Where J’accuse turns out to be quite out of sync thanks to a fruitless trip to Milan that only served to sour our appreciation of “portatori di scudetti altrui”.
I started to type this article at 4am yesterday in a desperate attempt to recoup lost time following an interminable trek across the Alps that could very well have been on an elephant with Hannibal. Obviously, no pachyderms were involved (or harmed) in the preparation and writing of this article, and the reference to Carthaginian leaders past is destined to remain restricted to the metaphorical domain, as I have no intention of either crossing the Alps on foot or of riding a grey beast, for all that matter.
The reason for my delayed kick-off of the chronicling of the J’accuse week has been what I consider the most damned holi-day in my entire holidaying career (because travel for leisure can sometimes seem like oh-so-much work). Those who regularly drink from this source of wisdom (metaphorically again, of course) will remember by now my superstitious researches related to Saints Ambrose, Syrus and Juventius as the day of what should have been a very inconsequential Inter – Juventus match approached. I’ll refresh the news for the benefits of any new visitor to this column.
A couple of weeks ago, the beloved Vecchia Signora qualified for the quarter-final leg of the Coppa Italia and I decided on the spur of the moment that I would travel to Italy to watch said quarter-final live at one of the cathedrals of football: the Giuseppe Meazza at San Siro in Milan. Travel-wise, the only reason for my setting up a whole transport plan (not in Austin Gatt style of course) to Milan would be simply to watch the match.
Planning Authority
Having enrolled the interest of three fellow bianconeri in the immediate aftermath of Juve’s qualification, I proceeded to purchase flights, airport transfer and hotel accommodation at the most affordable of levels. I took upon myself the planning authority of trip instigator and organiser in one and, this being a purely guys football trip, opted for the “no frills” option.
Milan is definitely not my favourite of European destinations, and quite frankly, apart from the mind amazing Duomo I do not find anything superlative to say about the dreary city of the north. If you ever are obliged to spend anything more than a few hours in Milan, then you might do well to glimpse through the Galleries (a maximum three minutes of awe), slide along Corso Vittorio Emanuele and peek (quickly, very quickly) in some of the shops on Via Montenapoleone. If you are interested in seeing Da Vinci’s Last Supper, plan ahead (get tickets at least two weeks before) since access is restricted to prebooked groups. Don’t ask me anything about the Palazzo Reale or any other grey drabness that is supposed to tickle your touristic fancy because my mood throughout this stay did not help much in my discovering whether any of these sights was worth escaping the gloomy slumber of smogful Mediolanum.
‘Il Prefetto di Milano’
Unfortunately, our whole trip was tinged with a rising sense of anxiety as it became more and more evident that we probably had gone through the whole hassle of visiting one of the (dare I say) ugliest big cities in Europe without getting the possibility of even touching the Holy Grail – a ticket to the actual football match. It so happened that, once the song and dance of when the match would be played was resolved, a new problem dawned on the footballistic horizon.
Due to the current tensions afflicting Juventus and its supporters, the Juve travelling brigade were considered high risk for this match – especially since they would be facing eternal rivals and scudetto scrimmagers on the home turf of Inter. The fans observatory recommended maximum security measures in order to counter the perceived threat and the Prefect of Milan responded with the most draconian of measures – a day before we were due to fly to Milan.
Tickets would only be available to residents of Milan who are also holders of the “tessera del tifoso” – the latest attempt by Italian authorities to put a name and face to their supporters. Needless to say, we fulfilled neither of these conditions and, to cut a long and sad story short, our most insistent of efforts that began with a phone call to the Prefettura and continued with visits to vending counters at banks, the WInter Store in Piazza San Babila and a ditched attempt at assaulting the Inter HQ at Via Durini/Corso Vittorio Emmanuele disguised as Inter Ultras proved to be an abject failure.
Worse still was to come as, ever the tenacious and headstrong supporters, we rode all the way up to the feet of the San Siro Stadium and attempted to negotiate and bargain a way through the wall of security in the hope that some good soul (tough chance in the sea of black and blue) would see how four Maltese on a mission to see their first match at San Siro would be of no threat to the general security of the stadium. No chance. The cowards in black and blue were determined to obtain absolute advantage from the situation, which ensured that their team would be supported only by the home crowd against the beleaguered war machine that Juventus has sadly become.
Puglia and Abruzzo
So for the second time in two days we searched for real food – that is to say not the excuse for food that is a north Italian diet inherited from Austrian passers-by and covered in all things yellow from saffron to polenta to breadcrumbs to hide the crass simplicity of a Cotoletta Milanese. On our first night we had found refuge in the homely surroundings of an abbruzzese restaurant in Via Dante. On the night of the match our hastily commandeered (and friendly) taxi driver drove a depressed quartet of supporters to a pugliese restaurant were we opted to compensate for Juventus’ impending defeat (live on Raiuno) at the hands of the Master Thieves via the consumption of some more southern delicacies washed down appropriately with a Sicilian Syrah.
