Who Are You And What Have You Done With Nick?

The management finally crack a smile at our first leg. They've seen an audience of around thirty thousand pass through the two dozen theatres or so, and as a mark of appreciation we are given enormous panettones to take home. So large in fact that we have to pay extra at check-in to take them as hand luggage.  Dean is broke so tries to eat his in the queue. No mean feat given it's bigger than his head.
As the plane takes off for Blighty Adam starts again on his engine failure story. This time however, two months down the line, it has no effect. Indeed, I fix him with a dispassionate eye and then, for the first time in my life, I actually fall asleep on a plane.
Reader, I am changed.
We're back on the 7th January.

Morcambe And Wise Christmas Special

For the last show before the break I dress up as Buttock the Butler and come on as a new underling of Jim's, hoping that this hilarious prank will cause Adam and Dean to corpse uncontrollably and we can all go home for Christmas full of goodwill, bonhomie, and, moreover, furnished with a tip top theatrical anecdote.
Jim and I spend some time sourcing a new costume, rehearsing new lines, and crafting a slapstick exchange. Ruth and Pebble are in on the gag and lurk in the wings full of anticipation, their excited laughter stifled behind bronchial, mucous-stained lace gloves (they've not been well).
Jim and I launch onto the stage and, in front of six hundred joyously howling Lodi citizens, deliver a golden comedy routine that goes on for quite some time to the unquestioned delight of all.
'I feel so alive!' I say to Jim after we've exited to a round of applause (or a round of our customary constant talking).
'Me too!'
'You were wonderful,' say Ruth and Pebble, clutching their sides.
Meanwhile on stage:
Dean: What happened there?
Adam: Dunno, mate.

Last Days Of The Roman Empire

Lodi is a pretty town on the River Adda, further enhanced by some very tasteful Christmas decorations. It seems extraordinary that I have unspent per diems but Franco, who has returned to see out the final few shows, has issued a series of directives designed to limit the amount of free time available in which to spend per diems on Christmas presents for our loved ones, or on booze.
There are many irritating features of this new regime, but alongside the surprise doubling up of shows in the run-in, and the careful choice of hotels way out of town, there is the instruction to be in costume an hour and a half before going on.
Adam is furious at such a hard line at this late stage. And rightly so. Despite a few early hiccups we've started over fifty shows perfectly prepared and he feels that he doesn't need to be told when to put his costume on, so he is meeting this demand with rank defiance. Backstage, the atmosphere crackles.
At the hour and a half mark Adam is not only costume-less, but he's also nowhere to be seen, cocking a snook at Franco's first commandment.
At the hour, Adam appears having 'taken a turn around the town.' Franco is moved to smell his breath. Adam is innocent. Franco wonders if he's been drinking odourless ethanol.
Half an hour before curtain up, Franco sticks his head around Adam's dressing room door.
'Get into costume,' he growls.
'When it is time,' says Adam.
'It is time now.'
'It is not time now.'
Franco glares at him and then retreats. He smokes a cigar. He looks at our 'contract'. He finds nothing specific about the hour of dressing. He grinds his teeth. He returns at the quarter hour.
'Get into costume.'
'When I am ready.'
Franco's jaw bunches up in fury. He retreats again. He's seen scratching the large scar that runs from the top of his throat down to God knows where. He prowls. Another ten minutes pass. He returns.
'Now get into costume.'
'In a minute.'
'It was time an hour ago, it is time now.'
'It's not time, Franco.'
It's eyeball to eyeball.
The rest of us bottled it ages ago, we've all got quite involved costumes which need to be delicately handled as they're falling to bits, so we've broken under Franco's glare and are ready to go on. Despite previous failures, Franco believes Adam too can be broken. He dredges up from the depths of his Italian psyche some ancient Roman will.
'Get ... into ... your ... Oscar ... Wilde ... costume.'
A line which even Caligula would've struggled with, but it's not without its dark undertones.
'When it is time,' says Adam.
Franco throws Adam's shirt at him.
'Put it on.'
'I'll put it on at a time of my choosing.'
It's cracking stuff. The audience are in and the house lights are dimming and the intro music is being cued. Adam continues to read his novel. Franco appears to eat his lit cigar. It's like he's encountered some new breed of Palomino horse which is resistant to spurs and the whip.
And then, as the music plays, something seems to break inside Franco. His shoulders slump. His eyes lose their fire. His Roman nose drops. Perhaps it was the Oscar Wilde line, or the fact that both Jim and I are standing next to him wearing massive foam breasts, but he knows that this is like a struggle against the Gauls, or the Picts, it can't be won by the rules he lives by.
He leaves Adam to his own, independent, costume arrangements.
We let out a collective breath. What a battle.
Adam smiles and calmly bookmarks his page.
'Round two to us, I think,' he says. There are tears in Ruth's eyes.
Then he turns while.
'Oh fuck, I've left my trousers in the van.'
We go up late for the very first time.

Who Is That Masked Man

Last Milan show. One more town and we're home for Christmas. To celebrate we eat tripe and watch a dubbed Zorro film.
I can't wait to let my family know about the glamour of this gig.

Agitators

The police raid a commune in the city. This commune is a loose collective of artists and provocateurs which holds gigs, happenings, and prints its own inflammatory pamphlets. During the raid computers are smashed, equipment confiscated and arrests made, though some key figures in the organisation are still at large. The Milan media asks the public to be vigilant.
Lelle has a black eye. He says he bumped into a door.

One Nil

Dean and Adam accompany Lelle to the San Siro stadium to watch Internazionale Milano play Associazione Calcio Milan. Interestingly AC Milan was founded as the Milan Football and Cricket Club by a Nottingham lace maker and is traditionally supported by the working class in the city. A schism in the early years of the club created Inter, which is supported in the main by the well healed middle classes.
Consequently, these home derbies are not without their tensions, and such tensions are largely drawn along class lines.
This particular game has internal tensions of its own. Lelle's girlfriend comments that Adam 'has hot hands' which must be some Italian euphemism as it communicates to Lelle that Adam is trying to steal his girlfriend. Thus enraged he starts to beat up Adam, and then starts to beat up Dean. The fight continues in the stands for some time until the police are called and, in Dean's words, 'things get a bit wonky.'
Adam and Dean are returned to the hotel six hours later and refuse to talk about it. The subsequent show is monumentally tense.
Alberto, one of the senior members of the theatre company's management, is flown in to peace keep. He makes Adam and Lelle shake hands. Lelle is reluctant at first but then thaws markedly as he does so - seems Adam really does have hot hands. His girlfriend was merely being descriptive.
'Fucking minefield this country,' says Adam.

European Opera

In the trattoria today, the chef, who is built like a brick shit house, takes time out from the kitchen to paint a mural on the walls using what appears to be blood. The proprietor comes into the dining room and screams at him to wash it off. The chef stares and him and huffs like a bull. The proprietor, a small fiery homunculus again urges the chef to stop daubing the walls with blood (or red paint). The chef again refuses. The chef is fired on the spot. The trattoria gasps. The chef throws down his gore (still most likely paint, but even after staring at it for some time it remains ambiguous) and leaves to the dismay of the waitress who chases him out wailing in torment. A number of diners cheer. They clearly know the history here, and this is the thrilling climax.
We English have been privileged to witness the poetic end game. Furthermore, we've already been served our food, so our appreciation is unalloyed.
Other diners have not yet been served, and, for them, the lack of a chef and waitress suddenly turns the opera to a piece of annoying crap.