Ladies and gentlemen, the new, vomit inducing home and away jerseys of Stade Français:

[via Rugby 1823]

The intriguing thing is not Silvio Berlusconi but the Italian people. So it is alleged that the prime minister has been paying escort girls to visit his parties. There are tapes and photos. Silvio breaks off a session with one girl to phone through congratulations to the newly elected Obama.

Is anybody surprised by these claims? No.

That’s where you got it all wrong, Mr. Parks.

I don’t know which figures you looked at before writing that, probably the ones Mr.B himself hands out — he claims 60+% of Italians like him, and they like him as he is, so that he’s not going to change — rings any bell?

I’m surprised that you, who apparently have been living in Italy as a correspondant for the Guardian for so many years, don’t know better than that and can’t tell which is which between the PM claims and people’s real thoughts on the matter.

You’re just helping stereotypes stand strong — adding up to the pizza, mandolino and mafia cliché.

Well, why, thanks.

I’m not in denial, I’m well aware there are people who live by that cliché, like, as you said, those in Mr.B’s party, who of course don’t want him to go as if he does they’d lose all the power they’ve gained by sticking to him like mussels to a reef, too, still not everybody in Italy is like that.

I was born and raised in Italy — I still live there, hopefully not for much longer now, but I can tell you that our PM paying escort girls et al not only surprised me (as in “I’m surprised such a thing can happen, that’s not the behaviour of a decent man, in my book” and also “I’m surprised there are women who still believe they have to sell themselves in order to get a position in society or something” and so on.), it also makes me sick.

I might seem naïve to you, but I’m really not — I’ve just been taught manners by my parents, and not as a way to cover up the rotten side of what I might be doing, as I’ve also been taught not to do anything that could be regarded as rotten, by myself in the first place and then by others, too. I have morals and a dignity. I’d like to live in a place where if someone does something wrong, then they have to face their own responsibilities and pay for that.

I am Italian and I don’t care of “bella figura” — I don’t care if everything looks perfect on its surface while it’s festering underneath that cover, I’d like everything to be wholesome to the core. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one thinking so.

“The whole purpose of education is to turn mirrors into windows,” said journalist Sydney J. Harris. That would be an excellent motto for you to live by in the coming weeks, Capricorn. Whether or not you’re enrolled in school, you’re in a phase when your capacity for attracting learning experiences is at a peak. To take maximum advantage of the cosmic tendencies, all you have to do is cultivate a hungry curiosity for fresh teachings and life lessons — especially those that shift you away from gazing at your own reflection and toward peering out at the mysteries of the world.

– Free Will Astrology: Capricorn Horoscope for week of 25th June 2009

It does no good when a celeb dies — overshadowing the death of poor Farrah Fawcett, who’d passed away just a few hours earlier — minutes before bedtime, as you end up going to sleep sort of singing

…because he’s dead, he’s dead (dead dead, really, really dead)
you know he’s dead, he’s dead (dead dead, really, really dead)
and the whole world has to answer right now just to tell you once again — who’s dead?

(blame it on Beggi and enver — although I reckon I would’ve eventually come up with that myself anyway — sorry.)

It does no good because you end up having nightmares all night.

First thing I dreamt of was a few peeps from Fondazione Daje unexpectedly revealing themselves as fervent supporters of Mr. B, their office being set up on the third level balcony of a pro-Silvio convention centre that looked like a spaceship, so that they could look down at all the fanbase cheering at Silvio at ground floor.

That was bad enough. I woke up in a sweat and had to drink half a bottle of water to calm myself down.

I went back to sleep about an hour later only to then have another nightmare: I was going shopping with Euan Murray (please don’t ask, I have no clue of what Eugene has got to do with all this, either.) and we bumped into Simon Le Bon who started yelling it wasn’t him at Villa Certosa, it’s all a conspiracy etc.