Juventus did not disappoint us by continuing her (yes ‘tis a she) current spree of confoundedly hopeless results and gifting ladrinter a free pass to the next round. We could only trek quietly across the mind-numbingly boring Brera district in the hope of a quick trip home the next day to get us out of this Lombard misery.
Some hope. The trip home began as spectacularly as the bus ride to Orio al Serio (an airport in Bergamo – which, thanks to the purposely geographically dyslexic route planners and sly marketeers at Flyunfair, becomes Milano (Bergamo)). The white stuff that falls from the sky made its grand appearance half way there, and surprise, surprise, was already wreaking havoc with all timetables across Europe (or at least such was the Irish Airlines’ explanation) and our return trek to Luxembourg was delayed in such a manner that it would be close to a quarter to four when I would cross my doorstep.
I was surprised that the music on board the flight did not ring to a merry tune upon landing to inform the passengers of another arrival “on time”. This generally seems to hinge upon the idea that, since the trip took the number of hours the trip should take (as against a quick slip through the backdoors of space-time continuum that lasts merely 15 seconds), then the flight is on time – and little should it matter that the arrival time as originally announced would only be right were you to shift by three or four time zones.
Flyforfree?
I have other questions about the way statistics are gathered on some of the no frills flights. One of them relates to statistics on customer satisfaction. Like when you read the one about 99 per cent of customer calls satisfied or answered within seven days. Funny that one – especially since you have more of a chance of seeing the Abominable Yeti and the Loch Ness Monster while visiting the Chapel of Madonna delle Grazie without having a prebooked ticket than you have of getting through to the airlines’ customer service.
E-mail? What’s that – we’ve never heard of the internet… unless you are booking, in which case you probably have to pay to even think about opening our website. Otherwise you can contact us by (a) snailmail, (b) fax (yes, fax – you can send a fax in 2010) and (c) phone us from your nearest call centre. Of course, no frills flights do fly from Malta, with all the pomp and yelling of cheap affordability in an almost communist fervour of how travelling is made easy. Just lose a suitcase or even try to complain about an unjustified delay and then you will notice that, notwithstanding the ever-increasing presence of no frills airlines in Malta, there is no local call centre to reach.
Instead, you will probably have to do like most “Rest of the World” citizens and call Dublin, Belgium or Italy in the hope that your €1 per minute call gets you anywhere further than the most unhelpful redirection to some small print that was not exactly pointed out to you in between the FREE – ADMINISTRATIVE COSTS and YOU’LL PROBABLY BE CHARGED FOR BREATHING IN THE FUTURE signs. Funny how these no frills flights that are supposed to have opened the doors to travelling always tend to wind me up the wrong way whenever I have no alternative but to fly them.
The truth is that it is quite a bonus to have affordable travel, but I still have not understood how the way the companies involved (and I have one particular company in mind) transform even the simplest of transactions/activities into a battle of wits and commercial exploitation is supposed to make you want to travel again and again. That, and the fact that most of these cheap thrills are subsidised with taxpayers’ money as the no frills geeks blackmail governments and regional entities to pay for their presence.
Speaking of subsidies
I only had a chance to see the makings of a newsworthy story before leaving on the damned trip. On Wednesday morning, Bertu and I had already decided that the €55 million compensation to bus owners would probably be the most commentable item come Sunday and the cartoon had already been drafted. Thank God for the predictability of Maltese politics because by the time I returned and got to have a quick glance at the main news items, this matter of compensation still stuck out as sorely as having to pay extra euros as a penalty for using a credit card to purchase a flight ticket.
The words Only in Malta and Plus ça Change spring quickly to mind before I go off to bang my head against the nearest wall. Bus drivers were first told to improve their lot – essentially they were given advice on how to make their operations commercially viable – and now they expect whoever dispensed such useful advice to pay for the fact that their efforts in following it were not good enough to clinch them a possible tender for the running and operation of Malta’s transport system.
I’d say that their attitude was mind boggling were it not for the fact that it seems that someone in the higher echelons of government, who only last week was speaking of responsibilising people on the finer points of principle when it comes to subsidised utilities, is now preparing to accede to these haywire demands. It gets better. The bus owners who want compensation should they potentially lose out to the competition also expect (the French verb “exiger” sounds more apt) to be guaranteed employment with whoever wins the tender for at least 10 years.
Acceding to the demands of this motley crew is not only irrational but also flies against any decipherable principles of the Nationalist government to date. As consistency is thrown to the winds and management of your (the taxpayers’) money remains in the hands of vote-oriented policy makers we are in for a hard time.
As most Juventus fans have discovered over the past weeks – even when you think you have reached the bottom of the barrel, sometimes there is always someone who brings out the shovel and starts to dig.
Jacques promises a week of good political reviews of the Labour Party conference over at www.jacquesrenezammit.com/jaccuse. Come tell us whether you think Zaccheroni sounds more promising than this opportunistic sounding movement of progressives.
