Hear ye! Hear ye!

Sunday, and notable for two reasons: not only has it been the day of the palio games but we were also left in sole (or should that be dual?) charge of the house. Such responsibility.

When I say left in charge, what I mean is that we had to make sure the food for lunch was properly warmed up and served and that none of the residents, with the exception of Flavia, came to any serious harm. Flavia was excepted as she was at a school reunion lunch, which she had been looking forward to immensely. Of course, this meant that she spent yesterday and today preparing enough food to withhold a siege, including making wonderful chicken lasagne at which Remo turned his nose up because, I think, it was not pasta in a bowl with a sauce.

As for the palio, I had high expectations of a thrilling afternoon of competition between the young men of the town in flamboyant codpieces. My life is so destined to disappointment…

Proceedings began at 5pm, and this time we did make it before hand to Elsa’s for a piece of very fine jam tart, before heading to watch the parade pass on its way to the church. Again we had the drummers leading with sound and not a little fury, then a parliament of elders of the town, who must have been of importance as they wore solemn expressions and lots of equally solemn black velvet. After these came the three teams, each led by their individual banner and a lord and lady of the manor. It was at this point that all thoughts of Eddie Waring and “It’s a Knockout” fluttered away into the summer haze, as the teams comprised one youth (male) and three children (female), all of whom had that slightly embarrassed look like they had been kissed by their auntie in the street.

Now I am not one to decry anybody who has the guts to take part in a public event and I have immense admiration for anyone brave enough to walk through MSP in day-glow tights, but if you happened to be a mediaeval maiden relying on one of these young men to defend your honour, you’d be in big trouble. However, it was a lovely sunny afternoon, and the setting of the games in front of the church (the road having been closed specially) made it all quite pleasant.

As for the games themselves, the would be heroes only took part in firing the crossbow, the other three games being completed by the girls, who were aged between five and twelve. Whilst the small crowd that had gathered to watch were more than willing to support the participants, the organisation was at best slow and at worst tedious. OK, so the first game was throwing Velcro balls at a Velcro target (or whatever the 14th century equivalent was), but as there were only three balls and each competitor had six shots, there was an awful lot of scurrying backwards and forwards by an official collecting the balls (most of which missed the target and ended at a distance behind it). Similarly, when it came to the crossbow, each of the six bolts fired had to be retrieved before the next could be let loose.

There was, to make up this lack of pace and rigour, much beating of the drums, especially to build up to the announcement of the results. These and the introductions to each game were heralded by a master of ceremonies, a stocky man who knew how to project his voice and swirl a cape. As I remarked to Stephen, give a man a brocaded collar and you only have yourself to blame for the consequences.

In the end, after all four games had been completed and a gap of about half an hour while they counted up the scores, and no doubt argued about them this being Italy, and while we all decamped back to Elsa’s for much needed refreshments, the result was announced. Somewhere along the line I have a feeling that Sepp Blatter must have been involved as one of the games was discounted due to inaccurate scoring (?) and the red team was proclaimed the winning church – whereas I could have sworn that yellow had won most of the games. But heigh-ho, what better way is there to spend two hours on a hot July evening?

The general feeling here is that the weekend is in need of rejuvenation or it is going to fade away. Seemingly, just three or four years ago there was much more excitement and much more involvement (and better games) but people have lost interest. It would be a great shame if it were to end, as so many communities in Britain have lost their identity, having been subsumed into larger Metropolitan districts. And besides, where else can a healthy heterosexual young man wear coloured tights in public and still retain his dignity?