Orvieto …. again

We headed for Chiusi to get the train to Orvieto only to discover that there is a two hour wait for the next train. Then by the time the train arrived 25 minutes late, we were frozen and yes it was the 4th May! An inauspicious start to the day.

The journey is relatively quick, as we are both transfixed by a hyperactive young man. He is wearing shorts, a T-shirt and trekking shoes. Every exposed part of his body is tattooed. There is a superhero on the front of his left leg, and what might be a self portrait of his hirsute head and face on the back. The other leg displays a replica of a whiskey bottle label on it and so it goes on. In front of him on the opposite seat is a colossal rucksack with every available loop having something attached to it. There’s folding walking poles, a head torch, and a GPS locator.

The pockets are filled with protein bars and energy drinks, the drinks containers being fitted with tubes to enable in-flight refuelling. He spends the entire 20 minutes of the journey, removing items from the rucksack and reattaching them to a different locations, or checking his phone. He prepares to disembark quite some distance from Orvieto. This is a wise move as before he can get the rucksack on, he attaches a bumbag to his front – a bag which would probably adequately serve as a weekend case for most people. Finally fully loaded with sun shades balanced on his bandanna’d head, he strides for the space near the doors which he virtually fills. He might well have benefited from banner, saying EXCEPTIONAL LOAD in three languages. Completing the scene, he takes out his mobile and gives a brief account of the kilometres he has covered and the heights he has scaled. He concludes his presentation with the dramatic statement ‘Non sono più in gara!’. I’m no longer in the game.

The platform at Orvieto is very low and as he stepped down, I’m sure I was not the only person present wondering, nay even hoping, that he might slip and end up struggling on his back like a beached turtle. ‘Pride comes before a fall!’ they say, but clearly did not in this case, but maybe that’s for the best.

We take the funicular to the top of village and decide to walk rather than take the the bus. This helped to warm us up, but not sufficiently that we weren’t attracted by an ‘end of the line’ sale. I spy a nice zip-up sweater for €9 which the owner tries to convince me that will be too small, though it says it’s large and more importantly it clearly fits me. Lesley also finds a top, and for €18 that’s £15.45, we are ready to face the world.

We wander up the street, reminiscing about meals we’d eaten there, and also seeing the great Jim Hall in the theatre during ‘Orvieto Jazz Winter’.

The Duomo at Orvieto is a massive and beautiful building and though I’ve seen it dozens of times in the last 30 years, it still slaps me in the face and says ‘Look I’m still here and I’m beautiful!’ We soak it all in for a while and take some pics simply to prove to ourselves that we’ve been there, yet again.

Looking for somewhere for a lunchtime snack, we head off into the less busy hinterland which believe it or not still exists, even in a busy tourist infested town like Orvieto. We see a small bar and decide it looks worth a try. Essentially it’s a corridor going deep into the building but it feels ‘right’. The waitress arrives and we order salumi, cheese and some focaccia and, of course, wine. She returns with the glasses, and I’m stunned as to how sparkling they are and so a conversation ensues about how to clean glasses. The food is good ‘solid fare’ and includes their own licorice chutney so we have a conversation about our encounter with Fortunato Amarelli the appropriately named head of that noble family and their licorice empire and we enjoy another great lunch.

Checking the timetable realise we have one hour and a half to wait before the next train. We pause at a bar for an Ichnusa for me and a coffee for Lesley. The two youngish guys sitting beside me talk incessantly for 20 minutes not pausing for breath, politeness, or even alcohol. We move on and walk down to the castle where a group of ladies, of a certain age, are creating watercolours. Sketching outdoor is nice but please don’t call it ‘plein air’.

We take the funicular down to the train station surrounded by a group of the loud middle-class English youths! I’ve come to the conclusion that I am bigoted – I can deal with loud Italians but loud Brits and Americans are my breaking point. This was confirmed when we spent that evening at the L’Oca Bruciata, the Pizzeria in the village which was packed with Italians. The buzz was lovely but later on when three Americans enter the bottom bar as we enjoyed a ‘post-cena’ ice cream my hackles were truly risen!

Then nobody‘s perfect and I do try my best. I comfort myself with that and we go to bed.

New aphorism?

We used to say ‘few sandwiches short of a picnic!’ or ‘a couple of beers short of a six pack.’

Well ……..

While helping Lesley with a login, I inadvertently came up with –

You’re one digit short of a password!

Do me a favour!

