This is the postcard where I just dump stuff.

The parts, and places, that didn’t quite get the time – or warrant the attention of their own, individual postcard.

The disappearance of Cacio e Pepe from the average restaurant/tourist menu was rather disappointing. Travellers clearly no longer see the want or the value in plain pasta, cheese and ground pepper.

You’re as, if not more likely to get foreign beer in the restaurants and trattorias near the main sites.

I still absolutely adore eating a sweet, sugary cornetto for my breakfast – it’s why I’ve smuggled some back with my shampoo.

What ever connotations and historical wrongs that may be associated with the Vittorio Emanuele II Monument – it is still, day or night, one of the most impressive buildings I have ever seen.

Frascati is definitely only worth drinking in Lazio.

I think I prefer using the dirty, horrible but quick and regular transport of Rome than London. Fact it costs €1 for a 75 minute journey sells it to me.

Graffiti is as much alive today as it was in Ancient Rome. Just not as political – nor offering any kind of message.

There really is no such thing as garlic bread in Italy.

Romans appear to have no time for Ugg boots.

That it’s easy to spend a lot of money, very quickly, if you can see something famous from where you eat.

That you can never eat too much salami.

That Fritti Romana is as good a style of food as any – when you are really in the mood for it.

That the crema on the coffee in Caffe Sant’Eustachio is so luxuriant that it makes the normale look like Macchiatos.

That Pistachio is still king of the Gelato!

That it’s good to go back somewhere after four years – and still enjoy the food (Da Bucatino, Testaccio)

That Naples pizza, any pizza, is just Rome’s poor relation.

That there must be one person controlling the tat sold by the lookie-lookie men.

That a great number of people signing epetitions over the price of a pint in the UK, would turn a blind eye to how much one costs in the better bars of Rome.

That I’d love a big bowl of pasta for dinner tonight. Even though we are now back in Leeds.

That I could bore you to tears with how good LLK has been this week.

That Rome is not the only love I have reaffirmed this week.

And there it is – and so, for the final time this trip:

Ciao

I feel bloated.

It’s post beer, rich food, average night’s sleep – bloated.

Sleep interrupted by thoughts of a return – thoughts of a departure. I think we all had those thoughts. Even LLK – who spent three nights comfortably sleeping in a double bed, before falling out of it on her last night.

In a city whose history has been dominated by the gods, by one god; I have to take that as a sign.

Or, I can just assume that my daughter turned over one too many times in her sleep. Logic prevails.

An old me, mentality – not of passing years – would have moped around until
It was time to get the taxi. Negative thoughts cascading behind my eyes.

This me, the one who put up a number of barriers that proved to be easily surmountable on this trip – well, he can only see the challenges ahead. The challenge of how to make this return trip; become the outward trip – going forward.

I’m off home to see my dog, to improve on my Italian (with or without Michele Thomas’s help), work on my Cacio e Pepe and add Suppli to the list of items I like to cook.

I’ll be hitting Pinterest hard with ideas, dreams – real experiences of this trip. Just on the off chance that this me, actually comes through with a vision.

A vision – of one day returning to Rome; as a ‘native’ of these shores.

Ciao

What a mess.

I’m finding it hard to watch the images on the screen. Even harder listening to the empty shell of a man trying to fathom why someone has set fire to his family business.

What makes it hard is that the images are not from some far off battlefield, or political hotspot – but London; my London.

OK – so it’s some six years and more since I last lived in London, but then – unless you really want to – I don’t think you ever truly erase the identity of where you were born. My accent betrays me the instant I start to speak – the words I use, not necessarily slang in form, can be traced back to my youth. Even the odd mannerism – the Italians talk with their hands, were as Londoners talk with their eyes – a glare, a wink – a sparkle.

So to see the utter carnage left behind by the looters, rioters and ne’er-do-wells is sometimes too much to take. Too much to think “I’ve been on that street,” “I know that burning building;” “I’ve drunk in that smashed up pub.”

I always joke with friends who have settled in London from all over the globe that much like a London cabbie – I don’t go south, mate. But it is impossible to detach my love of London from the scenes of vandalism, even if they are beamed to my screen from Croydon or Clapham. It’s one big fantastic city – that really doesn’t deserve this.

