Bucko's World

If you go to Sorrento and end up here, I’ll give you a little tip. On no account be American.

The store is stuffed to the gills with the most fabulous marquetry furniture, musical boxes and pictures you could ever imagine, and to go with this are the eye wateringly high prices they charge. They had one musical box, in a beautiful clear blue lacquered birds eye maple, with an inlay of two lutes and a musical score done so beautifully you think it was painted on. “500 Euro, fuck me!” I exclaim! “That’s a lot of money for a musical box!”
Cuomo comes over. “Where are you from?”
“We’re English” I reply.
“Hahahahaha” He guffaws. “Thees price, it not for Europeans peoples, no”
“Oh, well who is it for then?”
“Ah hahaha, thees price is for our special American customers only. For you price is different”. “Bugger me it’s expensive enough without me not getting the “special american customers discount!!” I exclaim. Cuomo throws back his head and laughs (he does this a lot).
He then explains.
“See, American see 500 Euro and think “$800 dollars that’s expensive”. So I say “no, not 500 Euro, $500, you see?”
I saw. Musical box at a nice discount for special American customer. 350 Euro, not 500, brilliant.
And how much to me, I ask. “you lovely sir and laydee?” 120 euro.” £90. Superb. There’s always a reason for not being a special American you know……….

Zebra Crossings and the like..



Now, you would think that this sign and this pattern on the road are familiar across the world. Ok, in the uk we add belicia beacons and a lovely zigzag line to the equation but basically the meaning and operation of these things is simple. Need to cross the road, step on to the black and white crossing traffice stops you proceed without being knoecked down, bob’s your uncle, fanny’s your aunt and dick’s your playmate. Lovely. Ah……….except, it seems in Italy……




Believe me when I say this. You take you life in you hands if you attempt to cross the road on one of these things. Mistake number one: You assume in Italy they drive on the right, so you glance thusly and step out. Oops. This was, in fact, two mistakes in one. 1) Assuming they drive on the right and 2) that they will stop – they won’t. In fact as they screech around you the thing you’re most likely to notice is not an apology from the driver for failing to stop, but a rapid increase in your Italian vocabulary. Mistake number 2) (or 3, if you count the above as tw…..oh, just go with it) Forgetting about the mopeds – like all other vehicles they ignore the crossing, but, of course, there’s hundreds of them, and the “lane” system doesn’t even vaguely apply to them. You’ll end up with them just whizzing straight in front of you, swerving behind you, and this could be in either direction of course, and before you know it you're well and truly buggered.

Gaelic Watersports
(Many apologies if this story is nowhere near as exciting as the title suggests....)

My wife has a theory. Not one single person of the, shall we say, Irish persuasion can swim. What I hear you cry? On what flimsy evidence is she basing this wild assumption? Well, my mother can’t swim – and she’s from Dublin. And my mate’s Dad, he’s from Belfast and swimming pool sans water wings is simply not on. And that’s it. Based on a survey of exactly two people, the whole of Ireland is incapable of even a frantic eyes-closed, breath-held scramble for the side before a coughing and spluttering fit followed by desperate wiping of the face ensue. Oh, and our friend’s husband (another Belfast boy), and all seven of my Mum’s brother’s and sister’s can’t swim either – but you get my point. A whole proud nation pigeon-holed as aquatically challenged on the basis of such limited information. Well, now she’s eating her words.

When we arrived at the hotel, the lobby was full of case and a lot of blue skinned, red headed people who seemed, shall we say, the worse for wear. Airline travel can be a bit of a bugger. We realise there are Irish when the receptionist asks them if they’d like a hand taking their cases up to the room. “ah, no. We’ll leave them here for now, just tell us where the bar is.” Class. 15 minutes later when we make it that far ourselves, they already commandeered a table which has at least 15 bottles of beer and three bottles of wine on it. There’s only six of them sitting there. Their enthusiasm and bonhomie are only matched by their legendary consumption of Carroll’s and inability to stand after an hour.

