Radicalometro storico e Google fight

Per chi non conosce Google fight, è un sito che compara il numero di risultati tra due nominativi, perciò ci è utile per rivitalizzare il Radicalometro storico in basso a destra con le sfide tra i primi venti  in posizione dispari e i primi venti in posizione pari della celebre classifica, anche per vedere quanto è coerente coi risultati generali del web. Ecco il responso:

Welby batte Granzotto 218mila a 69.400
Pannella batte Suttora 108mila a 6.420
Dupuis batte Boselli 930mila a 211mila
Bonino batte Cappato 310mila a 76.600
Callegari batte Colacicco 208mila a 16.900
Tosoni batte Patelli 90.700 a 40.600
Bianchi batte Crocicchio 95.300 a 11.300
Bandinelli batte Licheri 74.500 a 29.100
Bordin batte Pezzilli 230mila a 5.260
Bernardini batte Turko 545mila a 34.900
Giordano batte Pagano 211mila a 154mila
Manera batte Cominelli 177mila a 31.300
Veronesi batte Polesel 16.500 a 5.730
Baldini batte Spadaccia 162mila a 4.170
Cicciomessere batte Strik-Lievers 2.410 a 1.050
Mellini batte Capezzone 50.500 a 17.100
Manzi batte Piccinini 350mila a 292mila
Alitsi batte Spolaor 460 a 458
Pasolini batte Busdachin 733mila a 735
Litta Modignani batte Scaruffi 4.870 a 4.500

Ripeterò il gioco per coloro che seguono in classifica, per ora mi devo fermare perché posso aggiungere solo venti etichette per post, cioè i nomi dei vincitori

Finalmente nella barra laterale sinistra è ritornato NyLon!, dopo una lunga rielaborazione, e presto (dopo un po' di meritato riposo) le trasmissioni del blog potranno riprendere regolarmente con altre eclatanti novità editoriali

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 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 17

A few hours before the candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel was landing in Bergamo’s airport Orio al Serio, he already was re-embarking to Rome Ciampino with a light bulb. I carried on towards London with Abigail bound to Scotland, and back at home I relaxed writing a letter to an old acquantaince of mine, an Esperantomorphic australopitecous

Dearest Hotel, you won’t believe this one! Last Friday I went to the assembly of our local Lib-Dem primaries in order to choose the PPC, that is our candidate to next years’ parliamentary election in my constituency. It was my first time, even if I’m enrolled since many years but previously I was living in Scotland and there had not been a similar opportunity. Well, all this to tell you that in their primaries they use your Australian electoral system! In fact on the card I had to indicate four candidates in preference order. As anticipated in NyLon!, I’ve voted Gary for I know him personally (and because he his my accomplice in our secret plan to infiltrate the Italian radicals without making it known through their forum, etc), but I didn’t know the possibility to give a second, third and fourth preference. Thus I have given the second one to Nahid just because I spoke to her, at least by telephone. I didn’t know in in any way anybody else. It works like this: every other candidate cannot be present when a competitor carries out their presentation. This is because they could copy the answers to the members’ pernicious questions (all is monitored by a pair of employees of the party headquarters), in short the wretched ones are submitted to a scholastic exam. Therefore while a candidate speaks, the other three are confined in a contiguous small room. Exactly because I’ve gone there already with a clear idea on who to vote, I couldn’t care less to listen to them, therefore I went to the toilet to wee the beer and smoke a fag. Coming back I stop by the contiguous small room where the three candidates are confined while in the main room the fourth is taking the floor, a tall know-it-all looking like a kind of Cappattozzoni OGM-Inflated. In the small room I greet Gary confirming him my first preference and personally meet Nahid reassuring her of my second preference, when this 25-y-o wonder of nature in miniskirt and stiletto heels. But you Pakistani women wouldn’t be supposed to carry the Koran under the burka?

- That woul be hard, being my job a belly dancer in the Leicester Square Suk.

Norsheen aka Kiki had spoken in before, when I hadn’t arrived yet. I’m sorry, I told her, not having been able to listen to her speech. No worries, she replies, I’ll repeat it here in private audience especially for you. And she quickly changed in front of me in belly dancer apparel, rappingly blurting off her little speech in perfect Esperanto

- This constituency is winnable and I believe that together with local party members I can make this happen! I want to represent you as the first Liberal Democrat MP for Ealing, Acton and Shepherd's Bush. We now have to solid base but we need to make inroads into areas where we are currently weak. We need to prove that we are the clear challengers to Labour and squeeze the Tory vote. We have successfully done this in Brent East where I previously was the Liberal Democrat candidate and the think this is clearly possible here. Please give me the opportunity to help you make this a Liberal Democrat constituency!

What a faint of a girl. She has legs as they should be, unlike Naomi Campbell. Tits equally small, but in order to make them grow it would be enough to work on them patiently massaging them, while to bendy legs there is no remedy. Goodbye Hotel, deferently I salute your dick, let me know me in private on the forum if you have finally been successful in having pre-nuptial intercourses with Sara. PS: For the record, Gary has been elected, with just two preferences more than the OGM-Inflated .

In London penetrating Crapazzoni I was interrupted by Marco Cappato.

- I am Marco Cappato

All - Bastaaa!

Granzotto - Thanks. I was saying that while in London penetrating Crapazzoni, interpreted by Marco Cappato, I dared to inquire it on the fate of Olivier Dupuis.

- What happened to Olivier Dupuis?

- Boh, liquidated with a short notice like many others. Why do you ask?