It’s no wonder I’m in a really bad mood this morning

Anyway, as much as I can be sorry because someone died, being him the “king of pop” doesn’t make me forget the allegations of child abuse. As Gert said, “will be fun to see the tabloids who normally screech for the blood of paedophiles making an exception for a rich paedophile“.

I reckon I’m way more sorry for Farrah Fawcett’s death, honest.

I made a little sociological experiment: for a couple of days I avoided adding any smiley thingy when commenting on friendfeed and writing on tumblr.

Result: most of the things I said were misinterpreted, I managed to be called a lunatic by someone on friendfeed and argue with someone else on tumblr, and generally annoy most people.

I didn’t say anything offensive, I just omitted the “colon + bracket” thing, still apparently it’s not what you say that matters anymore, it’s how you season what you say — sprinkle a few smileys here and there, mix well and everything will be alright.

So I realised people can abuse other people and get away with that just because, adding a smiley at the end of their comment, they imply they’re only joking — even when they’re actually not joking at all, as that’s the real trick: call someone an idiot and then smile.

On the other hand, people only responding with civil manners are regarded as humourless lunatics.

That’s what I call not seeing beyond the surface of things — and it’s frankly quite depressing.

Scotland’s logo is a stylised thistle comprising a tiny saltire, and I find it quite beautiful; Italy’s one, until a few months ago and for a very short time, was an… er… a cucumber, I reckon:

______

Then they decided it was ugly (and they were bloody right thinking so.) and discarded it, so that we all thought they would’ve come up with something better soon.

After all, as ministro Brambilla said when presenting the new logo,

Per la sua ideazione ci siamo orientati su due concetti forti: l’eccellenza del Made in Italy, arte, moda e design, e l’essenza del Made in Italy, natura, sapori, bellezza

(”for its design we’ve been sticking to two strongholds: the excellence of made in Italy products — art, fashion, design — and the essence of all things made in Italy — nature, flavours, beauty”)

Shame though all they managed to come up with is this:

Wonder where all the art, fashion, design, nature, flavours, beauty are hidden, as I can’t really visualise them.

I almost preferred the cucumber, it was tastier.

(not to mention the flag is all wrong, Italy’s flag has vertical stripes, while the one they used looks more like an upside-down Hungary’s flag.)

In short, gimme thistles any day.

[pic of thistle cappuccino via my own flickr]

[thanks to Paul, the wine guy]

No, Eugene darling, you can’t. Not now, that is, not yet, you must rest and recover, ‘mmkay? Get well soon!

(yes, I know it’s very unlikely it was actually Euan Murray who googled for the above only to get on this blog, still it really bugs me that he got injured before even having the chance to really start for Lions. Especially when I then had to watch Phil Vickery mess up the scrum and generally misbehaving during the game — and then even had to read Boks own Victor Matfield said the one they were fearing in the Lions’ pack was Euan, so they’re “glad to see the back of him” — which, if you ask me, falls among the things a sportsman should never say, one should never be glad an opponent is ruled out because of an injury, the whole point of the game is doing better than the other team facing them on the pitch, but sometimes certain people seem to forget that…)

(photo via telegraph.co.uk)

I borrowed Fiore’s husband and put him on my fridge (well, not literally him, I couldn’t have done that, as my fridge is way smaller than Wally — I mean just a picture of him.) to remind myself to eat less carbohydrates and more protein.

It actually did work: I was craving for pasta at lunch, then I looked at the fridge door and opted for salmon instead.

(meanwhile, throughout the day Wally earned quite a few nicknames on friendfeed: David wholesome Wallace, David OMG-look-at-those-thighs Wallace, David may-the-Lord-preserve-him-like-this-forever Wallace, David one-more-pic-then-I-promise-I’ll-stop-otherwise-I’ll-end-up-doing-nothing-today Wallace, and so on.)

I intended to draw a rose à la Rennie Mackintosh on my cappuccino, I only managed to mess everything up with chocolate. Meh.