Frankly, I’ve never liked doing favours for people, but this is not due to my selfishness, but more to do with the unpredictable scope of a favour.

If I need, and this happens only in very extreme circumstances, someone to help me out, I will specify my requirement in the minutest detail considering every possible outcome and pre-empting every likely situation. If this ….. then that; if not, then that …..covering as our colonial friends might say all the bases. However, when others then ask me to reciprocate, the simple task they ask me to do suddenly seems to expand at an exponential rate.

Say for example, I’ve allowed a friend to leave their car on my drive whilst they are away on a two week holiday. Having already overlooked the fact that it’s badly parked, making it difficult to get into my own house, I might receive a message along the following lines.

‘I think I might have left the passengers window partially open. Could you please check it for me? You’ve got the key so you can sort it out.

Unfortunately this simple task often has an unexpected addition, in that it becomes quite clear that the window has been open for some time and like a good friend, I feel obliged to mop up the damage. Whilst recovering from the two minute task that has just taken you an hour and 47 minutes to do you receive another message. 

‘I’ve just realised that the MOT is due before we get back. Now I usually go to Halfords which is not far from you, do you think you could book it in for me?’

Your blood pressure continues rising towards an unacceptable level as you call the MOT station for the seventh time to find yourself again listening to irritating on hold Muzak. At this point, you receive the final  spine-cracking straw. 

‘Sorry for having to ask you to do all this but I’ll be ever so grateful if you can. By the way you might have to put the spare on one of the back wheels…….‘

And as you reach for a glass, the sound of the can opening almost drowns out the fatal blow.

‘Thanks again, mate.  Weather great here! See you soon!‘

Writing for a living?

Yes I write for a living, but I don’t mean to earn a living. I used to write to make a living: commercial topics, ranging from the efficacy of a certain brand of cleaning cloth, to research findings on the mechanics of sweat glands, and banking procedures and regulations. Exotic stuff, isn’t it? I now write for my own pleasure as I have done alongside my paid writing for many years, so in that way it’s still my living. Of course, many famous writers began their careers in the world of advertising. F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote this catchy little number ‘We keep you clean in Muscatine’ for a steam laundry and Fay Weldon gave us‘Go to work on an egg!‘ Of course, not all were successful in this field. Brendan Behan’s suggestion for advertising Guinness was swiftly rejected by the Brewery, and though no one could doubt its accuracy, they felt that ‘Guinness gets you drunk!’ was a little bit too direct, and settled for ‘Guinness is good for you!’ courtesy of Dorothy L.Sayers. Salman Rushdie, creator of ‘Naughty, but nice’ to promote Cream cakes, said that advertising to him ‘made writing like a job; it has to be ready and it has to be good’. Orwell, however, was scathing and likened advertising to the ‘rattling of a stick inside a swill-bucket’. I will not pass judgement, simply allow you to decide where you fall on that debate.

So what do I write? Well, maybe I might help by giving a bit of context by noting the writers I like to read. I was a huge fan of Science Fiction in my early teens and read as much as I could as I could: Asimov, Heinlein and Ursula Le Guin. At university, I become interested in more classic novels and attempted Hesse, Kafka, Camus and anybody else I could find with an exotic name. After University, I seemed to take a big break from reading and eventually in an effort to get back into it, I started on popular novels: Stephen King, Lee Child and James Paterson. I got a little tired of the good guys who were always a little bit flawed and therefore needed a good woman (or at least, one) to help them with their dysfunctional lifestyles. However, I didn’t finish completely with the murder, violence and robbery theme at that point as I’d fallen in love with Italy, and so I read Michael Dibdin, Andrea Camilleri and Donna Leon. It’s what I would call ‘culinary’ crime novels where much attention is paid to the protagonist’s diet. Whereas in American crime novels, the hero will be slugging down a cup of coffee and a British cop will grabbing a cheese sandwich, Montalbano will be enjoying a cafe macchiato overlooking the bay, whilst Commissario Brunetti is dining on Sarde al Saor in Venice, cooked by his aristocratic Italian wife. See what I mean?

In recent years, my taste has concentrated on well-written, observational humour. I recently finished The Fran Leibovitz Reader which is utterly splendid. It’s a compilation of her two books –Metropolitan Life and Social Studies, and could only have been written by a New Yorker. It is cynical, often scathing, but always very, very funny. From a very different time, I love James Thurber’s observations of his everyday life. Jeremy Hardy’s writing is wonderful and I’d add Clive James, David Sedaris and Craig Brown to the list, not forgetting Stephen Fry with his delightful use of language.^.

