Let’s leave Benito Mussolini until the end, because technically speaking the nasty Blackshirt didn’t actually make my trip to Italy any worse; he just left a sour taste in my mouth.
Let’s start with Ryanair. I know, I know, you’ve heard it all before. The cancelled flights, the ticket trickery, the callous offloading of the handicapped, the hidden pricing, and the miserly baggage allowance.
My complaint is far worse. Know what these lunatic airborne leprechauns did to me recently? Gave me a good flying experience, that’s what. I went to their baggage drop for a flight to Milan with the heaviest of hearts and a stomach churning with ready-made indignation. I felt sure they’d find some excuse not to carry my suitcase, deny me boarding, charge me a small fortune in extras, or claim I’d bought a ticket to Riga. Something had to go wrong.
And it didn’t, damn it. I waited just three minutes in the baggage-drop queue and was greeted by a smiling lady with a charming Oirish accent. Sixty seconds later I was on my way. But surely the boarding would go wrong and we’d be herded like cattle; pushed, shoved and verbally abused. Nope. They called the flight; we queued in orderly fashion and got on. OK. Here it would go wrong, surely? A cramped, knees-up-to-the chin flight and denied the use of the toilet for some trumped up reason.
No. There was plenty of legroom. I had a pleasant snooze, went to the loo, and we arrived at Milan-Bergamo only 20 minutes late. Coming back was the same story. Instant baggage drop without complications, the plane left on time and at Stansted the suitcases were on the carousel within three minutes of me coming through passport control.
What on earth is wrong with these people? Didn’t they see that Panorama exposé on themselves? How dare they do that to me? Leave me with nothing to grouse about? It was a plot, I’m sure. They must have read Toad, and didn’t want to upset Britain’s grumpiest travel writer.
The manager of the Stansted-Airport-Hotel-That-Probably-Daren’t-Be-Named-for-Libel Reasons, clearly hasn’t read my groans and moans and didn’t mind giving me indigestion.
I made the mistake of eating there the night before my early departure but the concept of waiters and waitresses is lost on them. You queue up at the bar while a surly over-worked Russian takes your order and you pay there and then.
Then 15 minutes later some girl dumps over-priced gunge on your table to help soak up your £5.75 glass of supermarket Chardonnay, leaving you to scarf it all down in a freezing cold room with as much atmosphere as Mars.
I left my car there on a park ’n’ stay deal but the receptionist had neglected to tell me I needed a pass card to get out on my return. Doing a three-point turn in a large 4×4 with an airport shuttle bus behind me, and an automatic ticket barrier I couldn’t get through in front of me, was… interesting.
Which brings me irritatedly to Il Duce, because Milan is where the absurd, pouting Benito Mussolini ended hanging upside down after being shot by his own countrymen in 1944.
Arrivederci e buona notte, Benito, you might think.
But on a relaxing weekend break at Malcesine on Lake Garda, just north of Milan, I was astonished to find Mussolini memorabilia.
Blackpool has its rock; apparently the Italian lakes have Mussolini. Clocks with faces showing his chin-jutting ugly mug, ‘Life of Mussolini’ calendars, even a waterproof kitchen apron with his full length uniformed portrait.
OK, Mussolini wasn’t in the Evil Dictator Premier League like Hitler, but he palled up with Adolf to make life miserable for millions of people, including his own eventually starving and poverty-stricken countrymen.
Imagine going for a weekend to Berlin and seeing Hitler aprons, and you get the picture.
So it’s a triple whammy: Ryanair for being infuriatingly good, the No Name hotel at Stansted for being excruciatingly bad, and the Italian government for allowing that evil dead old Fascist Musso to be used as tourist fodder.
Perhaps Silvio would like to drop me a line on the matter if he’s not too busy on his nightscapades. Michael O’Leary shouldn’t expect me to start doing TV advertising for Ryanair though. They’re not that good.
