hmmm, lets see… I’m confused most days of my life about most things and totally unable to make rational choices… And I do cry a lot, despite not being a baby. Does it count? It’s not a newly developed condition though, I’ve had it my whole life, so unless I was born with swine flu, that’s a no.

 
“Has the patient’s colour turned to grey or blue?”
Oh, dear, I hope not. To be honest I’ve never seen anyone turning blue while having flu, unless they’ve already reached corpse state… are we sure this virus comes from pigs and not from alien creatures?

 
“Are they having a fit right now?”
Actually, I’m about to have a fit because my idiotic neighbour has left his smelly dog on the stairs once again, as if our communal areas were a dog recreation centre….

 
“Or, despite any pain they may have, is the patient completely unable to move their chin down to touch their chest?”
Darling, after 10 years of Pilates I’m so flexible I could touch my bum with my chin while singing the Marseillese if I really tried… What are you talking about?

 
“We will now check if the patient is suffering from flu. Does the patient have a high temperature and at least two of the following symptoms?
Widespread muscle and joint aches
A cough
Headache
Blocked or runny nose
Sore throat
Vomiting”

Oh my good I have them all! I’m fucked. I have swine flu, I’m going to die. Hold on, though. This list contains the most generic symptoms ever. They can appear in all sorts of diseases, from laringitis to malaria to… pregnancy!
Let’s click and proceed, perhaps the test will get more detailed…

 
“Is the patient also experiencing any of these additional symptoms:
“Breathing much faster than normal (particularly children) . “Hmmm, NO.

“Thick, yellow, green, brown or bloody phlegm. “Yuk, NO

“Uncharacteristic changes in behaviour such as drowsiness, new confusion or appearing terrified.”

Well… I appear very terrified. Mostly because if this is the way Britain is planning to cope with a potentially lethal disease, wE can just all commit mass suicide now.

How can anyone be diagnosed online? Or on the phone? And by somebody who’s not a doctor? Of course the country now counts 100.000 cases, a bunch of young call centre operators have the power of declaring you sick without even seeing you.  And how do they know I’m not making up the symptoms just to be given Tamiflu and then sell it online on Ebay?

The problem is that if I do have flu and I start feeling worse, no hospital and no doctor would accept to see me, unless I’m really really sick. It happened to people I know. They went to the emergency room only to be sent away in case they infected the doctors! This is histerical. It’s a sit-com. Instead of having a medical team wearing protective masks and testing people for real British hospitals are now treating potential flu sufferers like outcasts. First they created wide sperad panic, now that people are positively scared they expect them to just stay home and take an online test, as if flu diagnosis was like one of those Facebook games: “Which actress of the past are you? Go through the test and find out! Congratulations! You’re Beth Davis!” Damn, I wanted to be Marilyn Monroe…

People who are declared sick by the “infallible” computer/phone test, will be asked to stay at home and contact a close friend or relative who will have to go and collect Tamiflu from a special centre and then pass it to the sick person through a letterbox, to avoid contact…

Great system.

What if somebody doesnt have any buddies or relatives living nearby and available? Will they die in seclusion? Shall we all nominate a couple of Tami-mates, ready to run and get antibiotic for us?

And what if somebody doesnt have a letterbox????

This is just hilarious, if it wasn’t also very tragic. Most of us will go through swine flu and come out fine, with or without Tamiflu. However other people will be “cleared” only to discover at too late a stage that they have swine flu and perhaps suffer very serious consequences.

Tamiflu has been randomly given away to people who might not need it at all and potentially refused to real sufferers, with the risk not only of running short of supply but also of making the virus drug-resistant. 

This is the third world. I’m truly disgusted by public services in Britain, from hospital to schools to transport .This country is falling apart.

Or perhaps Europe is falling apart, western civilization as we know it is falling apart, we’ve reached our climax ages ago and now we’re heading for our zenith, every country in its own perverse way: Italy with politicians who use their power to hire a court of prostitutes in the total indifference of most of the population. Britain with a public system that is collapsing, and a political system that most of the population dont give a damn about… All over Europe right wing parties and racists are gaining support…

At the end of the online test the computer has decided I dont have swine flu but that I should stay home just in case and seek extra help if the symptoms worsen. Extra help where, since I wont be allowed to see a doctor? What if I do have it, just in a mild version – as most people – and I’m now going to infect every person I get in contact with? Since I had my tonsils removed at the age of five I’ve never, ever had high fever, not once, even when I do get flu. How can they be sure unless they test me?

Oh come on, I cant die without watching the last ever episode of Guiding Light in September… It’s out of the question.

I’d better laugh and hope it’s laringitis.

Un’altro passo verso un regime… Another step towards a regime…

•July 8, 2009 • 1 Comment

Da stamane chi si vuole collegare al sito www.ilcorpodelledonne.com si trova l’accesso sbarrato da un avviso:
“Alcuni lettori di questo blog hanno contattato Google poiché ritengono che il contenuto del blog sia opinabile.”
Quali sono i contenuti opinabili?
E’ ancora possibile portare avanti una una critica educata e circostanziata nella società in cui viviamo?
Invito tutti a sostenere questo blog, condividerlo, e sostenerlo.

