Sezze Romano

The post below was triggered by this photograph, taken a few days ago at the station of Sezze Romano, a few stops up the Rome line from Fondi. The idea was that I’d build your expectations and then deflate them with this piece of non-lyrical graffiti, found in the waiting room. So much for the birdsong option, I thought. But where’s the fun in that? I have a heart too.

Adlestrop

Edward Thomas was right. There are few places more evocative than a small country station in the summer, and those countries that still have them (stations and summers) should count their blessings. Not all stations possess the magic, of course. They need a few details to make them perfect. There should be a bar with a blind made of faded plastic strips at the door to keep out flies. The blind, though, should be knotted a little back on itself, so that one or two flies do penetrate the semi-darkness to buzz around the scuffed plastic dome protecting the last third of a crumbling sponge cake. There should be no other food of any consequence – it’s too hot to eat. The light outside the bar will be intense.

Animals should be present. Ideally, a dog of indeterminate breed will be lying somewhere inconvenient, across the doormat or halfway beneath one of the three zinc-topped tables squeezed under the shelter of the station eaves, each with its plastic ashtray advertising Crodino or Dubonnet. If the dog’s small enough, it will be curled up, nose to arsehole, on one of the chairs, ear cocked, pelt marked by the odd feeding tick. It will have a collar, but no name tag, and behave as though it belongs to no one. Failing that, a cat.

There will be no announcements, but the barman, a middle-aged man in pressed black trousers and a vest, will have all the information you need. The coffee will not be very good, but may come ready sugared. You will drink it slowly, staring out to where you have left your cases, drunkenly heaped against the base of a cast-iron lamppost. There will be two platforms, the one you use when you leave and the one you will be brought to when you return. The only way to get from one platform to the other is to cross the track or to take the train and let it bring you back. Sometimes, if you’re very lucky indeed, you will need to shoo chickens away as you do so. The train will always be late, sometimes by hours, and you will be angry, but deep-down you won’t care because you have already arrived, without knowing it, and no other place on your holiday will stay with you for as long as this station does.

Nutrition expert visits Rome

Master of irony, Robert Mugabe, has decided to grace the Food and Agriculture Organisation summit with his presence. FAO should be honoured. If anyone can talk with authority about the horrors of food shortages created through incompetence or malice, it’s the tinpot tyrant democratically elected leader of Zimbabwe. The photograph above shows him leaving his five-star hotel in Rome to welcome his many Italian admirers with open arms, as popular leaders are wont to do. Don’t worry, he’s only pretending to look shit-scared. The fact that his expression recalls that of Ceausescu the last time he appeared on his balcony is pure coincidence.

Oh yes, if you’d like to see what his well-built chums did to the person who took this photograph (or, more probably, one of his colleagues), you should click here. No, unlike Peter Tatchell, he wasn’t trying to make a citizen’s arrest; he was just doing his job. Still, it might have been worse. He might have been trying to take a picture of ‘Amazing’ Grace Mugabe, the great man’s wife, and been handbagged. Those Gucci buckles can do a lot of damage.

The son-in-law also rises

Well, I don’t know. I’ve just been to the Guardian site to look at the latest book reviews and what do I find? The first item is Ian McEwan on millennial doomsters. So far, so predictable. I haven’t had time to read the piece so I can’t comment, though I’m sure McEwan isn’t as closely related to the Rapture as I am (read here). The second article is on a début novelist called Nick Harkaway and the third is on another début novelist called Isabel Fonseca. It’s wonderful to see space devoted to début novelists, and I’m sure they’re both very good. But it would be even more wonderful if Nick Harkaway weren’t John Le Carré’s son and Isabel Fonseca weren’t Martin Amis’s wife. I don’t doubt that both books have been published on their merits (well, perhaps I do, a little, but I recognise this as sour grapes). But I can think of an awful lot of other début novelists (yes, including me) who would have been more than grateful for this kind of exposure. Billie Holiday had something to say about the mechanism that rewards those who don’t really need it, so I’ll stop here. But not before I thank Kay Sexton, and John Self, and Dovegreyreader, who did find the time to review me, despite the dismal failure of my immediate family to be famous.