What has this got to do with my wife’s theory though? Well, it turns out we’ve only seen the older Irish in this group, and when we go down to our hotel’s “beach” the next morning, there’s a group of at least 30 others, aged 3 to 30, well set to make the most of the fair weather and expensive beer. And if there’s one thing these guys like as much as their beer, it’s the water. It seems we’ve ended up staying at an hotel with the All Ireland Under Thirty Aquatic Display Team. Back flips, belly flops, bombs, synchronised, hands held, all in together running jumps are the order of the day. These guys can swim, and there not a single pair of knitted wool swimming trunks to be seen anywhere. My wife is rather quiet. I mentioned her theory as another huge spout of water erupts upwards from the sea following a double pike with back flip from the decking by one of the gang. She’s seems not to hear me and buries her nose further into her book……….more Forza Italia soon

Italy – you’ve heard of it. World cup winning football team and The Azzuri. World champion Motor Racing team Ferrari and the Tifosi. World champion hunger beating team Pasta with the tomato sauci. Sorry...

Oh yes we all know about Italy. From the super cars to football skills, famous latin temperament to sexy women, fabulous fashion to five reverse speeds on their tanks, we all know and love something about the wellington boot shaped country. There is, of course far more to the place than that, much of which I have learnt about on my recent undercover trip to Sorrento, and much of which I will share with you now.

Traffic.

Like most of Europe, in Italy you drive on the right. Allegedly. The real fact of the matter is you simply drive where suits you best and fuck everyone else. This behaviour is exaggerated by the fact that most of the roads are not suitable for two-way traffic and you therefore just drive straight down the middle and hope the bugger coming the other way bottles out before you do. This isn’t helped either by the roads winding up and down over the mountainous countryside, and being a tourist trap meaning that every other vehicle is a 50-seat coach. Until you’ve been on a bus attempting to reverse back around a hairpin bend with another fifty seater inching past you in the other direction – and you're looking down the 500 foot drop to the left hand side of the coach - you do not know the meaning of adrenaline. To get anywhere around the Neapolitan coast you have to take this single road so to say the traffic is constant and in a hurry is an understatement.

Cars.






Related, no doubt, to the above is cars – and the general state of them. Famous for the most desirable of brands – Ferrari and Maserrati, Lamborghini and Alfa Romeo, Bugatti and Paganini – their automotive history is without compare. So it may come as a bit of a surprise to find that not only will you never see any of these lust-objects on the road, but that the general state of the average Italian’s car is like the last car running at the end of a demolition derby. You will never see more dents, scratches, mismatched or missing bodywork, mot-unfriendly heaps of shit on the road than anywhere other than India. This is in a nation that worships the car and yet they seem to drive them by ear – only stopping when they hear the crash. It doesn’t make sense. It’s almost as if because most of them can’t have the F430 or a Zonda they don’t care about their own mode of transport.

Mopeds.

In a country so famed for its motor cars it is probably fair to say that without the contribution of a far more humble type of transport Italy’s economy would collapse. That form of transport is the ever-so-humble Moped.

Be warned. Not only are they as aurally irritating as a wasp trapped in a jam jar, these death-traps on two wheels will form the constant auditory backdrop to any visit to Italy you may make with the possible exception of only one place – Venice (but don’t bet on it). Normal rules of the road simply do not apply to these contraptions, which ignore everything from one-way streets to pedestrian only areas to riding on the pavement – no area is no-go for them. Add to this that there appears to be no lower age limit to riding these things and you can image the carnage they can reap.

That’s all well and good I hear you cry – but why are they so vital to the economy? This is why. They are school bus, delivery truck, ambulance, telephone kiosk and mobile shop all rolled into one. Without these nimble and seemingly indestructible vehicles to provide cheap transport to the masses nothing could get where it needs to go along the narrow streets of the Neapolitan Riviera. And truly it may be said that safety comes second on these things as we bore witness to the following, all which meant having your left hand off the moped – yes, your BRAKE hand:

We saw: riding whilst smoking a fag; riding whilst holding an unfurled umbrella; riding whilst on a mobile phone and these other beauties too:







Yes, that is a child standing on the heavily damaged scooter.











