Monthly Archives: August 2013

Italian for a day

I’m going to vault into a fast car spray-painted embarrassed tomato red and drive like a bat being shot out of a diabolical canon, my laugh a velveteen power drill going off in an aircraft carrier…

And I’m not going to be quite pretty or a nice person or have a sweet way of flicking my hair.
I’m going to be horribly, violently, unfeasibly attractive, like a fleshy cartoon parody of abundant womanhood, with double-strength lashes and black eyes and a mouth like an inflatable slide for hire (with pump)…
And when I stroll on the sand I’m not going to head-nod to my iPod under the modesty of a floaty kaftan.
I’m going to strip off my sausage dress, thereby uncoiling the seismic dragon tattoo running down the length of my spine, in order to lose myself to mega-decibel euphoric dance music blaring from the 10 foot hotel beach speakers.┬áSmoking. In a pair of bejewelled sunglasses the size of satellite dishes because I’ve left the half-price Specsaver prescription ones in the glove compartment of my Citroen at home…
And I’m not going to get a bit of sun on my forehead or worry a spaghetti strap tan-line or touch up my cheek bones with Boots bronzer.
I’m going to be the colour of weathered creosote January to December and highlight the shine off it with a neon string bikini, preferably with a whistle in my bum crack so that when I walk by, every wretch on the beach is certain to know the hell about it…
And when I speak it will be unequivocal, like there’s a steroid squatting in every florid, gesticulated sentence so that even when I’m telling you I’m putting on a load of washing it will feel like I’ve slammed you up against the wall and thrust my hand in your crotch…
And when I cook I’m not going to thumb Gwynnie’s recipes, hoping to circumcise vegetables.
I’m going to seize every delicious carb you’ve ever heard of plus a couple you haven’t and beat them into a magnormous potato pasta pizza with a grappa-soaked tiramisu topping…
And if I’m a man I won’t be easy on the eye with clean shirts and reasonable earning prospects.
I’m going to be aggressively, bedably handsome like Nancy dell’Olio after gender realignment surgery, making it impossible for a member of the opposite sex to engage with me conversationally without imagining themselves underneath my person in horizontal rapture…
And if I’m Signor Buon Appetito I won’t suck in my belly behind a smart Marks and Spencer stripy belt.
I’m going to roll that sucker out over my budgie smugglers like I got waylaid en route to a Pavorotti convention and I couldn’t be more thrilled by the opportunity…
And I’m not going to feel shy or ambiguous about an Englishwoman’s perception of me or stroke my chin in preparation to discuss stereotypes.
I’m going to think it’s off-the-scale, fist-thumpingly fantastico and love the fucking arse off it…
…when I’m Italian for a day.
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