NyLon in English

A masterpiece of political literature, Bob Granzotto’s NyLon was first published in 2004 in Italian only, but now it has finally been translated into English for the joy of a wider audience. The plot: a British political party hire a hitman to infiltrate him as a mole in an Italian one in order to take it over. Sex and crime, crime and sex with a tragic ending. Read it all for free by clicking HERE. I think that it is a fairly good translation by myself, but since English is not my native language, please feel free to help me in making it better with your welcomed suggestions

Scottsdale, AZ - Police are trying to figure out why a man stripped naked, carjacked a woman, and then sped through Shea Boulevard causing a multi-car crash. At around 1:30 p.m., there was an initial accident at Via de Ventura and Hayden. Police say the driver, identified as 45-year-old John Brigham, got out of his car and started acting erratically. He stripped naked and jumped on top of the roof of another car, said a witness who didn't want to be identified, but provided ABC15 with a picture of the naked man [...] Investigators say Brigham then carjacked a woman who was driving a blue Toyota Prius. He then took off. The victim in the second car was taken to the hospital in serious condition. Police believe the suspect drove northbound on Hayden and then caused a second crash eastbound on Shea between State Route 101 and 90th Street. There were five vehicles involved in the second crash. It's possible Brigham was driving the wrong way and at very high speeds, police said. The wife of the man driving a white pick-up truck who was involved in the second crash told ABC15 her husband saw the suspect swerved into his lane and hit him head on. "He got out naked running all over the place trying to get into other people's cars," she said. Brigham was ejected from the Prius, and as witnesses described, he continued attempting to carjack other drivers [...] At the second crash, there were four injuries. Two of them were life-threatening. One of the injuries was a pregnant female driving a white Lexus. Brigham, who wasn't seriously injured, was taken into custody without resisting arrest. He was also taken to the hospital. Police are trying to figure out why the suspect did what he did. Based on witness accounts, police believe Brigham's behavior may be linked to drugs or mental instability. Once he is handed over to Scottsdale police, he could face charges of car jacking, robbery and leaving the scene of a hit-and-run. Brigham was arrested in 2011 for criminal damage.
Man targeted in revolting product tampering 

A Florida man is under investigation for repeatedly returning boxes of used enemas to a CVS pharmacy where workers re-shelved the items, cops report. The unidentified suspect, who has not yet been charged in a product tampering probe being led by the federal Food and Drug Administration, was arrested earlier this month on an unrelated outstanding warrant. He is currently locked up. The repulsive probe began earlier this month when a worker told Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office deputies that the suspect, on four occasions, had purchased ready-to-use saline enemas only to later return the items. The CVS employee, Dustin McDonald, said that when returning enemas on June 5, “the suspect told him that it was for the suspect’s mother and she no longer needed them,” according to a sheriff’s report. After accepting the enemas for return, the 22-year-old McDonald decided to “check the box of enemas to be sure that they were not tampered with.” When he opened the box, McDonald “observed that all the enemas were used.” Additionally, the pharmacy worker determined that “the unknown white male… re-glued the bottom of the box so that it appeared that it had not been opened.” McDonald then checked three other six-pack enema boxes on the store’s shelves and found that “all the enemas in each of the 3 boxes were previously used.” As with the first box he examined, McDonald discovered that the three other boxes had been opened from the bottom and re-glued shut. Remarkably, however, despite discovering on June 5 that four boxes of enemas had been returned used, CVS personnel did not immediately contact law enforcement about the tampering. It was not until June 12--when the male suspect sought to return a fifth box of enemas to the San Jose Boulevard store--that pharmacy employees called the cops. On that date, McDonald had told the man that he “could no longer take returns for this item.” McDonald also “contacted his law prevention manager and advised all the area CVS stores about this incident.” A subsequent review of credit card records and store surveillance tape (which caught the man driving a blue pickup truck) led sheriff’s deputies to identify the suspect, who has not been named. Investigators determined that the man began purchasing the enemas in March and returning them in April, according to a press release. According to a CVS spokesperson, the company believes that, over a two-month period, “as many as 12 enema packages…were possibly used by a customer who then returned them with re-sealed packaging to make the products appear unopened.” The pharmacy added that it was “proactively contacting” 21 customers who bought “any of the potentially impacted enema products” during the period of time that the suspect was carrying out the tampering scheme. As part of the criminal probe, cops noted, “Samples were taken of the fluid in the enema bottle and have been sent to the Florida Department of Health for testing. Fecal matter was located on some of the returned enema bottles. The fecal matter has been collected as evidence and submitted to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement for testing.
NyLon – Chapter 1

I got up half-heartedly at 6am and at 7 already was in Hounslow on the A4 when Raffa flew over me in the massive Svirgin superjumbo from New York. I had the impression that the landing gear shaved my head. How could people live there, it was a mystery less comprehensible only than why the hell the airport had been developed to the west of the city, whereas it was well known that the wind is westerly most of the time and airplanes will always counter wind rigorously. This meant that an airplane per minute, a thousand a day, flew over the city at a low altitude, and naturally in times of terrorism the clever people in the government decided to expand it, Heathrow, with a third runway and a fifth terminal… Bah, politics, politics, I couldn’t help thinking of anything else. And women. It would have taken half an hour more to get and park at Terminal 3, but it would have taken even more to her to tidy up the first class. I wasn’t late. I was never late.

Raffa carried around her forties pretty well. She spent half of them up in the sky reaching the top for her career – responsible of the first class cabin, never more than eighteen passengers and a decent catering to share with her colleague Maria Cristina, a good salary and a fixed route with invariable routine: five atlantic flights a week, alternating weekends between the twin metropolis. That nocturnal flight had been an exception due to a terror alarm on her customary flight from Newark the morning before, which was due in London at 8pm on Friday. Had it not been for one of those more and more frequent alarms, she would have ended her working week like it had begun on Monday morning in Newark. Instead, the following one would have started on the afternoon flight, which would have taken her to New Jersey in time to catch up Manhattan for dinner. A beautiful life her Italian friends were envious of, getting to know a lot of interesting people in first class, although a bit stressful time to time, the bigger annoyance being wearing high heels and nylon stockings, a synthetic material she didn’t like. As usual, as soon as she jumped into the car she got rid of them both, only to put on her heels again, causing me the erection that was to accompany us at home. Unfortunately I couldn’t stop by, I had to go to the party headquarters. I parked Raffa and the Ferrari in the garage, I kissed them both and went walking along the Thames.

