breakfast at murrayfield

Last night I was feeling a bit left out because while everybody was suffering watching Festival di Sanremo (and/or suffering because Dario Franceschini had just been “elected” leader of the Democratic party.), I was suffering watching Munster v. Edinburgh while sipping chinotto.

With hindsight, that’s been a good move, though, as even if Edinburgh lost the game, they did so with dignity, they made quite a few mistakes (like dropping the ball a few times for no particular reason — I mean, the only plausible explanation could be if the ball was made out of soap, but I very much doubt it.) but played overall decent rugby, and seeing Ben Cairns and Chris Paterson cross the try line was so much better anyway than witnessing that… that… I don’t even know what to call that.

In a nutshell, of all the (bad) singers and songs that were taking part to the “competition” (oh, puh-lease.), in the end the three worse ones got to the final stage:

1. Marco Carta (a guy from Sardinia who last year, for some obscure reason, won the local version of “Pop Idol”) singing a lame song, sporting both a thick regional accent, which wouldn’t be a problem per se, but it is part of the problem when it’s supported by the complete lack of ability of singing in tune;
   
2. Povia (a guy whose two previous hit singles are a song about children going “oh!” and another song about him wanting to turn into a pigeon. I promise, I’m not making this up.) singing a song about a guy who was gay but then miraculously recovered from homosexuality (I mean, seriously.);
   
3. Sal Da Vinci (no clue of who he is.) singing another lame song by Gigi D’Alessio (you don’t want to know who he is, mark my words.).
   

And they ended up being placed in the exact order you see above.

Anyway, I decided not to watch the whole darn thing the minute I heard Mina destroying “Nessun dorma” from Puccini’s Turandot:

I reckon poor Gia’omo is still turning over in his grave at the maximum speed of a minipimer.