My manor, as Guy Ritchie might pen, has been unaffected so far. There’s not much to loot in a leafy suburb where every other shop is a take away emporium; or the biggest building for miles is a hospital. No joy to be had from the industrial estates around near where I used to live, which specialised in gas tanks and light bulbs. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t simmer with the same outrage as those not far from the scenes of the crime. Not with fear, or distress at the loss of house and home – but in the lesser, absolute desire to see these people removed from “our” streets.

Desire though, appears to affect the decision making process of people in a variety of ways. Some fear their outrage has peaked so much, that they are now singing from the same hymn sheet as those positioned on the right – as though their texts and tweets have been lifted straight from the comments section of the Daily Fail.

But then this is a natural cycle of hatred, disappointment and despair. Wanting the police to charge a man throwing a brick does not necessarily mean you are polling station away from joining the ranks of an extremist political party, but it does indicate that we can’t always keep a check of our emotions, when confronted with scenes our brains simply cannot compute.

I thought I saw the last of this kind of unrest when Wembley’s, Chalkhill Estate was converted in to an Asda supermarket in the ‘90s. Unrest in Chalkhill and Stonebridge Park – nothing more than a thrown half brick or Molotov cocktail from the leafy avenues – was fairly common place when I was a kid. It was always a sketchy situation when drawn to play a side that used a football pitch which backed on to one of those estates. But when trouble did erupt, they did actually mess their own doorstep battling police – rather than finding a quick route in and out of the high street. Wembley was a dump, but when times were hard in Thatcher’s Britain and the housing estates felt disenfranchised from the populace, no one rose up and took out their anger on Our Price or Woolworths – they took it out on the soulless; lacking any kind of hope or future, grey landscape they had to inhabit.

They at first tarted up, and then knocked down most of Chalkhill – due in part to the climate of fear and unrest around the area. What can they do now, when the unrest is not localised – where the inhabitants may well live in the sort of postcodes that Estate Agents are desperately trying to promote as up-and-coming?

There’s been chatter of people wanting water cannons, rubber bullets and the army on the street – effectively the same kind of policing people saw in Belfast. Is martial law really the answer?

I hope not. I hope that tonight when I turn on the TV, that the police have been given firmer instructions as to what they can do – go about their jobs, under guidance both from bosses and in law – and reclaim the streets for the millions of innocent people whose lives have been affected by these retched opportunists – for that is all they are. This isn’t an uprising born out of a cause – this is just greed – greed to take from others in the simplest, easiest, most damaging way possible.

Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner – that even from Leeds I can’t but help get ever so slightly emotional about what my city has become over this past weekend. I always say I’d move back in a heartbeat – possibly that of an endurance cyclist now. Still, even if I never do as I am happy to call Leeds my home – it’s on my birth certificate, it’s in my accent, my taste in music, clothes, football team and even beer.

My vision of London sits in a bubble – where I take Lauren to the National History Museum, before walking through one of its many, magnificent parks – up through the galleries and theatre land before catching Christmas lights, food, drink and a home win for Spurs along the way. When I look at people smashing windows, burning cars or goading the police – I start to wonder whether that bubble is all I have left of my London.

This guest post is part of a series of first memories of football. As the piece explains, this match wasn’t my first actually footballing memory – more the first time I can recall football actually meaning something more than just being a game, on TV, where the result was a mere formality.

When it started to mean more than what it really should:

Yesterday we sat around a table eating food with people we call friends. It was the second Sunday in succession that we’ve had reason to do that.

Some of those friends we get to see on a weekly or at least monthly basis. Others, we haven’t seen – or may not see for years. Yet we still use the same word to describe them – to categorise their presence within our lives; to mark the special relationship we share.

I’ve written to you about the importance family will play in your life. I think my view of family is often dictated by the hours of Irish/Italian American themed TV programmes I watch – positioning myself as the patriarch of a big family – that brings his loved ones together to celebrate a big event; or to be there to support each other when we need to.

