luk off

The journey back from Venice wasn’t as pleasant as the one there. In order to save £10 Euros we foolishly opted for the 2.5-hour journey back to Brescia. This in itself wasn’t the issue, we had books, I-walk-pods, imaginations etc., but the carriage, a hot and steaming pipe of fart with a sealed fucking window and, god help us, young cunts who’d just discovered nu-metal, was.

As soon as I got on the train I knew we were in for a journey only partially more pleasant than the 3.55 to Dachau. As we sought seats we passed a rubber-faced moron with close-cropped burgundy hair, his lower lip wet from a primeval form of amused noises as he entertained himself by twisting the arm of a pig-faced female as she shrieked like a banshee at the inflicted pain. This disgusting tableau was being overseen by a nonentity hanger-on and a white bloke with a beard and dreadlocks, the most accursed look for a Caucasian guaranteeing his being a tit.

They weren’t playing loud music, worse, they were sharing headphones and ‘singing’ along whilst shamelessly baring teeth and pointing at each other without any care of how they were being perceived before resuming the wrestling/mating routine. But worse, worse than the sound of the corncrake she-pig with a voice that could melt concrete, was they were ‘singing along’ to songs I used to enjoy back in the day, utterly killing any future pleasure I may have had when I happened upon them in a moment of drunken music frenzy. I had a good mind to ruddy well tell them to jolly well pipe down, I can tell you.

We arrived home exasperated and ate supper, again, the meal memory is lost, killed by my loathing of the passengers and the delights that followed.

The Mille Miglia were due to return to Brescia from Rome, it was estimated the winner would arrive at about 10pm so we drove to the centre of the city and joined the hoards lining the street. It was a warm evening and the atmosphere palpable, families were out, couples, groups of well dressed young men and women, and us 3, me with my little MM flag that ICS had nabbed off a brolly dolly type and a glass of spritzer that IC had bought for me. A Type 41 Bugatti went passed and blipped the throttle right by me, oh fucking joy! Then another, then an old Aston, A Bentley which inspired me to roar ’well done chaps!’ as Englishly as I could muster. We stayed there for an hour as these gorgeous antique-racing cars zipped and plipped past us, I was deliriously happy, choked, even.

We closed the evening in a nearby bar, I sipped my final negroni and we went home to sleep the day off, a perfect one only sullied by the twats on the train and in the grand scheme of things, even that wasn’t really an issue.

Sunday morning IC, ICS, their mum and I went to visit a kindly relative, we chatted briefly about the week’s events and then set off to church. Sort of. IC snr went off to mass and we 3 popped to a different church, lit a candle and left to enjoy the sunshine outside a nearby café. In Italy Catholicism is alive and well, most people go to mass on Sunday, including, much to my amusement, young Italian stallion types in souped up Beemers and Mercs in Fred Perry shirts and Armani slacks.

We all met back at the apartment for lunch, the last meal before we had to leave for Blighty. Lasagne, home made and out of this world. Perfetto. After saying goodbye to Lucky (I was truly sad at having to leave him behind) ICS and her mum drove us to the airport, we said our farewells and that was it. All of that experience, joy, wonder, excitement reduced to boarding fucking Rynair. The only bonus was that IC and I got a 3-seat block to ourselves so we could stretch out a bit.

Of course, London was overcast and cold when we landed, we took the miserable Stanstead Express back Liverpool Street and the bus home. By the time we arrived it was almost 8. Work tomorrow. Great…

…so we cracked open the duty frees and got pissed.

Service back to normal tomorrow.