It's
a funny thing, politics. Phrases that have become clichés,
standard tools in the journalist's box of tricks have so
often come from the world of politics that they're too numerous
to count. The reason for this is obvious – politics
is a complex animal, rife with ploy and counter-ploy, players
and the played and, sometimes, the players become the played,
and vice versa.
Let me tell you a story. There's a word that's not in my
little English/Italian dictionary which has come somewhat
to the fore here in Barga and, to a lesser extent, elsewhere
in Tuscany recently. It's a word that, so I'm told, many
people use in everyday language although it's notionally
an obscenity, albeit a low-level one.
That word is 'bischero' ('bis-care-oh). The reason that
it's come to the fore a little more here is that, last week,
the mayor of Barga, Umberto Thingy, was fined 360 euro for
using the word 'bischero', accompanied by "an eloquent
gesture", when addressing a member of an opposing political
party in a bar in Lucca after a bit of baby kissing.
Umberto Thingy had used this word to mean something along
the lines of "you're talking out of your arse",
which he obviously felt was the minimum required to make
his point as he also felt the need to make the aforementioned
"eloquent gesture" (according to the Lucca edition
of Il Tirreno) I think we can all make our own guesses at
what this gesture was, but let's say it's unlikely it was
a hug.
'Bischero', roughly translated, means several things such
as the turny things at the top of guitars (I'm a guitarist
but sadly I cannot for the life of me remember what these
are called – ah the dictionary says "tuning peg"
or "machine head", that's it) but it also means
penis (there are many, many words that mean penis, or are
a euphemism for one) as well as "you're talking shit".
If you adjust it a bit it can also mean "that's a piece
of piss", i.e. it's easy, stop fussing.
Anyway,
like I said, it's a tricky bit this politics thing. Umberto
Thingy was taken to court for 'damaging the honour' and
general being rude in public to his 'victim' in what amounts
to a defamation action. It turns out that one of the people
(the defence advocate, I think) involved is a man called
Giovanetti (I think that's right) who is one of the opposition
politicians at the Barga Comune, the local council of which
Umberto Thingy is mayor. Here, in other words.
Giovanetti
was probably rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect
of stitching our man up, not, of course, that any law-respecting
member of the community would ever think of doing such a
thing. Umberto Thingy had decided not to defend himself,
in other words he didn't hire a lawyer. This would have
cost him upwards of 1,000 euro. Instead he pleaded guilty
to calling someone a prick. In a bar. No doubt after a few
tall ones. Now, when I first heard about this I couldn't
believe it, mainly because I've called people I barely know
far worse things than this in bars in London (and here,
come to think of it, in fact I've even clouted Alex, Inglese
Paul and Sylvia's son, round the ear for flicking ash on
my floor – god knows what I'd get for that). People
at home thought I was afflicted with a limited form of Tourette's,
for fuck's sake. Christ alone knows what would happen to
me if I got into politics. There is always John Prescott
to compare myself to though. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad…
So when The Reverend Keane told me that Umberto Thingy
had pleaded guilty when it's a word so commonly used that
his accuser would have been laughed out of court if he'd
contested, I thought Umberto had lost his mind. I was indignant,
almost. Why didn't he hire a lawyer and stuff the bloke
who'd so ridiculously come forward with this complaint?
Crush him, I say! But that would have cost 1,000 euro, said
Keane. So? I said, he could have asked for costs. But then
I realised what Umberto Thingy had actually done.
The worst thing for Umberto to do would have been to acknowledge
there was anything to defend in the first place. Almost
no member of the Tuscan general public would say that saying
'bischero' was worthy of a fight, let alone a court case.
It's low-grade stuff. It doesn't matter. It's stupid for
it to have gone to court. This is a political thing. So
Umberto Thingy pleaded guilty, took his fine on the chin,
and has, I think, made himself look far better in front
of the people in Barga than his accuser or the 'judge',
Giovanetti, now look. Umberto Thingy has become a minor
martyr for everyday obscenity.
Babbo is unhappy. The other day he finally, at last, received
from the Comune his permesso that should, in theory, allow
him to deal with the extension which he is obviously not
building. He has been waiting for this permesso since before
I arrived in Italy some six months ago. This is an awfully
long time to wait for anything, let alone an area that you
can use in your house. This is worse because he's barely
been able to use half his house while the extended building
work, which hasn't in fact been taking place, has not taken
place.
