Gomorrah returns to Sky Atlantic tonight for its third season. A tremendous series set in Naples, it always reminds me of the time Alison and I were on holiday in the city. We went out one evening for a meal, me wearing a t-shirt and my Rolex. The doorman at the hotel was always nipping at me not to wear the watch outside, but I shrugged off his advice, thinking he was a big gub. Anyway, we ate and drank down at the waterside, from where we took a taxi back to the hotel. We didn’t know it, but two guys on a moped followed the taxi up the hill. When the taxi stopped outside the hotel, so did the moped. Before I could open it myself, the door on my side of the taxi was opened by an impassive-faced, shaven-headed guy who was built like a brick shithouse. While he held my right wrist in an iron-like grip with one hand, he calmly set about unclasping the Rolex watch band with the other. It didn’t matter how often and hard I punched him, the punches seemed to bounce off him. When he had undone the clasp, he slipped the watch up over my wrist and ran back to the waiting moped, which sped off. Later that night in the city centre police headquarters, where we had gone to report the theft, I was given a big book of mugshots to go through – aye, just like in the movies. Guess what, though? Every single one of the mugshots was of an impassive-faced, shaven-headed guy, built like a brick shithouse. Only in Naples!
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