Consistency

Remember when Dick Cheney and Henry Kissinger wanted Iran to have its own nuclear power stations? So what's changed? Oh right. That's a picture of the Shah!

(The poster was issued by Boston Edison in the 1970s. I found it in today's Repubblica.)

Happy 50th birthday...

...to Helvetica, one of the loveliest typefaces ever invented. I wanted to use it for this post but, alas, it's not available. So I'll use Arial instead, as it's pretty much the same.

(I still think Trebuchet looks better on a computer screen, though...)

Terrorism? For the love of God...

The boundaries of what constitutes terrorism are daily being redefined in Italy. I've already spoken below about the way in which rough-and-ready political comment is considered a threat if the person to whom it's addressed wears a long black frock is an archbishop. Now, according to the media and politicians throughout the admittedly rather limited spectrum provided by parliament, the term is sufficiently ample to include remarks made by one of the presenters of the traditional Mayday concert, organised by the three main Italian unions in Piazza San Giovanni, Rome, each year.

Andrea Rivera said that he couldn't stand (non sopporto) a church that refused burial to Pier Giorgio Welby, a terminally ill patient whose right to die was recently affirmed with the assistance of a courageous anaesthetist, but that granted it without hesitation to Pinochet and Franco. He isn't the first to think this, as was clear from the warm reception of the crowd. He also remarked. 'The Pope says that he doesn't believe in evolutionism, I agree. Let's face it, the church has never evolved.' ("Il Papa ha detto che non crede nell'evoluzionismo. Sono d'accordo, infatti la chiesa non si è mai evoluta.")

Now he's being accused by Ratzinger's house organ of insulting the pope and of playing to an 'easily excited' mob. For the Osservatore Romano these constitute terrorism. If it were only the Vatican rag saying this it wouldn't be so bad, but a bandwagon this tempting in a country that still declares itself 80% catholic (and that echoes with empty churches) is naturally filling up with the Tom, Dick and Harries of pre-election political leaders.

There's nothing more dispiriting than seeing this ragbag army of pluridivorced parasites and closet cases waving their compromised fists at the TV screen to defend a foreign state against the legitimate comments of their fellow citizens.

The Crack

A story of mine is posted at East of the Web. If you'd like to read it, you can click above the cover image to the right of this (it's the picture of the orange cat), or here.

I hope you like it.

Rufus Wainwright: Going to a Town

I've always liked the idea of Rufus Wainwright. I've loved his parents for over thirty years. I think his version of King of the Road, with the wonderful Teddy Thompson, on the wonderful soundtrack of that absolutely wonderful film Brokeback Mountain is just about as cool as that song will ever get. I admire and envy a man who can dedicate a year of his life to recreating Judy's Carnegie Hall gig...

But...

I've never been able to stand his voice.

Until now.

Travelling

Sunday lunch

Last Sunday, we went to have lunch in a trattoria in Borgo Grappa, one of a handful of satellite villages built under pre-war fascism between the sea and Latina, the whole area created ad hoc from the malarial Pontine marshes by workers imported from the north-east.

The roads are straight, laid out in a grid and lined with maritime pines or palms, my favourite combination of trees and typical of this part of Italy, strung as it is between north and south; though clumps of eucalyptus, believed to provide protection against malaria, are also present. We pass stables, newly-built villas, squat prefabricated houses, fields of buffalo, the kind that produce mozzarella, as we drive from the Via Pontina towards the sea.

The trattoria's called Da Giggetto and it's been recommended to us by Joanna, who meets us there. It's on a corner, set back a little from the road and the forecourt is occupied by a collection of ill-assorted tables, except that their ill assortment is the source of their charm. As in every trattoria worthy of its calling, the tablecloths are white and starched, the space between tables generous, the bread in its basket already on the table. Above our heads is a sort of dense green tarpaulin, slightly sagging, with direct light filtering through the cracks. A breeze blows through the oleanders planted in tubs between the tables and the road.

We've booked, but there's no need. Apart from us, there's a table of six to my right, ten yards away, and behind us, in a patch of sun, an oldish man with tattoos and a cap. The waiter is the owner's son, the owner takes our order, his wife, or a woman who might be his wife, pops over to see how we're getting on, the puddings are made by their daughter. The menu's typed and there are odd, amusing comments, also typed, and quotations from Pavese and writers I don't remember. When he isn't serving the owner joins the tattooed man with the cap. The wine is local, and cold, and good. The food is excellent: seafood, fish, porcini mushrooms, served in abundance and without frills.

In the middle of the forecourt is a narrow wooden boat, the kind of craft you'd expect to see native Americans in; we almost, but finally don't, ask how it got there. Inside, in a long high-ceilinged room, there are photographs of the great and good, and merely famous. The whole place has a dolce vita air about it, of an Italy that was still provincial and unstandardised, generous with itself and others. A backwater, really, in the best sense of the word. Much of its charm comes from the fact that there is nothing here of the self-important cultural Italy of the great cities, nothing that dates back more than sixty or seventy years. It can still afford to be relaxed, and unselfconscious.

Afterwards we go to a kiosk on the beach and the mood's the same. I half expect Alberto Sordi to wander in and order a glass of chinotto. An elderly gay couple, the fatter one with a jet black fringe, the other with blond hair twisted up and held in place by what looks like an ornament of bone, are enjoying this early, unexpected sun.

Bagnasco: Shame!

When does a comment become a threat? Apparently, when it's directed at the head of the Italian Episcopal Council. God's ferret stepped down a couple of months ago, to be replaced by Archbishop Bagnasco of Genoa. This would be of no more interest to most people than a change of management in any other state-subsidised company if it weren't that Bagnasco almost immediately used his pulpit to compare the recognition of civil unions to laws permitting paedophilia and incest, two troughs in which the church has its plurisecular snout. Needless to say, the idea that such laws might be proposed exists entirely in Bagnasco's mind.

Not surprisingly, some people reacted badly to this and, given the almost universal kowtowing to the church of the media and political world, chose to express their disapproval in a time-honoured Italian way: by writing it on a wall. The first graffiti, saying BAGNASCO VERGOGNA (Shame), appeared soon after the sermon (subsequently withdrawn, in pure Berlusconian fashion, when Bagnasco announced 'I didn't mean what I said'). Since then there's been a low level urban resistance of demonstrations, heckling, further graffiti. All part of the normal democratic process, you might think, but you'd be wrong. Bagnasco, according to the single voice that is Italian politics, is being 'threatened'.