- Mah, shame, he seemed a nice guy, not a Rutelli. He could turn out to be useful with what’s happening in Chechnya. And in Laos, and Tibet. Political investments in the long term, instead of the Sunday’a italiotic politics

Made jealous, Crapazzoni exacerbated - and what makes you to think that it was a type in leg?

- For example, except for Bonino he was the only one who calmly slept next to me when I drove them over 100 mph on the Macedonin roads. We amused ourselves a lot with the fines for speeding in Macedonia. Never mind, the party used to pay for them

Shit, I had betrayed myself. They always were sexual relationships to betray me, even if usually they were those of my wife. Fockoff, now Crapazzoni had uncovered me

- You are not Bob Granzotto, you are Michele Boselli!

- No, no, I swear to you that I am Bob Granzotto. Michele Boselli is nothing but my non-authorized biographer

Crapazzoni fell asleep pretending to believe me while in the Ferrari I carried him at 100 mph on the A4 towards Heathrow. Unloaded him there, went on to Ascot, where I had an appointment with Jarno for the last grand pix that the famous race course would have hosted before closing for next nineteen months because of renovation works. Not that Jarno had given himself to horse racing, that would rather should have done Briatore, but Jarno lived in nearby Binfield because of the Renault F1 team based in Wockingham. Therefore we frequently met in Ascot to try and shag the nimphomaniac upper class posh ladies in ridicules hats. He possessed the charme of F1 pilot, and I offered the fascination of a Ferrari that he envied to me because he only not succeeded to pass from a Renault to a Toyota. And since for the next season he would have to move to the Toyota team in Cologne, we greeted each other and Ascot as well for the last time. We wished the best and we wa also wished that Briatore met again the one with small tits and bendy legs so that the owner beat him up violently like her well known habit.

NyLon! – chapter 19

On the upper deck of his mega-yacht, the gloomy Esperantist australopithecus Hotel Licheri was laying in the sparkling bedsheets in company of a frosted beer, a powerful spliff, that gorgeous Sara Piccardo next to him and, as the only negative thing, that damn requiem in background. Completely naked, glaring beyond the stars, they chased passionate visions of love and got lost in the oblivion of an open eyes wonderful dream. Hand in hand, they tenderly thought of the long and dazzling Hawaiian sunsets, where the sun lavishes its last flares with renewed force, like meaning a last hard work before dying, but knowing to come back the next day, even more sumptuous and radiant with joy. They thought of the warm waters of Madagascar dampening the hot sands of the boundless beaches accomplices of an hypothetical, unattainable adventure. They thought of the time that would have passed before their next encounter, that murderous time only barrier to their unrestrainable passion. They thought and at the same time they didn’t, transported to the eleventh dimension of climax, which didn’t represent an idea but the attempt to catch it up it. To all that they romantically thought when the Publisher of this book took part.

- Enough with filling up the pages of romantic Esperantist mawkishes! To be able to sell this shit of book I demand more detailed pornography!

Duly obedient to the Publisher, I restarted from scratch in the next chapter.

NyLon! - chapter 22

Five hundred miles to the east, beyond the North sea, in any city of your choice, the unique radical faggot Nicolino Tosoni - who as my Publisher I must deal with care in describing his epic deeds -, was nervously smoking a cigarette thinking how his ephemeral encounter with Andrea the Turka hastily plummeted in the passion of a permanent relation. Bülêntelifyildiz Åtatunçiller-Demireleçževitÿ, his perfect body shining in small openings of suffused light that penetrated through the lowered rolling shutter's chinks creating an exciting eroticism of sophisticated chiaroscuri, was laying beside him, the left arm outstretched beyond the nape to evidence the compact and mature breast, the right leg folded on the left, and the velvetly skin slightly beaded by the golden rain drops that from the noble Organ of the August Publisher insinuated tenuous and sly.

- Did you like the golden rain, my adored Analduckling?

- It is not exactly my concept of sexual fantasy

- I understand, Analduckling, you prefer the fist-focking. Turn yourself this side, put yourself like this…

Six miles over them, in the first class of the Svirgin gigabus, Raffa was nervously smoking a cigarette rightly thinking that it was forbidden to smoke in aeroplanes and also the zohomosexusal relationships in radical novels should be censored as well. Laying beside her, the exhausted Maria Cristina, her perfect body shining in small openings of suffused light that penetrated through the window lowered on the horizon creating an exciting eroticism of sophisticated chiaroscuri, the left arm outstretched beyond the nape to evidence the compact and mature breast, the right leg folded on the left, and the velvetly skin slightly beaded by Raffa’s vaginal juices.

Newyorker columnist Mauro Suttora-Bordini, who in his leisure time was also a cryptic literary critic, was nervously smoking a cigarette thinking of the existential content Bob Granzotto’s books. His old mistress by default - better known with the nickname of Metro Goldwin Mayer -, her shapeless mass in a brave disgusted light penetrating from the fissures of the lowered rolling shutter's chinks creating abominable masochist chiaroscuri, was laying beside him, the left sausage outstretched beyond the head to evidence the flabby breast, the folded leg on the left, and the wrinkled hairy skin soaked in sweat that abundantly secreting while the morning first smog insinuated tenuous and sly in Roosevelt Island.

- MGM, what do you think of sentence such as "insinuated tenuous and sly", in a context determined by a picture altogether rather repetitive and observed in a wider optical of an entire point of view, I’d dare to say inserted as a dowel of a gigantic jigsaw, I’d dare to say the intrinsic carnality and the sometimes free sexiness of these texts that I personally find mysterious, enigmatic, I would dare to say cryptic?

