The Right, The Family & Multicultural Paranoia

I’ve just been to yet another University debate about multiculturalism. Obviously, the usual points never fail to crop up, but I will only speak about two of them: the supposedly obvious failure of anything multicultural, and the lack of migrant integration. I shall start with the former. If I had a Maltese pound (obviously, we’re patriotic ain’t we?) for every time somebody used the Netherlands and France as obvious examples of multiculturalism’s supposed failure, I wouldn’t be writing this article. I would be kicking it on some tropical beach with a massive cocktail in hand.

Unfortunately I don’t get money for stupid arguments, so write a blog I must. I will not go into how conflict between different cultures is usually inspired by structural inequalities, nor would I go into the fact that race and culture are the easiest things around which one can mobilise people. I will only say: if these rightists viewed the slightest of conflict or dysfunction as undeniable proof that something is a complete failure, then we can proclaim the failure of everything from Juventus to the concept of the family. Using the same - pardon me as I use the word – logic, a couple of cases of divorce or separation should be enough to declare the concept of the family dead. Now separations in Malta, and divorce in the rest of the world (yes we’re not retarded civil-liberties-wise, we’re just special) do not amount to just a couple (pun semi-unintended); the number of dysfunctional families is massive, yet ironically enough, not only doesn’t the Right (arse holes) declare the death of the family, they claim that it is, along with the patria (tee-hee-hee), the bulwark of their ideology. Strikes as a little bit odd, doesn’t it? Their methodology (can you call it that?) is just plain retarded. Let’s change context, shall we? I get food poisoning from a restaurant, so obviously, restaurants are a bad idea. Duh! No other explanation possible. I’m telling you man, I went to a restaurant, I got food-poisoning. Isn’t it obvious? Restaurant = baaaaaaad. This pseudo-analysis is obviously flawed from its inception. I don’t think you need a genius to know that if you want to understand multiculturalism (or restaurants), you analyse multiculturalism (or restaurants), not potential conflicts (or food poisoning). But this is pretty basic no? I’m sure you don’t need private lessons from Einstein to figure this one out. So we’ll skip to the next point. Integration.

Now this is a bit tricky. How often have we heard that migrants don’t want to integrate but just want to form their own exclusive ghettos? You wouldn’t be blamed if you think that ghettos are the new penthouses. People are dying to live in them! And since detention centres are sporting 5 starts nowadays, you wouldn’t be wrong to assume that ghettos must be the bee’s knees. But that’s not really relevant so let’s get back on track. This integration business isn’t simple. Integration needs effort from both ways. It’s like a handshake. You can’t shake your hand in the air now can you? But once again the Rightists don’t get it. And neither do I get them, to tell you the truth. They whine about how immigrants form ghettos but they don’t want to integrate with them. They whine about them forming ghettos but they don’t want them next door. Makes no sense.

Through the type of speech that comes out from the mouths of the rightists, the immigrants are turned into a babaw. The babaw who comes here to steal your job, fuck your wife and take your seat on the bus, not to mention blot our pure white (haha) complexion! Consequently people fear them, which means that they would rather not live next to them. The stereotype feeds the discrimination which in turn results in landowners not wanting them as their tenants for such reasons as xenophobia and property value. So what happens when a block of flats is indeed ready to accept everybody? What do you think happens? The normal thing happens! People talk and before you know it those that have not been accepted elsewhere go to live where they are. The result? Ghettos galore. Integration is a handshake. Do you keep putting your hand out to people who have rejected your hand for countless times? I wouldn’t. And probably nobody would. But don’t worry about my absurdities. What the hell do I know? I’m just a radical leftist…

Ironically enough, when the ‘discussion’ at University ended, the organisers of the debate handed out free pizzas, offered to them by their sponsors. It was funny to see the anti-multiculturalists pigging out on the pizzas. What a sight to see! Stupid me. There I was thinking they’d refuse it and call for some bragoli and bigilla…

Footie (5 is it?)

I have a lecture tonight, and the only ethical issues I will be thinking about will go something like: Is it ethical to dream about a Montero re-call in the hope that he does a Vinnie Jones at Highbury? How many blunders must Zlatan commit before violence against him becomes acceptable? Is it ethical to hold the referees' mother personally responsible for any mistakes (against us obviously) during the match?

I'm too nervous for this match. Let's get it over and done with because the suspense is just killing me. Not too optimistic though.