Yesterday, or the day before, he received two letters. The first contained a bullet - a traditional mafia warning and thus, although it's unlikely to have been sent by the mafia, certainly construable as a threat. The second contained a photograph of the venerable archbishop with a hand-drawn swastika across his face. A threat? It's not particularly subtle, but neither is comparing a gay couple to paedophiles. It isn't the nicest thing to see over your bowl of episcopalian corn flakes, but it doesn't undermine the very tenets of democracy either, whatever parliament might say.

If the church wants to live by the sword of gratuitous insult, then it ought to be prepared to see itself nicked by the smaller infinitely less powerful pinpricks of protest.

They Might Be Giants: Istanbul

Another great song done by a wonderful band. I'm just feeling so musical... And I love Istanbul.

Violent Femmes: Gone Daddy Gone

I've loved this song ever since I first heard it. I love the Gnarls Barkley version and the almost certainly -- though undeservedly -- less well known Prozac+ one. But for now let's enjoy the original.

Observation vs reasoning

I visited my local police station this morning to report the theft of a credit card. On the wall behind the officer who took my statement was a handwritten aphorism, which went more or less like this: A lot of reasoning and little observation = mistaken solution. A lot of observation and little reasoning = correct solution. It didn't occur to me at the time, but later I was thinking about a story I'm revising and what the revision seems to entail is the removal of reasoning in favour of observation. The maxim is similar to, but not the same as, the 'show, don't tell' stricture that teach yourself creative writing material is so keen on. It's also true, of course, that 98% of crimes remain unsolved, so maybe a little reasoning is in order.http://www2.blogger.com/img/gl.photo.gif

And then tonight I watched, for the first time, Closely Observed Trains. The film itself is a model of close observation, but its structure, and sense, is everything that isn't seen; everything that becomes available with reasoning. Which would seem to contradict the police officer's aphorism. The DVD included the original American trailer, which reduced the film to a saucy romp, a sort of 60s-made American Pie set in wartime Czechoslovakia. The trailer had watched the film but seen nothing, or thought that the kind of nothing it had found in the film would make it more palatable to a foreign audience.

In my statement, the police officer gilded the lily (over-larded the pudding?) by adding the phrase "with immense stupor" to the sentence in which I discover my card has been used by someone else. It's a nice idea, though not even faintly true. But now, of course, it is. It's in my statement.

My credit card was stolen because I didn't keep my eyes open.

Beckmann and Goethe

La Casa di Goethe, one of Rome's most attractive and manageable museums, occupies the apartment in Via del Corso 18 that Goethe is believed to have stayed in during his time in Rome. The museum celebrates its tenth anniversary this year with an exhibition of Max Beckmann's drawings for Faust. You can get more information about times and dates, as well as a chance to see another one of the series of drawings, by clicking here.

Herman Dune

I'm listening to music today and Popbitch -- Thank you, Popbitch -- sent me off to this band's new single , called I wish that I could see you soon. I like the single a lot, but prefer the slightly darker mood of this track, made a few years ago.
There's more on Herman Dune, assuming you know as little as I did about them until half an hour ago, on their site. You'll find the new single under media.

Walk the Line

I saw Walk The Line last night and, by coincidence, came across this video on YouTube today. Is this significant? (Well, of course not, but the video's sweet, the beard it contains is impressive, and I did enjoy the film, so let's call this an aide-memoire-cum-tribute.)

Penis fencing

No, not the kind of fencing used to protect our gardens, though that's an interesting thought, but the sparring kind. This photograph, which shows two Right Whales engaged in the activity, comes from an exhibition dedicated to homosexuality among animals, organised by the Natural History Museum of the University of Oslo. According to the information on the site:

The exhibit displays a small selection of the more than 1500 species where homosexuality has been observed. This fascinating story of the animals' secret life is told by means of models, photos, texts and specimens. The visitor will be confronted with all sorts of creatures from tiny insects to enormous sperm whales.

In other words, there's something for everyone: the idea of models is particularly intriguing. The exhibition, which ends in August, is entitled Against Nature?

The answer, not surprisingly, is no.

Yeltsin's inheritance

Once more, from today's Independent:

The state over which Yeltsin presided had installed a democratic political system, albeit one in which powerful sectional interests wielded excessive influence. But, by any economic measure, society as a whole had benefited only marginally, and growing numbers had fallen far below the poverty line. Corruption and criminality were rampant throughout the political and economic structures and deterred the Western bankers who had fed them.

On the other hand, he did appoint Vladimir Putin - "ex-KGB intelligence officer and former deputy to the corrupt former mayor of St Petersburg" - as his heir. So not entirely bad. After all, it isn't every country that can boast a leader who's inspired J.K. Rowling to create one of her least attractive characters: the sly, deceitful, wheedling, essentially sub-human Dobby.

145, and counting...

The cover of today's Independent. In case you can't read it, the text says:

This is Kingsman Alan Jones. He was killed, aged 20, in Iraq this week, just one of the 145 British soldiers who have died in this ill-conceived conflict. His death went largely unnoticed in the bloodiest month endured by British soldiers - another grim statistic, another coffin sent home, another grieving family, another young man who died in vain.

Machine translation. Don't you just love it...

If you've nothing better to do and speak the language of another country reasonably well, click on its flag in the my widget panel down there to the right and enjoy what happens to all these posts.

And then wonder what would happen if an official document -- a peace treaty, say, a writ -- were subjected to the same treatment, and cover your face with horror.

Roy Zimmerman: Defenders of Marriage

Archbishop Arsehole stays mum over corruption

Amid claims of Nigeria's presidential elections being conducted in the same climate of anarchy and corruption (see this report in today's Independent) that marked last week's general elections, you'd have expected the moral fulcrum of the nation, Archbishop Arsehole, to have a word or two of reproach and guidance.

But no. He's got other things on his mind. Like an anti-homosexuality bill imposing five-year sentences on people accused of deviant behaviour (like, er, sharing a table in a restaurant).

Maybe the dozen or so churches in Virginia whose congregants voted to join Arsehole's archdiocese in December (you don't believe me? Read this) are immune to the moral dilemma of electoral corruption. They know from their own experience that a dangling chad is a small price to pay to keep the nation pure.

Travelling

What's in a name?

According to this story, The University of Florida is about to be forced to rename its education school the Jeb Bush College of Education.

Whatever next? The Berlusconi College of Business Probity? The Ratzinger College of Religious Tolerance?

Minima

Hey! I've lightened up! I'm tired of being confused with all those gloomy, moody blogs that think dark is cool. It's spring, the swallows have arrived, it's time to let in a little clarity.

What do you think?

It's official: Foeti go straight to heaven

Eggs Benedict pronounced a couple of days ago that Limbo no longer exists.

We're still waiting for announcements on Narnia, Moominland and Gotham City.