- Mah, I wouldn’t know

- Here you see, it, eh? You see that I’m right that when talking about serious measures to adopt I refer to these authors by dubious morality? I already the opportunity to confirm it during the presentation of the anthology of the works by Piero Welby, when I wished that at last he put an end with this insolent disrespectful use of the instrument of the pleasure in the narration, an instrument otherwise interesting to the aims of a revaluation on the level…

- For God’s sake, Mauro, stop it! Have you become catho-communist?

- Let me demonstrate to you how I can love in a gentle way, without being bombed from those subliminal messages…

- Sublime and anal?

- No! You see that you are conditioned too? I said subliminal, but your subconscious wanted to understand sublime and anal! And by the way I am not catho-communist, I am luteran

- Yeees, splash my uterus and then in my anus!

With a lancinating scream overcoming the disgust, Suttora-Bordini took the MGM and threw her from the fifteenth floor of the building. The lancinating scream passed unnoticed because of deafening burp of the same MGM and the neglet of the readers in following the ups and downs of journalists plagued by the depressing daily routine of painfully dragging ourselves in this tragic valley of tears and blood. Blood and shit. Tears, blood and shit. It followed on Classic FM the Ave Maria by Schubert burying his master Beethoven with Paganini, and all three declared: Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

NyLon! – chapter 23

At central Europe midnight, separating Sunday from Monday, and October from November 2004, exceptional safety measures were in place for the boarding of 200 radical members in Rome Fiumicino and as many in Milan Malpensa on the Svirgin charter flight that would have flown them to the party conference of the party. Heartened by being mentioned in this chapter after having been singularly ignored in the previous one, Daniel Crapazzoni was accompanied to embark him by a courtain of his concubines from their limousine. Orietta, Silvietta and Antonetta improvised a belly dance for the benefit of the other first class passengers: the Espernsad architectopitecus Hotel Licheri with the his gorgeous wife Sara Piccardo and their respective spiritual councellors don Domenico Spena and fundamentalist theologian Cosimo Bandinelli. With Crapazzoni and his concubines, the prestigious guests were welcomed by Raffa and Maria Cristina to occupy nearly half of the first class, that was filled an hour later in Malpensa with the boarding of the unique radical faggot Nicolino Tosoni and, accompanied from faithful veterinarian gynecologist Dr Tabar, candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel and others. With his marbled body and his michelangiolesc profile, the boundless culture and eloquent oratory, the metapatavin unicorn Publisher quickly hit the attention of Maria Cristina, who fell in love with him at first sight and seated next to him cooing for the rest of the flight. The URF-MUP too was very impressed impressed by the fascinating creature and uncontrollably felt growing an unrestrainable desire to possess her, but that was prevented by his stoic fidelity to the healthy principles of alternative sexuality: under the graceful appearances of that dancing angel a tempting devil probably hid, aiming to convert him to the heterosexual heresy. Therefore he extracted from an inner pocket the Carlomanera that he carried with him in case of such eventualities and, erected it to a crucifix, introduced it in Maria Cristina carlomanerizing her till a multiple orgasm, thus avoiding his noble Organ to come in direct contact with the satanic bad woman.

While in New York the MGM bounced from the new car’s roof of Suttora-Bordini’s – who suddenly found her in the improvised press room at the fifteenth floor in Roosevelt Island with the other Italian journalists sent to the radical conference of New York -, in London in Cowley Street, carrying away a double shot of single malt single, Janine left the room as soon as I entered. I remained embarrassed in front of the whole party leadership that had summoned me. Aroun Charles there were Menzies and Vincent, respectively shadow minister of foreign affairs and shadow chancellor, skeptically scrutinized me from above their sciaticas. I realized that this time it would have been an exam harder than usual. After the complimentary double shots of single malt, Charles let Menzies spoke, who deeply put me to the test.

- Name the political exponent vaguely looking like Pannella who after the electoral success in 2001 declared us Lib-Dem to be the British radical party

I didn’t even have the need to answer orally, simply pointing the finger to vain Menzies. Then Vincent made his tricky question to trap me.

- Name the British liberal economist who differently from Pannella would never ever dream in a nightmare to appoint secretary of the party a rowdy fanatical extremist such as Crapazzoni.

The finger astonished by such an easy , it silently moved to point Vincent himself, who with Menzies left satisfied while Janine re-entered her empty drink with in a hand and in the other an envelope for Charles. In taking the envelope and serving her one more double shot of single malt single, the leader uttered:

- You have passed the test. Here is your reservation for the radical conference in New York. We expect the best from you. Quickly depart with Gary and the Turka otherwise you’ll miss the plane.

I quickly left for Heathrow with Gary and the Turka, holding on the reservation but leaving the generous double shot of single on his desk, and on his knees the generous party treauser.