NyLon - CHAPTER 2 Hands in pockets and his head laid back, taking a lazy walk along the Hudson rippled by a breeze ruffling his flowing raven hair, Mauro breathed deeply the air thick of electrons in the first weak light of dawn on the Big Apple’s horizon, estimating his love life a year after he got there. It was 4am on an August Saturday of a year dominated by beautiful Natasha, with whom he had experienced the most intense love story of his life but had to split in order to save both lives: the relation of the Russian high diplomat at the UN with the investigative journalist linked to the annoying Italian radicals was not appreciated by the muscovite oligarchies, as the pervasive as well as persuasive Russian mafia in the city kindly let them know. The devastation at the end of the relation with Natasha couldn’t be nothing but equally deep than elevated had been their passion, and in the vain attempt to overcome the depression he gave himself without conviction to an Upper East Side native bird. Beautiful, tall, sexy, an evening Liza was dead drunk he took advantage offering himself to go to her place to translate some dull Italian pop songs, only to find out she was frigid like one of those refrigerators which made the fortune of candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel, although this latter has nothing to deal with all this for the time being. She seemed very sweet: after that night no more than three hours barely elapsed without a phone call, a text message, a mail, a wishing card with chocolates, candies, flowers, an allusive cactus. For weeks they shared breakfast, lunch, supper, the respective sofas and every free moment, as if their bodies rolled up into one in one of those washing machines which made the fortune of candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel, although this latter has nothing to deal with all this for the time being. The whirlwind consumed itself quickly and she slowly began to take back time for herself: gym, jogging, hairdressing salon, shopping, tanning, manicure, chiropodist, brazilian, and getting out to drink and smoke with her friends. The fact that these were named Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha should have made him suspicious. She dumped him via email. Suddenly she no longer wanted to see him. Until the day before they were talking about introducing him to her parents upstate and planned a romantic trip to Italy: Rome, Florence, Venice, the lakes… The day after she won’t stand him anymore.

- You are way too much for me, I feel suffocating, it’s better to split

- Fine, I respect your choice, but why?

- I’ll tell you the truth, I’m in love with someone else

Ah!, the usual Upper East Side sport: double dating, overbooking… And that poor cuckold, what had he done for a month?, philosophized Mauro sarcastically, since having been dumped by Liza didn’t hurt a bit in comparison to the suffering for having lost the Siberian tiger Natasha. He only had fun for one month, without falling in love, and now was happy again, more than he had ever been, while returning home with easy gait along the river under the lampposts switching off at the increasing daylight, the smiling dustmen returning his resonant whistling of the enlivened jazz themes he had been listening all night long at Vito’s on Broadway, and the only thing disturbing him a little were his ears buzzing, a vague feeling of annoyance that he could have felt if, for example, some failed writer plagiarized one of his articles for the NY Observer, perhaps that one about Liza. But even so he couldn’t care less, for walking vertically towards that pink-blue ceiling of Manhattan, since thirty-six hours Mauro had fallen in love again like never before.


NyLon! - CHAPTER 3

At the Party headquarters in Cowley Street, worried Gary and Tim greeted me, Gary especially was nervous.

- Hurry up, Charles has been waiting for you in his office for over an hour

- But it’s 9 sharp, I’m on time as always. What does he want? And what is he doing at work so early on a Saturday?

I worried. It was quite unusual for the leader to be at work at dawn. However, I calmed down when he offered me a double shot of single malt. He was the same old Charles. I politely refused – it was too early even for me -, casting a glance at the party treasurer’s legs. In her forties as well, but carried pretty bad, swollen for too many single malts courtesy of the leader, whom instead as a brave Scotsman seemed to better absorb all those double shots. But it could be told by the well-shaped legs that she wasn’t bad at all when younger. Janine began to speak to me, fluttering the Financial Times that everybody knew she pretended to read, about the issue they discussed lengthily with Charles.

– We are in an expansion cycle, we sail from 20 towards 25 percent of the British market, which is going to be saturated. It is time to expand with a prestigious acquisition abroad, and the optimal cash flow allows us to do so. We have singled out the prospective purchase but we only have a couple of months in order to launch a hostile takeover before their shareholders’ meeting

She paused and looked at me as if she already said everything I should know. I looked back at her inquiringly, but she kept silent. Apparently, my look wasn’t interrogative enough. I had therefore to patiently express myself orally

- Shareholders of what the dick of a cock of the duck are you talking about?

- Italian radicals

- Never heard about them I replied turning to Charles, meaning that I expected from him the clarifications of political nature. Charles swallowed and explained

- They are a young small movement – “liberal, liberist and libertarian”, property of the transnational radical holding, which in turn is controlled by an Atanasio Pannella, very popular in Italy and other hopeless countries such as Walloon, Moldova and Lucania. To gather documentary evidence our information department advises the reading of “Pannella and Bonino Plc”, an excellent book by a famous newyorker journalist you’ll find in any nearby political bookshop. After which you will infiltrate yourself in their movement in order to better understand their financial situation, inner dynamics, sexual habits, if someone is blackmailable, in short I want to be kept constantly updated 

- Ok, fine, but why me?

