Being away on holiday when the news of James "Gandalf Flan Flinger" Gandolfini's death was made public was a surreal experience.Hearing excitable italian radio presenters chuntering on in foreign, then hearing and understanding "The Sopranos" was strange to say the least; especially while being in what we were assured was a hotbed of Sicilian nationalism and mafia stronghold.
I fail to understand how anyone could gather the energy to commit any acts of organised crime when it is so hot. My theory falls down slightly when looking at the places where crime flourishes; they all tend to be a bit on the toasty side. Maybe the heat makes people so angry and sweaty and irritable that they just have no alternative but to organise hits, scoff cannoli and cheat on their wives. Very odd.
Well, we successfully avoided being made into fish food, or being forced to become models for very fashionable (but a bit pinchy) concrete footwear, and find ourselves back home, where all we need to worry about is the government spying on us, the NHS falling apart at the seams, and with the onset of Wimbledon, the forthcoming apocalyptic rainfall.
Oh to be a goodfella (or moll). In the immortal words of the man himself......
"You know my feelings: Every day is a gift. It's just, does it have to be a pair of socks?"
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