Dirty business

Reports have emerged of a massive toxic waste dump found in Abruzzo, one of Italy's loveliest and most unspoilt regions. The largest dump of its kind in Italy, and probably in Europe, it's the work, not of the Mafia, traditionally involved in illicit dumping, but of a nearby chemical plant.

Investigators know who's responsible, but may not be able to do very much about it. As Patrizia Fantilli, a legal expert with WWF, said:"Italy's laws on ecological crime are too weak." She might have gone on to say that the government that passed the law decriminalising activities of this type by businesses was the work of polluter extraordinaire, Silvio Berlusconi.

Little Britain

It's reassuring to know that the 'normal family' continues to be the most suitable environment in which to bring up children. Don't believe me? Read this. Or this.

Berlin, Belfast, Baghdad...

Good fences may make good neighbours, as Robert Frost said, but there's little doubt that the building of a 12-foot-tall wall through the middle of a city is an indication of something more destructive than a desire for neighbourliness. Yet that's what the US army is doing in Baghdad. Its purpose, according to a press release from Camp Victory, is to "protect the largest predominately (sic) Sunni neighbourhood in east Baghdad. The wall is one of the centrepieces of a new strategy by coalition and Iraqi forces to break the cycle of sectarian violence."

A venture that begins with the stated aim of introducing democracy to a country and ends up by dividing its capital into two by night has clearly lost its way. Sorry. Changed strategy.

Peckish?

This comes from the label of a small jar of a local speciality. The hairs have been removed.

Fortuitous errors

In the following line from, I think, Letters from Iceland, 'And the ports have names for the sea', Auden originally wrote 'poets', but preferred the printer's error and left it as it was.

Similarly, in the previous post, I intended to say 'home-made wine', but actually typed 'hole-made wine'. This captures the flavour, foetid, unsunned, acidic, of the stuff so perfectly I'm going to take a leaf from Auden's book.

The house above the cork forest (5)

I admit it. I've been putting this off.

At the end of my last post about the house, Joost wanted closure. We all did.

When it came, or appeared to have come--when finally, after more than a year of delays and bureaucratic procrastination and sheer bloody-mindedness from one of the four brothers, who was never actually present but appeared to want more money, although that was never quite said, merely implied, with raised eyebrows and sighs and muttering, the papers appeared to be in order--when finally , after much vagueness and postponement and shrugging and looking towards the horizon, the price appeared to be established at a figure only slightly higher than Joost was officially prepared to pay--when finally, after a series of veiled threats by the neighbour with hole-made wine and woolly salami, the issue of the shared road appeared to have been settled and Joost had been convinced by my lawyer and E.'s lawyer and a third lawyer belonging, I think, to the surveyor that he would automatically acquire the right to use it as part of the purchase--when finally all this was settled and Joost bought the house...

I'll save the next part for when I'm feeling stronger.

Arctic Monkeys

I'm a fan. If you are too,and you want to see the video of their new single Brianstorm, click here and then go to Arctic Monkeys. If you can't be bothered, you aren't a fan. If you can, you get a chance to see some stuff from the first album too.

See you later, Innovator.

A man goes into a delicatessen...

This interesting Japanese foodstuff (courtesy of engrish.com) reminds me of a joke I have no intention of posting (today...).

It also brings to mind that scene in one of my favourite films, Christopher Guest's Best in Show, in which the gay couple behave outrageously in a deli. If I remember correctly, sausages play a fairly prominent role there too.

Fuck dolls for dogs

This may be too private to be shared, but my dog Toffee (actually, a sterilised bitch) expresses her displeasure by humping a cushion. Maybe I should get her one of these.

A vet friend said this behaviour was 'unusual'.

Guess which one is gay!

Now that Poland is attempting to ban discussions on homosexuality in schools and educational institutions across the country, with teachers facing the sack, fines or imprisonment, it might be worth reiterating the information in this article, written by Doug Ireland last October. The article begins:

Poland's homophobic Prime Minister Jaroslaw Kaczynski-the identical twin brother of Polish President Lech Kaczynski-was outed as a homosexual in major Polish media last week in the midst of a political crisis that threatened to cause his government's downfall....

The gay one's on the left.

Rosaries, punishment, the usual stuff

The recently announced electronic rosary pictured here appears to do just what it says on the packet. You press a button for each Hail Mary and receive a short but satisfying buzz. When you've totted up enough HMs, the buzz lasts longer, and you can get back to doing something useful with your life. It has all the charm of a battery charger, of course, but, as any believer would tell you, charm isn't the point.

If you're looking for something less solipsistic, though, maybe you should try the electronic group rosary developed by a company called Ron-Coe. This handy little device introduces a whole new level to the practice of group HM-ing. According to an article in Spero News, people tend to gabble their rosaries without giving much thought to them (which tends to happen when repeating the same phrase over and over again). This neat little gadget is designed to prevent this by timing each HM and giving the group leader a nasty little shock to the wrist if the pace gets too frenetic. This might seem cruel, even -- dare I say it -- unhealthy, but, as Spero points out:

...it is far better than bead burn which occurs when people run their fingers over the rosary so fast that the beads heat up burning their fingers.

ROSENQUIST: THE F-111

A man has a contract from the company making the bomber
A beam at the airport
A man in an airplane approaching a beam at the airport
A bug hitting a light bulb
A light sky blue area

The painting is a cube or a box with one empty wall space
The pattern in an elevator lobby
A wallpaper roller with hard artificial flowers
Aluminium flowers on an aluminium panel

A jet plane painted on aluminium panels
An idea of fragments of vision
A person buying a recording of the time

A vacant aluminium panel

A fancy cornice or something seemingly more human
A pulsing muscular notion to the speed on the avenue
A glimmer
A flash of static movement

An aluminium panel

A fragment of a machine the collector is already mixed up with
A couple of aluminium panels

Foodstuff

A shaft that goes in the middle of the cake from the core or mould used to bake it
A big hole in the middle of the cake
A giant birthday cake lying on a truck for a parade

The spaghetti just on the right, with the fork, has been painted orange with artists’ oil colour
The little girl is the female form in the picture
The grass in Day-Glo green colours is the change of nature in relation to the new look of the landscape

A vacant aluminium panel

An umbrella superimposed over an atom bomb blast
Someone raising his umbrella or raising his window in the morning, looking out the window and seeing a bright red and yellow atomic bomb blast, something like cherry blossom

An aperture for a view

The rod holding up the umbrella goes right down the middle of the explosion
The umbrella is realistic
The blue in the umbrella is its own colour
It’s a beach umbrella that was left up in the winter
The breath of an atomic bomb

A huge arabesque
A fold of aluminium material
A blanket
A painter’s drop cloth
Drops and residues of paint
An orange field, the image of spaghetti
A person who offers up a gift

A man in an airplane approaching a beam at the airport
A beam at the airport
A small relief to a heavy atmosphere
An artist offering up something as a small gift
An extravagance

A man has a contract from the company making the bomber

Little Monsters

Finally, after the most extraordinary experience of being edited to the last comma by someone who really knows her job (thank you, Sam!), the final version of Little Monsters is ready for copy editing (just in time for the London Book Fair).