- Obviously we have chosen you because I’m told you speak Italian well enough. Moreover, because your role here, although very important and I emphasize important, is rather, er, little known…

- Poor and dark, so that they won’t suspect that I work for us

- … and if you need anything else just ask me. Except for money, for the money ask Janine. Cheers I left in search of the book, found it, and seated on a park bench in the cloister of the ancient Westminster convent, looking at the gate on the courtyard of the homonymous school, I rolled a small spliff observing from far away the teenagers in microskirt and began to turn the pages in order to pass the time learning something while waiting for lunch with Vladimira, a Bulgarian friend who works nearby at Sky’s political newsroom. We lunched happily – the spliff made me hungry – and didn’t feel the need to do anything else. We haven’t had sex in over two months – we were no longer attracted to each other – but from time to time it was nice to gossip about her Bbc colleagues on the upper floor of the same building. Building which was off-limits for me because in the Beeb’s political newsroom there was Liubomira, another Bulgarian friend of mine with whom I hadn’t had sex in over four months – we were no longer attracted to each other – but from time to time it was nice to have a few pints and gossip about her Sky colleagues on the lower floor. They didn’t know about each other, that I knew them both, thus it was inappropriate for me to visit 4 Millbank. I goodbyed Vladimira with a customary French kiss, I should rather say a Bulgarian one, and resumed brooding on my mission walking the narrow lanes on this half of the political citadel west of the parliament, the half with parties’ and TVs’ headquarters, opposite to the width of Whitehall and the ministries that showed themselves on the other side in direction of Trafalgar Square. On Channel 4 modern building camped a massive ad of their new show NyLon, which first episode was due the following Tuesday. Nice pun. By association of ideas, I recalled Raffa’s heels and my erection. I sped up the pace towards home with a feeling that soon a new chapter would have opened up.
Liverpool woman falls foul of a bizarre law after trying to pay her £30 petrol bill in copper coins 
A woman strapped for cash at the petrol pumps fell foul of a bizarre law after trying to pay her £30 fuel bill in copper coins. Staff at the BP garage in Queens Drive, West Derby, told 24-year-old Louise Munro that they could not accept the 1p and 2p pieces she offered after her bank card failed because of a system failure. Ms Munro, from Roby, who went home to raid her piggy bank for the loose change to settle her debt, was even told by police over the phone that the garage was correct in refusing the payment after a row broke out. According to the Royal Mint, 1p and 2p coins are legal only if something is bought for just 20p or less. Under the little-known Coinage Act 1971 it is illegal to use 21 or more 1p pieces in a single transaction. Ms Munro, who denied she was being vindictive by handing over coppers, said: “I admit it’s annoying to have to count pennies but that’s all I had and I’m not the kind of person to leave a debt hanging. I wanted to settle it as soon as I could. As far as I was concerned it is legal tender – it has the Queen’s head on it and why would they produce them unless they could be used?” The dispute happened on Sunday afternoon after Ms Munro’s RBS debit card was rejected because of the bank’s system troubles. She claimed that the cashier asked her to leave a deposit in the form of her phone, driving licence or diamond ring, but declined to do so. Instead she returned three hours later with two money bags filled with carefully counted-out coppers. But after the garage searched the internet to see if they could accept the change they stumbled across a newspaper article from earlier this year telling of an accountant who was sued for trying to pay an £800 bill in coppers. There they learned of the Coinage Act 1971. A phone call to the police also confirmed that Ms Munro’s payment contravened the Coinage Act. Garage worker Mugeen Mohammed said: “My colleague saw that it was UK law that you cannot pay £30 in coppers. He confirmed that with the police, even they looked it up on the internet.” Mr Mohammed said the petrol station has not cashed the loose change and wants Ms Munro to return with an alternative form of payment. Merseyside Police confirmed they were contacted over the dispute but said it was a “civil matter”. Under the Coinage Act, you can spend up to £5 in 5p or 10p coins or up to £10 each in 50p and 20p pieces.
NyLon! – Chapter 4

- Nessun dorma! Nobody sleep! They won’t prevail! Rise up!
Daniel Crapazzoni dismissed the executive board with the usual incitement to the members of the secretariat gathered in the Torre Argentina. It was nearly 10pm on Sunday and he wanted to leave them free to listen to the radio those hoarse and persuasive voices that would have inspired the political strategy for the upcoming week. However, after fourteen hours of meeting they were all dead tired: the soporific voices could only inspire them in their sleep before they awake the day after. In London it was 9pm and me too I had spent Sunday at the party headquarters, but thousand miles north-west. The night before Raffa feigned a headache, frustrating my erection rather than simply whip it as usual. Never mind, patience, I resigned myself, and spent the night on the web beginning to put in practice my plan aimed at infiltrating Italian radicals. I learned that they had a website and in the website a forum where they quarrelled vehemently. A gold mine of information supplied voluntarily, sparing me the hard work to inquire. From a first analysis, three fundamental pillars emerged:
1. There was the current of libertarian radicals on the left;
2. There was the current of liberist radicals on the right;
3. All radicals in Padua were faggots.
I signed up to the forum myself but withstood the temptation to write: I had to maintain a low profile in order not to reveal my intention to infiltrate them. Instead I got out at dawn and went to the party to spend Sunday writing a detailed report for Charles – whom would have been happy to find it in his bloody Outlook on Monday morning -, and Janine, whom would have been less happy to find out my idea to finance the membership to Italian radicals of fifteen or so Londoners with the double goal of becoming shareholders and arouse Crapazzoni’s curiosity, so that he would visit us in order to get acquainted (while it was me who wanted to study him better). I was sure that I would be successful, I knew how to trap him, but at two hundred euros each it made a total of nearly two thousand pounds. Janine would not have appreciated; therefore, I only sent the report to Charles hoping that in his wisdom the leader would only have forwarded my demand to the treasurer after moistening her throat with some double shots of single malt. Satisfied for the good job, I returned home hoping that that night with Raffa would have been better.
I heard Raffa spit the last peach-stone when I went to the bathroom to wash my penis. I wouldn’t go back to bed, I wanted to put down on the WC, er, the PC, another chapter of an ocean-going novel of mine which I used to write in leisure time, and the night of sex had supplied me the inspiration. The evening before I thought of those two kilograms of peaches on the bedside table as a seductive invitation: peach-flavoured kisses are the best. Instead, she imperturbably kept on guzzling peaches as if nothing was going on while I sweated maneuvering her in every position. I pistoned her in front, from behind, from the top, underneath, even laterally, and in the meantime she ruminated peaches as a professional would shape her fingernails. Exhausted, I burst out
- Are you finished with those bloody peaches?
- They are good for the skin
- Sperm too is good for the skin – I replied spraying and spreading her – and my balls are aching
So much I was worn out that I wouln’d have been surprised to find one or two testicles among the peach-stones scattered on the floor. She was usually frantic like a nymphomaniac, but this time she had been very little co-operative. Clearly, she had something else in her peach, her head, which she left to fall behind onto the pillow covering it in a perfectly symmetrical composition of her dyed red hair. Laying with her arms and legs open on her inviting pussy, she was very beautiful indeed. Peaches were surely good for the skin, but they didn’t explain that gaze lost on the ceiling and that happy smile from an ear to the other. Evidently, she was thinking of someone else.
- Do you mind if we get out earlier picking up Maria Cristina? Andrea has broken his van and he cannot take her to the airport. In exchange, they invite us for lunch, but we must go quickly
Perhaps the other one was Andrea? No, he was a handsome stallion and once she rode him, unknown to me and her best friend, but it was him who didn’t find her appealing, after he found out she had painted toenails, something that Andrea couldn’t stand. He nicknamed himself Andrea to make it easier, his true Turkish name being Bülêňŧelıfyildız Åtatunçıller-Demıreleçţževitÿ, and he made the best niçoise salad with some mushrooms from Camden Market. At lunch, I refused it because I had to drive the girls to the airport in threatening stormy clouds darkening West London. But he knew that I would have appreciate it later on that night because it was a monday, one of our secret pleasure mondays the girls were totally unaware of. Under the speed-cameras flashes the girls were rolled up on the Ferrari’s only passenger seat, dashing on the A4 in order not to miss the 3pm transatlantic flight.

