The blonde in the green tee-shirt is Noemi Letizia. She’s the eighteen-year-old who calls Silvio Berlusconi Papi and can’t decide whether to cavort on a table in her underwear or represent Italy at the European parliament (and, let’s face it girls, could you?). The man standing next to her, one hand adoringly encircling her neck, is her boyfriend. His name is Domenico Cozzolino. The older couple behind them, lips pressed together as the pressure within Vesuvius slowly builds to their rear, are the happily-married parents of Noemi, Signor and Signora Letizia, enjoying a moment’s intimacy. The photograph comes from a popular Italian magazine called Chi (Who).
In the preceding paragraph the first and last sentences are true. The rest of it is nonsense. Domenico Cozzolino is not, and never was, Noemi’s boyfriend. He’s pimped himself on afternoon TV and is now a PR. He was asked by Noemi, who’d apparently been prompted by someone else, to pretend to be having an affair with her, indeed, to be engaged to be married. Naturally, no PR worth his salt would turn down the chance to be photographed with a household name for a mass circulation magazine, even if it does mean lying through his teeth. And talking of lying, the couple of canoodlers in the background may be Noemi’s parents, but they aren’t usually this affectionate with each other. They’re separated and have been for some time. The photograph, like the article accompanying it, is a complete fabrication. It’s a lie designed to legitimate the Letizia family and their squalid dealings with the Italian prime minister. Who also happens to be the owner of Mondadori. Which happens to publish Chi.
I don’t know why I bother.
You’ve been waiting for me to post some nasty little comment about the Pope’s fractured wrist, haven’t you? Some spiked gratuitous remark about repetitive strain injury. A snide reference to the lovely Georg, at the holy one’s side. The fact that it was the first story on the national TV news here in Italy. Maybe a jibe about the speeding nun, with the two in the back, rushing to succour his infallibility in what the Guardian bizarrely calls a ‘mercy dash‘. Well, I’m sorry, but I’m going to disappoint you. This post is merely to announce that I’ve finished a short story that’s been on the boil for some time and that I’m very happy with it. Thank you.
CHARLES LAMBERT 