So where does this lead me? Journalist Claud Cockburn was known for his pithy comments and one, of which, I’m particularly fond is ‘Never believe anything until it is officially denied.’ Cockburn lived in Youghal, County Cork, which he described as standing ‘at a slight angle to the Universe’. That to me, is magnificent – emotive, descriptive and funny and I suppose that is what I aspire to. Of course, whether I will ever reach that pinnacle of prose or will forever be left standing on the perimeter of the prosaic, I have yet to discover. 

A day out in Manchester!

Coffee, pen and paper and recollections.

Today the car had to go in to get the boot sorted – the remote control doesn’t function and the switch is, what I believe they call, knackered. Anyway, it will require exploratory surgery which they will fit in ‘when they can’. This means the car has ‘a day out at the spa’, but it leaves me with a dilemma. Manchester, like most cities is served by arterial road and public transport routes which radiate from the centre. So, travel in and out of the hub is easy but around the circumference from say ’25 past’ to ’20 to’ is time-consuming. So I decided on a trip into Manchester with a series of writing stops along the way.

Having already dropped the car off, it was much too early to use my Railcard – one of the few benefits of reaching a certain age – so I headed off for a coffee after buying a paper. My paper of choice for some time has been the ‘i’, which I suppose in the context of daily papers is Twitter-sized. It does not carry the kind of intellectual weight of the Guardian but it’s OK and anyway I know where I stand on most things these days and too much information might send me into paroxysms of weeping.

This particular edition contained two gems: an article on common-sense by Lucy Mangan, and one on ageism by Simon Kelner. Lucy tells the story of a bank customer who tries to pay in a cheque that has not been dated. However the account holder lives in Australia and seeing as it is already a replacement for a lost cheque, the cashier comes up with a common-sense solution. She suggests the customer pays the check-in at the ATM outside and then, surreptitiously, allows the customer to use her pen to fill out the date. Brilliant solution to avoid the tortuous official requirement. 

Simon explains how he has completed a quiz on the net and some of his responses were considered ageist. Coincidentally, I did the same quiz and gave the same answer, which means I’m ageist and presumably must discriminate against my own age group and ultimately myself. Hmm. Tricky.

I’m afraid I still like seeing my name in print, so again, I draft a reply. I’ve had some issues with the paper about them altering my words. In one missive, where I was comparing ‘I’m a celeb’ to 1980s Japanese TV show Endurance which similarly put contestants through disgusting trials, I used the phrase ‘Oh how we laughed! which was changed to ‘Oh how we sneered!’ an expression coming from a very different standpoint. That was only one of the amendments my words have suffered, so anyway let’s see what happens this time.

Next stop literally, was the Metro station to get into Manchester. I loved living in a tiny Italian village of only 900 people, but I also like the buzz of a city and the joy of people watching. Look! A hoodie arguing loudly with himself, clutching a can of Red Bull. Look, there is a young woman in an tattered fur coat teetering on unfeasibly, high-heeled wedges. She lunges for the exit, misses by several feet and hits the wall, but she feels no pain. Ah! The city! All human life is there, and apparently a few more beside.

First stop in Manchester is Central Reference Library. It is a beautiful colossal building. The main reading room is circular with a domed ceiling and will seat 300, and this is where I spent many days studying for my degree, but today I’m there to relax and write. The people around me don’t look much different today. Some are enthusiastically scanning textbooks and scribbling notes, while others stare blankly, at their books, resting their heads on their hands, waiting for it all to be over. However, there is one item that wasn’t here in ’74 – the mobile phone.

As I’m looking around and enjoying the tranquility, the silence is broken by a ringtone, which seems to reverberate deafeningly in the massive dome. Somebody has not switched off their phone as etiquette demands. Unfortunately that idiot is me. I quickly deal with the caller and mouth my apologies to those close by. By this time, I’m ready for a change of activity and head for Tesco to buy my favourite sandwich: Red Leicester and chopped onion. I never get bored with these. A while ago I heard a ‘sandwichologist’ on Radio 4 bemoaning the fact that a large percentage of people eat the same lunch every day – and why not? You, Prof. Sandwich, may have time to create a culinary sculpture of sourdough bread, with slices of home-made salami, slathered in your own recipe mayonnaise with garlic and washed down with a five berries smoothie using only fruit from your own pristine little garden, but then that is your job. There’s a time and place for everything, so when I need a convenient, tasty snack, red Leicester and onion sandwich from Tesco hits the spot. So there. (Other manufacturers are available!)