NyLon! - chapter 27

Concubine Silvietta was the only one to perceive a vague restlessness that could have led her to suspect something: wouldn’t it be covered by the long beard, she could have recognized a remarkable likeness between the erection of unknown passenger seating next to her and that of the playboy actor Gabriele Sessarego in of the catastrophic films in which he interpreted her old great love bin Dupuis. Looking closely, beside the beard it was the entire passenger to look like, to gesture, smell and and spray-ejaculate spray like that party secretary who had loved her so much and then repudiated for the jihad against the infidels. But Silvietta was to shy and embarassed to launch the alarm, that however wouldn’t have obtained any effect. In fact all the other passengers, joyful for that tourist excursion in which they were getting ready to give another mandate to Crapazzoni, were euphoric as in a boy-scout trip, whose motto

- Estoti parati! Estoti parati!

raved dancing in first class with Maria Cristina the eminent unifaggot Publisher. This Titanic orchestra atmosphere had been created thanks to our other two agents, Gary and the Turka, for all the duration of the flight hidden in in the toilets incessantly inhaling cannabis and expiring its vapors in the conditioned air system of the cabin, where all the happily inebriated passengers they enjoyed wonderful dreamy fantasies. Daniel Crapazzoni dreamt of being able to finally free himself of Marco Cappato’s flabby aspect in order to incarnate the granitic ones of bionic vice-president Dick Cheney and thus to succeed Bush in 2008. The less pretentious Rita Bernardini dreamt of being able truly to become the Lib-Dem treasurer Janine, who besides belonging to a more serious and less serioso party, would have guaranteed her a decorous pension of free double shots of single malt. And about Scotland, Abigail had had the most improbable dream of a weekend to Glasgow without rain. Instead, candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel dreamt to perform a test drive on the concubines in order to verify if he could raise them from the disaster to serve Crapazzoni and hire them, in the socially role more profitable role of flight attendants for its company, in consideration that Raffa and Maria Cristina were getting older and in his entrepreneurial wisdom he to begin to think to a new generation. Architectopitecus Hotel Licheri always and only dreamt in Esperant and therefore he couldn’t but dream the night he met the Esperantist popstar and falled in love at first sight. After a sad evening of debate with the Lib-Dem on the Australian electoral system, he dragged himself to an Irish pub in order to further depress himself drowning his displeasures and devastating loneliness in an umpteenth Thursday night of vomitevole Polish dysko-musik, in the same Acton watering hole suggested to him by Crapazzoni after his visit to London. He was at the fifth pint when the attractive Polish public notary Agnyeska Rostropova begun to sing in Esperanto, Waiting for her working papers she lived singing in pubs with the stage name of Sara Piccardo. Her soft blond hair, the green big eyes and the little mouth of rose, but above all her 18-y-o little butt and aquiline Armenian-Judaic-Greek-Roman nose sent him in ectsasy. When her performance was over, surprised himself of his daring, Hotel offered to accompany her home. As often happens in these cases, it was a dark stormy night a violent hurricane burst in fact and Hotel dragged Sara to shelter them soaked in a telephone booth

- Now what kabbageon we do here insido untilké enda el tempestoj atmosferiko?

Scared by thunders and lightnings asked the Piccardo-Rostropova in perfect Esperanto. Having graduated in the faculty of architectury with a thesis on the quantum theory of the telephone booth kisses, in order to put it in practice Hotel Licheri had been waiting for ages that question as much as a Newyorker cab driver would expect any moment James Bond directing him to chase a colleague’s taxi carrying the bad guys. Both unzipping their overcoats, Licheri insinuated his hands to warm her arms in an apparently friendly way, then protectingly descending down to her right flank and rising the other hand to instert it a and caress her shoulder still numb with cold by the cold and the pale neck of swan up to that little lump on the nape, mark of every intelligent Esperantist popstar, their glances cross-eyd and fading into each other’s, their tongues passionately meeting even before their lips. The beautiful dream of love was interrupted by the hateful DJ, the paedophile and bird-eating priest don Domenico Spena, actually himself a invidioso Polish public notary envious of her compatriot’s success and jealous that she preferred Hotel to him.

Nomenclatura radicale / 2 di 10 / Marco e Mario

A pari merito al secondo posto abbiamo 9 Marco (BELELLI, BELLOCCHIO, BELTRANDI, BOATO, CAPPATO, FREDDI, PANNELLA, PERDUCA, TARADASH) e cinque Mario (DE FILIPPI, PALOMBO, PANNUNZIO, RIZZO, STADERINI) ai quali vanno però sommate quattro Marie: BALDINI, COSCIONI, LUCCHIARI e VAGLIO

Circa dieci anni fa, a cavallo del nuovo millennio, l’allora forum radicale (sul sito ufficiale dell’omonimo movimento/partito politico) conobbe il suo apice: era fervido di utenti e dei loro numerosi testi che contribuivano ad un acceso dibattito. Poi quel forum è morto, come capita a tutti. Però, grazie alla potente memoria della vostra Miss Welby, sono in grado di ricostruire l’elenco di quanti che presero parte a quell’esperienza straordinaria, almeno di coloro che dichiararono pubblicamente i loro indirizzi e-mail, che ancora conservo.

È probabile che nell’arco di un decennio alcuni o molti di questi indirizzi siano cambiati, cioè non siano più validi, ma mi piace ricordarne i nomi per riconoscere a ciascuno di loro un punto in più nel’ormai leggendario Radicalometro Storico di Granzotto (dal nome dello scienziato che in origine ne costituiva il parametro). A tale scopo devo spezzettare l’elenco in una ventina di nomi per volta (è di 20 il numero massimo di etichette per ogni post, etichette che Blogger somma automaticamente nella classifica in fondo a destra).

Procediamo dunque in ordine alfabetico nel SECONDO di 20 post.

bacchi antonio, bacci mirko, baietti roberto, baldini maria cristina, bandinelli angiolo, barbaro mario, barbieri claudio, barbieri maria grazia, barletta amedeo, basile silvio, beltramini walter, beltrandi marco, berardo rocco, bernardini rita, bertuzzi emanuele, bessi maria, bevilacqua federico, bianchi raffaella, biancucci silvia

NYLON!, capitolo 1.

