unluki

I’m not dead.

Wednesday evening, full of holiday cheer IC and I met up with some friends in the very same boozer I enjoyed the delights of my 40th. We said farewell to Claire who was leaving to start a new life in Catalonia and received some gifts from Dave who’d just come back from Tokyo. Booze happened.

When we got home we decided to see off the evening with a few more snifters, it was late, two-ish and too late for a proper sleep so we figured we’d sleep on the plane/train and take a quick nap before we set off to get to Stanstead and catch the 6am flight. After setting 3 alarms we dozed off.

At 7.30am the plane was soaring over Italy preparing to land, at about the same time I woke IC up and informed her that the plane was soaring over Italy preparing to land. Following a protracted series of expletives from the pair of us, and far too coarse for the readers of this gentile offal, we managed to get another flight for an additional £100 courtesy of Easy Jet leaving later that afternoon.

For fucks sake.

Lately I’ve been privy to the delights of flying the National Express coach of the sky that is Ryanair. The stewardesses come in two sizes, Hereford livestock and third-world rat, and the one steward I’ve had the misfortune to fly with looked like he was on day release from rape camp. Easy Jet, itself a marginally more pricey no-frills airline, is in a different class. I won’t say I had a good flight, such a thing is impossible, but with the aid of Viz, decent cabin crew and IC rubbing my neck and telling me that we wern’t going to die the journey passed relatively smoothly.

Milan was warm on landing but a bit overcast, we shot an espresso and took the train to Brescia where we were met by IC’s sister (ICS) who, after a death conquering Apperativo in a bar, took us to the family homestead. But before I was allowed in I had to get past Lucky, IC’s furious Dalmatian.

I’d been warned about Lucky, he doesn’t do strangers and there I was, a delicious meaty one on his property. My instructions were worryingly stark. Don’t look at him, don’t touch him and for fucks sakes don’t go lower than his eyeline or he’d have my throat off. Lucky was already barking from the balcony before we’d even got out of the car, as we approached the door I could hear this scratching and thumping as he attempted to claw towards my genitals. IC’s mum opened the door, a diminutive lady with a Hound of the Baskervilles leaping up behind her like he was on the end of a cattle prod and barking like the contents of hell on a Friday night bender. I nearly shit my pants, frankly.

I shuffled past IC’s mum offering Ciao’s as I went staring directly ahead as Lucky exploded about me and walked firmly towards the nearest room with a door. Outside I could hear fond greetings over seen by Lucky having a fucking fit. After a while and reassurances from IC that my sweetbreads were safe I ventured into Lucky’s space who polarised between going berserk and staring at me with a disconcerting growl.

We had supper with Cuju keeping a firm eye on me; occasionally he’d slam into my legs to remind me he was there. For all I knew he was green with pink spikes coming out of his arse as I still daren’t look at the bugger. When I did after about 30 mins I thought he was going to bark up his arsehole (I was so terrified I’ve even forgotten what we ate.)

IC’s mum doesn’t speak English; my Italian is less than rudimentary so IC was required to mediate. As predicted IC snr didn’t appreciate my tattoos or my beard but she seemed to like me enough. I was on my very bestest behaviour after all, largely because I didn’t fancy my chances with Zoltan if IC’s mum so much as furrowed her brow.

As is customary in Italy, we went out at about 10pm for a few drinks. The Mille Miglia, one of the reasons I’d gone to Brescia, was long gone due to the earlier faux-pas with the plane but I’d get another stab at seeing them when they came back -besides sipping Negroni in a pretty little bar a mile away from IC’s place I was just happy to have all my testicles.

We bumped into some of IC’s friends and spent the night chewing the fat. I was fortunate that both the blokes in question had a basic command of English, when they didn’t understand something I’d said, and IC wasn’t free to assist in translation, I raised my voice and pointed. It’s the English way after all.

More tomorrow.