Things ain’t what they used to be!

I may have mentioned that my grandson has been trying to teach me to play FIFA in the Xbox. My skills remain execrable. At the small boy’s insistence I had to choose a team to play as. He plays as Barcelona as a rule. I decided to be Celta Vigo. Needless to say, Barça usually wins. However, in the real world, last night Celta Vigo defeated Real Madrid. The score was 2:0. A number of my Vigo friends were very excited about it on Facebook. That’s how I heard about it. Other Vigo friends of mine, Real Madrid fans, are no doubt less pleased about it. 

We seem to have watched quite a lot of Italian police drama over the last week and all of it set during, at the end of or just after the Second World War. There was an excellent RAI series about Commissario De Luca, a gentleman who didn’t want to be a fascist or a partisan but just a policeman – sono un poliziotto. The poor thing found himself constantly up against superiors who told him exactly who could or couldn’t be investigated. No wonder he looked so worn down all the time. Then there was a film about Commissario Nardone, who also had bossy superiors but slightly less determined to be politically correct. This film had an Italian soundtrack but at times the actors’ mouths seemed out of sync with the words. When we saw the cast list we found that most of the actors had names ending in ...ic: Serbian. A film which purported to take place in Milan but almost certainly was filmed in Serbia. Presumably it was cheaper that way. All you needed to do was have the occasional panoramic view of Milan and all was well. 

At what point, I wonder, do the Italian actors whose voices were used get credit? I know that there is a whole branch of the Spanish film industry, or perhaps it would be better to say the acting profession, devoted to dubbing. Famous Hollywood actors are always dubbed by the same people so that viewers associate voices with faces. It must be odd when you first hear the true voice of an actor you have admired for years. 

Another thing that struck me was the number of moustaches sported by the Italian policeman in all the TV we have been watching: some fine moustaches and some excellent hats! You don’t see policemen like that any more. 

I read this morning that the king of the gypsies in Spain has been having family problems. Who knew that there was a king of the gypsies? Apparently he lives in Tomiño, Galicia, near the Portuguese border. If anyone had asked me about a possible king of the gypsies, I would have thought that he would live down in the south of Spain somewhere. Anyway, just like the king of Spain he has been having problems with his offspring not behaving as they should. The Guardia Civil in Tui have arrested four of his sons for attacking a lawyer and some policemen at the end of April. Clearly it’s not easy being king these days. 

Earlier today I tried to get in telephone my bank. I wanted to make an appointment for us to see a financial adviser to discuss our ISAs and make sure we are getting the best deal. So I went online and found a phone number. I was a little concerned that the number was one of those 0845 numbers and not an obviously local number but it was all I had so I got dialing. 

First of all an recorded voice asked for my bank card number, assuring me that no-one would ask me for my bank account number or password over the phone. Then they wanted my date of birth. Having jumped through those hoops I was given a series of options. You know the kind of thing: press 1 for this and 2 for that and so on. This gave me a voice telling me how much money I had in my account and how much I could withdraw. Very helpful but not really what I wanted. If I wanted to access other information, the voice told me, I should press 1. So I pressed 1. There then followed four options, none of which were appropriate so I waited. 

Lo and behold, I could hear a phone ringing. A young man answered, told me his name was Stephen, I think, and that he was in the Sheffield office. Sheffield?!? Well, at least it was in this country. He asked how he could help me. I duly told him. He was fully aware that there are two branches of the bank within a few hundred yards of each other in our town centre (how very well informed!) and tried to connect me to the one I selected. Gentle music played for a while but eventually Stephen from Sheffield came back on line and told me that he was having difficulty getting through. The lines were busy. Could I call back later? I remonstrated with him, pointing out the paraphernalia I had had to go through to get as far as I had. Then I relented. After all, it’s not really his fault. 

Time was, I could have found the local branch number in the phone book and got straight through without all that fuss. Oh, yes, I know all about the security measures and I’m all in favour but a system that takes me through 10 to 15 minutes of rigmarole and then can’t connect me isn’t all that good. 

Tomorrow, on my way to my Italian class, I shall detour through the centre of town and call in at my local branch in person to make an appointment. So it goes.