Mi alzai di malavoglia alle sei del mattino e alle sette ero già ad Hounslow sulla A4 quando mi passò sopra rumorosa la Raffa nel primo gigantesco superjumbo della Svirgin da New York. Ebbi l’impressione che i carrelli mi sfiorassero la testa. Come facesse la gente a vivere lì, era un mistero meno comprensibile solo del perché l’aeroporto fosse stato sviluppato a ovest della città, quando si sapeva che il vento tira da ovest cinquanta settimane all’anno e gli aeroplani atterranno rigorosamente controvento. Questo significava che un aereo al minuto, mille al giorno, sorvolava a bassa quota mezza città, e naturalmente in tempi di terrorismo gli intelligentoni del governo avevano deciso di espanderlo, Heathrow, con la terza pista e il quinto terminal. Avanti contro il mercato a sostenere artificialmente il settore con il kerosene non tassato, i biglietti senza IVA, la cementificazione selvaggia, intanto che le ferrovie cascavano a pezzi… Bah, la politica, la politica, non avevo in testa che sempre quella. E le donne. Mi ci sarebbe voluta ancora mezz’ora per raggiungere e parcheggiare al terminal 3, ma lei avrebbe impiegato ancora di più per riordinare la prima classe e uscire. Non ero in ritardo. Non lo ero mai.

La Raffa portava molto bene i suoi primi quarant’anni, metà dei quali trascorsi per aria portandola all’apice della carriera responsabile della prima classe, mai più di diciotto passeggeri e il catering eccellente da condividere con la collega Maria Cristina, ottimo stipendio e rotta fissa con routine invariabile cinque trasvolate atlantiche alla settimana, alternando i weekend tra le metropoli gemelle. Quel volo notturno era stato un’eccezione dovuta ad un allarme terrorismo riguardante il suo consueto delle 8.20 il mattino precedente da Newark, che avrebbe dovuto arrivare alle 20 londinesi della sera prima, venerdì. Se non fosse stato per uno di quei ormai sempre più frequenti allarmi, avrebbe concluso la settimana lavorativa come l’aveva iniziata il lunedì mattina a Newark, mentre quella successiva a questo weekend londinese sarebbe come sempre cominciata col volo del pomeriggio che dopo pranzo la portava in New Jersey in tempo per raggiungere Manhattan all’ora di cena. Bella vita che le vecchie amiche italiane le invidiavano, un po’ stressante a volte, ma si conosceva un sacco di gente interessante in prima classe. Unico fastidio l’obbligo di tacchi alti e calze di nylon, materiale sintetico al quale era un po’ allergica. Come di consueto, appena salita in macchina si tolse gli uni e le altre per rimettersi gli uni, provocandomi l’erezione che ci avrebbe accompagnato a casa. Purtroppo non potevo fermarmi, dovevo andare al partito. Parcheggiai la Raffa e la Ferrari nel garage, le salutai entrambe con un bacio e m’incamminai lungo il Tamigi.

NYLON!, capitolo 4.

- Nessun dorma! Non prevarranno! Surgite!

Daniele Capezzone congedò il consiglio di amministrazione con l’usuale incitamento alle membre di segreteria riunite in Torre Argentina. Erano quasi le dieci di domenica sera e voleva lasciarle libere di ascoltare alla radio quelle voci rauche e suadenti che avrebbero ispirato la strategia politica della settimana entrante. Ma dopo quattordici ore di riunione erano tutte stanche morte e altro che nessun dorma le soporifere voci rauche e suadenti non poterono ispirararle che in modo subliminale prima che surgissero al risveglio. Da me erano ancora le nove di sera e avevo anch’io passato la domenica al partito, ma un altro, mille miglia a nord-ovest. La sera prima la Raffa aveva accampato un mal di testa, frustrando la mia erezione anziché semplicemente frustarla come faceva di solito. Pazienza, mi rassegnai, e trascorsi la notte sul web cominciando a mettere in pratica il mio piano per infiltrarmi nei radicali italiani. Imparai che avevano un sito e nel sito un forum dove se le cantavano di tutti i colori. Una miniera di informazioni fornite volontariamente risparmiandomi la fatica di indagare. Da una prima analisi risultavano tre pilastri fondamentali.

1. C’era la corrente dei radicali libertari di sinistra;
2. C’era la corrente dei radicali liberisti di destra;
3. I radicali di Padova erano tutti froci.

Mi registrai nel forum ma resistetti alla tentazione di intervenire, dovevo mantenere un basso profilo per non rivelare la mia intenzione di infiltrarmi. Invece uscii all’alba per andare al partito a trascorrere la domenica scrivendo un dettagliato rapportino per Charles - che sarebbe stato contento di trovarlo nel suo fottuto Outlook il lunedì mattina -, e Janine, che lo sarebbe stata assai meno. Infatti come passo successivo avremmo dovuto finanziare l’iscrizione ai radicali italiani di una quindicina di londinesi col duplice obiettivo di conquistare una piccola quota azionaria e incuriosire il Capezzone a visitarci per conoscerci (mentre ero io che volevo studiarlo meglio). Ero certo che ci sarei riuscito, sapevo come intortarlo con un’arma segreta, ma a duecento euri a testa faceva un totale di duemila paundi. Janine non avrebbe gradito, perciò inviai solo a Charles confidando che nella sua saggezza il leader non avrebbe inoltrato la mia richiesta alla tesoriera prima di averle inumidita la gola con qualche doppio colpetto di malto singolo. Soddisfatto per il buon lavoro, tornai a casa fiducioso che quella sera con la Raffa mi sarebbe andata meglio.

