4th July

A very happy Independence Day for those who celebrate it.

The Tuscan and his brood are off for the first time to the Villa Demidoff, for a soiree' organised by the Tuscan American Association. Should be a meat-packed event.

Lowry's Girls

The all-you-can-eat-for-a-tenner restaurant owner's dream clients.

There is no doubt the eponymous painter of stick-people would have had a field day at the Wild West weekend just outside Lucca recently. The Tuscan posts these pics, not in any sense as a personal endorsement of the young ladies (he himself being more of a Monica man), but more as a bone to throw to those amongst the readership who appreciate and enjoy the lightly built chassis as opposed to the built-for-comfort-and-not-for-speed units that are so the apple of your host's eye.

Beast Tumbled

A rare clip- The Hitch after four banana daiquiris.

The Tuscan can confirm that the driver of the car was his old friend Peter Hitchens, by the way.

Torrential Tuscany

The view from the office this morning.

Stay away from here if you seek bronzing rays, and the lime green pool doesn't look that appealing either.

Bad Day for the Kings Of Pop

The Tuscan spotted a few months ago that an odd and disturbing confluence of rock-replete events occured today specifically relating to the first King of Pop, and a note was duly made to do a quick post on it, and here it is:

First up, 26th June 2009 is the 100th anniversary of the birth of his manager, Andreas Cornelis van Kuijk;

Second, and most spookily, his father Vernon Presley went in the opposite direction and pegged out exactly 30 years ago today. Wow.

Now, turning to the graver matters* of the moment, it was clearly the thoughts of these events, and not the prospect of a 50 concert moonwalk, that saw off the still young and highly impressionable King of Pop II last night.

Oh Michael, if only you could have waited another 12 hours on the planet, the Tuscan would have won a richly rewarding tricast.

On a more cheerful note, the Tuscan Friday Compo: how many names to faces can you put in the Liberian Girl video?

*now here's a tenuous segue and link to Tuscany: Thriller was written by Rod Temperton, notable Cleethorpian, and in passing a very old mate of your host's daddy (met him once during his Heatwave phase - Rod, that is to say, and not the pater of course).

Where Do You Guido?

Name: Tuscan Tony

Time: 20.19, 24th June 2009

Location: 43deg 53mins 11.53secsN; 11deg 51mins 45.92secs E. Elevation: 290 feet

Air Temp: 71F

Aural Entertainment: Vicious Cycle - Lynyrd Skynyrd

Breeks: Ralph Lauren cut downs

Refreshments: Cantina Ferrale 2007 Chianti

Supper: Grilled lamb, baby pork ribs, Chianina beefburgers, plum tomatoes, own production organic olive oil, balsamic vinegar, wild rice salad.

Technology: Nokia E90

Enjoying: Guido Fawkes.

Pretentious - moi?

Margaret Beckett's Caravan of Love

Essential viewing for anyone thinking of voting for Shergar's ugly twin as Speaker.

The Tuscan makes no apology for the constant and yes, entirely gratuitous repetition of this excellent clip.

Rayincarnation

This bird is the living incarnation of Ray Charles, well he is according to a Tuscan acquaintance, the notorious designer of tentpegs (and £ 300k kitchens) who also happens to look like Sean Astin's evil twin.

And d'you know what? The Tuscan thinks young Gamgee may have a point.

War Stories

In the course of a journey (the last part on foot, to whet the appetite) towards a rather agreeable lunch in rather agreeable company at the fabulous Tuscan village of Brandeglio yesterday, your host spotted a wooden cross at the side of the track with an inscription in the rock above it, illegible except for the dates "1930-1944".

On making enquiries he was told that during the Second World War three friends from said village were off as usual playing in the nearby woodland when one saw some disturbed ground. They dug together and uncovered what appeared to be a heavy cylindrical object, but as they pulled it from the soft earth for closer examination, it exploded in their faces. One child was blinded, another lost a hand, and the third was killed instantly, and the inscription marked the exact spot where he died. Looking more closely, it appeared that the simple cross was fairly new, and the Tuscan asked who maintained it. "Why, the two surviving boys of course, they regularly come up here, clear back the undergrowth and brambles, and leave fresh flowers."

Those "boys", both now in their 90th year, keeping the memory of their lost childhood friend alive.

Longevity of life and memory seems to be in the water in these parts.

Life In The World Of Stupid

Take heart young lady - it could have been a lot worse.

The star of today's foray into the lives of living, breathing Forrest Gump-types is young Kimberley from Belgium.

For Idle

Smokin'. Although a non smoker, the Tuscan might be persuaded to take a puff of Sunset Breeze.

Paolo The Peasant - Village People Edition

The old gnarly was up a the house delivering some vital supplies this afternoon, and insisted in showing off his circa 1975 boilersuit to your host. As an added bonus he gave a glimpse of his pride and joy, a carved stone sporran, too.

Its a 24 hour party at the property, no two ways about it.

Gerry Rafferty

The Tuscan was distressed to read a few months ago that, following an unspecified, probably alcohol related illness, the great man had discharged himself from hospital and disappeared, destination unknown.

Random googling this morning has revealed that far from being just another fame-related statistic, the gentleman is neither more nor less than a near neighbour of your host.

Currently trying to track him down and invite the fellow over for a limeado.

Miami Nice - Large Jpegs Edition

This is for killemall who has protested bitterly regarding her recent disappearance from the Tuscan sidebar.  Although others may look, they may not touch.