Undefeated by the unmanned checkouts, I’m stretching my legs when the phone rings to tell me the car is fixed and it’s only £100! Everything seems so expensive to me these days that £100 is almost a refund.

Relieved, I continue my walk and arrive at a favourite building. Where there is now a chain Italian restaurant, there used to be the shop of Whippell’s of Manchester ‘specialists in the supreme branded, shirts, hats and blazers.’ Established in 1789, apart from fine Gentlemen’s’ clothing, they also sold religious vestments and supplied gowns and mortarboards for the graduation ceremonies. Sadly they will go into liquidation in a few days time – I shall remember the chats about hats in that emporium, though being forced to wear a mortarboard, is best forgotten for all concerned. It was in that very shop where I developed my ‘hat habit’ when we decided that a black pork-pie hat (diamond crown) looked pretty okay on me. That was back in 2015, and it lasted until last year, when one day I took my hat off in the pub and my friend Churchie said ‘That takes 10 years off you!’ That gushing compliment, and a growing feeling that hat adoption, was often the sign of a slightly ageing muso seeking a hip identity, was the clincher. I think, as did Lesley, that I carried it off as well, if not better than most, but that creeping doubt coupled with a major league ego boost, meant that vanity won, which leaves me with the dilemma of what to do with eight pork-pie hats!

Just around the corner was another landmark – a proper tobacconist. I used to love Balkan Sobranie Turkish cigarettes which tasted of luxury and were absurdly expensive. So it was just as well my friends respectfully, never expected to be offered them. Here in this purveyor of fine tobacco products, I discovered Sullivan Powell cigarettes which were slightly cheaper, but look liked normal cigarettes. So they were a false economy, as their appearance meant I had to join in and ‘Flash the Ash.’

The inside of the shop was a temple to smoking in every manner. Massive glass cabinets, holding exotic cigarettes, large boxes of large cigars and useful devices, such as a cigar cutter – essentially for an inveterate, smoke of fine cigars, or a sadistic Mafia hitman. The smell was glorious and all the items were displayed like luxury items, which they were. Pipes made from Turkish Meerschaum, handmade Briar pipes – all designed to be used and enjoyed but also demanding respect. Remnants of a different age.

Another landmark on Cross Street was the Ann Summers sex shop. My friend Mark, told me how he was going on a first date in Manchester once and had ended the conversation, where they discussed where and when, with the phrase ‘Yeah that’s right – next to the sex shop! She never turned up,

So after a few productive hours, and a trip down one memory lane, my day was drawing to a close. I collected the car and drove home passed the former Forum Cinema, now a Jehovah’s Witness Assembly Hall which might just be the location where they add the finishing touches to their representatives – that beatific smile.

Journal No.9

26th Sept 2006

CEO, Conceptual Art and Charlie’s Ph.D.!

This journal begins with me ranting, so there’s nothing new there – but neither is there anything new about the topic – CEOs and their colossal remuneration. If a company is doing badly, bonuses are still paid. Blame is rarely attributed to anyone, and even if there is they simply retire with a golden handshake. However when you look at the situation for employees, anyone underperforming is likely to be ‘let go’ i.e. fired! One law for the rich etc.

Conceptual art is another target. Please read this gem below – the artwork in question is a 12 in.square divided into 2304 squares – nothing more. However the description is unbelievable! In these cases, I have to agree with Gilbert Adair who said: ‘I demand from a painting a whiff of sweat, a sense that labour has been exerted.’

I added a bit of colour to my own work which seems to have worked.

I also included some work by illustrators that I like – Tommy Kane and Danny Gregory, whose books are well worth checking out.

I also got involved in a project whereby a journal was sent from one person to another around the world, each adding their own sketches or whatever. I think after about a year it came back to me. First of all, I got slated by one participant for covering too many pages whereas in fact it wasn’t me who did it. Secondly, when it finally came home, there was nothing in it, that was remotely interesting, which was a shame as it was a nice idea. Finally, there was one journal that did matter – the one which I gave to Charlie to celebrate his Ph.D a Moleskine with his new official title, Dr. B.J. Banks I was so pleased for him.

The Joy of Pen & Ink!