Udii la Raffa sputare il glande dell’ultima pesca mentre andavo in bagno a lavarmi il pene. Non sarei tornato a letto, volevo mettermi sul wc, sul pc, per buttare giù un altro capitolo di un mio romanzetto transatlantico che scrivevo nel tempo libero, e la nottata di sesso mi aveva fornito l’ispirazione. La sera prima avevo pensato a quei due chili di pesche sul comodino come un suo invito seducente sono buonissimi i baci al sapore di pesca. Invece continuò imperterrita a sbafare pesche come se niente fosse mentre io sudavo manovrandola da ogni posizione. Stantuffavo da davanti, di dietro, di sopra, di sotto, perfino lateralmente, e intanto lei ruminava pesche come una professionista si limerebbe le unghie. A un certo punto sbottai.

- Ma la finisci co’ ’ste cazzo, ’ste palle di pesche??

- Fanno bene alla pelle

- Anche lo sperma fa bene alla pelle - replicai spruzzandola e spalmandola - e a me fanno male le palle

Ero talmente spompato che tra i gandoloni di pesca sparsi sul pavimento non mi sarei sorpreso di trovare anche un testicolo o due. Di solito indiavolata come una ninfomane, stavolta era stata inusualmente poco collaborativa. Evidentemente le passava altro per la pesca, la testa, che lasciò cadere all’indietro sul cuscino ricoprendolo in una composizione perfettamente simmetrica dei suoi capelli rossi tinti. Distesa completamente nuda con le braccia e le gambe aperte sull’invitante fritolina depilata, era davvero molto bella. Le pesche le avevano certamente fatto bene alla pelle, ma non spiegavano lo sguardo perso a rincorrere i colorati riflessi di luce sul soffitto e quel sorriso beato da un’orecchio all’altro. Evidentemente le passava UN altro per la testa.

- Ti dispiace se usciamo prima per passare a prendere Cristina? Andrea ha rotto il furgone e non può accompagnarla. In cambio ci invitano a pranzo, ma dobbiamo andare subito

Che l’altro fosse Andrea? No, era un bello stallone e una volta ci aveva fatto un giro, all’insaputa mia e della sua migliore amica, ma era lei che non piaceva a lui, dopo che quella volta questi scoprì che aveva le unghie dei piedi pittate, una cosa che Andrea non poteva sopportare. Si faceva chiamare Andrea per semplicità, il suo vero nome turco essendo Bülêňŧelıfyildız Åtatunçıller-Demıreleçţževitÿ, e faceva una buonissima insalata niçoise con i funghetti che comprava a Camden Market. A pranzo la rifiutai con la scusa che dovevo guidare per portare le ragazze in aeroporto, e per di più minacciose nubi temporalesche rabbuiavano West London. Ma lui sapeva che l’avrei gradita quella sera perché era lunedì, uno dei nostri segreti lunedì di piacere di cui le ragazze erano totalmente all’oscuro. Al chiarore dei flash delle speed-camera, le ragazze erano accartocciate sull’unico altro sedile della Ferrari lanciata sull’A4 per non perdere il transatlantico delle ore 15.

NyLon!, capitolo 5

Poco prima delle ore 15 del giovedì precedente la Raffa trasalì leggendo il nome del passeggero sulla carta d’imbarco e Mauro trasalì nel leggere la targhetta sulla sua uniforme. Superati il momento di smarrimento e gli imbarazzati convenevoli di circostanza, lo fece accomodare e cercò di concentrarsi sulla procedura di taxi.

- Preghiamo i signori passeggeri di allacciarsi le scarpe di sicurezza e togliere le cinture coi tacchi alti in caso di emergenza. Sotto il sedile c’è la maschera da gonfiare e sopra di voi il salvagente all’ossigeno. Le uscite di emergenza sono situate alla vostra destra se votate Tory, alla vostra destra se votate Labour, alla vostra destra se votate radicale, e alla vostra sinistra andate all’inferno ché sono tutte bloccate. Dopo il decollo sarà servito uno spuntino halal per i signori terroristi

Incurante dei mormorii tra i passeggeri innervositi, per tutta la durata del volo lasciò gli altri 17 della prima classe alle cure di Maria Cristina per occuparsi premurosamente del vecchio amico che non vedeva da vent’anni. Rievocarono l’infanzia di giochi spensierati nella loro verde Gorgonzola, la tenera adolescenza quando lui veniva a prenderla alla scuola delle austere suore ditaline col vespino “preso in prestito” a quell’occhialuto e brufoloso secchione della terza C, come si chiamava?, Severgnini, e il momento tristissimo della separazione per prendere strade diverse nella vita, lui col servizio militare da pompiere a Pordenone, lei a cercar fortuna nell’eccitante e controversa Londra della Thatcher e dei Sex Pistols. Da allora si erano persi di vista. Qualche letterina, sempre meno frequente, e un ventennale silenzio oggi per caso spezzato dal fracasso dei quattro reattori portarli verso i trentamila piedi. Discendendo qualche ora dopo nelle turbolenze si tennero per mano, intimamente immaginandole masturbolenze, e si diedero appuntamento per cenare da lui tre ore dopo. Rosse o nere? La Raffa aveva poco tempo per decidere. Rosse! L’etiope o il cinese? Mauro non aveva tempo per cucinare. L’etiope, più piccante. La serata trascorse piacevolissima sul balconcino della piccola ma accogliente tana in Roosevelt Island dell’informatissimo giornalista, corrispondente dell’autorevole mensile di futurologia politica “Domani”, che l’intratteneva amabilmente aggiornandola sulle loro vecchie conoscenze nell’aristocrazia alternativa meneghina.

