Cemeteries in Italy are interesting places; the locals are still quite big on the kind of over the top memorials that went out of fashion in Victorian times back home. Much use of marble columns, cherubs, angels and the like. And, which has never been our style, pictures of the deceased themselves, though rarely looking cheerful, which is I guess understandable. Although mostly of a damn good age, despite the still largely universal tabs habit. All that olive oil I guess. I mention this as today's thoughts come from over a fence on the shores of Lake Garda rather than the more usual tatty structure in Ryhope, and more to the point, without a view of a football pitch. But still with a view of football. Kids in Italy still seem keen on kicking a ball about in car parks and on the street in a way ours aren't much any more. Makes me quite nostalgic. Big kids running rings round littler kids, the occasional bloke joining in for a couple of minutes till 30 years of fags starts to take its toll, and one side's goal always twice the size of the other. Do they play 20 half time and 40 the winner like we did? I hope so. And always a white ball so you can play in the dark. And the one with the ball is king.
I can remember spending hours with mates trying to pass a ball into the steel frame of a rubbish team that was about a centimetre all round bigger than the ball. I think it was only done twice in ten years. Tells you how bad the telly was in the sixties. I will do a piece on the Black and White Minstrels one of these days. I digress. The point is, you can see where the Italian team might come from in 20 years time, can you say the same about England? I get pessimistic. Seems like all the bally hoo over footy telly might be disguising the real slow death of the game. I hope not. And that was offside son. Anyway, more vino collapso, per favere, signore.