Little Monsters: review and interview

Little Monsters has just been reviewed by Kay Sexton. You can find the review, followed by an interview with me, on Writing Neuroses, here. Kay’s questions were challenging and fun, and I’ve done my best to answer them. I can do no more.

(There’s also a photograph of me in my new desert boots pretending to read the book…)

Pselling

Many posts ago, I quoted a colleague who commented that that the fact we share so much of our DNA with chimps (and, for that matter, sea cucumbers) is only significant if we think of DNA as non-sequential. If, on the other hand, we think of it in the way we think of letters that form words, it’s less surprising that a minimal difference in the order of the same letters (i.e. with a 100% match) can have a pretty substantial effect on meaning. It’s the old god/dog trick.

I’ve just been reminded of this in a very personal way. I put this blog on Facebook (I know, I know) and couldn’t understand why I kept getting a very different blog whenever I clicked on the (admittedly also different) image. This is what I got each time. Don’t worry, you don’t have to read it all. Here’s a sample.

The Bible gives us over 50 descriptions about the people at the time of the end. These fit the people of today perfectly, but did not fit the people of fifty years ago. Here are some:

			A.	Some would depart from the faith and go into devil worship-1 Tim 4:1. This is perfect.
			B.	People would mock about the last days and not believe-2 Pe 3:3; Jude 18.
			C.	People would become lovers of themselves-2 Tim 3:1,2. Remember the TV commercials—”I do it for me”?
			D.	People would be disobeying their parents-2 Tim 3:1,2.
			E.	People would be grateful for nothing-2 Tim 3:1,2.
			F.	Homosexuality would increase-Lk 17:28,30; ref Gen 19:5; Ro 1:24,26,27.
			G.	People would be without self-control in sex-2 Tim 3:1,2,6; Rev 9:21, Lk 17:28,30; Jude 7. Is this not the great sex generation?
			H.	People would love pleasures more than God-2 Tim 3:1,2,4. This is true. Shall we go on a picnic, watch football, or sleep. Church?—we can go another time. Our American motto “In God we trust” has become a joke. Remember, these were all predicted centuries ago as part of the signs that we are at the time of the end.
			I.	People would be taking drugs-Rev 9:21. The Greek word for sorceries, in Rev 9:21, means pharmaceuticals or drugs. God’s Word is 100% right on every one. That’s 6 out of 6. How could you have any doubts at this point? Note: Fifty years ago, many people seldom locked their doors at night. There was little or no profanity on television, radio, or in the movies. One of the biggest problems in public school was gum chewing. Those days are long gone.

It took me quite a while to spot the problem. Or should that be psot?

Daft Punk: Harder Better Faster Stronger

Lesser god stuff

Nine days before Gay Pride is supposed to take place in Rome (Saturday, 7 June), the organisers have discovered that the march can no longer end in Piazza San Giovanni, despite authorisation having been granted in April. Why not? Because it would coincide with a choral performance and convention in the Lateran Palace, next door to St. John Lateran. The Lateran Palace has extraterritorial status, which means it doesn’t actually belong to Italy or come under Italian jurisdiction, fiscal or otherwise, but that’s clearly less important than ensuring the discomfort of the many thousands of Italian taxpayers who’d expected to end their annual march (sorry, vulgar exhibitionist display) in a square traditionally associated with civil rights and the left.

Alemanno strikes again.

Hell

I don’t know if Colchester is a typically or untypically ungodly example of modern urban Britain, but of the three churches open last Friday one had been converted into a museum, one into a shop and the third, although still functioning, had the air of a place little visited and less loved. Although it’s clearly being used by someone. I took this photograph at the bottom of the stairs leading up to a sort of dusty gallery, used, like this vestibule, for storage.

Note the writing to the right of the door.

Colour chart, Colchester