Her name and email address might be auctioned off on eBay shortly.

Elixir of Life

No Bill, the Tuscan doen't think this wasn't what they meant. 

Some good news for the Tuscan, for a change. 

Blonde Parade

A Tuscan-oriented festival took place in Latvia over the weekend, and your host bitterly resents the fact they decided to have the thing without telling him first.

Having said that, a cursory study of the slideshow reveals not a single biondina with pulchritudinal appeal to oneself.  Must be getting fussy.

Danny La Rue

RIP, Ma'm.

Joe Morahan

In the early 90s the Tuscan spent a lot of his time in an aeroplane flitting about the USA, long tough trips away from hearth and home, but he derived huge comfort by always managing to find himself on a Friday in Colorado.  The main reason for this was the superb company of Joe Morahan, at that time the man who ran by far the most profitable part of the nascent Aon empire.  The summers there meant time spent in the fine restaurants and bars in Denver, the winters were for skiing at nearby Copper and Vail.

Changes of directions meant a loss of contact, and this evening for absolutely no reason at all your host swiftly googled for the man.  This is what he found.

Absolute total respect, Joe.

WOAR Reports

Woman on a Raft, ever the medal-placed commenter in the Guido caption competitions, wrote this mysterious yet strangely enlightening comment on Tuscan Tony last night, which I think deserves to be dragged kicking and screaming to the front of the class and revealed to the world in all its glory.  having read it, your host is earnestly scanning eBay for a walnut-effect Babycham drinks dispenser, in day-glo MDF.  Now, over to WOAR:

I've never had my DNA checked so it is possible I belong to a race of aliens who have seen Earthlings drink your earth-alcohol but don't really understand it, except as rocket fuel.

This may be why I'm the only kid who has ever had their spirit burner in the chemistry set run on gin instead of meths as our leader did not wish to waste good windscreen wash. You need to watch where you are going in the vastness of space. 

We understood that Earthlings revere alcohol, as well they might for it is a concentrated source of calories and a handy disinfectant. 

Seeking to meld in to the human race, our leader, whom we called 'Daddy' as is your custom, bought a walnut cocktail cabinet which opened mystically, splitting assunder like an oyster shell; dark and swirly on the outside, glittering and opalescent within.

A little light came on, the mirrors shone and a tiny ballerina came forward, pirouetting in her real pink net skirt, reflected a hundred times in angled mirror strips and refracted through the racks of wide glasses with charming little deer printed on them with hand-painted gold rims. They stood around her like crystal worshippers as she danced.

Then we would all intone "I'd love a Babycham" and become giggly on violent scarlet cocktail cherries.

The Earthlings accepted us completely and the next door "neighbours" invited us to their altar. They had wall paper printed like bamboo with pineapples on it, with a fine silver over-print like angel hair. Their altar didn't open. Instead, it was much larger and built of bamboo with fairy lights threaded through the scaffolding. Uncle Jack said that you shouldn't keep fairy lights just for Christmas, but to signal the changing seasons he wrapped tinsel round the bamboo at Yule and set a Santa up on the bar. 

Uncle Jack had been in Malaysia and that's where he learned about ice buckets and preparing lots of cubes in the little freezer compartment of the refrigerator. He did not drink Babycham. I don't know what he gave our leader and leaderene, but they behaved very strangely. It was rum. Very. 

Uncle Jack was also a fruiter - he learned that in Malaysia too - and had exotic things like coconuts, which was something to do with the Japanese, but he didn't want to talk about it. 

We tried very hard with Earth beer and considered the advantages of Long Life Lager on an eon voyage. It tended to spurt like a fountain as the tin-opener went in, no matter what temperature it was stored at. Uncle Jack advised us that sadly, it wouldn't really help us live any longer, but it would just feel like it if we had nothing else to drink. The Leaderene - whom we called 'Mummy' as is your custom - kept a few cans in the hold as Uncle Jack said it was better than nowt if we met any other Earthlings, except Jehovah's Witnesses who would happily accept nowt. In order to make them welcome, "Daddy" would invite them in for long discussions when they visited; we did not want them to think us unfriendly. 

I am grown now and still my ship is not ready to take me back. In the meantime, I have found an altar of my own so that I can properly entertain Earthlings when they are kind enough to visit. It is made of curved MDF covered with real plastic padding and wood-effect plastic woodwork with a real plastic gold rim. Best of all, it is in the form of a prow of a ship - just the prow - pointing in to the room, which gives the luxurious effect of having rammed a yacht from Monaco straight in to my first floor lounge. The yacht even has tiny portholes with real plastic glass, so that if you look through you can see the racks of glasses which line the prow. You can serve the alcohol on the 'rail' of the 'ship', and I keep the ice - which is much easier to make in the new freezers - in a bucket in the form of an elegant plastic swan. 

I have learned a great deal about altars and rituals and bars, but the alcohol itself still eludes me. Has anybody ever loved a Babycham, or is that illegal?

Attack of the Blonde Bobs

Unpierced ears - life just doesn't get better than that.

The Tuscan is in love.  Again.  And just for a change, this time she's a magician - as usual though, she sports a good, solid blonde bob, which works on your host as the lunch bell does on Nicholas Soames.

It goes without saying that the Tuscana is resigned, rolling her eyes about, huffing and puffing, and for the present is steadfastly refusing to have her hair dyed and cut short.

Incidentally one asked to have one's face painted, but was graciously refused.  Probably just as well.