Perhaps when I have the proofs in my hand I'll be able to read it with detachment. Right now, what I see is a palimpsest of the many drafts it's been through, with pentimenti lurking as memories behind every line.

Leaping to McEwan's defence (honestly)

I’ve no great affection for the recent work of Ian McEwan (see my comments on his latest work below) but it’s hard not to sympathise with him when you read a letter as silly as the one published in today’s Guardian. Written by Professor Judith Okely, of Oxford, it drags up the accusation of plagiarism levelled at McEwan some time ago in a paragraph that could do double time as a textbook example of a non sequitur. She says:

Ian McEwan tells Natasha Walter, the reviewer or his novel On Chesil Beach, novels are not always about you”. But he did not fully acknowledge that his novel Atonement is partly using the autobiography of Lucilla Andrews’s No Time for Romance (1977; George Harpers).

The rather odd grammar of the second sentence suggests that Ms (sorry, Professor) Okely isn’t entirely at home with the English language. But logic is, or should be, extralinguistic. She goes on to say:

Apparently fiction is creatively original (!?), but non-fictional, published details of a woman's life are mere "reportage" to be used in fiction.

Take out 'apparently', 'mere' and the inverted commas, and replace 'woman's' with 'man's' and see what you get. Okely's no great shakes at syntax or logic, but she's clearly a dab hand at cheap rhetoric.

Roy Zimmerman says Ted Haggard is completely heterosexual

Ian Hamilton Finlay: Acrobats

This poem comes from a fascinating interview with Finlay in Jacket, conducted in 2001 by Nagy Rashwan. It covers the whole of the poet's career (and clashes with authority), includes images of several other works and provides references if anyone would like to know more. It's odd, now, to think that work so firmly entrenched in ideas of making, of classicism, of place, should ever have been considered for the Turner Prize.

Ian Hamilton Finlay 1925-2006

An interesting article about Ian Hamilton Finlay in today's Guardian. I'm not sure if his first -- and, I think, only -- collection of traditional, as opposed to concrete, poems is still available, but I thought it might be nice to put a couple of the poems here. If you'd like to read more, hunt out The Dancers Inherit the Party. (Or offer me an obscenely large sum of money for my copy.)

ANGELS

When we are dead we will all be angels
And we will see how many of us can balance on a pin.
I think we may manage seven or eight of us
Angelically balanced, if we all squeeze in.

THE WRITER AND BEAUTY

The best a writer writes is Beautiful.
He should ignore the Mad and Dutiful.

Meanwhile, of course, the Lie is there.
The posh Lie struts in the social air

And writers write it, and it is
Part of the analyst's neurosis.

Well, a writer should defy
It. A writer writes of sky

And other things quite sad and Beautiful.
He should ignore the Mad and Dutiful.

See how lame and blind he goes!
See how he dances on his toes!

What men and women look at

I think this speaks for itself. Apparently men have the same degree of genital fixation when looking at dogs.

An Easter Tale

Thirty years ago, I went from Turin to Rome for Easter, with two friends, Charlie and Sue, and Sue’s dog, a boxer called Lucifero. We looked for a room in the centre of Bologna, but nowhere would take Lucifero and Sue refused to leave him asleep in the car, convinced he’d be stolen and used for breeding purposes. Finally, when it was almost eleven and there seemed to be no more hotels to try, Sue decided we’d head for Florence across the hills. There was bound to be somewhere on the road, she said.

We’d been driving for half an hour along ever darker, steeper roads when we came to a village. There was a scattering of houses and then a church and what seemed to be shops. All the shutters were closed, except for those of a small bar in the central square. A tall man with a yellow pullover was turning off the lights behind the counter as I ran in. ‘Prego,’ he said. ‘Un albergo,’ I stammered. ‘Cerco un albergo.’ He shook his head. I watched him as he glanced behind me, towards the corner of the bar, then turned to see what he was looking at.

Four old men were playing cards around a table. I hadn’t noticed them as I came in. They had earth-coloured clothes and stubby workmen’s hands, the creased, soiled cards minute in their fingers. They were playing with cards like the minor arcana in a Tarot pack: clubs and coins, cups and swords. They turned to stare at me, then one of them pointed up the road and started to talk. I didn’t understand what he was saying at first. ‘Un albergo?’ I said again and he nodded. ‘Si!’ he said. ‘Ad un chilometro.’

We drove along the road he’d indicated until, three or four minutes later, a light appeared to the left. We took out our bags, while Lucifero bounded around the car, peeing against the back wheel, taking in the air with great meaty sniffs.

The hotel looked like a converted farmhouse. A single sign above the door said PENSIONE, its light flickering on and off as we opened the door. Immediately in front of us, standing behind the desk, there was a tall man in a yellow pullover. ‘Prego,’ he said. He smiled as I turned round, and saw the table, and the four men playing cards, and one of them turning a card up with his stubby workman’s hand.

Sue didn’t believe me when I told her; I don't remember what Charlie thought. Lucifero growled under his breath, then edged towards the stairs, while I stared at the men and the one who had sent us there nodded slowly, gathering the cards into his hands and mixing them, then dealing them out.

I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning we drove back down to the village so that I could see who was in the bar. The building was there, exactly as it had been the night before, but there was no bar, only a door and a doorbell, with a column of names. I stood in the square, looking round wildly, until a woman walked across from one of the shops and asked me what I wanted. Was I lost? I asked her about the bar. She shook her head, and smiled. I climbed back into the car.

‘You must have been dreaming,’ said Sue.

Prada...Gucci....

Now it's Natuzzi! White leather! Want to know more? Click here.

Click on the little blue box!

This is fabulous. I've managed to rant about Ratzinger to such an extent that my google ads have picked up on it. The current one, for as long as it lasts, will send you to a site that promises to tell you the name of the next pope (apparently the last - promises, promises) and various other holy revelations. (I'm not allowed to click on them myself - or, rather, I am but haven't installed the little program that allows me to yet).

Yesterday, you could have gone to a site that gave access to the personal records of practically anyone in the United States. Its selling line, though, was sex offenders and how to track them down (with photographs). So not much difference there.

Just in case today's ad has gone by the time you read this, the site is here. (Believe me, it's a hoot! Try the video...)