Yep, not one but two large gas cylinders on this one












Delivery truck – note additional boxes between feet











School bus sans helmet














Seems fine, yes? Well, accept that he's riding on the pavement......







Sexy Cars



One of these two Italian cars is officially the sexiest car in the world. It’s obvious which one isn’t it. Clear as day without a shadow of a doubt. Don’t know which one? Ok, here’s a clue: Whichever one you pick you are wrong. With one of them you are wrong because it came second in poll recently, and the other you’d be wrong because you are a moron.



More Forza Italia to follow soon............

I sit here with calf muscles tighter than a Scotchman’s chuff and wonder why I put myself through it. I’ve just got back from a four mile run and my permanently fucked right knee is on fire, I feel like I have appendicitis and to top it all I don’t think I even enjoyed it very much. The pavements were slick with sodden leaves, marble-like acorns made every step just one away from casualty, and ankle breaking conkers fought for your attention, thus distracting you from a pavement more uneven than crazy paving laid by a cowboy builder in a hurry to get to his tea break. So why do I do it? Because in six months time I hope to take place in the greatest running event of them all, The London Marathon.

Unfortunately, being forty, fat and unfit does not appear to be the ideal place to start preparations. A friend of mine, who shall remain unnamed to protect his identity in this public place, but for argument’s sake we’ll call him Paul, once said to me “Bucko, running isn’t for you and me, we’re carrying too much timber, we’re too tall and quite frankly, we’d both rather be in the pub.” Or the curry house. The thing is he’s right. I’m an any-excuse-not-to-go-for-a-run type. Sometimes I’d even rather work, but other excuses such as “the gym is too busy on Monday”, “I’ll run when I get home tonight” to “oh, I forgot my walkman and can’t run without it” all feature prominently in my no run handbook. Well, now I can’t use those as excuses anymore it’s time to put my money where my mouth is….

So last Friday, the first day of my “Redundancy consultation period”, that weird Limbo between being a full time employee and a corpse on the corporate scrap heap, I had to drop my car down to Leeson’s Hill for a service (at least one word in that last sentence should be carefully borne in mind) and being the virtual pauper I am now, I decide rather than bus it back I should make it the first run of my Marathon preparation. It’s raining, it’s brooding grey and thundery, and I’m cursing the stupidity of the whole idea. But with no other way of getting home (the Oyster Card is currently gathering dust on the sideboard) I fire up the GPS, press start on my watch and get to it. Three minutes later I want to die. Leeson’s Hill you see, succeeds in climbing 250 feet in just a third of a mile and unfortunately it seems that I don’t. Somehow, 33 minutes, 33 seconds and 33 hundredths (hey, it looked good on the watch) later am home, drenched to the skin, legs shaking like blamanche on a turntable and wheezing like an asthmatic pensioner who’s forgotten their inhaler. 4.1 miles under my belt but more importantly, £1 bus fare saved, so who cares if I collapse through the front door and lay in the hallway for ten minutes rattling like John Merrick after a particularly gruelling sentence?

I point out to another friend my pathetic attempts to prepare myself to get 15 stone round 26 miles of London's streets on a knee and a half and no discernable talent for the sport. He too shall remain nameless but for arguments sake we’ll call him Tone. What Tone said was this “15 stone today, but after a month of training 4 miles a day, uphill, through rain and sleet, fog and frost you’ll be down to 14.5 stone.” I have, possibly incorrectly, taken this to be some form of encouragement.