He rang me up while I was sitting at Brooke's house in
the hills above his place to say: "I'm at Aristo's,
drinking a glass of brandy and holding a bit of paper."
I said I'd be down directly. I turfed up at Aristo's to
find Babbo, Leslie and Nick Hunt standing outside looking
less than the cheerful band I'd expected. Surely this was
a happy day? Sadly no.
Nick, Leslie and many other people had just heard they'd
lost a close friend in the Opera Barga circuit. Half an
hour they'd known. Babbo tells me this after I'd been terribly
effusive about how wonderful it was that he'd finally gained
permission to make his dream home. Not quite the right time
to tell me, to be sure, but my feelings go out to them.
It was a dampened occasion.
Doubly so when, while Babbo was talking to Nick and Leslie,
I leafed through the permesso which contains all the submitted
plans of his extension.
"What's all this Babbo?" I say, pulling open
one plan view and pointing at various red pen marks and
the word 'NO' marked liberally across the sheet. "Surely
this can't be good?"
Babbo's face fell. First the smile disappeared, then the
mood, then the drink in his hand and five minutes later
he himself departed the bar to go in search of Emilio the
foreman, Paulo the builder or an explanation, whichever
was easier. It was like watching an Inverse Cheshire Cat.
I felt very sorry for him and rather unhappy that I seemed
to have turned up and just encountered doom from the moment
I'd arrived.
But all now seems like it's back on track. Emilio has said
that the Comune can't make these changes and it does certainly
seem odd that building plans can be returned stamped and
approved but with changes made with a red biro. Freehand.
It's a bit like when the Rogers group built the wobbly footbridge
over the Thames in London and someone from the government
scrawling in crayon over it "just a little higher here"
and "special dampers here and here might help".
It looks as stupid and amateurish as it sounds, trust me.
But, nonetheless, no one is more arsed than Babbo, except
perhaps for La Padrona.
La Padrona (for it is she) was looking forward to having
all this work finished in time for Xmas so she could have
a living room with a fire and everything in which to the
Xmas downtime. And who can blame her? Now, obviously there
is a problem here and it should remind any old soldiers
reading this (well obviously there aren't any but you get
the idea) of phrases such as "It'll all be over by
Christmas" being bandied around in 1941. Of course
it won't. It never is. There's always got to be more drama,
and at least one more cock-up. For why this is see Why Italians
Can Organise Things in Blog 11. It's the dark side of Why
Italians Can Organise Things.
Like I said before, Italians can organise things. It's
just that other things get in the way. They become more
important and the people in the middle become expendable.
Especially if they're stranieri (foreigners), it seems.
The Comune just doesn't seem to like Emilio the foreman
for some reason. So this is a game, it appears. And sadly
Babbo is just collateral damage.
On the day when this happened, Babbo saw Emilio the foreman
and Emilio said this was all rubbish. He was going to see
the mayor! Or someone close to the mayor.
Sadly, the very day we were discovering these things was
the day when Umberto Thingy was in court for saying the
word 'bischero'. No doubt Emilio had a few problems getting
him to look over a cocked-up building permesso the next
day, as three days later Babbo had still not heard back
from him despite promises to the contrary…
A few more things. Brooke has gone home to America to get
herself a proper visa for this country. She's away until
11 December, and in theory I'm supposed to leave the country
on or around the 22 or 23 December. The jazz club opens
on 21 December and I want to spend as much time with her
as possible. But what is this all about? I've watched her
go from strangled stresswreck while mad people from the
US came to visit (and bend her car – nice one lads)
and while she tried to buy her house to vaguely happy for
ten days once the deal was done and back, on the phone and
via email, to someone not happy with her lot. And now I'm
going home for Xmas and she's faced with the prospect of
spending Xmas in a big cold scary house, on her own. I don't
know what I want to do here, but I want to do something.
People have asked me what this is all about, does it mean
I'll stay in Italy? I don't know. Other people advise me
that you shouldn't stay or go anywhere for someone else
alone. It has to be because you want to.
Me? I don't know. But I know that I miss her. For now I
just have to work with that.
Take care all
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