Now it’s highly unlikely that your mum and I will have another three or four children, or need a dinner table to accommodate 10 grand children – but it’s not hard to think that we could replace those faces around the table, with that of our friends – your friends.

It’s hard to explain the concept of a friend without drawing parallels with family. We don’t get to choose our family, but then in some ways we don’t always choose our friends. Sometimes we are simply thrown together. We meet them at school, at work, through our partners (in the boy/girl love each other sense). We even meet them on train platforms, on dance floors, in darkened corners of pubs or in the wide open space of fields and festivals. It’s true we can choose whether we want to keep them or not – but if there is an initial spark, that makes you want to engage further, then that person will be a friend for as long as you still find them engaging.

The best friends are the ones you don’t have to try with. You simply pick up the relationship from where ever you left it – bridging the gaps with simple dialogue about what you’ve been up to, or even what you saw on television last night. They are the ones where you don’t have to run through the list of family members who live under your roof; or regurgitate the same conversations about work – that thing you don’t even like talking to yourself about. There’s no floundering, no awkward silence – just clinking of glassware, laughter and the occasional interruption of each other’s personal space.

For real friends still seem to be able to keep an eye on your life, even from a distance. Of course we have email or social media to update those we may not see on a regular basis – but there’s still something about a great friend where they can get up to speed in an instant, just by referencing a name, a place, a memory. Back in to the old routine once more.

It’s not to say that acquaintances – friends without loyalty cards – are any less important. They can flash in and out of your life, yet be there at profound moments when close friends are not. The only difference here is that you’ll share the immediacy of those memories – but won’t necessarily remind each other once the moment has passed. Close friends on the other hand, will know about the moment and share the joy or sadness with you, even though they were never initially involved. That’s how important your bond is.

But what happens when friendships change – when things go sour, or you simply move on? Well, that highlights the fragility of the bonds we share. I’m not in regular contact with anyone I went to school or college with; couldn’t even tell you how to get in touch with anyone I went to university with – and have lost touch with countless people I would call a true, lifelong friend – simply because I moved house, left work; no longer like what brought us together in the first place. But that doesn’t mean the relationship is over. We could casually bump in to each other – decide to call each other; be reintroduced by mutual friends. We could argue the reasons we fell out. We could simply shake hands, hug or kiss our way back in to each other’s lives – or worse still, we could simply talk about family numbers and the job we now do. Only memories will stop us from being true friends again – but the thought of making new memories could be too irresistible to turn down. Only you can decide whether it is worth it in the long run.

Friends aren’t part of our nuclear family, but they are part of what you might call our wider family – and at times they will be more important to you than your mum and me. They will be the first person you turn to, the person you share life with, the reason for your happiness – and in some cases, why you feel down. They won’t necessarily be with you all your life – you won’t always be able to run around the garden with them in just your pants – but you will find yourself sat around a dinner table with them, on a frequent basis, talking about everything other than the number of kids you have or what job you do.

Embrace the good in all the people you meet, for that will draw out the attributes that turns someone from an acquaintance in to a friend. A good friend will then be born from the desire to share as many memories as possible with. A brilliant friend will come from all of that, without you even thinking about it.

Ok, so the title is slightly misleading.

It’s not meant to imply that porn is the friend; a crutch I rely on when I’m down or have certain urges.

No. What I mean is that I have a friend who works in the porn industry. A friend who now goes by the professional name of Lara Latex – her real world name forever lost to her thousands of fans on facebook and twitter.

We met at college. We were on the same course, though she was in the year above. We played on the same Volleyball team, had the same group of mates and went on the same nights out – though I think we both would have preferred to have been somewhere less commercial in the main.

Our friendship blossomed as her final year at college drew to a close. If the weather was nice, I’d actively seek her out to walk towards a tube station via her house, even though it added at least half an hour to my journey home. She was a great sounding board – someone who would happily (I think) listen for hours as I battled through the latest, teen-related angst issue that clouded my day.

We shared a great number of interests, happy times and even, it appeared, shared the same career aspirations – which for a time, she was the only one to fulfil.

And then it all changed.