The Scent of Cinnamon: first review

The first review of THE SCENT OF CINNAMON can be found here. I know it's only one line but I'm not complaining.

Elton update

Despite efforts to have him banned from a country in which homosexuality is widely condemned, Elton John insists that he will be performing at Plymouth Jazz Festival. But local church leaders haven't given up. ABC News said:

"A group of Christian churches have failed to persuade the Tobago House of Assembly, which oversees the administration of the island, to join the call for a boycott of John's appearance at the Plymouth Jazz Festival in late April.

But they said they would pursue the campaign against John, who married his partner David Furnish in 2005.

"We feel it can have a negative social impact. There are some who may not be sure of their sexuality and one has to be careful about how this can create impressions on impressionable minds," pastor Terrance Baynes told Reuters.

It's interesting to see the words used by "Eggs" Benedict to praise the church of Trinidad and Tobago recently, when greeting the island state's new ambassador to the Holy See.

"As Your Excellency has graciously noted, the Catholic Church in Trinidad and Tobago works zealously in the area of human promotion. The network of Catholic schools, hospitals and social service institutions testifies to the cooperative spirit of the Catholic faithful in providing a better future for themselves and their fellow–citizens. Because of their profound conviction regarding the universal brotherhood of all men and women as God’s beloved children, Catholics and other believers are committed to fostering the common good in the context of a healthy and legitimate pride in their own country."

Presumably these believers include Archdeacon Philip Isaac, who called for a ban on the chubby chanteur and warned: "His visit can open the country to be tempted towards pursuing his lifestyle. He needs to be ministered to."

Not to speak of the local branch of the catholic non-governmental organization Caritas , accused of denying its caritas to gays.

Blood on Ratzinger's hands

Last Tuesday, a sixteen year old boy in Turin threw himself from the window of his fourth floor flat. We shouldn't know his name, because Italian law is supposed to protect the identity of minors. But now that he's dead, and doesn't need protecting, we've been told he was christened Matteo.

Matteo was the best student of his year in one of the most prestigious schools in the city. On Monday evening, he came home - in the words of his mother - "very tired and very sad", and went straight to bed. The following morning he told his mother he wanted to stay at home and study. Her oldest son telephoned her at work later that morning to tell her that Matteo was dead.

He left two suicide notes, one to his parents - his mother, of Filipino origin, his father, Italian - and the other to explain why he'd decided to kill himself. He said that he was tired of not being accepted by the other students, who treated him as "different".

They called him gay. They said he liked boys. They called him Jonathan, the name of a camp Big Brother winner two or three years ago. According to one report, the school principal knew and had tried to help, but without success; in another, she knew nothing.

Matteo couldn't take it any more. After writing the letters, he climbed onto a chair in the kitchen and threw himself out of the window. He hit the drying rack on the balcony below and hurt his chest, but it was the 15-metre fall that killed him.

His mother said. "Why did they do this to him? He hadn't done anything wrong. He was a human being just like them." She also said the accusations were unjust. As though that mattered.

The Ministry has ordered an investigation at the school. Meanwhile, psychologists are worried that the students who drove Matteo to his death might be overwhelmed by a sense of guilt. It's hard not to feel they deserve that, and more.

But the people finally responsible for the suicide of a sixteen-year-old are those who - day in, day out - stigmatise gays as deviant and disordered; who use the florid vocabulary of homophobia that all languages provide to insult and demean; who use their magister to deny basic human rights.

They're celebrating Holy Week at the moment. Let's hope they find time to think about their own role in the death of Matteo.

It's raining men

King of Bling, Pope "Eggs" Benedict performs the old battle horse of the Weather Girls, It's Raining Men, to the usual Wednesday afternoon punters.

Bless.

Watch out! Relativism!

As an example of sloppy thinking, the latest Vatican broadside would be hard to beat. According to King of Bling Benedict and his new mouthpiece, Bagnasco, opening the door to civil unions would let in, as an inevitable consequence, incest and paedophilia. Why? Because civil unions are relativist. And relativism is a no-no.

So what do we call an institution that systematically does one thing and says another? An institution riddled with practising gay men that condemns homosexuality? An institution that denies the right to abortion to all women, with the exception of raped nuns in Bosnia? An institution that preaches poverty and owns more real estate in Rome than the government. An institution that says thou shalt not kill and covers up murders within its walls? An institution that protects its own paedophiles and then uses paedophilia as a weapon against the rights of others? An institution that has one set of rules for itself and another for everyone else?

That's right. A relativist institution.

Bob Dylan and Patti Smith

Bob and Patti sing Blue Eyes in Philadelphia, 1995.

War relief

Poached from this blog, which also has an image of what might be called extreme urban fishing.

Of course, it's far more fun if you ask them to take their helmets off first.

Chocolate Christ gets licked

Tasteful? Well, obviously not. Bannable? Apparently, yes. This statue of a hanging man made entirely out of chocolate and drawing on a familiar religious icon for its inspiration has attracted the ire of something called the Catholic League, a non-elected body with the power to determine what the rest of us see. (It appears to be using the term catholic in its lower case sense: i.e. it welcomes bigots of all denominations.)

They have two complaints. The material used: 200 lbs of chocolate. And the fact that the genitalia are visible.

There's a statue in St Peter's in Rome whose sandalled foot has been worn mirror-smooth by the hands of the faithful. Who's to say how long this artwork's choccy dick would have survived its worshippers' oral attentions?

If you'd like to know more, click here for the article in today's Guardian. In the meantime, let's hope the chocolate wasn't made by Nestlé: with the Swiss company's reputation in the third world, that really would be a thorny moral issue.

Cat with mug

The other post may have shown the mug in all its beauty, but the cat lost out.

Now it's looking at you.

Kid.

It pays to advertise

I thought I'd go with Google's offer to give me money in return for space on my blog. Which is why you'll see a tasteful pale blue rectangle in the top right hand corner whenever you visit me. Naturally, the more often you click on the ad the more I earn, so I expect you to do your best.

The only problem so far is that, being Google, it seems to work on key words and phrases. In my case, presumably on the strength of the recent post about dead pets (entitled Loved Ones: see below), it's decided this blog is an ideal place to advertise sites selling grief management, memorial websites, mortuary services - the gloomier the merrier, so to speak.

So if you notice future posts with cheerful titles that are quite unrelated to the substance of the post (e.g. party time! followed by an attack on homophobia in Zimbabwe), don't be surprised. I'm just trying to throw Adsense off.

Oh yes, after only two days I've made seventy cents. Looking good...