And so to this morning. It’s grey and damp but not actually raining and so I head out, and despite the pavements underfoot being greasier than a New Labour spin doctor the first couple of miles go pretty well. It’s when I hit Lower Camden, a three quarter mile straight, level and therefore supposedly easy piece of road to run on that I hit a problem. That problem is another runner who I can see about 150 yards in front of me. Now this might not seem like a problem, but it is. See, I’m running at my pace, and he at his, but the instinct is to try and catch him up. This is bad. I try and pace myself carefully as my run ends with a long uphill grind and if you do the easy bits too fast the hill becomes a nightmare. I’m catching him with every step but is this just that I’m running faster than him anyway, or has that instinct to catch him up cut in? The seemingly obvious thing to do would be simply to match his pace but this could compromise mine and screw my run up. Even consulting my super chronographic steroidal GPS enhanced watch is no good. Although it tells me how fast I’m running it’s buried under three layers of clothing so hasn’t been consulted during my run so far, so the pace it’s telling me now won’t help. So I simply catch him pass him and continue on my way.

I then come to the next little problem. As I run under the Railway bridge the main road swings to right with the turning off being straight ahead, through some barriers. This is a really wide piece of road at the junction, and as you can’t easily see back over your shoulder to see the traffic, I run straight ahead and wait till the road narrows before crossing. Well it’s a good thing I did. As I step out in to the road a Saab roars under the bridge and without signalling comes straight on and I only get out of the way in time because of my forethought. “It’s comes with indicators you fucking dickhead try using them” I scream after him. Seeing him smash a wing mirror on the six foot barriers when he tries to negotiate them without braking is some consolation.

My final problem is that Elmstead Lane lies ahead, one mile all uphill to finish you off. And it does. My pace obviously picked up earlier despite my best efforts and I am reduced to jogging pace as the hill takes its toll on my legs. To cap it all I then end up with the letters VW tattooed permanently on to my arse when some wanker decides to pull blindly off his drive and almost straight into me. It’s only the cat like reactions, the John Travolta like moves as it were, that prevent me from being mincemeat under his wheels. Well once again I can console myself with the knowledge that at some point today, at least one of the two pre-school age kids who were in the van with him will ask “Daddy, what is a stupid fucking cunt?”

Well after two years of less than blissful employment with M***** I************, after a meeting this morning telling us how were going to make loads of money this year due to really clever Reinsurance purchases this year (the clever bit being not bothering and praying no hurricanes hit land), after an afternoon discussing how this meant another 15% on our bonuses this year and how this is good, I got given the bullet.

Shock doesn’t do my feelings justice. Anger and the wish for a painful death on those who have brought this on me does. The woman who made me redundant is the world’s worst manager. She spoke to me twice in two years. Once to give me the job, the other to take it back. In the meantime all she did was send emails moaning about chit chat in the office and how others were trying to work and how unbelievable it was that it wasn’t even about work, about time keeping and an hour only for lunch, about clear desk policy and too much paper around, all whilst having no idea about how the work we actually did needed to be done. So actually I’m left with one more feeling: Relief. At the busiest time of the year I no longer have to go and work my plumbs off for a woman, and indeed a company, for whom I have no respect. My colleagues have been dropped right in the brown sticky stuff and I wish them all well in meeting their targets, but if they are missed, I do hope they all know in which direction they should be looking.

I’m going to enjoy my gardening leave for a month and then let’s see what comes along next shall we? I could get used to sitting here, eating choccy biscuits and watching countdown, but who knows? This is where it all becomes interesting again……….

There are certain things that all of us like to do to relax or wind down or just get away from it all. Some people like a nice cup of tea, some people do yoga, some people like to knock one out whilst perusing a copy of Butt ‘n’ Bush. I like to go to the gym and just switch off from it all for a couple of hours. I put my headphones on, crank up the metal, and run until I’ve forgotten what I went in there for. And for pure convenience there’s nowhere better to run than in my local gym.

Now, I’ve been going to my current gym for almost four years now and like a favourite overcoat or old pair of shoes it fits just so. You get used to the layout, get used to the staff, get used to the other punters. It’s a place you feel you know like an old friend and feel you fit into like a comfy old armchair. Such places are good for your karma.

Like many of you who have a favourite seat on the train, or like a particular place to buy your cheese and pickle at lunchtime, I have a favourite running machine. It’s the one behind the blue post, and others shun it because you can’t see the TV screens when you’re running on it. I like it for that very reason and for several years we have both been very happy with the arrangement. Then there’s the rowing machine with the seat that unless you sit on it just so will jam halfway back, leading to you doing very short strokes – something out friend with Butt ‘n’ Bush would know all about. And of course there’s the water fountain that unless you put your bottle under it first takes great pleasure in soaking you all around you nether regions. All familiar, all comfortable, all comforting.

