At the moment I have many reasons to be irritated with Andy, my business partner. I’m not going to go into them, let’s just say he knows what they are. Odd as it sounds, one of the reasons involves ‘crouching’. While not quite as bad as it appears, it is pretty bad. Instead of listing these current gripes, I’ve decided to relay the story of a trip to Rome a couple of years back – which casts him (and the other protagonists of the tale) in an unfavourable light. All except me, who remains the shining light of reason, culture and rationality. In these circumstances at least.
The setting concerns Italy’s capital city of Rome, a cultural hotspot of fine food, art and architecture. I and a good friend of mine, Northie, decided to get away for a weekend there to enjoy just these sorts of highlights. Northie (called Steve, but another Steve is introduced later) is fluent in Italian, and coupled to my conversational knowledge of Italian – we thought a tour of the city away from the bright tourist lights could be achieved and enjoyed. We did not reckon on my business partner Andy and friend Steve booking up a couple of days before our own departure. ‘We’ll meet you over there’, they declared as they set off a full day earlier.
I travelled down by train to London to meet up with Northie before our onward flight to Rome. The flight was largely uneventful, as was our arrival. True, we witnessed a cockney ‘gentleman’ berating an Italian taxi driver with the words ‘Take me to the ‘‘otel ‘fackin ‘Orino’, but that is by the by. Our own taxi driver, who we conversed with in Italian, was extremely friendly so we can bypass the fact he dropped us off a full mile away from our hotel. The first evening, in an unusual November warm spell, consisted of a late meal out on the terrace, followed by the lively bars of Testaccio, a suburb of Rome less travelled by tourists. We resisted the calls from the ‘intruders’, Andy and Steve – and ignored their jibes that Testaccio was ‘the gypsy area of town’. In short, without their presence we had a great night meeting Italian people, speaking their own language and embracing their culture.
We arranged to meet to the two reprobates in Piazza Navona, in the old town, the following afternoon. An omen of what was to come appeared quickly; as we approached their table at a café to see they had ordered us 3-pint glasses of lager. These were consumed and more were ordered. We heard tales of their two previous nights, which had been beyond our wildest dreams it appeared – as they frequented ‘Johnny’s Bar’. All of Rome at your disposal, and the best you can do is Johnny’s bar I ask you. Despite attempts to extol the virtues of our own experience to date, it would appear that you just can’t beat old Johnny’s when you go to Rome.
All of this banter was irritating but could be tolerated, unlike the plans the uncultured twosome had in store for the evening. They had been handed a flyer for a pub crawl, and suggested we join it. One of the earliest major centres of civilisation and these two, er... ‘twats’ had managed to find a pub crawl. To my horror, my friend and formerly best man seemed to embrace the idea. And so, despite my objections and horror, we departed Piazza Navona with instructions to meet on the Spanish Steps at 7pm.
On arrival, it was worse than I feared. A group had assembled and was sharing a crate of a beer called ‘Smeg Lager’. Ok, maybe not that, but some suggestive and unpleasant name. Despite being in our mid to late 20’s we four were the oldest there by at least 7 years. Our companions for this ill judged foray into Rome’s underbelly were largely all around 18, from America, and very excited they could legally drink in Italy while on their gap year. The presence of these nubile, naive and exceptionally annoying youngsters only encouraged the vile lustings of my partners in crime and off we went.
Italian bars aren’t equipped for 75 people descending on them at once, and a series of venues proved completely incapable of hosting us – both in bar and toilet facilities. I found myself unwillingly lumbering from bar to bar either parched or bursting to use a lavatory. My irritation grew and a young South African got both barrels for laughing at me for being married. Being tied down it seemed was the equivalent of a slow painful death in this young girl’s eyes. She left after a verbal volley, quite disheartened and on the end of a lesson that she had no hope of ever finding anyone, given the gravity of her ugliness. She wasn’t that bad but I wasn’t having a good time and wasn’t in the mood to entertain piss-taking from someone so irritating.
The next tiny bar quickly saw a queue form at the lavatory that was longer than Gareth Southgate’s face. Having trekked some distance from the last dive, I couldn’t wait that long and headed outside in the hope of finding a nearby establishment that could deliver me from my pain. I walked for a few minutes, even contemplating fouling the streets of this cradle of civilisation – until a passing policeman forced my zip to hastily retreat upwards once again. At last, a small bar appeared, an espresso was ordered and drunk and I had my blessed release.