NyLon! - chapter 5



Shortly before 3pm on the previous Thursday Raffa startled reading to the name of the passenger on the boarding card and Mauro startled in reading the name on her uniform. The bewilderment overcame, after embarassed greetings she made him seat and tried to focus on the taxi procedure

- Passengers please connect the emergency shoes and remove belts with high heels in case of emergency. Under the seat there is an inflatable mask and over your head the oxygen life jacket. The emergency exits are located on your right if you vote Tory and on your left if you vote Labour. After take-off a halal snack will be served for the terrorist gentlemen

Careless of the passengers’ grumblings, for the entire flight duration she left the other 17 in the first class in Cristina’s hands and thoughtfully devoted herself to the old friend whom she hadn’t seen in twenty years. They recalled their infancy games in the Gorgonzola green, the tender adolescence when he came to her catholic school to pick her up on a scooter borrowed from the spectacled swot de Severgnin, and the saddest moment of separation when they took different roads in life: him with the military service as fireman in Pordenone, she to try her luck in the exciting and controversial London of Lady Thatcher and the Sex Pistols. Since then they lost sight of each other. Some short letter, less and less frequent, and a twenty years of silence broken today by the noise of the four reactors carrying them up thirty thousand feet. Descending a few hours later though the turbulences they held their hands, intimately imagining them as masturbolences, and they agreed to meet three hours later for dinner at his place.
Red or black? Raffa had little time to choose her shoes. Red, sexier! Ethiopian or Chinese? Mauro had no time to cook. Ethiopian, hotter. The evening elapsed most pleasantly on the balcony of his small but cosy den in Roosevelt Island, and the informed journalist, correspondent of the authoritative weekly of political futurology “Tomorrow” amiably entertained updating her on their old acquaintances in the Milanese alternative aristocracy
- And what about Daria Veronesi?
- She married a whealty businessman, Iuri Maria Prada, the one making sexy shoes
- But wasn’t it Litta Modignani, that one of the shoes?
- Yes, but orthopaedic
The complicity atmosphere was pervaded by a stimulating erotic tension, but time was running out fast for the last aerial tramway. Mauro wanted to show himself as a gentleman by offering her to take her home
- Where do you live in Manhattan?
- Sixty-nine
- East or West?
- Here on the sofa

NyLon! – Chapter 6

As any radical tourist from Padua would explain, Brompton is the gayest area in London. And as we were used every other week, with the girls far away on the other side of the pond, all dressed up me and Andrea park his van in Philbeach Gardens for the Monday night Lipstick party. My Turkish friend is all in red from the wig to the varnished d’orsay, me blonde in a more sober black on high heels sandals, both of us shaking on those stiletto tortures that are the second most beautiful feeling of earth. The Monday night Lipstick party at Philbeach Gardens were pleasant social occasions crowded of cross-dressers. Some beyond their fifties, hurt in their soul and made bitter for having not been able to freely express the other half of their sexuality in their best years, by now in decadent bodies, some deprived of hope and pathetic others in the gross exhibition of bitchy attires, but on the whole all kind and funny ones. Except the bald and fat American tourists who came to look and laugh. Goodness knows why Americans were always the only ones to annoy. Was it a matter of an entire people with psychiatric problems? No, unfortunately, the rumour had scattered and all the fat bald men from Iowa took advantage of the low-cost Svirgin flights to do in old Europe what they were ashamed to do at home. Bah, politics, politics, I couldn’t help thinking of anything else.

I talked about that to Andrea shagging on the front seats while Andrea was shagging Nicola in the back of the van, furnished with double bed, television cameras, mirrors and Jacuzzi, which since it was Italian should be pronounced Iacuzzi, not Giacuzzi like Americans say, polemically I explained to Andrea. I do realise that there is a little confusion here, let’s clear it. We had finally towed the two most beautiful transexuals in the party, having courted them for a long time. Nicola is the ladyboy maitre d’O oh the Thai restaurant on the upper floor, with a breath-taking dreamy mouth. Andrea was another Andrea, the bartender whose pair of wonderful natural tits always waved under my nose. Hormonal, yes, but not surgical, real boobs, not those unpleasantly silicous to the tact. Time would have made them moped and wrinkled, but now still meat cooked at the right degree between tenderness and consistency. It happened that in changing sex these two miserable jaguars choose names that in English are feminine but masculine in Italian. This is in order to clear that when I write about Andrea’s tits I mean those of the transesexual bartender, not my Turkish friend’s. Mind, we are not faggots at all!


