During the days in between writing my next instalment of 'Your Talking Shit' aimed at Northern Comedians, a bizarre incident occurred that made me rethink the pros of having good manners.
So to start, it was a cold day, and rain hadn't threatened. I live in Manchester, when it threatens, nine times out of ten it tends to make good on its promise. My girlfriend was going home and being the concerned other half I thought it best I walk her back; pillaging being the favourite pastime of all things hoodie in her neighbourhood. So we head off toward her house taking in rare glimpses of sunshiiiiine through the grey slated skies. Mid-August and still no T-Shirt Suntan. We get back to her house, say our goodbyes and I'm homeward bound
Walking back Mother Nature (MN) starts gozzing from above like a highschool bully. Not dropping enough spit to get you soaked but each shot having the precision of an assassin. I up my pace and rue not wearing one of the multitude of jackets that I own but it was the 'right' thing to do, you know, to avoid the pillaging. MN upped her game and what started out as a 2 shot Kennedy-esque killing became the open scene of Saving Private Ryan. No Tom Hanks in sight to drag me from the barrage I speed up . My pace becomes a strut, think John Travolta in the rain, the hips shaking to avoid the rain, I consider running but remember seeing something on BBC about you getting wetter running in rain, so I strut. The presenter of the show was an elderly lady, and you know, we should respect and heed the advice of our elders. Onwards I strut.
Getting to the main road, I'm anticipating the taste of PG Tips in my mouth when a beep comes from the side of me. I don't know how other people react to this situation, I'm of the school of waving back, no harm done. I've felt like a twat enough times when I mistakenly thought that I knew someone only to find out the opticians was calling. I wave back. Car pulls over into the side street. Maybe I actually did know the person? I go over to the driver side, an old bloke winds down the window and signals me to get in the passenger side. He must've been about early 60's, had I not been approaching 30 and still a 14 year old boy the Hindly/Brady alarm bells would've rang aloud in my head, but not today, paedophiles cant get me no more...they can't can they? So I get in the car and sit down. He has an air of nostalgia that tends to hang around old people and he reminds me of my late Grandad in both looks and smell, he opens his mouth.. The comparison ended there, he starts talking Italian...
Being slightly beige and having black hair, most people mistake me for Spanish and I presumed that he had done the same but moved the goalposts, assuming that I am paisan. I allow him to continue his dialogue, you know, it's rude to interrupt people when they are talking. I figure Italian to be a language that is spoken fast and he'd be over soon enough. My endless hours of watching Italian gangster films (Godfather, Soprano's, etc) paid dividends, I was picking out words here and there. (Side note: See them people that say that too much televison is bad for you, they are 'Talking Shit', watching too much bad television is bad for you – read last post!). From his 'buon' and 'vende', I get the impression that he is flogging something, he has a plastic bag on his lap and keeps pointing to it and doing stereotypical Italian mannerisms toward me with his hands. The wandering mind of a writer kicks in and I'm thinking all sorts of mafioso roles, he needs me for a hit, I'm supposed to hold onto something for a while (cue: GF2). He continuously points to his dashboard and mentions London. The rain begins to get heavier and I cant see out of the windscreen of the car while I try to decipher what he wants.
15 minutes pass and he says the universally known Italian word 'Capish', I'm thinking, no mate, not really got a clue. I, for reasons, unknown adopt an Italian accent and say 'only speak little italiano, really.' Does watching Goodfella's 100's of times constitute for basic italiano? He points at my face and shrugs, and I presume he says you look Italian, I reply with 'Thanks, usually Spanish', you know, beige, black hair. He starts talking again....in Spanish!
What are the chances, so once more I engage in the story, piecing together what I had got from the Italian translation and now adding some phrases I know in Spanish. Thankfully for holidays in Spain and club 18-30's to Maggalluff, my Spanish is better than my Italian. (Side note: Those who say club 18-30 holidays to Magalluff won't get you anything but the clap and cirrhosis, they also are Talking Shit.) I get part of the story, something to do with selling watches and from out of his plastic bag comes a box of watches and not the expected Gun, dead fish or drugs. He opens the box and his (Senor) and Hers (Senorita's) Swiss diamond pristine watches. My Spanish exhausted I don't know if I'm to take them or pay for them. I open my mouth, Italian accent dropped and Spanish adopted. I don't speak Spanish as much as I don't Italian. I merge together as many words in Spanish that I do know together with words that I made up to sound like Spanish, I don't why, I was being polite. I get really into it and throw in some hand movements and point to the watches, say London, and point to his dashboard, he looks at me and nods, smiles, doesn't say anything. 5 minutes gobbledegook over, he points at my face again and says 'Catalonian?' and then I say 'Si', why I really don't know I said 'Si'. He goes to speak again and I'm dying inside wondering what language is on it's way next, 'Sorry, I don't speak Catalonian, English?'.
He was on his way to London and he's ran out of money and has recently come into possession of some watches, do I want to buy them so he can get to London. I explained due to Britains Bankers, Recession, and so on I couldn't buy his watches. He smiled and said something in Italian, or Spanish, and then shook my hand and I went on my way..in the rain. During our multi-lingual conversation the heavens, off course, had opened.
I finally get home, pissed wet through, my father having a nice cup of tea, the last bag in the house and 'did I want to go out for anymore'.
I was always told that it was important to have good manners; manners made me walk my missus back home, made me pay attention to some ol' dear on television, to wave to strangers to be polite, to not speak when other people are and so on and so forth. It's manners why I sit here nursing a cold and all the while without a hot cup of tea...
Have Good Manners they say; 'You're Talking Shit!'
