In Vernon We Trust

I wish I was Vernon Kay.

I never thought I’d say that; and I don’t say it lightly.

Actually, on reflection, I’d like to take it back. I don’t wish I was Vernon Kay at all. But I do wish I had at my disposal his remarkable, implacable showbiz persona. It’s like a sheet of very expensive plastic, highly disposable and horribly tawdry for sure, but unflappable and infinitely confident.

Alma likes Vernon Kay. She wouldn’t like him if she’d heard what I heard the other day.

But I shall not stoop to gossip. Especially not when I’m on the radio.

That’s right. The radio.

Oh, dear God in Heaven, I don’t want to go on the radio. Are you there God? It's me, moaning Stanley. Please don’t make me go on the radio.

~

I’ve got to go on the radio. To publicise the book. I said I would because you have to say yes to these things, don’t you – carpe diem and all that. Plus it’s written into my contract. So I’ll do it. But I already feel sick at the thought.

There are currently two interviews lined up, next Tuesday and next Wednesday. I’ll give you the details on Monday, just in case you want to witness my humiliation first-hand as it slowly, painfully unfurls, like a sticky sleeping bag full of bad pornography. At the moment I’m too bilious. At the moment I need to relax and channel Vernon. Aaaah, Vernon. The smile. The quips. The slightly sinister over-eagerness to please. The desperation to be loved oozing from every pore, hanging in the air like celebrity sweat as a creepy dead hand drapes itself over an unwilling shoulder. Can I manage that on radio? Well, as Vernon is my witness, I can try.

And with that, we move lushly and crassly into the final batch of beautifully staged pseudo-fan portraits, patiently posed by some people I met on my travels.

God Bless them all.

Oh, and that thing about Vernon Kay and the aerosols is just absolutely ludicrous. It’s just one step up from Richard Gere and the hamster, and Ann Widdecombe and the gingerbread butt-plug and I for one want no part of it.

Feedback Friday :: Hometime

bulk :: unknown (lots of pizza and beer - bad effect; endless traipsing with 20 kilos of rucksack on my back - good effect. Overall, most likely no change whatsoever.)
cigarettes :: probably about five a day (On Monday, I'm stopping - be prepared for some highly irritable blog posts)
alcohol :: a few beers, a few wines, a few liqueurs - nothing so serious
holiday romance :: zero, zilch, niente, di nada, bugger all

My return flight to England leaves in exactly four hours. Before I go to the airport I intend to eat a hearty lunch, send the postcards that I've been carrying around with me for the last week and make a phone call or two. I must say, on the whole, it's been a rather disappointing holiday. I'm sorry - I hate to come across a miserable, whining cur - after all, two weeks in Italy, three cities, loads of sun and wonderful food - this is not something at which one should find oneself shaking a stick. And I'm not, really I'm not. It's just that, there were disappointments.

Still, balls to the disappointments. There were also wonderful moments. I loved, for example, travelling around alone on trains - the trains here are exceptional, some of them have two decks! I loved meeting people in train stations. The ones I enjoyed the most were the old ones. The American couple whose luggage I carried up some stairs in Faenza - 'you've made my day!' said the old lady. 'And you've made mine!' I replied. And she really had.

The two couples in Agrigento. The lady who was brought up by German nuns in Nebraska, and for whom the idea of a life without rules and regulations was frankly unthinkable. Then when the train finally arrived, she said to me, 'It's not very big.' I replied, 'It's big enough', and she laughed and admired my attitude. Then she said, 'I needed to meet you today.' That really touched me. Then when we said goodbye at Palermo, she said, 'Have a nice life.' That touched me too. I'm easily touched.

Then there were the two old Irish ladies in Rome, when I was sat alone in a Chinese restaurant on publication day. We got talking, a short time before I left. They were sweet to me. We talked about the internet. One of them had been living in Rome for fifty years. Imagine that.

There were other times too, and probably quite a lot of them, when I was thoroughly happy to be amongst new friends in a new land. So I shall hang onto those memories, and put the things that went wrong behind me, as best I can.

So here's to the pizzas, the seafood, the dancing hips and plump, damp lips. Here's to the moments when eyes smiled and things, for a short time, seemed eminently possible.

I'm actually looking forward to getting back to England though, and getting back home, which I never really expected. I'm going to buy a decent bike. And see what I can do to sell this damn book. And I'm going to meet some new people, goddammit. And I'm going to live. That's all I want really. I just want to live. And if I'm not very much mistaken, for the time being at least, I am very well placed to do just that. The world, after all, is my oyster. And it's a giant oyster, potentially packed with all manner of exotic jewels. Not just pearls. I don't particularly care for pearls.

So, I do believe it's lunchtime. Have a great weekend, whatever you're up to, and I'll see you back in the north of England next week. By the way, what are you up to? Anything di bello?