Lese-majesté

Almost four years ago, Piero Ricca accused Silvio Berlusconi of being a buffoon as the then-PM left a courtroom during one of his many trials for corruption and generally illicit business activities. Ricca, a freelance journalist and the son of a magistrate, was fined €500. The Supreme court subsequently annulled the fine, partly on the grounds that the fact that the insult was used in the corridors of a tribunal was legally irrelevant, and remarking that such a site was, in fact, particularly suitable for a judgement of this type, bearing as it did on Berlusconi's respect, or lack of it, for the law.

Even without the annulment, Ricca would have got off lightly compared to the unfortunate Mr Oliver Jufer, a long-time Dutch resident in Thailand, who stands to serve ten years for defacing an image of the Thai monarch. For more details click here.

Holiday in Phuket anyone? I'll bring the paint.

Mug with cat

Vanessa Gebbie has recently posted some very attractive photos of her new mug. Never knowingly outdone, I photographed one of my own favourite mugs, sadly handleless and relegated to the humbler role of pen-holder. Beside it is a small wooden cat Jane carved some years ago, which has graced my desk ever since with its lopsided charm.

Emergency response

PeaceReporter and Emergency, the humanitarian organization founded by Gino Strada to provide medical care to civilian victims of war, landmines and poverty, have started a petition calling for the release of Rahmatullah Hanefi, head of Emergency's hospital at Lashkargah. Rahmatullah Hanefi was instrumental in organizing the liberation of the Italian journalist, Daniele Mastrogiacomo. Following Mastrogiacomo's departure, Hanefi was seized from his home by Afghan secret police; since then, no one has been allowed to see or speak to him. No charges have been made, but there are eye-witness accounts that he is being tortured.

The petition also calls for the release of Mastrogiacomo's interpreter, Adjmal Nashkbandi, seized at the same time as the journalist .

You can sign the Italian version here. If you want it in English, click here.

Loved ones

I was reading an LRB review of what appears to be an extremely interesting book by Alice Kuzniar, dealing with the dog-human relationship and called Melancholia's Dog, and this image, seen in the Guardian round-up of readers' pictures for 2006, came into my head.

This is the caption that accompanies it:

This is a special image for me of my dog Charlie, who passed away this August. I used the clippings from a trim he had during the summer heatwave to create the image, which reminds me of the mischief he regularly got into.

Kuzniar talks about mourning in her book, and refers to a photograph by Sally Mann showing a piece of skin taken from the corpse of her beloved greyhound, Eva, on which ribs and other bones from Eva have been lined up. The photograph is entitled 'What Remains, 2003'. She comments:

Although Sally Mann might be accused of uncovering and publicly displaying what is intensely personal, namely the remains of a loved one, by representing finitude and loss she militates against how grief over a pet is socially foreclosed.

If this is true of Sally Mann, it's even truer of Charlie's owner.

Time and money

I have Tom Raworth to thank for leading me to this as well, by Ed Dorn:

Beau Coup

For the capitalist, time is money
(he bets by the hour, lately by the minute)
For the artist money is time

For more by Dorn, click here.

Books and covers

This, from Tom Raworth's blog, is too good to miss.

On Chesil Beach: a melancholy, long, withdrawing roar...

I've just been reading the extract printed in today's Guardian from the new Ian McEwan novel, to be published next month, and it seems to confirm a tendency that first became evident in Atonement and, alas, all too explicit in Saturday. What looked like the attractive, even accomplished pastiche of a certain kind of genteel English fiction in the first section of Atonement, a tone reminiscent of the novels of, say, Elizabeth Taylor or Rosamund Lehmann, developed into the cumbersome and mannered gravitas of Saturday. In both cases, the choice of style might be justified: in the former by period setting; in the latter by voice. But already it was beginning to grate in the second novel, regardless of its inappropriateness, for its arch and slightly pompous monotony.

Things look even worse in the new novel. In this passage, the heroine is taking off her shoes:

When Florence reached the bedroom, she released Edward's hand and, steadying herself against one of the oak posts that supported the bed's canopy, she dipped first to her right, then to her left, dropping a shoulder prettily each time, in order to remove her shoes. These were going-away shoes she had bought with her mother one quarrelsome rainy afternoon in Debenhams - it was unusual and stressful for Violet to enter a shop. They were of soft pale blue leather, with low heels and a tiny bow at the front, artfully twisted in leather of darker blue. The bride was not hurried in her movements - this was yet another of those delaying tactics that also committed her further.

Who is supposed to be watching this laboured over-detailed scene? Florence, who sees herself as "dropping a shoulder prettily"? Her new husband, presumably a shoe fetishist ("artfully twisted in leather of darker blue"!)? Or maybe it's just the novelist, intent on dragging the moment out for as long as possible. Amusingly, the moment is later recalled as "she was the one who had [...] removed her shoes with such abandon", suggesting that McEwan hasn't even bothered to read himself. Abandon? Delaying tactics?

In the writing's attempt to be exhaustively attentive to the characters and the situation, what comes across most strongly is the dreadful awkwardness of it, as it lapses from long-winded to precious to, unwittingly, ludicrous. There are numerous examples:

Edward's face was still unusually pink, his pupils dilated, his lips still parted, his breathing as before: shallow, irregular, rapid. His week of wedding preparation, of crazed restraint, was bearing down hard on his body's young chemistry.

"Bearing down hard on his body's young chemistry"? What kind of mixed register is this? It strikes me as 'fine writing' of the worst sort. It ought to be young body, of course, not young chemistry, but McEwan presumably thinks his version sounds more literary. It's a pity he didn't think harder, then, before using clichés like "a trapped moth" (yes, it flutters) and "a startled gazelle" (that's right, it leaps). And then there are repetitions of structure and form that should have been picked up, if not by McEwan himself, by his editor.

For example, in this passage, the grammatical echo may have been desired. But I doubt it:

Edward's hand did not advance - he may have been unnerved by what he had unleashed - and instead rocked lightly in place, gently kneading her inner thigh. This may have been why the spasm was fading, but she was no longer paying attention.

Hmm. I'm not surprised.

I've fallen in love with John Callahan

You can find more (and even more gleefully offensive) animations of this sort here.

Gaultier makes career leap

An incentive, if it's needed, to visit John Callahan's site. You'll find the cartoon to the right under Hate Mail from America. In this specific case the hate mail is from from Dale K., Plantation, who doesn't like the cartoon at all. He ends his letter:

If the editors have any concrete and worthy reason for having printed that Callahan cartoon, they best write it down so they won't forget what it is when they are called to explain themselves to the "Executive Editor" of the "Final Edition."

Women in wartime (2)

If you'd like to see more of Patrizia Casamirra's extraordinary collection of photographs of women in wartime (in Argentina, Bosnia, Guatemala, Palestine and Rwanda), get hold of a copy of this week's Internazionale.