On returning to meet the others I was confronted by deathly silence and a bar so empty, you could find more activity in the mind of George Bush. The group of revellers had departed to their next destination, taking along with them my best man, business partner and his friend. No, that is correct, they hadn’t waited for me. I rang Andy, the only other member of the party who had a mobile with reception. There was no answer, and neither was there an answer on the next 15 occasions. Eventually I got through, and was given a precious name, ‘Bar Ternano’.
In my eagerness to find a taxi I embarked on a perilous mission in the middle of a dual carriageway to achieve my aim. My helpful would-be rescuer did all he could to locate my destination, calling other cabbies on his radio when he didn’t know it himself. Sadly, it soon transpired that this Bar did not exist. I should have known it. Andy’s Italian pronunciation is so bad that the one word he knew, ‘hello’, was uttered as ‘Bongonio’. I embarked on a series of further calls, all of which remained unanswered.
This story is already quite long, so I won’t list every last attempted call. But suffice to say it was past midnight and I had tramped the streets of Rome, utterly lost, for an entire four hours before my next contact. I was swiftly passed on to Northie, who explained that he would meet me in a bar at the Trevi fountain immediately. During the course of this conversation I could hear Andy in the background shouting ‘Howay Steve, that call is costing me f-ing money!’. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but I could have smashed it to the ground in that timeframe, such was my fury.
I sat, fuming, drinking my coffee and waited for my best man, contemplating what a poorly judged decision that was. When he appeared he broke the ice by describing the scene as he entered a bar across the square and asked for ‘a tall blond Englishman’. He was swiftly ushered away. We returned, grumpily, to our hotel but eventually made our peace.
The following day, perhaps because I was expecting my much deserved apology, I agreed to meet Andy and Steve at their hotel. Their lodgings were surprisingly not as they had described, on a street lined with cheery nymphs handing out free wine – but rather on a dreary, beggar-ridden thoroughfare near the Colosseum. I knocked on the door and was soon confronted by Andy, in only a pair of jeans and a long-untrimmed toenail protruding from a hole in the one sock he was wearing. Shuddering at this vision, Northie and I retired to a nearby restaurant for lunch while Steve and Andy readied themselves for the day ahead.
We had nearly finished our meal when Andy arrived, shuffling along half drunk and half hungover. He ordered some chips (first pub crawl, then fried potatoes... how English) and other foodstuffs. I quickly asked for the bill in order to avoid paying for anything for this revolting vision before me. I learned later that they had added his meal to my bill meaning I paid for it after all. Unable to bear the sight of him scooping French fries into his maw with his clawed hands, we parted. The apology didn’t arise.
Northie soon descended into a virulent man flu, and when the evening approached. I was forced to decide between nursing his snotty head or meeting Andy and Steve at the aforementioned ‘Johnny’s’. Against better judgement I opted for the latter. This haven of paradise was presided over by Johnny, a Ron Jeremy lookalike and colossal egomaniac who had installed an effigy of himself in the toilets. Another excruciated evening passed, albeit with a lower score on the disaster scale. I had to travel back to London the following day, while Andy and Steve were flying back directly to Newcastle. Kindly, in some form of recompense, Steve insisted I change flights and go directly home – with him footing the bill.
At the airport at 8.30 the next morning I paid 130 Euros to transfer my flight and waited the four hours before my homeward flight. Eventually, Andy and Steve arrived and expressed their surprise at my presence. On mentioning the previous night’s offer, I was confronted with nothing but laughter in my face. Murder was only not committed because I preferred to spend my sentence in England, where I could be visited by my family.
So there it is. You may well be bored but I feel a little better. To think that I somehow consented to form a business,
espiritoart.com with this person is still somehow beyond me. But getting that off my chest feels a lot better. All that is left is for me to wish you well with a cheerful ‘Bongonio’.
Canada is a fantastic place, friendly, scenic and bewilderingly vast. I've been lucky enough to visit a small fraction of this country and see it for myself. There's nothing strange about liking it. Except that I liked it before I'd been, before I knew anything about it other than what the flag looks like. I've been across North America and my favourite place is the pleasant but unremarkable Halifax, Nova Scotia, rather than Boston or New York. I drink whisky and I like Canadian Club more than better quality, tastier brands.
I love France, have been many times and am comfortable in why I developed this opinion. But Narbonne, a small provincial city in Languedoc is my favourite place of all. It is surrounded my Montpellier, Perpignan, Sété, Toulouse and Narbonne. But I prefer to all of those other places. It boasts an impressive unfinished cathedral and a pleasant, compact centre. It also has a history of race riots but that doesn't put me off. I only went the first time because I had to change trains there, and had such a hangover I couldn't face the ongoing journey. I spent my stay there stuck in the hotel watching the Champions League final, rather than any great social or cultural pursuits.