NyLon! - chapter 7



Six days elapsed and to Raffa this weekend has been a newyorker one. In the meantime she has been going and coming back having no sex with me. Since I realised that there’s someone else in her peach, I haven’t insisted too much. It’s my sophisticated and desperate strategy consisting in making it lack so that she falls in love again with me. But it doesn’t work. She is happy without sex, at least with me. Happy on the mega-airbus among the clouds, always smiling, she can’t realise how evident her infatuation is for someone else. The thing driving me crazy is not to know who the hell this someone else could be. I cannot fight an adversary if I don’t know who is, what he does and how he does it, where he is. In America, obviously, in New York City. She certainly found him there, the transatlantic commuter bitch. Fucking bastard, I would widen his arse if I could, but I pretend to withhold the jealousy by trying to focus on politics. Seven days elapsed and in the meantime the 15 londoners’ memberships arrived in Rome accompanied by two thousand paunds translated in three thousand euros. Not a big thing, just enough to pay a couple of workers in Torre Argentina. Tendentially paranoid, this time the hyperactive Crapazzoni was instead rather impressed by my deceptive mix. I couldn’t only enroll all my former Bulgarian lovers, that would have not turned out credible with all those strange names. I limited therefore them to a pair of friends - the Vladimira Vladimirova Vladimiroska and the Liubomira Liubomirova Liubomiroska -, and added Gary and Tim from the party (mine), plus David, Fran and Orion, always supporters of the party (but its), the Nicola and Andrea of transexual memory, plus my neighbor Kate and her cat Dip. I also forcibly enrolled Andrea, Maria Cristina, Raffa and naturally myself. The decoy was placed, I only had to assess that the salmon bit it.


NyLon! - chapter 8

Eight days elapsed and I annoy you with another board meeting. After twenty hours Crapazzoni seated coolness like a rose in full berlusconian bandana and double-breasted jacket, encircled by the worn-out concubines of his gynaeceum Rita, Antonella, Abigail, Orietta and Silvietta… all women, in the Crapazzoni’s secretariat, purposely chosen by him of the opposite sex in order not to distract himself during the meetings. Except the gloomy Esperantist leader Hotel Licheri, extraordinarily looking like the Moldavian president Giurgiu Paganu, whom in fat he interpreted in this story.

- Hotel…

- Affirmative. Where?

Diligently the faithful Antonella diligently took part, ready to reserve travels and stays for the Crapazzoni, whom lips she hung from.

- Antonella, I do not mean to reserve a hotel, but I was talking to the present Hotel, as it is used to say in esperanto for Alberto, in order to ask him what will follow after your next interruption…

Made bitter by so much arrogance, the habitually prolific Antonella crossed her arms and did not further interrupt more for over four hours of embarrassing silence (that’s why the secretariat meetings last so long, actually they don’t say anything at all).

- It’s ok, Antonella, my apologies. Now interrupt us, please

- Apologies accepted

- Hotel, I said, how many times I must repeat to you to name a female in this our representative senate of the associations?

- Esperanto that we find one sooner or later, a beautiful esperantista cunt. At present we are rather desperanti. In the meantime I have already proposed you Lapa Orlandi

- But he sports a beard. At least he shaves himself

- Esperanto. Meantime you haven’t got anything else than, eh eh!

- Hotel, how do you say fuck off in Esperanto?

Crapazzoni was infuriated by the lack of discipline by the Esperantist member of the party. The other associations had obediently named in the radical senate their most beautiful women, so that not to upset him, but the Esperantists did not succeed to find someone: except the Pole MEP they were all males. Silvietta broke the embarrassment by changing issue

- Good news, we have received fifteen registrations from London

Crapazzoni had an instantaneous ejaculation. Fifteen registrations from London could represent the life saving jacket of his bankrupt secretariat deprived of hope before retiring in Berlusconi’s party. He wanted to know more about it. Indirectly attacking Silvietta, Abigail played well her antagonist role

- These registrations are mistrustful, they smell of burnt

That was enough. If Abigail was contrary, it meant that there had to be some real roast, under the stink. Crapazzoni instructed Antonella to book him the first flight for London, with no interruptions.



NyLon! - chapter 9

Nine days elapsed, and she has gone and come, but with with someone else. Nuzzled on the sofa in front of the television set in Roosevelt Island, Raffa and Mauro were involved for the umpteenth time in the romantic cult-movie of their infancy, Charade, identifying themselves in the roles of Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant. The bateau mouche carried also me from the Latin quarter on the rive gauche river towards the Trocadero on the right one, where Abigail was waiting for me. I recognized her disguised as a road worker removing cobblestonesfrom the Etoile in order to replace them as the homosexual mayor had ordered, and I made them the agreed sign in order to catch up in the nearby McDonald’s on the Champs Elisees, the McDonald’s on the Champs Elisees being a sure place where Crapazzoni would never find out about us: he was on the night shift in the one in Rome’s Piazza di Spagna, some 1,000 miles down. Abigail told me:

- Any moment Crapazzoni will take off from the child of the president in order to meet you in London

Sometimes we secret agents are not very well tuned on our same coded languages

- What you mean for the child of the president?

- Ciampino, of course, you idiot

- Got it - I congratulated her - Great job. How have you made it?

- Simple, Daniel always does the opposite of everything I support, as a matter of principle. However, be careful, the boy is rather sly

- No worries, it will everything go for the best

- Shall we make love?

- Abigail, tou are married

- Moralist

In the event you haven’t understood, we were in Paris, where me and Abigail used to secretly meet every time that she hadn’t to attend a secretariat meeting in Rome or I had to attend an unfaithful harlot in my bed to London. I accompanied Abigail to the Bercy station and left her a kiss. There had never been nothing more than some kiss, between me and Abigail. Ok, on the respective nipples as well, but very little down them.

I took the metrò to the Gare du Nord and three hours later the Eurostar delivered to me to Waterloo, where I changed immediately towards Gatwick, where an EasyJet was about to deliver me nothing less than an entire Crapazzoni.

---

Ten days elapsed and with the Turko and the Crapazzoni we are in an Irish pub for the Thursday night Polish dysko-musik Polish. Now, if it is reasonable to expect that Irish pubs are popular here in Londinium, Polish dysko-musik Polish is even more in the Polish area of Acton, where I have kept a garçonniere that turns out to be useful to host the Crapazzoni. Believe me, it won’t be hard to you, Polish disko-musik is disgusting, shittily ugly, never heard anything worse. The muscolar Polish DJ is graduated in moronity and the stink from his armpits is smelt twenty metres away. Crapazzoni is conquered by him. I arrange for him (Crapazzoni) to sleep on the big bed in the Acton garçonniere and I manage myself on the nearby sofa. We try to sleep and as a matter of facts he quickly falls asleep for his customary four hours. I don’t. I turn and turn again, twisting myself. This Daniel Crapazzoni who sleeps near to me is extraordinarily more attractive than I expected from the photo on his website. Tall, blue-eyed haired and that muscolar bushily hairless chest (bushily hairless? Where am I?), you’d say he rather looks like Marco Cappato, whom in fact he interprets in this story. Taken by a raptus, I can’t resist the temptation and jump over him. Disagreeable but not too much and at the same time a little banal, in the anal banana sense, of the first homosexual experience in my life will always remain the doubt: have I had sex with Cappato or Crapazzoni?

