breakfast at murrayfield

Nearly three years ago, on my former, now long defunct blog, I posted this:

Lasagna [not real name.] was then flavour du jour, in a sort of odd way as he’d just slammed La Scala artists’ door behind his back (forever?), mad at loggionisti booing him at the end of his rendition of “Celeste Aida” (if you need a rough translation of the comic strip above, just go to Alex Ross’ blog. Cheers.).

Fast forward to these days: latest news are that Lasagna and his wife GlouGlou are divorcing — or, better, he says they’re now separated, she says she’s already filed in divorce papers, as they’ve been living separate lives for about two years now.

And that’s too much information already, if you ask me, more than I need and want to know about them. After all, it’s their own lives we’re talking about, and, as for myself, all I ask of opera singers is that they do their job nicely on a stage (and, well, to be honest, Lasagna and GlouGlou haven’t exactly fulfilled my expectations, but maybe I’m too picky when it comes to opera. And rugby, too, as a matter of fact. Heh.).

Of course I also genuinely wish them to live pleasant private lives and be happy, like I wish anybody as I’m a nice person, but, being their private lives, I don’t really want to know about them — it’s not like they’re my friends so that, say, in case they’re in trouble, I can help or something. I can’t. I know of them but I don’t know them, there’s a huge difference. I can’t stand celebrities, even the ones I like, when they seem to plug every single tiny event of their private lives to the press — only to start moaning about that just minutes later, id est as soon as they realise they’re overexposing themselves and find themselves surrounded by nosy journos and paparazzi (for instance, I nearly found myself disliking Gerard Butler — *shock!* *horror!* — for this reason. I mean, he seems a decent guy, still he’s always in the press. That’s both annoying and boring. I don’t care to know what he had for lunch last Wednesday, I don’t want to know if and when he’s got a colonscopy, that’s useless, pointless information. Someone please tell his publicist.).

Anyway, as a very wise friend of mine said, never marry a singer (a diva, more like) if you’re one — and this goes out to whom it may concern.