But since I returned from holiday things have not been the same………

Monday afternoon and after a hard morning emailing my friends it’s off to Fitness Exchange and a nice refreshing 5 mile run. But what’s this? Overnight my gym is no longer a Fitness Exchange but a Fitness First. Overnight the manager has gone to be replaced by a keen young girl. Overnight every single piece of equipment has been replaced by spanking spangley new ones. My old, familiar, friendly even, running machine has gone. I’m puzzled by this, but no worries, five miles is five miles and no mistake. Just set the machine at 8 MPH and off you go. Five miles later you get off. But oh, no……………these shiny shiny button bright improved new running machines, although proudly made in the U S of A are in metric…….

No problem, I’ll just set it for miles…………nope, reset-up-down-enter doesn’t work anymore. Ok……so, no problems 8 x 1.6 is er………..12.8 ok so that’s my speed, but I haven’t been for a couple of weeks so need to start at 7MPH which is errrrr………..and then sprint the last 2/10th of a mile which is how much of a kilometre at 11MPH which is……..oh fuck………..

You think that’s bad – try working 195lbs out in your head as kilograms.....

I try and put all this out of my mind and just run but the machine seems too fast, it seems to be going up hill and I seem knackered after five minutes and I just can’t switch off. I don’t do kilometres. I run miles at so many per minute, all the routes I run and the pace I need to be on is imperial, and the only metric distance I ever run is 10K but I pace it in miles. 4 miles at 8MPH and 2.25 at 9. Simple and easy.

I must tell you; this has seriously affected my peace of mind. If I can’t get this sorted either in my head or on the machine I might just go mad and explode in fit of pent up anger. Pencils may well be broken. Worst of all though, I’m supposed to have started my training for the marathon and this has really thrown me. It really has stopped me concentrating properly on getting set for it. But hold on, what is this a chink of light perhaps?

There appears to be one thing on the machine that's still Imperial. Yep, no KiloJoules of energy burnt running kilometres on these babies, oh no, it’s still calories. Somewhere in the silicon chip that pass for a brain in this machine, it’s doing the opposite of me – it’s converting bloody miles in frickin’ K’s. Bastard! Well, you have not heard the last of this, Bucko! is on a mission to get his miles back and once I’ve figured out how, I’ll hopefully get my Gym Karma back and the world will be well. Watch this space…..and chill man.

A lifetime of humiliation and derision for some poor sod if the parents are not careful that’s what. Ok, nobody calling their offspring Joseph (a good old Christian name that) could have foreseen Blue Peter and the whole Joey Deacon thing. Nobody calling their child Walter could have possibly known what a curse that name would become.

And of course the parents of MP Theresa May would not have had the foggiest that she would end up sharing her name with a porn star, and now be constantly bothered by horny young men posting on her website and telling her how they’d like to “do her doggy”.

Even so, plenty of rudimentary mistakes have been made by people who really should know better. I’m not talking about celbs here who give their kids deliberately wacky names like Moon Unit or Dweezil (both Zappa), or Peaches or Heavenly Hirani (both children of Paula Yates), but everyday folk who if they gave the matter more than one second of thought could have avoided scarring their children for life. I give you:-

Exhibit one: Ann Boleyn. Honestly, I’ve just got off the phone to her. How she must laugh every time someone cracks the gag “What fucked Ann Boleyn? Henry’s Chopper”.

Exhibit two: Frank Kroll. Yep, named after what a New York Hot Dog vendor would put the “all beef” sausage into for you if your were stupid enough to buy one. Sheer genius by the parents, worrying for me as I have to speak to him later today without laughing.

Exhibit three: Robin Banks – Honestly, with a name like that you’re hardly going to be asked to be Chancellor of the Exchequer now are you? That’s probably why he used to work in Insurance.