Twelve days elapsed and finally the candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel enters the scene! Since nothing comes to my mind for let him do something, he will have to wait the next chapter in order for me to come up with some role for him. Talking about the next chapter, we’ll read about an alarming PPC; Crapazzoni learning English the hard way; the terrifying Tosoni Test of radicality; and naturally John Patel involved in the longest parenthesis in the history of radical literature.
NyLon! – chapter 10

Today the phone woke me up. Nahid asked me if I will vote for her in the election of the PPC of the electoral constituency. The PPC is not some People’s Party of Communism, but the Prospective Parliamentary Candidates who the party’s enrolled members are called to choose. In short the primaries. Bullshit, we should end with all these PPC who call and send text messages to you, making instead the things simpler as I am learning from Italian radicals: the candidates are selected by their leader Pannella and you can be sure that if your telephone rings it’s only to ask you for money, rather than Nahid pouring out her curriculum of enthusiasm and motivation, managing workload, good communication skills and ability to listen with patience. I listen with patience and sadly say no to Nahid, explaining that I have already chosen to vote for Gary because he has been involved with me in a secret operation of the party in order to infiltrate us in the Italian radicals. How comes – Nahid gets angry - there is under way a secret operation in order to infiltrate in the Italian radicals and I don’t know about it? Nahid, I told her, it doesn’t sound strange to me if in infiltrating us in the Italian radicals it is an operation that won’t be secret at all if I talk about it, or to even write about it in their forum, don’t you agree? Nahid hangs the phone, demonstrating to have lost her ability to listen with patience, but she quickly recovers enthusiasm and motivation in managing the workload to call other hundreds of enrolled members with her good communication skills. However I would have voted for Gary anyway: he is the perfect PPC. In fact he comes from the north and therefore it doesn’t speak English, reason why he is the ideal candidate in this constituency where nobody speak it, the local population consisting in Russians, Poles, South Africans, Australians and New Zealanders. With Gary the voters perfectly agree communicating with gestures and guttural sounds. Should he spoke a good English, as the Iranian Nahid does, nobody would understand him. The constituency is that of Shepherd's Bush, the one with the tube station Shepherd's Bush Green. Can you imagine in Milan a metrò station with such a name? Duomo - Cordusio - Prato del Cespuglio del Pastore - Cadorna…

Meanwhile in Roosevelt Island it was still deep night and Raffa consoled Mauro for his umpteenth premature ejaculation. However, you can’t get everything right in life: Raffa loved Mauro and by now she could no longer stand me, but unavoidably she mourned the times when my powerful nerchia filled her cavern up for many hours before watering it. Goodness knows why, I wondered, the penis had many feminine names in Italian - minchia, fava, nerchia - and that flatty one belonging to the newyorker reporter looked quite like a peony. In compensation, it was now joy to fill her heart, while helping that man morally corrupted by pornography and made sexually disable by excess of masturbation, to accept and live his sexuality, and returned her love by even accepting to let her dye his hair in of red Ferrari in homage to her hero Michael Schumacher.

NyLon! - CHAPTER 11


As a good party secretary holding into account the opinions of the members, Crapazzoni wishes to know the new Londoners. This worries me: I certainly cannot introduce to him the Bulgarian girls, whom to his question “How have you known the radicals and what to in particular has attracted you about of the depth of my thought?” they would honestly answer “You distribute tourist visas in the unlucky countries, that's coooool! – and the striking in chorus on the double-decker bus upper floor - we wanna wee, wanna wee weeee wee!”, that is the drunkards need to urinate, but Crapazzoni could instead understand that they want to win, and that would horrify him as it is well-known as the last of his its priorities, the one he would go long lenghts in order avoiding carefully to win anything at all, nor an election neither a referendum. In order to avoid any misunderstanding, the time has come to full-immerge him in a course of modern English, therefore instead of the Bulgarians I introduce him the friendly Gary, whom we know coming from the north.

- Hi meit, me Gary meself, wass yar neim?

- Me Capezz-1.exe in DOS, speilt CrapazzOne in Windows, CapezzUn in Lombard and French, CapezzEin in German…

- Fock da Frogs an' da Krauts, ya speik Inglish, dass greit! Ya fock meiny Itolien weiman, da ya, reit?

- Well, nat exoctley weiman. Bot, aye, Itoliens dai eir, dass fo shur

- Fockin hell, ya reily greit, meit. Ya speigeti, meindolaino, keizo douro, faika streighta i iuna bleats saigeiritei, eh?

- Well, actually, I don't smoke…

- Wass op wid ya meit, heiv or fockin joint, heird stoff Andrea brogt deirictley fro Eimsteirdamn, damn!

- I vehemently take exception at the way such a friendly exchange of opinions between fellow party members is insanely depicted in this novel, whereas my stance on the subject has always been adamantly…

- O Crapazzò, ya greit meit, stop da bollsheit an' less go dawn da pob widda lassies an' geit fockin pissed an' heiv greit fock toneit, eh eh!

- Arrggghhhh, me wanna go beik to Rome reit naow!

Aside the cultural shock in encountering Gary, Crapazzoni left very impressed by his visit to London, so much that it has promised to co-opt me in the executive committee of Italian radicals. However, in order to justify this umpteenth abuse of power in contempt to the will of the sovereign members, known as democraticism in radicalese, I will have to pass the so called Tosoni test of radicality, from the name of its inventor Nicolino Stope Mulinger Tosoni da Clauzetto. Crapazzoni embarks the plane leaving me a week time week to complete the test, consisting in five questions.

A) How is defined in radicalese an umpteenth abuse of power in contempt to the sovereign will of the members?

B) This question concerns the death PENNAlty. Since Cain introduced the PENNA (Politically Eternal Necrophilia in Naming the Associations), how many dead people are the radical associations devoted to?

