Well, you can Google its history, dimensions and relative recent UNESCO status in 2008. But let me tell you that this city-state is stocked to the gunwales with knocked off Chanel No.5, swords the length of trombone slides, and not a smattering of guns and knives.
Faced with this shopfront array of weaponry, rather than linger too long over views of the snow-mantled Tuscan-Emilian Apennines – and the Adriatic Coast to the east – I felt myself subliminally lured to the Torture Museum. Goodness, what a disquieting collection of wickedness.
Don’t Worry, Be Happy
The clue is in the title, I suppose. I mean, I wasn’t expecting polka dots, gaily painted cells and Bob Marley, but before you’ve even got through the door, there are iron instruments to make your hair stand on end. Man’s inhumanity really is staggering.
Enter and it only gets worse. On display are knee-splitters, thumb screws, the “heretic’s fork”, the breast ripper, the “Spanish tickler” and the rectal pear, to name but a few. Mind you, the last three sound like items Pervy Ray might warm up with on one of his Monday afternoon gangbangs.
I saw him last week, by the way. Yes, Norfolk’s very own Scarlet Pimpernel, as I like to think of him, popped down to see us in Milan, to collect one of the smaller dinosaurs for some TV promos back in the UK. And he lost no time in getting pervy, explaining his less than polished attire in the next paragraph.
‘I suppose you’ve never heard of the London Pissing Club?’ he asked, seated and barely seconds into his starter. ‘Pissing Sue was great – she used to lie on the pavement and do a whale impression. Almost six feet in the air, she could do. Floor used to get soaked. Trick was to wear old clothes, you see.’ Ah, the penny drops – I knew there’d be a reason why he looks like a homeless fisherman.
Pervy Ray broke a hunk of bread and spooned in some soup before continuing, po-faced as usual, bemoaning the advent of the internet. ‘Course it’s all changed nowadays,’ he rued. ‘Even dogging’s not what it was.’…