And don't miss the cartoon on p. 78, just next to the crossword, by the wonderful John Callahan.

O. Henry Prize Stories 2007

Well, here it is! It's got stories by William Trevor, Alice Munro, Ariel Dorfman, Justine Dymond, Eddie Chuculate, Vu Tran, Richard McCann, Joan Silber, Yannick Murphy, Tony D’Souza, Rebecca Curtis, Brian Evenson, Sana Krasikov, Bay Anapol, Jan Ellison, Adam Haslett, Christine Schutt, Andrew Foster Altschul, Susan Straight and, er me.

You can pre-order it here in the UK and here in the US.

Go on, treat yourself. You deserve it.

Elton speaks out

Threatened by homophobes in Tobago, Elton John has been saying some important things recently. You can find out more in this article from today's Independent, but I'd like to draw your attention to this bit:

Mr Hernandez has publicly accused a congressman from the opposition Christian Democratic Party, Robert Parker, who is the main champion of the amendment proposal, of fomenting new violence against homosexuals.

He has also laid blame on the Catholic Church, noting that the Bishop of El Salvador, Monsignor Saenz Lacalle, has referred to gay people as "sick" and "perverted". He claims that the Catholic charity Caritas has a policy of not extending a hand of help to anyone in El Salvador who is homosexual.

Is this true? Maybe someone who knows how Caritas operates here in Italy can shed some light on the matter?

And if you'd like to know more about the courageous Mr Hernandez and many others like him, click on Doug Ireland's wonderful blog, Direland.

Just a taste of what you can see...

... on the blog of a dear friend and someone I've known all her life. You'll find more at Erranti Erotici Eretici.

Insults: fascist style

One of Berlusconi's house newspapers, Il Giornale, published an interview last week with the man responsible for Tourism and Sport in Lombardy, the region that includes Milan and is still controlled by the centre-right alliance, such as it is. Piergianni Prosperini, ex-Northern Leaguer and now member of the former fascist party, National Alliance, announced that homosexuals, and particularly those who had demonstrated against the pope and in favour of civil unions (DICO), should be executed as deviants.

He was even thoughtful enough to suggest the best tool for the job. A garrotte. But not a Spanish garrotte, presumably on the grounds that, with Zapatero in power, anything from Spain is too gay-friendly. What's needed, apparently, is the Apache garrotte, which, twisted round the head, 'makes the brain explode'.

National Alliance leader Gianfranco Fini has, to his credit, demanded Prosperini hand back his party card. But Prosperini's not happy. After having pointed out that the Apache garrotte doesn't actually exist (so he made it up? so that's an excuse?) he said that, despite having nothing against homosexuals, it was obvious that they should never be allowed to be teachers, soldiers, football coaches, or gym instructors. How very specific this all is. It's almost as if the lovely Piergianni (see photograph) had direct knowledge of the very special attractions such jobs might hold.

Insults: Taliban style

Daniele Mastrogiacomo, the Repubblica war correspondent captured by Taliban forces in Afghanistan almost three weeks ago and released on Tuesday, has written a long, informed and moving account of his time as a prisoner. He had a particularly gruelling time of it, both physically and mentally, though not as rough as his driver, who was beheaded after having his throat cut.

The most salient parts of the article were translated by Peter Popham and published in yesterday's Independent. One detail though, is missing from Popham's edited version: the term used by the Taliban to insult the Italian journalist.

Tony Blair.

The shallowest dream...

...I've ever had.

Rupert Everett and two ageing English actresses I recognise but can't name arrive at an airport with a sign saying Rupert Everett airport above the entrance. Everett leaves the plane and sweeps in to the airport, leaving the actresses behind him.

One of the actresses says to the other: I don't think Rupert's a big enough diva to warrant his own airport.

Hmm, says the other one. Rupert does.

Love is all you need (and it's free!)

If you know of any priests, pastors, vicars, bishops, hey, even popes who need a little TLC, direct them to this site.

They'll never be able to thank you enough.

I'm a world classic... in Thai

My story SOAP is in very good company on this site.

(OK. It's coming next. But I'm still rubbing shoulders with Henry James and Turgenev.)

Pity Wanakam never asked, of course.

O. Henry Prize

I've had to keep quiet about this for over six months, but now that my story is about to be performed at the University of Austin, Texas, on Tuesday (for details click here), I can tell you that THE SCENT OF CINNAMON, first published by One Story in November 2005, has been chosen as one of the O.Henry prizewinning short stories for this year.

The anthology should be coming out in May, but I'll keep you posted.

I'm delighted. And if you happen to be in Austin on Tuesday and see the show, tell me about it!

THE GIFT

Time for a little poetry after so much unpleasant and utterly disrespectful ranting. This poem, written 33 years ago, was published in a fugitive collection entitled Of Western Limits, containing my work and poems by John Wilkinson, ostensibly written during a walking holiday we went on in Scotland and intended to be a Lyrical Ballads for our generation. There's certainly a copy in the British Library and there may even be one in the Cambridge University Library. I have one myself, unbound, and I imagine John does too. And that's it. It's dedicated to Charlie Bulbeck, who printed the collection and conspired with its authors in various other undertakings of a cultural nature.

The Gift has apparently been referred to as 'the great lost work of the Cambridge school'. (Once more, I have John to thank for this information.)

Well, it's lost no longer.

THE GIFT
for Charlie Bulbeck

Where we drive it is stubborn,
parked on the cliff edge it comes
with dawn. By inclusive reckon
each meed recovers its promise,
drifts home, a treasured account

in the nervous rein. Only a
loose prize, caustic on
the parabolic curve of tin,
burnished, you might reflect,
in whose pervasive ardour.

We are spelt, as grammar and
glamour cohabit in the patch;
a scholar’s trick. We conjure
allotments, ravishing in this
bright arena, with subtle poise

down the borders of light.
From scattered harvest, neap
touches the high-water mark,
rummage of golden oddments
scooped in, the sight of grain.

Forgiven by the bollard, by
the gleaming trim of the hub,
you reap, compacted to your
lunar metric. An occult
precipice and the flank of

achievement is bare, enticing.
It is sleight of hand, the boy
looks open mouthed as the conjurer
cuts down the stalk, a white bird
shimmering on his sleeve.

And this is the gift it brings:
refracted on the car, in sight
of the coastal acres, scoured
haloes of sunlight ‘as solid
and dense and fixed’ as

you can hope to secure it.
Arrest that flame, coals glint
and the flue is absolved by this
shiny token it palms you, tanned
still, elated in the fluent breeze.