Topper Headon

Inspired by Mark's overrated post (pun intended) I decided to dedicate a post to the most underrated drummer ever. Here's to Topper, one of the best drummers ever.

Nostalgia is a bitch...

This weekend I revisited my old secondary school. What an experience. Students and staff at the Junior Lyceum (Hamrun) have been organising a bicycle marathon for quite some time now. This year, for some reason or the other, I decided that I had to go. It’s ironic to find yourself pulled towards the place that used to push you with unequivocal force around a decade before. But I decided. I had to once again see the trees that used to be our goal posts; the wall I climbed to skip school; the gate where tal-gelati used to park his truck; the bush that was persistently showered with student piss; the long corridors that I walked in everyday and the ground that felt like a stadium during league matches.

Walking in was a shock in itself. It was impressive how contrasting the memory and the place where. The first observation I made was how much the school resembled a hospital. Foucault wasn’t a name I had heard about back then. The school remained the same, bar some structural changes and relocation of some rooms. It was the same place yet it looked completely alien to me. The student volunteers felt at home. It was their place now. I was just a visitor with a temporary pass; a pass which granted me access to the corridors of the Lyceum temporarily called memory lane.

Whilst there, I managed to catch a glimpse of a couple of teachers. My eyes quickly updated out-dated memories, and the black beard of the Maltese teacher suddenly turned white. The hair of the young PE teacher was gone, and the old headmaster was now chubby and smiling. Il-Bobo, the stinky history teacher, however, remained the same.

This little visit, which lasted less than an hour, was impressive in its implications. It made me realise how much of those times I forgot. People I’ve spent hours with are now just names and a distant memory. My class mates are flashbacks with a name and a surname. That’s how we remember them. First name, plus second name. Robert - Massa, Josef - Axisa, Jeffrey -Micallef, Christopher - Spiteri, Jonathan – Azzopardi, Richard – Pace, Oscar - Baldacchino. Some of them, whom I haven’t seen in ten years are still sporting baby faces in my memory. Some have probably lost their hair, grown beards, moustaches or are sporting wedding rings. Some are undoubtedly pushing prams and paying house loans, while others are still getting high and drunk in the weekend. Sometimes I wish I’d meet them again, but I know I would have nothing to say to them. I would have nothing in common with most of them and I would not have time to spare to any of them. But it would probably be nice nonetheless. Catching up is great till it hits you that time is really on amphetamines, and the illusion that it goes slow when you’re at work is just there to mess with you.

The teachers are probably all the same, only older. Most of them, whose job was to provide me with an education, are now distant faces. Some lack a name, others even a surname. Their existence, which was once the source of my frustrations, has no relevance whatsoever now. I can even sympathise with their efforts. They’re not my enemies now, some of them I still despise, even if I can understand that they were, and probably are, just regular Joes trying to earn a living.

I was part of that institution for five years. Not too much, in the scheme of things. Crucial time though. I entered that school as a scared 11 year old and went out as a smoking cocky teenage rocker with no idea of what I wanted to become. Behind the corner was a turning point that was to come in a year’s time, one that would change the course of those ten years in a radical manner. A turning point that leads here. But that’s a different story…

The Don’t Give a Shit Club needs you

Sometimes blogging just becomes totally irrelevant. It usually happens when there are other important things on my mind. I don’t know how people manage to keep to it. Seriously. Is blogging a hobby? Sometimes I just don’t feel it. It's like: Who cares that I sometimes find the whining girls in my office amusingly pathetic? Who cares that they repeat the same conversations about men every sodding day? Who cares is they are as eloquent as a drunken snail? Who cares if they think that image is of fundamental importance in judging a person’s character? Who cares that I could have taken this idea and expanded on how the age of the image has turned people into objects trying to sell themselves to the world? Who cares about the concept of the ‘attractive-stereotype’? Who cares that this suggests that attractive people are also ‘more sensitive, kind, interesting, strong, poised, modest, sociable, outgoing, exciting, sexually warm and responsive (Asch & Fine, 1998)? Who cares if my co-workers would not date a person because his shoes are not stylish, and then whine about how there are no good single candidates out there? Who cares if they sing loudly to songs whose lyrics they don’t know? Who cares that I could have written a serious post about being stuck for one-third of your day with people you have nothing in common with except the ‘Current Employer’ section on your CV? Who cares if I couldn’t be arsed to write a serious post and instead opted for a bunch of ‘who cares?’ questions? Who cares if I had a shitty day yesterday? Who cares that my cat was wiping his arse across the floor yesterday? Who cares that I hate pulpetti? Who fuckin’ cares? Nobody.

