Over the last few days photographs of a short grim-faced man have been circling about in the press. Raising his eyes to heaven, casting a weary wave behind rain-streaked glass, grasping the veined hand of a tetchy supporter. I even saw a grinning holiday snap from better days - wearing that ridiculous bandana - with a certain British ex-Prime Minister, tossed in with some shots of booby Ruby Rubacuore/Heartsnatcher, an underage job from the recent past.
Is it over? Or is Italy so far down the plug-hole hole there is not a hope of climbing out?
In my novel there are lots of references to go-go girls jiggling their assets on Berlusconi's three television stations, lots of small bald men with Amazonian wives. It was meant to be funny. Well, it is in a brittle sort of way. To think that some pneumatic tits and lips were enough to get a dental nurse into politics. Nothing against dental nurses, but Berlusconi has poisoned the system by making all women into potential slutty bedfellows, and the others well, we've heard his comments about ladies who are not-quite-Venus.
Today I read that in Silvio's world, when asked if they would have sex with the seventy-five year old tycoon, 30 per cent of women said 'Yes'.
He claimed that 70 per cent said 'What, again?'