Exhibit four: Any name beginning with Wayne – obviously pairing this with King or Kerr would lead to a lifetime of belittlement and no sex with girls – ever.

Exhibit five: Any name ending King or Kerr. I worked with a bloke called King – he was called everything from “Foo” to “Stin” to “Nosmo”. His life was bad. I also used to know a chap called Dan Kerr. Say it quick and it sounds like “Thank you” in German, especially if you do the accent. He wasn’t a happy chap.

Exhibit six: Mike Hunt. Used to be an Aviation Underwriter. When I needed to phone up and speak to him I’d always ask for Michael. I mean, even the great Trevor McDonald can get tongue tied on that one.
So there you go, I rest my case – a little bit of thought can spare your children a lifetime of pain. I should know. My parents were going to call me Duncan but at the last minute had a change of heart. This spared me form a lifetime of being referred to as Dunky. I often shiver at the thought of that and thank my lucky stars they realised the error they were about to make before it was too late.

I saw a big hairy biker guy the other day, all sweaty leather jacket, Harley Davison and multiple tattoos, quite a sight, but the thing that struck me most about him was his T-Shirt. It said this:



Word.

Now, I must admit that I should tread very carefully here as, at last I could recall, I have five friends with tattoos, so all I can say to those wonderful people now is: If you think you might not like what I’m about to say, look away now.

Ok, for those of you still reading here we go. Tattoos – what the fucking hell is all that about? I’ve just seen a bloke in the gym. He’s one of those five-foot-and-a-fag-paper types who seem to think if he pumps enough iron and makes his top half wider than his height, women may notice him more. Of course the one thing you can’t increase in the gym is what he craves most – a few more inches where it matters if you know what I mean. No, not on his dick, but under his feet. But I digress. To improve his chances of pulling even further he has body art that could hang in a gallery, and let’s be honest, that where art should be, not down someone’s back. But I'm sure he would beg to differ. He has a flaming TT symbol on his shoulder, a lizard down his back, a coral snake around one arm and a cobra on the other. To top it all he has a 3” round metal curtain ring through his Prince Albert. Amazing – still a midget though, still not getting any. But he’s not the worst.

There’s another bloke – across the small of his back it says “Natasha” and across his shoulders it says “Ryan”. His kids’ names I suppose. In case he ever forgets them. Look, here’s a tip. If you want your kids’ names on your body, put them somewhere you can read them. Then when you’re doing the birthday cards and you need to know, for instance, the boy’s name, you can just have a glance and you have it, rather than having to remove you shirt and have someone else read it to you. Of course you could try looking over your shoulder in the mirror but what if your daughter then got a card wishing AH SATAN a happy birthday? Honestly, please tell me the point of having anything tattooed on your back. HELLO!!! You’re never going to see it!! WHAT’S THE POINT??? What are you going to do, carry a photo of it around with you so when you want to see it you just whip it out of your wallet?

I must confess however that in the past I too have considered a bit of body art. Either an English Rose with shamrock and thistles curled around the stem to represent my mixed heritage, or a skull in a top hat smoking a fag. There was one simple answer as to why I never got them done – not the pain of the needles, not the risk of infection or even the risk that it might not look quite how I imagined. No the reason is because I would look like a wanker.

Consider this: Are you one hundered percent sure that Robbie Williams doesn’t regret “Born to be Mild”? How about Davey Beckham and the Medic Alert symbol on his neck? All will be deeply regretted and possibly painfully removed in the future. But it still possible to top all that. Take a 6’4” shaven headed bloke in my gym. He’s a rower and to be perfectly honest I would sell a liver (I only need one liver) to look like this guy. Until, that is, he steps into the shower and you see his tattoo. It’s on his left buttock, and it caused me to burst out laughing in derision. This 100% beef, Full Fat bloke had, tattooed on his arse:

So people, please. Tattoos are for the Big Hairy Biker Guys and the Armed Forces. If you ride a Hog or kill people for a living go for it. If not use henna, it’ll still look shit but at least it will be gone before you regret it.