Ps. Germany won…

No rest for the wicked

I make it a point to not do anything stressful in the weekend. I try to take everything at my own leisure. The weekend before I spent it in Gozo and this weekend I tried to relax by writing a song. Unfortunately I am finding that the weekend is not serving its function. I'm not resting. It's probably because I'm mentally tired rather than physically. I need more than two days to switch off, which is why I am looking forward to this summer. During summer I will have one month of total chillage. July is recording month. August is the real break. I am planning on going to a festival. September is dissertation proposal month. I'm looking forward to all of them. Wont' start a countdown because I'll get distracted. But anyway, just a small post to keep this blog active.

All Work & No Play...

Hi I’m the boy known as dull Jack. I could have been an extra in Shaun of the Dead. I could have done an excellent job walking in the street with my hands up in the air and a blank expression on a face that is slightly tilted to the left (Obviously - It’s gotta be the Left right?). But I did not apply for that post. I applied for a part-time degree. It’s not that I don’t like it. In fact I find it very interesting, but three consecutive lectures per week seems a bit excessive don’t you think? But hey, you signed the dotted line mate, you do the fucking time. And while you do it, do everybody a favour and stop moaning ye freakin’ sod.

Fair enough. I tell you this however, early to bed and early to rise has nothing to do with health and wealth, and much less with wisdom. It’s just there to turn you into a boring git; a role I am currently filling in an impeccable manner. Would I have a blog if I weren’t? *Ref whistle* Ohra u barra zepp!

In-Nar li Jkesshek

The Jesuit’s have had 7 vehicles burnt down. This is the second attack in less than six months, the first being last November. According to Fr. Paul Chetcuti both attacks occurred after press conferences against racism and xenophobia. Another arson attack, although not widely reported, has also been carried out on the property of other people who have spoken against intolerance. It leaves little to the imagination about who is behind these sick and cowardly attacks. The self-declared Romeos of the patria (read the rightist wankers) have welcomed such vandalism. It was expected. Their democratic credentials are as evident as their intellect, which is not surprising as the two are usually quite proportional.

These attacks are intended to intimidate. They are intended to destroy our democracy. They are intended to strike fear. The self-declared defenders of Europe (read the rightists pissheads), who bounced off erratically from their high horses during the French riots a few months back, have resorted to the same tactics. They want to attempt to silence all people who speak against racism and xenophobia. These are the ones who go to extreme lengths and conjure up phantom euphemisms to convince us that they’re not racist. They might have a point. They don’t hate on the basis of race. They hate on the basis of difference. Anybody who is not like them will be subject to their tantrums.

These self-declared defenders of Malta (read the rightist sodding nincompoops) are a threat to democracy. They’re a threat to us all. They first rejected human rights. Now they reject democracy. It should now be crystal clear to even the stubborn cynics, that Graffitti were right all along. The real threat is not race, but racism. The real threat is not the immigrant, but the immigrant haters. The real threat is not those who advocate tolerance, but intolerance. The real threat is not diversity, but the lack of it. The real threat is not the sinking boats, but the burning cars. The real threat is not in the closed centres but in the closed minds. The real threat comes not from abroad, but is home grown. The real threat is not those who speak of fundamental rights. It’s the fundamentalist Right.

Lost in the Supermarket

Jerry Seinfeld had a skit about supermarkets. He basically makes comedy out of the fact that people go into a supermarket with a fixed mission: get the stuff and get out. Once they’re between the aisles however, they get lost. Metaphorically of course, although not exclusively. The supermarket takes over individuals and all of a sudden they’re holding on to the trolley scratching their heads and looking at jars of pickles like they’re the most interesting thing in the world.

This happened to me this weekend when my girlfriend and I went to the sister island for a relaxing weekend. We weren’t cooking so we didn’t need to buy much. Just minor things like booze, yoghurt, butter, snacks, orange juice and booze. Still, the supermarket effect got to us. Almost. That’s what happens. You start picking things that all of a sudden become indispensable. You’re seriously considering buying everything. Once outside however the reason for buying useless items escapes you completely. Why the hell did I buy the biggest bag of dog food? I don’t even own a sodding dog! It’s ridiculous. Lucky for us, we got back to our senses before we got to the cash counter. People must have wondered why we were putting all the stuff back.