- E la Daria Veronesi, che fine ha fatto?

- Ha sposato un riccone, Iuri Maria Prada, quello delle scarpe sexy 

- Ma non era Litta Modignani, quello delle scarpe?

- Sì, ma ortopediche

L’atmosfera di complicità era pervasa da una stuzzicante tensione erotica, ma si faceva tardi per l’ultima corsa della funivia e Mauro volle dimostrarsi gentiluomo facendole capire che se lei avesse voluto l’avrebbe accompagnata a casa.

- Dove abiti a Manhattan?

- Sessantanove

- East o West?

- Qui sul divano

NYLON!, capitolo 23.

Alla mezzanotte dell’Europa centrale che separava la domenica dal lunedì, e quell’ottobre dal novembre 2004, eccezionali misure di sicurezza erano in atto per l’imbarco di 200 militonti radicali a Fiumicino e altrettanti a Malpensa sul volo charter della Svirgin che li avrebbe portati al congresso del partito a New York. Rincuorato dall’essere citato in questo capitolo dopo essere stato singolarmente ignorato nel precedente, Daniele Capezzone fu accompagnato ad imbarcarsi da un siparietto delle sue concubine appena scese dalla limousine, Orietta, Silvietta e Antonetta improvvisarono una danza del ventre a beneficio degli altri ospiti della prima classe il lugubre: architettopiteco esperantriste Albergo Licheri con la deliziosa mogliettina Sara Piccardo e i loro rispettivi consiglieri spirituali don Domenico Spena e il teologo fondamentalista Cosimo Bandinelli. Con Capezzone e le sue concubine, i prestigiosi ospiti furono fatti accomodare dalla Raffa e Maria Cristina ad occupare quasi metà della prima classe, che si animò un’ora dopo a Malpensa con l’imbarco del Frocio radicale unico Nicolino Tesoni e, accompagnato dal fedele ginecologo veteriminese Dr Tabar, il candido magnate indo-orobico John Patel. Con il suo corpo marmoreo e il suo profilo michelangiolesco, la sconfinata cultura e l’eloquente oratoria, l’Editore metapatavino unicorno colpì subito l’attenzione di Maria Cristina, che se ne innamorò a prima vista e gli sedette accanto a tubare per il resto del volo. Anche l’EMU era molto ben impressionato dall’affascinante creatura e sentiva crescere incontenibile in lui l’irrefrenabile desiderio di possederla, ma glielo impediva la sua stoica fedeltà ai sani principi della sessualità alternativa: sotto le leggiadre apparenze di quell’angelo danzante si celava probabilmente un diavolo tentatore che avrebbe voluto convertirlo all’eresia eterosessuale. Estrasse perciò da una tasca interna il Carlomanera che portava sempre con se’ in caso si fosse imbattuto in tali eventualità ed, erettolo a crocifisso, lo introdusse nella Maria Cristina carlomanerizzandola fino all’orgasmo multiplo, ma evitando così che il suo nobile Organo venisse direttamente in contatto con la satanica ed assatanata malafemmina.

Intanto che a New York la MGM era rimbalzata sul tetto dell’auto nuova di Suttora-Bordini - che se la ritrovò nella improvvisata sala stampa al quindicesimo piano in Roosevelt Island insieme agli altri colleghi giornalisti italiani inviati al congresso radicale di New York -, a Londra in Cowley Street, portandosi via un doppio colpetto di malto singolo, Janine lasciò la stanza appena entrai. Vi rimase a imbarazzarmi la dirigenza del partito che mi aveva convocato. Charles era contornato da Menzies e Vincent, rispettivamente il ministro ombra degli esteri e il cancelliere dello scacchiere in pectore, che mi scrutavano scetticamente dall’alto delle loro sciatiche. Intuî che stavolta si sarebbe trattato di un esamino meno facile del solito. Superati i convenevoli doppi colpetti di malto singolo, Charles diede la parola a Menzies, che con lo sguardo profondo mi mise alla prova.

- Indicare l’esponente politico vagamente somigliante a Pannella che dopo il successo elettorale del 2001 si spinse a dichiarare noi Lib-Dem essere il partito radicale britannico

Non ebbi bisogno di rispondere verbalmente, semplicemente puntando il dito indicai il vanitoso Menzies. Poi venne il turno di Vincent farmi la sua domanda trabocchetto.

- Indicare l’economista liberista britannico che a differenza di Pannella non si sognerebbe neanche in un incubo di fare segretario del partito uno scalmanato fanatico estremista come Capezzone

Il dito stupefatto dalla facilità del test, silente si spostò a indicare lo stesso Vincent, che con Menzies uscì soddisfatto mentre rientrava Janine con in una mano il suo bicchierino vuoto e nell’altra una busta per Charles. Nel prendere la busta e servirle un doppio colpetto di malto singolo, il leader proferì porgendomele tutt’e tre

- Hai passato il test. Ecco la prenotazione a tuo nome per il congresso radicale a New York. Ci aspettiamo il meglio da te. Parti subito con Gary e la Turka altrimenti perdi l’aereo

Partî subito per Heathrow con Gary e la Turka, agguantando la prenotazione ma lasciandogli il generoso doppio colpetto di doppio malto sulla scrivania, e sulle ginocchia la generosa tesoriera del partito.