I have often talked about how much pleasure I derive from writing with a ‘proper pen’ – one that contains ink – that beautiful coloured liquid that can transport you to another world, whilst simultaneously staining your fingers, and ruining your carpets. The motion of writing…..

Those of you who have had the opportunity to see the handwritten draft of this piece would’ve noticed that at this point, the ink began to fade and then it changed colour. The smug non-believers amongst you will have noted that my creative flow has been momentarily deviated into the practicalities of ink supply. In keeping with my commitment to authenticity, I will confess that during the simple operation which changing an ink cartridge, I inadvertently dropped the removed cartridge, which still contained sufficient ink to leave a stain on my index finger. In a final death throe, it also attempted to add a daring dash of colour to our otherwise monochrome bathroom . . . . Where was I?

Oh yes – The physical act of putting pen to paper is, to me, quite magical even though my thoughts often scurry ahead faster than my hand can follow. However, the reason for writing this piece of pensive prose is that I realised that the process has a marked effect on the output. There has for some time been a fashion for artificially-aged objects. Guitars looking like they’ve survived a world tour in the back of a Transit are very popular amongst would be guitar-gods. Kitchen furniture that looks like it has been bleached on a Sicilian roof terrace is still much in vogue. So how does this artificial-aging relate to pens one might well ask. The truth is that with a pen in my hand, myself and my vocabulary are transmogrified into creatures of a different era. I use words which I would never use in conversation – ‘moreover’ ‘joy’ and ‘transmogrified’! This was never a deliberate choice though ironically, I do remember the first time I noticed it. Whilst recuperating (not ‘recovering’ you will have noted) from an operation, I re-read the entire Sherlock Holmes canon. I also noticed that I was writing in the style of Conan Doyle as Watson. I also drafted an imaginary letter to Conan Doyle expressing my concern at this development and wondering whether I would be able to counteract the tendency with the applications of prose by Raymond Chandler and others of that ilk. It clearly did not work, but now I am content to have domesticated this formerly errant side of my writing psyche, and intend to continue attempting to put it to good use.

Journal No.8

22nd Jun 2006

Wedding and a honeymoon (for three!)

Still sticking with a small Moleskine with plain pages, this Journal seems to contain quite a lot of sketches using different techniques.. I was pleased with this drawing of a Royal Doulton cup and saucer – an Art-deco design called Tango.

Much of the early part of journal is taken up with details for the wedding. One episode which I don’t seem to have recorded is about ‘carrying colours’. We went to my favourite shoe shop and whilst I was trying some on, I noticed Lesley was holding and virtually cuddling a pair of blue shoes which she had clearly fallen in love. So I bought them for her wedding outfit. A few days later, whilst walking through Manchester, I saw the perfect outfit which would match the shoes – perfectly! When I told her that I’d seen this blue suit, she agreed to try it, but I could sense that there was some doubt. As it turned out, the outfit was perfect and matched the shoes perfectly, and I felt pretty pleased that I’d overcome the ‘men have no sense of colour’ prejudice to the extent that she now trusts my judgement and I’d gained some brownie points!

The other issue about our proposed two month honeymoon in Paciano was Archie. I had already arranged his passport before meeting Lesley, but I missed out one vital step – researching the cost of flights. It transpired that for the two of us flights would cost around £250-£300 but with Archie, it rocketed to £1500 as we’d have to fly British Airways. So there was only one solution – we’d drive which was not going to be a problem except that at that time I was driving a two seater Smart car which is hardly designed for long-distance travel. However, it all turned out well – the car behaved perfectly and Archie was a perfect passenger, though his reactions to my driving, were occasionally a trifle exaggerated!

The honeymoon was lovely – the village welcomed me and my bride with open arms and we had a party at the L’Oca (our local pizzeria) which was fantastic. I also took Lesley to visit some of my favourite places including Orvieto. Orvieto is built on the top of a hill, so you park on the outside and take the funicular railway up to the city itself, where a shuttle takes you to the Piazza in front of the Duomo. I’d not been there for a while so we were just standing staring at the magnificent frontage of the Duomo, when I realised that Lesley was sobbing quietly. I was baffled until she said ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.’ I can’t argue with that and obviously we always return there when we are in Paciano. (I don’t think my view of the side elevation quite does the Duomo justice, but I tried!)

And that’s how the honeymoon continued – lots of fun – eating, drinking, and adventures together – for the three of us!