The Italian Job

Not everything I write here is true. Did you know that? Sometimes I make things up to keep you amused, but occasionally life smiles on me and something just happens.

I was locking the Bockmobile yesterday at the supermarket when a small car pulled up beside me. The driver was a stocky, vaguely Mediterranean-looking man with a jaunty little moustache and beard.

Scusi, gentlemens, he said. Maybe you speak Italiano?

I knew immediately what I was dealing with, and you probably do too. This comes up every year on radio shows: a friendly Italian man approaches you, says he’s a fashion designer, he was at a trade show and now he has this big stock of leather jackets he doesn’t want to take back to Italy with him.

I have a short fuse. I admit it. Sometimes I can tend to shoot first.

Fuck off! I told him.

You call me fuck off? he shouted back. Fuck you!!

And that seemed to be that. I regretted being so quick to say what I said, but not because I felt sorry for the thieving scumbag con-man. I just thought, Shit, that would have made a good Bockpost, if only I’d let him make his pitch. Fuck it!

And then I forgot about him.

Today, I was walking down the street when a small car pulled up beside me. The driver was stocky, vaguely Mediterranean and had a snappy little moustache with a beard but, to my surprise, he was a different swarthy mustachioed stocky foreigner.

He leaned over to the passenger window.

Excuse, please. You are speak Italian? English? You Irish, yes?

I felt myself bristling, but remembering yesterday, I restrained my tongue.

Yeah. What’s the problem?

Is no problem for me. No problem. I cannot find road to airport. Is late. I miss aeroplane. Please, where is road to airport?

No bother, I said. Turn around here, take a left, keep going, follow the signs.

Ah, grazie, he smiled. Ciao.

I replied, and waved him off.

Christ Almighty. Imagine if I’d allowed my suspicious nature to take control and told him to fuck off. He’s back home, munching his antipasti and waving his glass of Chianti at his grandmother. Those Limericks? They are crazy. I lose my way, I ask one of him for directions and he tell me Va Fanculo!!

Lost in my remorseful little thoughts, I failed to notice the small car pulling up beside me.



There he is again. Scusi please?

Jesus, I said. Did you miss the turn?

You know Brown Thomas? Is big departmen’ store here in Limerick?


Brown Thomas. I am fashion designer and I have here many clothes in car. You are business, perhaps?

Ah for fucksake, I said. Wait there a second.

And to my great surprise, he did. He waited long enough for me to take this:

18 thoughts on “The Italian Job

  1. Ha! About 3 years ago I met an Italian Gentleman in a carpark in Naas.

    Scusi, scusi.
    Non parlo Italiano, I said.

    Balh, blah, blah … as per your experience, Bock. I went away without designer coats. Too cute me. Fuck him.

    By the accent, I took him to be Romanian not Italian. But that’s a different story.

    Just yesterday, Roddy (Fr. Stone as we know him) was proudly boasting about the 3 fab coats he conned out of an Italian.

    I don’t know which of them deserves a kick in the swonickles more.

  2. Jesus, you go drinking for a few days and next thing you know there’s kiddie fiddler apologists AND Italians dirtying up the gaff. Good job I sent our lot home. Italians that is.

  3. Ya he was wearing one of them in a certain white pub in town, he looked like Bush’s secret service.

  4. Mr Bock

    Thank you for your kind wishes. The tonsils are better tonight; I have gargled with LimeLite, and am glad now I left the long-nosed pliers in the kitchen drawer.

    May I advise you to be a little more careful when addressing Italians? As a student, I used to know of some in the town who wore camel overcoats over their shoulders and were not averse to setting fire to nightclubs. The owner of a restaurant we used to haunt would give them the best table and free meals. One was even named “Luigi” — unlikely, I know, but the essential touch of improbability to lend verisimilitude.

  5. Seriously, does anyone expect to get bargains from some random guy that stops a car looking for directions. It may not be as bad as the argos catalogues instead of lap tops but its in the same style. Is it there is too much money or too much stupidity in Ireland that is attracting these guys.

  6. A friend of mine once claimed to have witnessed a similar event in the Stag’s Head pub. Well dress italian fellah trying to unload a rake of ‘Genuine’ suede coats. Upon his exit from the pub he was approached by two skobes who were obviously ready to relieve him of he merchandise free of charge, to which at the top of his voice the italian exclaimed, ‘Get the FUCK away from me or I’ll bleedin’ burst ye!!!’ Classic…

  7. Bock – don’t you read the news! posting pictures on Italians on the blog web can get you in lots of trouble!

  8. I remember as a teenager one of these lads pulling up beside me. I thought he wanted to molest my anus. I didn’t realise the cunt was trying to sell me fake leather coats! I’m outraged.

  9. My old mammy fell for that one years ago in Liverpool and bought the most disgusting brown, imitation suede ‘car coat’ (remember them?)for the apple of her eye as a going away to college present. For the next 3 years every trip home I was condemned to looking like a character from a 70s TV sitcom.

    Only the other night, my flatmate offered to sell me a new leather jacket for 40 Euros. Took one look and said ‘Did you buy this off an Italian guy in a car on his way to the airport?’ The eejit had only bought 2 of the fecking things! I think Dell Boy is right.

  10. I know him he works here in Finland in various stores as Santa Claus Cheers From Mikkeli /paddy

  11. Mr Sneeze: Your Mr Roddy sounds like an unmitigated retard. He deserves everything he gets.

    Nautiman: Who?

    Fatmammycat: I never let a dago by.

    Mr Wanmington: Well, as these items were of the cheap sort, I doubt any camels died in their making.

    Savannah: It isn’t so, bock.

    WJJ: The Stag’s Head, you say? Near Scaldy’s snooker hall?

    Dell boy: Yes. It is.

    Ms Something: How can we tell if he’s Italian?

    Kav: What a cunt.

    S&C: You call me fuck off? You fuck off!

    Liam: Another fekin eejit. Hahahahahahahahahaha.

    Paddy: Say hello to him for us.

  12. The one just off Dame st. down that dodgy back alley. I’d be sure you’ve been in it at least once, it’s one of the few nice pubs left… Unfortunately this also makes it the hangout for every cashmir scarf wearin’ ponce on the Friday/Saturday night who like to soak up the ‘am-bee-aunce’ over their TiaMaria and milk… Jaysus…

  13. I’m sorry I was going to comment something apropos and immensely witty but all I have in my unfortunate minds eye now is a young Kav tearing across a roundabout in his wee y-fronts with several camel-coated italian salesmen chasing after, their arms out-stretched and fingers all a-waggle as if already interfering with the poor lad’s anus.

    God, if there was ever a time for hard drugs and memory loss, it’s now.

  14. Bock,
    A quick look at his transmission will verify Eyetieness.There will be one forward gear.All the others will be reverse.
    Frenchie and I were accosted by one of these langers one time.Badges were flashed and goods were confiscated that day I tell ya.

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