C) Answer with the same number to the questions: How many minutes of combat in war add among them in total the warlords in the American administration Karl Rove, Richard Pearls, Paul Wolfowitz, Donald Rumsfeld, Dick Cheney, Daniel Crapazzoni and same the Bush? Indicate the number of managers and employees of the Pentagon and Crapazzoni have relatives among the American soldiers in Iraq and number of coffins returning from Iraq which the Bush administration Bush and Crapazzoni himself have allowed to photograph (incidentally coinciding with the number of funerals to which Bush and Crapazzoni have taken part). Indicate moreover the number of vaccines and anti-bacteriological drugs developed and introduced by the American administration and Crapazzoni since September 11, 2001. Furthermore, indicate also how many times Bush has mentioned environmental (global warming, pollution of air and water, Crapazzoni…) in his last speech on the State of the Union, and how many enviromentalists and Crapazzoni had been able to participate to the Dick Cheney’s task force on the energy, and finally how much species in extinction (except for Crapazzoni) have been recognized as such by the Bush administration during his entire presidency.

D) How many radicals do you need to change a light bulb?

E) Identify the unique radical faggot author of the sentence “the typically bizantine diatribe of the Ecumenical Councils of the fetid Italiotic Papal Republic are nothing in comparison to the surreptitious theology by this Sub-species of Homo Sapiens Sapiens who in his ontic egodyscrasia since the day before yesterday does nothing else than untie those little neurons, yet out of service inside his neopallium, having him exclusively functioning the archeopallium only, ammanning us with such highest and farthest ivory tower of the taleologic interpretation of Pindaric suburra’s slum ironies!”

To all the first four questions, I easily find the answers in the forum of the radical website. Respectively democraticism, thirteen, zero and Pannella: enough that he firmly holds the light bulb while the world turns around him. But the fifth is difficult indeed, if not impossible. Probably draft by Pannella himself, but after having spent days and nights reading him and listening to him on Radio radicale I hadn’t yet found trace of the scholarly sentence, not to mention that I was going mad in trying of close his parenthesis (he always closed one less than he opened. I cursed the Tosoni author of that very hard test and decided that I was in need of help. It was necessary the advice of a radicologist, that in politics is somehow what a trichologist is for a bald men. Who better than that Mauro, author of the controversial pamphlet on Italian radicals? I took advantage of a fugace presence fugace in order to risk an audacious rhyme.


NyLon! - CHAPTER 12


- Oh you lovely perfumed carnivorous vulva known as Raff but I obstinately I call Raffa / Do you still have one of those Svirgin free tickets for friends and relatives of you staff known as staffa?

Handily the Raffa only had the dildo that she extracted from herself surpised and confused. Pleasantly surprised by the resiliency of the Duracepp batteries and confused by my unusual, poetic question.

- What do you need it for?

Holding it out from her hand to mine interrogated me suspiciously

- Well, I wouldn’t know - I answered observing equally surprised and confused one of those wrinkled and protuberant electric household that had made the fortune of candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel, then recalling the anal banana I readily added

- I can always come up with

- Not the dildo, you idiot half-faggot, I mean the ticket: what do you need it for?

- Ah, yes, the ticket. Well, I must jump over the pond to NYC in order to document myself on a matter of political nature. A search for the party…

- And then why don’t you get the ticket paid by the party ticket?

- Ehi, we are not at all the Italian radicals, who are so many that they always must keep someone in the sky. We are poor, independent and self-financed without donations by the government or candid Hindu-orobic tycoons…

- Ok, ok, got it, I have understood, save me the usual theme tune, here are the tickets in blank and fill them up with the route appealing to you, half-starver loser

Her boobs dangling, Raffa extracted from her purse a ticket booklet and also the keys of her house in NYC, throwing them to me with an expression of depreciation and disgust.

- Thanks my love, you are a treasure

- Pathetic bankrupt, with that parasitic little job as party civil employee

I loved her.

Between a flight attendant from Gorgonzola and the other one from Fiumicino, between a radical secretary romanaccio and the other perspective one from Vedano al Lambro, this is in the end of this chapter and finally the candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel re-enters the scene! I’ve finally been successful in coming up with something to do: to close the parenthesis. And unexpectedly John Patel closed the parenthesis).
NyLon! – chapter 13

Charles served us both with a generous double shot of single malt, but not enough to let him forget his bad mood

- Bush, merd. Osama, shit. Putin, sin na kurva…

- What’s up Charles, now you speak Bulgarian to tell me that Putin is a son of putin?

- All of them teetotal, those three fucking bashtards

- You are right, I had never thought about it

- Evidentapparently ish a conspirashy against our shane habits of democracy angloshasshon democrashy in the Weshtminshter bars. You must do shomething

- I am already doing best, Charles, soon I will complete my mission of being co-opted in the Italian radicals’ committee, the well-known world-wide antiprohibitionist power, as soon as pass the Tosoni Test of radicality

- Then, what are you waiting for?

- I still don’t know the answer to the last question of the Testosoni. In order to find it I’m leaving for NYC where I will meet a very well informed journalist, but to be on the safe side I will also send Andrea to Hamburg in order to sounding out in depth the Tosoni himself

- Gud lock, cheers






#170, 18.VI.2012

  noticias
- Emma Bonino, Freedom Award 2012 por su defensa de los Derechos Humanos

- CIEs: castigo añadido para las víctimas de la esclavitud sexual
- "la crisis" no puede con el (¿único?) liderazgo de mérito español: la donación de órganos
- ¿hacia un Gobierno de Concentración Nacional?
- Jorge Fernández Díaz, Ministro de Interior... ¿o de Defensa?
- execrable esperpento parlamentario en el Congreso de los Diputados
- burbuja del fútbol profesional: recortes en el PANEM pero no en el CIRCENSES
- "disciplina de partido": ¿a quién representan los diputados?, ¿al partido... o a los electores?
- "tertulias": las comparaciones son... ilustrativas
- España, líder europeo en impunidad por contaminación
- España cañí -59: ley que permite la usurpación de patrimonio por parte de la Iglesia católica
- spaña cañí -58: La Muela, de subvencionar viajes al Caribe a no pagar su único autobús