Frozen warnings from Nico

Follow the yellow brick road, but not to Tobago

This comes from popbitch and seems an appropriate appendix to the previous post:

Next month's Plymouth Jazz Festival in Tobago features a headline appearance by Elton John. Not all islanders approve. Breakfast TV show Rise & Shine this week had a phone-in about Elton. Presenters refused to condemn a caller who thought Elton should be subjected to earthly hellfire for his "poisonous" lifestyle, while another asked, "Is it your understanding that he is planning a hideous nude gay orgy on stage or in private during his visit?" Callers complaining about the homophobia were told: "Opinions are like noses, everyone has one."

Now a Tobago lawyer has unearthed a section of the Trinidad and Tobago immigration code which bans self-professed homosexuals from entering the country, and a Church crusade is underway to try and make the government enforce it. Music fans on the island are hoping Elton manages to get through this gauntlet of hate...they say they'd rather LL Cool was banned from the jazz festival instead.

Archbishop Arsehole strikes again

A New York Times editorial had this to say on 8 March:

Denying Rights in Nigeria

A poisonous piece of legislation is quickly making its way through the Nigerian National Assembly. Billed as an anti-gay-marriage act, it is a far-reaching assault on basic rights of association, assembly and expression. Chillingly, the legislation — proposed last year by the administration of President Olusegun Obasanjo — has the full and enthusiastic support of the leader of Nigeria’s powerful Anglican church. Unless the international community speaks out quickly and forcefully against the bill, it is almost certain to become law.

Homosexual acts between consenting adults are already illegal in Nigeria under a penal code that dates to the colonial period. This new legislation would impose five-year sentences on same-sex couples who have wedding ceremonies — as well as on those who perform such services and on all who attend. The bill’s vague and dangerous prohibition on any public or private show of a “same sex amorous relationship” — which could be construed to cover having dinner with someone of the same sex — would open any known or suspected gay man or lesbian to the threat of arrest at almost any time.

The bill also criminalizes all political organizing on behalf of gay rights. And in a country with a dauntingly high rate of H.I.V. and AIDS, the ban on holding any meetings related to gay rights could make it impossible for medical workers to counsel homosexuals on safe sex practices.

Efforts to pass the bill last year stalled in part because of strong condemnation from the United States and the European Union. Now its backers are again trying to rush it through, and Washington and Brussels need to speak out against it. Nigeria is Africa’s most populous country and one of the most politically influential. If it passes a law that says human rights are not for every citizen, it will set a treacherous example for the region and the world.

This is the Anglican church that the Archbishop of Canterbury recently favoured over the US Episcopalians (see my post: A question of priorities). I hope he's proud of himself.

Vatican CEO with bitch

This is what the Guardian had to say about the lovely Georg Gänswein shortly after "Eggs" Benedict came to power:

Born on July 30 1956, Gänswein grew up in Riedern am Wald, a tiny Bavarian village. He was ordained in 1984 and is a doctor of canon law from Munich University. He came to Rome in 1995 and was quickly on the Vatican fast track. In 1996, the then Cardinal Ratzinger asked him to join his staff, and he became a professor of canon law at the Pontifical University of the Holy Cross, an institution affiliated to the secretive Catholic movement Opus Dei.

Those who know him praise his efficiency and analytical ability. "He understands complicated issues within about 10 seconds and can give a clear and immediate answer," one Vatican source said. Gänswein is, though, more than just an impressive theologian. He is, like the man he serves, extremely conservative. "I think he is very dangerous," Daniel Deckers, the author of a biography of Germany's leading liberal cardinal, Karl Lehmann, said. "He's part of a small but very powerful group within the Catholic church. He will use his power to push Ratzinger in a certain direction.

"Deckers recalls travelling to Rome to meet Gänswein. "He's a good guy. He's very eloquent and can be very charming. But he came right up to me and said: 'Oh, you don't like us.' He referred to himself and Ratzinger as 'us', as if the two of them were an institution.

"With Gänswein as private secretary, there seems little hope that Benedict XVI will offer concessions on issues that alienate many from the Catholic church - the use of condoms, gay relationships or pre-marital sex. "You can forget it," one religious affairs writer said bluntly.

A trusted confidant of the last Pope, who made him a chaplain in 2000, Gänswein has worked as Ratzinger's secretary since 2003, and was one of the few aides allowed to give out press statements on John Paul's condition. In the Vatican, Gänswein and Ratzinger dine together, recently entertaining Princess Gloria von Thurn und Taxis, the German socialite, according to reports in the Italian press. In Cologne last week, Gänswein was never far away from his boss - handing the 78-year-old Pope his reading glasses, or travelling with him on a cruise down the Rhine. He was there, too, when the Pope appeared on a hill beneath a flying saucer-shaped dome, for a vast open-air mass. (In his address to nearly 1 million pilgrims who had spent the night camped out in a muddy field, the Pope reminded the young Catholics that they had to obey all of the church's rules - not just the bits they liked. "That basically means no sex, doesn't it?" German pilgrim Malte Schuburt, 19, pointed out.)

Gänswein's critics even accuse him of turning the Pope into a fashion victim. This summer, Ratzinger and his secretary went on holiday to the papal residence at Castel Gandolfo, near Rome, as well as to the Italian Alps at Valle D'Aosta. While both men were hiking in the hills, the Pope appeared in public wearing a Nike hat, designer Serengeti sunglasses and a Cartier watch. "This is Gänswein's style. It's his handwriting," one religious affairs writer said. "This is something I don't understand."

Gänswein's power derives partly from his place in the Pope's very small personal staff. Benedict's long-time assistant is Ingrid Stampa and he has four women - Carmela, Loredana, Emanuela and Cristina - who do domestic duties. They have taken nun's vows but do not wear habits. Pope Benedict writes everything in German in very small script, and Gänswein is one of the few who can read his writing.

So far, Gänswein does not enjoy the same power as Stanislaw Dziwisz, who spent 40 years at Pope John Paul II's side. Some have even dismissed him as the "Black Forest Adonis". Yet it is Gänswein who decides who gets to see the Pope, and who doesn't. He also protects his boss from the mound of papers on Benedict's desk. "He is the Pope's gatekeeper. This makes him a very powerful man," Deckers said.

It is not surprising, then, that the Pope's private secretary is already beginning to inspire dread in liberal Catholic circles. In Germany, the Catholic church is divided more or less between two figures - the liberal-conservative Cardinal Lehmann, the head of the German archbishop's conference, and the ultra-conservative Cardinal Joachim Meisner, the Archbishop of Cologne. Both men were with the Pope last week. But it is no secret as to which Bishop the Vatican favours. "Gänswein is an opponent of Lehmann," one source in the German Catholic church said. "One of Ratzinger's great weaknesses is that his judgment of people isn't always sufficient. He has a small out-reach."

Just what we need: a pope with a 'small out-reach'...