HERE COMES THE SUN, LALALA…

•June 4, 2009 • 3 Comments

Finally, last week, the sun reached the British Islands. Temperatures soared to 25 degrees, every single patch of grass pullulated with Britons sun bathing and turning progressively pink (ignoring the weather man warning always to wear sun screen – the weather man in Britain sound like a HIV campaign: REMEMBER, ALWAYS WEAR PROTECTION), crowds of Pimm’s drinkers gathered outside pubs and restaurant… It was fun, colorful, it was… a normal week in late spring.
This for about two hours. After that, a word started crawling its way up to the British collective conscience… It’s HOT. Oh dear, it’s so hot, it’s scorching! people started winging, oh my goodness I’m sweating!!
The first reaction of “aliens” like me in front of such complains is usually “are you kidding?” It’s been raining for a month. 25C isn’t scorching, it isn’t even remotely near to hot. 25C degrees is just about pleasant, it’s what allows you to leave home, for a change, without looking like an onion – covered in layers of clothes that you’ll have to peel off only in order to put them back after five minutes. 25C during the day still means night temperatures of around 13C. Not exactly “sitting outdoors” conditions. At 13C people in “normal” countries wear coats and hats!
But the best thing happens on the Tube. Come late May, at every station loudspeakers start broadcasting the message “in this hot weather always carry a bottle of water with you when travelling on the London underground.” I want to suspect Travel for London is rehearsing a comedy show as I can’t imagine anyone dying for lack of dehydration on a twenty minute journey on the Tube. You must always carry a bottle of water if you’re crossing the Sahara, if you visit the Death Valley, if you’re on a boat in the middle of the sea. But on the Tube??? Are they serious???
The only result of such panicked messages is to install in the British minds the absurd idea that hot (or what they think is hot, ie 25 degrees) is bad. Hot is dangerous. Hot is only to be enjoyed in very small doses or when on holiday abroad…
Result, after three sunny days Britons starts missing the rain. They do. I swear. They truly truly do.
“Oh, but it’s so boring having hot weather for months,” they say, “isn’t it?” No it isn’t. It’s called SEASONS. Spring is warm, summer is hot, autumn is mild and winter is cold.
“Miserable weather produces great arts, culture and literature!”
Hmmm… Can I kindly remind you civilization started in Greece? Where temperatures all through summer stay well over 33C??? And how about the Renaissance? Florence isn’t exactly renowned for its rain. How about French and Spanish poetry and novels and arts? You’re not making any sense! You’re a country of miserable sods who enjoy their misery!
Anyway, four days later of course the sun goes away again and the rain comes back. The weather man, looking particularly pleased, says “finally we can enjoy some fresher nights” (FRESHER? It’s so bloody freezing I need the heating on) “and rain is very good news for our gardens!”
Oh, the gardens, of course. Nothing is more important than gardens in life, isn’t it. You might need to drink yourself unconscious to relieve your misery but God forbid your dahlias should suffer!
Honestly, I think there’s something profoundly wrong with this country, which explains its problems, its general unhappiness, its violence and its ridiculous levels of alcoholism. People who can’t enjoy the sun, who can’t enjoy the warmth, who can’t enjoy what such things do to your body (apart from making you sweat), can’t enjoy life. Summer is a celebration if life at its peak. People strip off their clothes, let themselves be more in contact with nature, stop hiding. They stay out until later hours because there’s more light, they socialize, eat together, talk together. In “normal” countries summer is the time to sit outside our house in the evening and talk to your neighbours until the early hours. Of leaving work behind. Of eating lighter food and have ice creams.
Summer is sensual, intense, passionate. All adjectives unknown to the British psyche.
Because the British can’t appreciate such things, because they’re attracted to them but scared of them, because they can’t produce endorphins in a natural way, they need artificial enhancement to avoid getting suicidal. So they drink. Alcohol is their substitute for sunny days. Alcohol is what makes them intense, chatty and inhibited. They drink and drink and they can’t see that all they need is to start enjoy life starting from right in front of them: the elements. So even when they do have the opportunity of grabbing “natural enjoyment”, they refuse it. They start moaning that it’s too hot.

Yes I know, now you’re all wondering why the hell I’m still in London if I resent the British so much. Well, number one, London is full of non-British, which is what makes it a great city. Two, there’s only one thing that sunny countries have been unable to produce, at least in the last 2000 years: great theatre. Yes, I’m in London for the theatre. Theatre has undeniably proved itself to be the greatest love of my life… Some people move abroad to follow their love… I did it for mine.
Which is why I’m really looking forward to the invention of a time machine. Then I’ll travel back to ancient Greece, where, they had it all: theatre, arts, literature, philosophy. And all of this open air.
Now, wouldn’t that be swell!