- acción pro depuración de responsabilidades políticas en caso Bankia
- un precio demasiado caro por "salvar los bancos"
- el rescate europeo pasa la crisis del sistema bancario a Nuestros Bolsillos
- NO son los bancos, es España (cada uno de nosotros) quien recibe el préstamo (100.000 millones más)

- Grecia, de esos lodos este barrizal
- la Transición egipcia, secuestrada por los militares (y administrada por los islamismos)
- el Gobierno chino vuelve a cerrar el acceso al Tíbet
- Aung San Suu Kyi, la Nelson Mandela de Birmania

más información cada día en
 

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destacamos
firma tu petición
al Presidente del Gobierno
de investigación, transparencia
y responsabilidades
por el saqueo Bankia

  recomendamos
firma tu petición al
Presidente del Tribunal Supremo
  y del Consejo General
del Poder Judicial, Carlos Dívar,
de que dimita

  opinión propia
- "Por un impuesto sobre la deuda de los bancos", Xavier Sala i Martín

- "De vasallos a ciudadanos", Alfredo Pastor

- "Democracia preadolescente", Pilar Rahola

- "Televisión y servidumbre", Miguel Ángel Aguilar

- "Dimita, señor Dívar", lavanguardia

- "La burbuja futbolística", Pilar Rahola

- "Tonto el que paga", Pilar Rahola

- "CIEs: injusticia al descubierto", Joana Bonet

- "Algo huele mal ahí si cierran las fronteras ", Quim Monzó


- "Autosuicidio", Xavier Sala i Martín

- "¿Quién paga esto?", Fernando Ónega < br />
- "El rescate", Xavier Vives

- "¿Depurar responsabilidades?", Alfredo Abián

- "España se ha metido en un círculo vicioso", Paul de Grouwe

  liberinfo
John Stuart Mill (1806-1873)

NyLon! - CHAPTER 14

We've got to the foutheenth chapter and I notice that I haven’t yet introduced myself. My name is Granzotto, Bob Granzotto. I was calmly doing the contract calmly killer, that my non-authorized biographer would simply say hitman but contract killer is more politically correct, before that non-authorized (everyone has the non-authorized biographer who deserves) took control of my identity in order to invent improbable adventures that have projected me in the stardom of transnational politics. In my career, I have killed many people, who generally deserved it. In that honorable trade I earned well and I amused myself gretly. Perhaps not all biographers come to damage. The hitman had gradually been made more and more complicated, with the DNA test it was no longer enough to disguise oneself and to counterfeit passports like in the old times, when you had yourself to be only worried by the fingerprints. Now I recycled mysels as a secret agent with poetic licence, and what halo of cosmopolitan fascination and mystery could better encircle me than that of high electron density in the first glimmer of dawn at the horizon of the big apple, where my investigative in nosing out a trace left a month before by journalist in love. Actually the boat had just crashed against the pier projecting me violently on Manhattan. My fault in leaning too much from the upper bridge in crossing the Hudson from New Jersey in order to enjoy the skyline, which extended from Harlem, to the left extreme, the statue of the freedom on the right. It was a matter of a mere issue of perspective without any political significance, fue simply to the fact that I was sailing from east to the west. Had I travelled in the opposite direction, the freedom would have raised on the left against the black working class one on the far right. Unthinkable but in that city, where I noticed with annoyance that something was missing in the middle of my delirious pseudo-philosophical equations and also in the middle of the skyline: from the tip of the island a pair of high buildings that I had noticed some years before. Later I learned that the federal government had contracted out some demolition works to Arabic immigrants whom it would then have sued with deployment of great means and resources, financial and secondly human, just to keep busy the military-industrial complex that was the base of the castle of cards constituted by the illusory economy of the bankrupt Nation. But never mind the politics, I’m not here for the local politics but because of Italian radicals, in order to find the answer to the most difficult fifth question of the Testosoni that will open me the doors to the pathetic theatre of their committee. My bruised nose follows therefore the hormonal trace left by the journalist fallen in love from the east side to the western one, and it leads to me on the cableway to Roosevelt Island. And I find him there, hardly recognizing him from the photo on his book’s back cover. Forget about the flowing raven hair: he got has metalized hair like his pedantic swot colleague in primary school, a bacon belly like Alvaro Vitali and me, two enormous pimples on the lips, the only black hair is that coming out out from ears and nostrils, and the legs more bandy than Naomi Campbell’s. Aware of its aesthetic handicaps, with a big bottle of Amarone in a hand and in the other tong pants extraordinarily looking like the ones Raffa habitually uses, Mauro welcomes me trying to justify himself.

- Previosly I wasn’t so ugly, but I am practicing in order to become editor of Radio radicale, which is my secret dream. Sniff

- Nice to meet you, dear Mauro. You really fai schifo. Indeed, if you want to become editor of Radio radicale you already look like the current one, but you made a mistake in telling me that, for I’ll report it in a transatlanting novel that I am writing on the unlucky radicals like you and everybody else, if any consolation

- Anyway I have no hope, it is written in the Trisagioum of transitory-permanent norms of the party’s charter that the Radio editor is Ergife, the leader of the young Esperantists is Bordini and conferences are held at the Hotel Licheri. But I no longer care, as I’ve fallen in love with an extraordinary woman. Sniifff

Nonchalantly replied the Radical party’s Hugh Grant of the Radical party, voraciously smelling the pants. I felt perplexed, recognizing in them a nose kappero of mine among the small pieces of shit

- Uhm, and who could she will be?

- I can only say that she has made me accept to live my sexuality. Sniiiffff

- Never mind, who cares. Instead, I came here purposely to know from you the answer to the fifth question of the Testosoni

- Nobody knows it, it’s the second most guarded radical mystery. Sniiiifffff

- Ah! What the first one would be?

- Do tou think that I if knew the first, wouldn’t I know the second one? Sniiiiiffffff

- Does this mean that I crossed the pond for no reason at all?

- Correct! Sniiiiiifffffff

Had I the time before the last ride of the cableway, I would have interrogated myself on the third radical mystery: how do you say fuck off in Esperanto. Mauro has been of most insufficient help and now I must count on what Andrea will succeed to arrange in Hamburg with the Tosoni author of the enigmatic Testosoni of radicality.