A Sad Farewell to the True Tuscany «

A Sad Farewell to the True Tuscany

Saturday 25th August 2012

On Tuesday in Tuscany Laura Malcolm, in a radical and welcome departure from the tradition of only Tuscan or at least Italian food while villa-ing in Tuscany, served an entire Norman dinner bought down by car from that place where she has a summer home.

Her husband, Matt Driver, whose salary exceeds loathed Robin Smallmeal’s (head of landfill in this country or whatever, massive enemy and traitor to the Poor Little Rich Gay cause), was much preoccupied with trying to steal a Tuscan roof tile to match another in his Fulham garden deployed as a wall light. He also discoursed at some length about ironing, an unusual subject for one in the top 0.0002% of salary. The points of the collar must not be ironed at all, not even with a pressing cloth, if glazing and scoring are to be avoided.

At the end of the excellent repast, the Blond Multi fetched, from the kitchen, my private Global knives, brought out because villa knives are always blunt, and in an ‘extinguishing of the Flame’ ceremony, handed them back to me. I sang the National Anthem for the last time and, the following morning, mounted the air for London.

After 16 glorious days in Tuscany, as the Photo Multi pointed out, a full Olympic span, exactly the same number of days as an Olympics, I was heartened by the state of Tuscany, although one goal, to make the omelette cake last made at the Molino di Castagnoli in 1976, was not achieved.

Prince Dmitri Hersov, the most saintly of the Poor Little Rich Gays (although he bought some shoes at the Prada Factory Shop and has taken office wear right to the edge and kept it there for 25 years), accompanied me in the car as far as Siena. He always looks out for my nerves. I then forged on alone for my homeland.

I want to meditate on Tuscany. What is it and why? I veered there unthinking as soon as released from school in 1976. How is it now? Is it wrecked by money? Poor Little Rich Gays crave money but fear it will smooth out, make uniform… Poor Little Rich Gays crave the real thing although there must be a good bathroom.

But Castello di Spaltenna, an hotel above Gaiole, we quite rejected – uniformed staff, table-cloths to the ground, artificial gardens with Americans on sun-loungers. Oh no! We couldn’t take it. Not the real Tuscany. I was there before with Robin Smallmeal, some 7 years ago. Loathed Robin Smallmeal, who carries the burden of money wherever he goes. He wants two forks in the Michelin Guide, waiters in white jackets with gold braid on the shoulder. I was dragged by the Smallmeal villa party to dinner at this hotel, full then of cowed honeymoon couples. My main was plain veal and lamb’s lettuce, the most boring main ever known.

I’ve more to say. So rich and profound.

Come back later for more on Tuscany’s present state.

The EU, by the way. We had a row about the EU. I must bring that in soon. My politics, put simply, are me, me, me but don’t forget the poor.