The reason for this ‘useless shopping syndrome’ could have something to do with one simple thing: shopping just sucks.

– One minute silence while shopaholics have a heart attack –.

Grocery shopping sucks that little bit more because it’s compulsory. So basically once you find yourself between those aisles and behind the shopping cart you tend to let your imagination come up with all worst-case-scenarios to justify buying everything. In case. In case of what? In case you end up without sweet and sour sauce? A jar of guacamole dip? An exotic cheese that tastes like crap? Gee. I don’t think the scouts had this in mind when they came up with their motto. The worst thing that could happen is spending a day without your missing item; which couldn’t be that essential if you forgot it now could it? Either that or you’ll have to go back. Shock & horror!!! Now that shit is truly scary. But does that justify behaving like Cetta l-Maltija in the wake of the first Gulf War? Irrespective of how much you think it is; there really is no need for clearing the shelves. Supermarkets turn us into idiots: the ideal consumer.

Having said that I must admit: that huge jar of Gozo cheese should have stayed in the bag…

My Blog's birthday

It's been a year already. Wow.

Can't really say i've been blogging for a year because my blogging hasn't really been consistent, has it? I've had my fair share of breaks, hiatuses and intervals. The longest being around 2 months I think. But I'm back and I've even impressed myself this time around. I'm blogging at a consistent rate now. I can say that I am a blogger again. Another piece in the Peklectrick identity puzzle. My guess is that my enthusiasm with blogging owes itself to the need for expression in a time when circumstances have drastically limited my expressive outlets. Either way I'm loving it. And this has nothing to do with McBurgers. So I'll end this post by thanking all those poor sods who dedicate (or waste) their time to read my rants. Yes, all three of you. Cheers.

Youth Work

A youth worker? What do youth workers do? Do they work with problematic youth? Take care of young people with a disability? Drug users? Juvenile delinquents? Are they something similar to social workers? Do they work with unemployed young people?

These are the questions that generally go through people’s minds when you mention 'youth work'. The answer to those questions is not as straightforward as I wish it is when these questions arise. Yes, they do work with the people mentioned above; but not exclusively. The job of a youth is to work with young people. Not because they have problems but because they’re young people. What does working with young people mean? What do they work in? Well, in practice, youth workers fill a myriad of roles but they are first and foremost educators. They’re not part of the formal education system. They work informally. Although they can work in schools, their work transcends the traditional educational institutions and can occur in any setting. Youth workers provide informal and non-formal personal, social and political education. Education in youth work comes in many forms: informal conversation, non-formal exercises, discussion of local issues, outdoor education, projects, cultural exchanges, community involvement etc.

Unfortunately, the concept of ‘youth worker’ is not widely used in Malta. It is understood even less. The idea that a youth worker could be a professional is in fact still somewhat unimaginable to the general public. Not that we don’t have people working with young people; but such work is generally expected to be voluntary. How do you sell the idea that youth work should be a profession when its educational value, due to its informal nature, is not directly measurable? It is even more of a mammoth task when the prevalent mentality is one which necessitates economical justification for everything. Fortunately, the youth-work-as-a-profession mentality is starting to slowly creep in the local consciousness. Some part-time posts are popping up sporadically in places like the youth empowerment centres. This is a great step and it is to be commended. However, like everything else, there is much more to be done. There are a lot of Youth and Community Studies graduates. The problem is that most of them already have steady jobs. Since the course is offered in the evening, youth work students are already gainfully employed. Would anybody leave a secure full-time job for a part-time post in youth work? I think not. But hopefully we’ll get full-time posts someday.

Youth work is a liberatory form of education. That’s why I find it appealing. Youth work could be the other side of the educational coin. In the words of Freire:

"Education either functions as an instrument which is used to facilitate integration of the younger generation into the logic of the present system and bring about conformity or it becomes the practice of freedom, the means by which men and women deal critically and creatively with reality and discover how to participate in the transformation of their world."