I found out about “Lara’s” new vocation innocently enough – if you call using a scrambled cable box after far too many drinks, an innocent thing. Nothing can prepare you for the shock of seeing someone you know as a friend, in such an intimate – adult entertainment setting. I remember turning over so as to erase the memory, embarrassed that I was peering in to a part of her world that I wasn’t meant to. A quick text confirmed that it was definitely her, and yes – she was happy. Yet the fact that I didn’t know highlights how much the friendship had drifted.

We recently got back in touch via twitter. The thing about social media is that it not only allows you to reacquaint with those you have lost touch with, it also aids you in terms of reflection on a great number of things – to consider what you have, and even what might have been – should you want to go down that route. Talking to “Lara” made me realise how much distance – both physical and professional – there was now between us.

I doubt for one minute that if you had eavesdropped in on one of those walks home – you would ever have been able to predict the paths our lives would have taken to where you find us today. But is that not the fascinating aspect to the choices we can make within our lives? The fact that they are not pre-ordained; not set in stone – no matter what we may think as innocent youths; who assume their lives won’t alter and they’ll remain friends for a very long time.

Lives do change – ours changed for the better.

University originally took us apart, and although there were opportunities for the friendship to develop further – for whatever reason it never happened. Then a call at a bad time, a lost phone before the days of backing up and the new career choices affecting both our lives put distance and a lot of memories between us – ones we were never likely to share.

I’m not ashamed to admit that even though I’ve known of her career choice for a decade now, I still feel slightly prudish when I see some of her tweets or facebook entries. Offers of images uploaded for her fans, or requests to vote for her in an industry award – at one point I’d have been the first in line to give her my support, but that was in a sporting context or when she felt down after an exam. Following a link to a website organised by a TV channel too high in the listings for a married, father of one – is something I feel uneasy doing.

But then why should I feel that way? Some of her tweets, sent in real time situations, are nothing worse than you would see dramatised in the ITV programme, Belle de Jour. She is often mocking, playful, cutting – those same personality traits she displayed when younger; but this is not on a volleyball court, or walk home. This is a window in to the adult entertainment world. A world I am not part of; where my friend is not the person I knew.

For our world will always be those spring walks home, talking about tunes, clubbing, mates and a well executed B Quick for her to hit through the middle. It’s not that I want to go back there; for I am lucky – I can use social media to reflect and come out with a positive result. I may not have wanted to be sat behind a desk or to be on the wage I am now, but I just have to go home tonight to realise what I have to be thankful for. Reading “Lara’s” tweets about living a life between the UK and Budapest, building a successful career on both sides of the camera – it’s hard not to assume that she’s also happy with her lot as well.

Her professional world may be dramatically different to mine – yet work isn’t what makes us as people, even if most of the contacts on her social media pages are driven solely by her ability to entertain. Once we walk from our office, or off set, we’re still deep down the same people we were that made us friends. Which is why I can’t open her links, go to the websites she directs “me” to or not look upon her followers with a level of disdain – as if they have no right to virtually paw at her the way they do. It’s hard not to be prudish when you still have the memories of old, which were forged long before our lives changed.

I’m confident that should we get the chance to meet up again, have a few drinks and talk about our lives – now and then – that the old friendship will kick right back in; with no effort from either side. Though I do think I’d have to get sign off, in triplicate, that Amy was happy with me out on the town with a porn star; friend or not. I even timidly checked that she was ok with me befriending “Lara” on facebook – just in case any of her mates got the wrong idea, and called me out for being a “dirty old man” – for I’m not, and for whatever need to impress reason, it’s not how I want to be viewed.

If it’s possible to be a be a prude, to feel ever so slightly protective – yet ultimately proud of a friend, then that is what I feel for “Lara”. She’s forging a career for herself as a leading light in her industry, nominated for awards and has thousands hanging on her every facebook entry. I’d love that popularity – just don’t expect me to take my clothes off any time soon.

If however you are partial to the sort of material that “Lara” produces or performs in, and you don’t feel the need to check with the wife if this is ok, then please do access her material legally; do vote for her in her industry awards. Do even follow her on twitter – though chances are she’ll no doubt bore you with her love for Hercule Poirot; though I’m not entirely certain that dialogue is her biggest asset these days.