European Elections - the vote.
Well, that was certainly an interesting experience. Of course, I'm talking here about casting my vote, as an EU citizen, in the European Elections which are still polling as I write.
Why interesting though? Of course, as a British Citizen I am entitled to cast my vote in the place of my residence for my Member of the European Parliament - MEP. I went along to the designated place to vote - which was a school not that far from my home here - and handed over my voting card together with my Identity Card for scrutiny. I was greeted with a happy "so there you are" kind of greeting, as they had been expecting me, the sole representative of all the other Member States in the EU living in this part of Milano. I had my very own pale blue folder in which was firmly attached a very large piece of official paper - the kind that is normally full of names of potential electors. But there was only one name on this whole sheet of paper - in fact, only one name in the entire pale blue folder. My name. I seemed to be the only EU national in this large part of Milano that had actually bothered to register and get a voting card. It seemed a very English attitude and I was even more pleased to be living in Italy.
So, voting over now. All that remains is to see the results of it all. I have to admit to having a degree of interest in what the UK actually does this time around, after scoring the lowest turnout of electors in the last European Elections with only 24% actually bothering to vote at all. In Italy, there was a turnout in that election of 70.8%, showing, in my mind, an altogether more adult view of the whole business of running a democracy.
Ho hum - more after the results.......
An Italian Story - with apologies to the English speakers.
- "Buon giorno signor parroco, mi vorrei confessare"
- "Certo figliolo, qual'è il tuo nome?"
- "Silvio Berlusconi, padre"
- "Ah! Il Presidente del Consiglio. Ascolta figliolo, mi pare proprio che il tuo caso richieda una competenza superiore, credo sia meglio che tu ti rechi dal Vescovo."
Così Berlusconi si presenta dal Vescovo chiedendogli se lo poteva confessare.
- "Certo figliolo, come ti chiami?"
- "Silvio Berlusconi"
- "Il Presidente del Consiglio? No caro mio, non ti posso confessare perché il tuo è un caso difficile, E' meglio che tu vada in Vaticano."
Berlusconi va dal Papa:
- "Sua Santit , voglio confessarmi"
- "Caro figlio mio, come ti chiami?"
- "Silvio Berlusconi"
- "ahi, ahi, ahi, figliolo, il tuo caso molto difficile anche per me. Guarda, qui, sul lato del Vaticano, c'è una piccola cappella. Al suo interno troverai una croce il Signore ti potrà ascoltare".
Berlusconi, giunto nella cappella, si rivolge alla croce:
- "Signore, vengo a confessarmi"
- "Certo figlio mio, come ti chiami?"
- "Silvio Berlusconi"
- "Ma chi? Il Presidente del Consiglio? il Presidente del Milan? il Presidente di Mediaset? l'amico di Craxi, Previti e Dell'Utri? Quello condannato a 28 mesi di carcere per finanziamento illecito ai partiti e mai andato in galera perché il reato andò in prescrizione? Quello con il fratello che se la cava grazie al patteggiamento? Quello che va in chiesa ma è divorziato? Quello con dei processi in corso per concussione, associazione a delinquere, corruzione, falso in bilancio, abigeato?"
- "Ehm... sono sempre io, signore"
- "Figlio mio, non hai bisogno di confessare, tu devi solamente ringraziare!"
- "Ringraziare? E chi?"
- "I Romani, per avermi inchiodato qui, altrimenti scendevo e ti facevo un culo così!!!!!"
Obviously missing Huntingdon here.
Firstly, I must just say that the only reason for my publishing a weblog on here was that I was so frustrated by the weblog of "An Englishman in Verona"
that I just had to try it myself.
WHY was I frustrated? Well - it had nothing to do with hating Englishmen at all (no ... really!) nor a dislike of Verona (I love it there) - not even a bitter hatred for Hellas Verona in their struggle to stay in Serie B (Forza Gialloblu!) It was all about the fact that, for me at least, the pages decay into a textual garbage by the time I'm into reading the secon paragraph. Not the kind of textual garbage of, say, G W Bush, for example. No, it is the fact that it looks as though a 12 year old hacker has just eaten his breakfast off the weblog and left all the letters lying around in a messy, jumbled heap.
Just as I was wanting to see how the Gialloblu had performed against Pescara.
THAT kind of frustration.