While the formal education system is generally interested in the former function of education, youth work can provide the service for the latter. The lack of formality gives youth workers the space to engage and encourage young people to question and challenge the dominant ideologies, structures and complementing myths and promote participation in the transformation of the community, country, continent and the world. Youth work is thus an anti-oppressive practice. Like everything else, it's not neutral. Unlike most other institutions, however, it does not side with the powerful. It is where education regains its true meaning: liberation. In a time when our education system feels like a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode, it is time to explore and give more importance to new methods of education, particularly that in the form of youth work.

Danke

It must have been my decision to not blog before the match. Or perhaps j'accuse's crossed fingers. Could have been that the fella above wanted to have a match to remember (which he will). Or may-be - just maybe - it was the Juve supporter at the New 31 bar who brought Juve luck twice when taking a piss. Either way there's a lesson learnt. If you're a keeper, keep it. If you have the ball in your hand, don't waste precious Juve time by falling to the ground because if it's not Trezeguet who's in the right place at the right time, it's gotta be the Puma.

Either way, I'd like to take this opportunity to ask all you Juventus fans out there to stand up on your chair, do a silly dance and in that famous tune of Mick 'n' Keif, sing:

I know, it's only a lucky goal but I liked it
I know, it's only a lucky goal but I liked it
I know, it's only a lucky goal but I liked it, liked it, yes I did...

I blog therefore I am _________

I have a blog because I write.
Or do I write because I have a blog?

I have a blog because I think I’m cool.
Or do I think I’m cool because I have a blog?

I have a blog because I have an ego.
Or do I have an ego because of a little blog?

I have a blog because it’s trendy.
Or is it because I am trendy?

I have a blog because I read blogs.
Or do I read blogs because I have a blog?

I have a blog because I should be read.
Or am I read because I have a blog?

I have a blog because it is important.
Or is it important because I have a blog?

I have a blog because I’m pretentious.
Or am I pretentious because I have a blog?

I have a blog because I'm a philosopher.
Or am I a philosopher because I have a blog?

Hoss ta bassa.

Footie (5)

The match is on tonight...

Monday Blues

Pardon my lack of enthusiasm this morning but I'm sure you can empathise with my morning blues. Qed inhossni imzelleg bil-Malti. I don't feel like blogging but I have promised myself to keep updating this thing so I'll make that extra effort. I think I'll go for a brief weekend review. Yeah. That's it. Topic chosen. That's what I love about blogging. You start with an idea (or in this case, no idea) which then takes a life of its own during the writing process. Posts have the ability to direct themselves to unpredictable directions. So anyways, on to the weekend.

-royal trumpets playing-

Nothing much. Went to the comics thingy organised by Something Wicked. It was a great initiative. Although I went at a bad time (people were taking their siesta), I still managed to catch up with a friend of mine whom I hadn't seen in a while. Unfortunately, I missed the opportunity to meet gybexi. Apparently by a few minutes. Damn. Wanted to see that funky Chinaman from Brussels.

I Watched The Producers on Saturday. Zzzzzz. That thing is bo-ring (Put on Sacred Heart accent for added effect). I don't recommend it. In fact I recommend against it. Got too much singing and dancing for my liking. To be fair, the bits without the singing where ok. Sometimes even good. But before you manage to start enjoying it, another song kicks in. Yawn.

I admit I'm biased against musicals. There are some musicals that I love. Like this one. The Producers is nothing like it. The songs are not catchy. They're long. And they're as entertaining as a sodding bookmark. But enough about my bad movie decisions. The Producers doesn't deserve this much space. And I won't even mention that I could have stayed watching the Juventus match instead. Being a good boyfriend and an ex-Juve supporter made passing on the match an easy decision. The frustration at having done so only materialised during the second half of that piece of rotten dog shit.

I also had some time to catch up on some song-writing. Found the time to work on a couple of future songs and I'm very happy with the way they're sounding. Did some practicing for recording too which is always a plus, even if mind numbingly boring. I also managed to watch the episode of CSI directed by the master and got to rewatch Shaun of the Dead. All in all a good weekend. Taqta dak iz-zobb ta' Producers.

Reggae 'n' Blues

- Six strings and the truth is what you need to play the reggae 'n' blues.

