7th February 2008
Take any street entertainer, anywhere, and get him to pick an idiot out of the crowd to be made a fool of, and it will be me. I don’t push people aside to get to the front and I don’t want the attention, I promise.
I used to cope in England (and in English), but when I got picked by a wild-eyed amateur Italian fire-juggler to participate in his act, it was a little disconcerting. Maybe he said “throw the flaming torch to me’, maybe he said “throw the flaming torch at me”, maybe he said "on no account throw that flaming torch anywhere near me!”
I was concentrating like never before and threw the flaming torch in his general direction, half closing my eyes, just in case I killed the crazy man in Renaissance costume during Carnevale.
The rest is a bit of a blur, but he lived.
On a much happier note, I have managed to join another football team. They are older, slower and friendlier, and they play indoors! My joy is unbounded, as is my newly discovered turn of pace against men ‘of a certain age’.
The stupidest thing I did today;
I assumed that men ‘of a certain age’ would have thrown off the shackles of post-match hair gel, fancy dressing gowns and hair driers, but no.