Out of all the parts of Italy that I’ve been to before I feel more like a little white English boy than i ever have done before. I think I’ve arranged to meet the guys at about four. So we’re on the grill tonight. But it don’t exactly look like I’m expected does it? Me and you on the ‘griglia’? The truth is I don’t know why the bloody hell I’m doing this and I’m a bit scared. It’s eight o’clock and the sauces are ready, but contrary to our earlier agreement Mr grill-man is having none of it. Trying to get them to try something new is like trying to get them to take a new mortgage, you know what I mean? I mean you could say Jamie Oliver what a catastrophically fantastic… So with no one taking the apparent risk of me grilling their fish I’m going to have to go and buy my own and see if I can give it away. What they’re saying is the fish are so fresh don’t mess with it. This is all kind of, you know, life shaping experiences. I ask him where I’m going to put it because I don’t, I don’t think they particularly like me. You’re my only customers, that’s only because I’m giving it to you. Come on you’re Italian. He thinks it’s beautiful. See now Alf Garnett behind me, grumpy bollocks, is getting the arse ache because my fish tastes better. I’m really enjoying this. I mean the flavour from the charcoal and then of course when you put the fennel in it’s a very subtle flavour but the fish grills, inside the fennel kind of steams a little bit you know? Even the man says it’s good now. I was going to go back to my camp today with a bit of a complex, I’ve got to be honest. A nights work for free and no one likes any of the stuff.