That's Peklectrick for you. I find both genres absolutely fascinating. Not least because they're both very expressive and feel soul authentic. Dats a muusik camin' fram tha roots mon! It tha swingin soun of tha soul mon! Enough with the Jamaican patois already. What's cool about RnB (reggae 'n' blues) is that apart from the afore mentioned perks you have the added bonus of being able to add the words 'reggae', 'dub' and 'blues' to any song title and make it sound that little bit more interesting. For example, a song called 'Tortellini' would simply suck sausages. A song called 'Tortellini reggae' on the other hand, becomes intriguing. Much like: 'Fruit and Vegetable Dub', 'Reggae inna Office' and 'The blogosphere blues' for example. They sound quite catchy, don't you think?

You know, I must admit that my exploration of blues is still in it's infancy. I've been into reggae for at least 7 years now and that chopped skanking still gets me pogoing like an infantile buffoon. The blues, on the other hand, is a taste I'm still in the process of acquiring. In small doses of course. I'm not the type of person to go out and try to explore a whole genre in a couple of days. I like to get to know the artists well before I move on to the next food stand. Quality over quantity I guess. At the moment I'm exploring the playing of Albert King. God that sound pretentious! Exploring the playing of Albert King are we? Wooooooo!

"Oh, I say, we are grand, aren't we? (imitating posh accent) 'Oh, oh, no more buttered scones for me, mater. I'm off to play the grand piano'. 'Pardon me while I explore Albert King's playing.'

- see the Flying Lessons sketch in episode 16 of this.

What I meant was that I'll be ripping off some of Albert King's licks and passing them off as my own to impress my girlfriend. You gotta admire my honesty eh? It's the least you can do if you can't hear my playing. Pretentious git.

Footie (4)

Evidently, every time I publish a post about a favourite football team, they go out and lose. The bastards do it to spite me, I know. 4 -1 this time (3-2 last time...do i see a trend here?). Against Italy. At least it was a friendly. But that is as comforting to moi as a healthy salad is to a fat-ass.

When your team concedes two goals in the first seven minutes of play, you know something is rotten in Deutschland. It's the defense stupiden. Or lackthereof. The defense is more shaky than San Andreas Fault. In fact its not San Andrea's fault. It's San Klinsmann's fault. Klinsmann must have been reading too many superhero comics to keep playing with three, ahem, defenders after the instant shock that were the first two goals. It took a third one to change his mind. Hopefully he learnt his lesson.

The only star in this German team is Lahm. He is true to the spirit of that great Brehme guy. Let's hope he's not injured for the World Cup. Ballack? Bollocks. Frinks and Klose? They only play well against Juventus. And Lehmann? He must have an ego the size of Antartica to think he is better than Khan. But let's stop at that. It's just the morning-after effect. Being a wannabe optimist I think that I can see an improvement from Voller's team. But that's not saying much is it?

But in all honesty it's not really their fault. This is just a case of what psychologists would call transference (or something). It's all my fault. In the wise words of Mr. White "I swear to God I'm fucking jinxed!". I've got to be. This bad luck trend, of publishing a fottie post before a game, has got to stop here, or at least be positively channeled somwhere else. For this reason I declare that from now on (till next week that is) I am an ardent Werder Bremen fan. Let's hope for the best in Turin...

Footie (3)

People don’t usually understand how I can side with an Italian club and then support Germany’s national football team. But that’s me. I’m weird. It’s similar to me thinking London Calling is the Clash’s best album but having Sandinista as my favourite one.
But anyway, here’s how I came to support Germany.
It was 1990, just a few weeks before the start of that year’s World Cup. I was at my uncle’s house, an England supporter and an avid Chelsea fan. Till that point I was an automatic supporter of Italy. You know the logic of a nine year old boy: My brother and my father have the same surname as me, so I must support the same team as them. It didn’t figure as a choice in my mind. That is, until my uncle decided to put a stop to the madness.
“You have to choose your own favourite team” he ordered me. I was 9 years old for crying out loud. It didn’t occur to me that I could tell him to back the fuck off. So I didn’t.
He picked up his copy of the World Cup album and handed me the choice. Don’t know how many teams he pointed out but there must have been around 5 I think.
“One of these teams will win the cup” he said prophetically. “Choose!”
England, Brazil and Germany are the ones I clearly remember. So without realizing the lifelong consequences of such an important decision, I picked Germany.
They went on to win the cup that year. And the European Cup six years later; which means I’ve seen them win both the World cup and the European Cup and end up finalists in both of the competitions. Something no Italy fan my age or any England supporter can say. Not bad I think, for a hasty decision I took when I was 9 years old. I think you’ll agree…