NyLon! - capitolo 27


La concubina Silvietta fu l’unica a percepire una vaga inquietudine che avrebbe potuto portarla a sospettare qualcosa pur coperta dalla lunga barba, poteva riconoscere una notevole somiglianza tra l’erezione dello sconosciuto passeggero accanto a lei e quella tipica dell’attore playboy Gabriele Sessarego nei film del genere catastrofaeronautico in cui interpretava il suo vecchio grande amore bin Dupuis. A ben vedere, barba a parte era tutto intero il passeggero a somigliare, gesticolare, odorare, orinare ed eiaculare a spruzzo come quel segretario di partito che l’aveva tanto amata e poi ripudiata per la lotta armata contro gli infedeli. Ma Silvietta era troppo timida e imbarazzata per lanciare l’allarme, che comunque non avrebbe sortito effetto alcuno. Infatti tutti gli altri passeggeri, per la gioia di quell’escursione turistica in cui si apprestavano a timbrare un altro mandato a Capezzone, erano euforici come lo sarebbero stati in gita dei boy-scout, il cui motto

- Estoti Parati! Estoti Parati!

farneticava danzando in prima classe con Maria Cristina l’eminente Editore unifrocio. Questa atmosfera da orchestra del Titanic si era creata grazie ai nostri altri due agenti, Gary e la Turka, per tutta la durata del volo imboscati nel cesso inalare incessantemente cannabis espirandone i vapori nel sistema di aria condizionata della cabina, per cui tutti i passeggeri felicemente inebriati avevano goduto di meravigliose fantasie oniriche. Daniele Capezzone aveva sognato di potersi finalmente liberare delle flaccide sembianze di Marco Cappato per incarnarsi in quelle granitiche del bionico vice-presidente Dick Cheney e così succedere Bush nel 2008. Da parte sua la meno pretenziosa Rita Bernardini aveva sognato di poter veramente divenire la tesoriera Janine dei lib-dem, che’ oltre a essere un partito più serio e meno serioso le avrebbe garantito una decorosa pensione di gratuiti doppi colpetti di malto singolo. E in tema scozzese, Abigail aveva avuto il sogno più improbabile di un weekend a Glasgow senza pioggia. Invece il candido magnate indo-orobico John Patel aveva sognato di fare un giro di prova sulle concubine per verificare se avesse potuto sollevarle dalla sciagura di servire Capezzone per assumerle lui, nel ruolo socialmente più utile di assistenti di volo per la sua compagnia, considerato che la Raffa e Maria Cristina erano ormai avanti con gli anni e nella sua saggezza di imprenditore era suo dovere cominciare a pensare a un ricambio generazionale. L’architettopiteco Albergo Licheri sognava sempre e solo in esperanto e dunque non pote’ che sognare la notte in cui conobbe la popstar esperantista e se ne innamorò a prima vista. Dopo una serata tristanzuola di dibattito coi lib-dem sul sistema elettorale australiano, si era trascinato al pub irlandese per deprimersi ulteriormente affogando i suoi dispiaceri e devastante solitudine in un ennesimo giovedì sera di vomitevole dysko-musik polacca al watering hole di Acton che gli aveva consigliato Capezzone dopo una visita a Londra. Era ormai alla quinta pinta quando salì sul palco l’avvenente notaia polacca Agnyeska Rostropova, che in attesa del permesso di lavoro si guadagnava da vivere con l’intrigante nome d’arte di Sara Piccardo. Il suo soffice biondo vello, gli occhioni verdi e la boccuccia di rosa, ma più che altro il culetto diciottenne e l’aquilino nasoppio armeno-giudaico-greco-romano lo mandarono in brodo di giuggiole. Terminata la performance, soprendendosi egli stesso del suo tanto osare, l’Albergo si offrì per accompagnarla. Come spesso accade in questi casi, era una notte buia e tempestosa. Scoppiò infatti un violento uragano e l’Albergo trascinò Sara a rifugiarsi inzuppati in una cabina del telefono

- Mo’ ke kavolon famo qui insido fintantoké enda el tempestoj atmosferiko?

Spaventata dai tuoni e fulmini chiese la Piccardo-Rostropova in perfetto esperanto. Uscito dalla facoltà di architettjattura laureato a pieni voti con una tesi sulla teoria quantistica dei baci cabino-telefonici, per comprovarla nella pratica l’Albergo Licheri aspettava da una vita quella domanda come e più di quanto un cinefilo taxista newyorchese si aspetterebbe da un momento all’altro James Bond dirigerlo a inseguire il taxi del collega di fronte appena partito con a bordo il cattivo di turno. D’entrambi unzippando gl’impermeabili, Licheri insinuò le mani a riscaldarle le braccia in modo apparentemente amichevole, per poi protettivamente scendere la destra su un suo fianco e ascendere la maldeztra - come direbbe Bonino in ezperanto per zignificare la ziniztra -, intrufolarsi a sfiorarle la pelle d’oca sulla spalla ancora intirizzita dal freddo e il pallido collo di cigno fino ad accarezzarle il bernoccolino sulla nuca marchio di ogni intelligente popstar esperantista, e in men che non si dica, coi rispettivi sguardi strabirsi e sfuocarsi tuffandosi gli uni negli altri, passionalmente le loro lingue si incontrarono ancor prima delle loro labbra. Interferiva nel bel sogno d’amore l’odioso DJ, il prete rockettaro pedofilo e avifago don Domenico Spena, in realtà anch’egli un notaio polacco invidioso del successo della connazionale e geloso che questa gli preferisse l’Albergo.

Post cancellato per riorganizzazione della Letteratura Sottosopra, ma conservato per i commenti