13th G7 Summit was held in Venice between June 8 and 10, 1987.
Those nice lads at AP took me there from some sickening war. The whole thing was a mess. USA had her Jimmy Carter coming and everything went crazy about the nutfarmer´s brother (a clever, wise and studied man). I learned some important lessons. All those big agencies had their shouters aka assistants there. When Jimmy showed up, those guys shouted like some horny rhinos in the bushes..."MR PRESIDENT JIMMYYYYYY."
-
So I noticed this peculiar thing.
Who shouted the loudest, really had the POTUS turn his head and shouter´s shooter got the pics. I had no shouter, I was a lonely finnish poor shooter only and tired like hell. I guess I had some flees and scabs all over as a gift from a refugee camp in Algeria. I was itching like hell and did not have time to change clothes after arrival to airpot and after that obligatory boatride to downtown Venice - invaded by US tourists.
-
But it got worse.
When I had my pics and rushed to develop them - I was told by another AP guy to stay putt and check for Maggie Thatcher, who was a late bird. What a blue birdie she was. So I delivered the shells for the errand boy and started to wait for Maggie.
And boy did she come, oops! She arrived - she did not come. Coming could´ve been hard thing regarding her husband, a dry branch.
-
When she arrived,
it did not happen where it should`ve. No. It was another gate and through another door. So I run like hell and struggled with MI5 or CIA or whatever big shorthaired guys to let me through. I lost my # 1. cam - the F3 and shot this terrible one with body #3 the trusty FM and a straight flash which I never do. Shot through a wall of agents. The battery dies out in #2. Maggie goes and I feel totally desperate. I know how the desk roars - cause I didn´t get a seller.
-
It´s all over. Dead silent. I guessed there is nothing else to do than to see the loo.
Off I go. See the urinal and relive myself, when the door opens.
It´s Maggie Thatcher and I have a leaking dick in my right hand.
-
This english ladyships knows how to act. She looks into my eyes only and asks with that very english cool dialect. "Excuse me, I´d be happy I you could be able to tell where the ladies restroom is."
-
For just a short second I wonder what would`ve happen if i break loose and ask her to come closer and check out my slowly whitening and fading real finnish sauna dick.
Did I? You guess right.
-
So I tell her where ... cause we photojournalists always know where the ladies room is.
Later that nite I sit with Jimmy Carter in that museum on an venice island with the golden globe top and I`m supposed to take his portrait for some arabic zine.
That`s another horror story.
And sure -- I know I run this same story every third year. Anyways it is so cool - so cannot just forget. If some of my sons happen to have kids - this is a story to tell ´em. The very granddaddy running around in Venice so dirty, smelling and itching cause of scabs. Ain`t that some real finnish sadness from the backwoods.
Those nice lads at AP took me there from some sickening war. The whole thing was a mess. USA had her Jimmy Carter coming and everything went crazy about the nutfarmer´s brother (a clever, wise and studied man). I learned some important lessons. All those big agencies had their shouters aka assistants there. When Jimmy showed up, those guys shouted like some horny rhinos in the bushes..."MR PRESIDENT JIMMYYYYYY."
-
So I noticed this peculiar thing.
Who shouted the loudest, really had the POTUS turn his head and shouter´s shooter got the pics. I had no shouter, I was a lonely finnish poor shooter only and tired like hell. I guess I had some flees and scabs all over as a gift from a refugee camp in Algeria. I was itching like hell and did not have time to change clothes after arrival to airpot and after that obligatory boatride to downtown Venice - invaded by US tourists.
-
But it got worse.
When I had my pics and rushed to develop them - I was told by another AP guy to stay putt and check for Maggie Thatcher, who was a late bird. What a blue birdie she was. So I delivered the shells for the errand boy and started to wait for Maggie.
And boy did she come, oops! She arrived - she did not come. Coming could´ve been hard thing regarding her husband, a dry branch.
-
When she arrived,
it did not happen where it should`ve. No. It was another gate and through another door. So I run like hell and struggled with MI5 or CIA or whatever big shorthaired guys to let me through. I lost my # 1. cam - the F3 and shot this terrible one with body #3 the trusty FM and a straight flash which I never do. Shot through a wall of agents. The battery dies out in #2. Maggie goes and I feel totally desperate. I know how the desk roars - cause I didn´t get a seller.
-
It´s all over. Dead silent. I guessed there is nothing else to do than to see the loo.
Off I go. See the urinal and relive myself, when the door opens.
It´s Maggie Thatcher and I have a leaking dick in my right hand.
-
This english ladyships knows how to act. She looks into my eyes only and asks with that very english cool dialect. "Excuse me, I´d be happy I you could be able to tell where the ladies restroom is."
-
For just a short second I wonder what would`ve happen if i break loose and ask her to come closer and check out my slowly whitening and fading real finnish sauna dick.
Did I? You guess right.
-
So I tell her where ... cause we photojournalists always know where the ladies room is.
Later that nite I sit with Jimmy Carter in that museum on an venice island with the golden globe top and I`m supposed to take his portrait for some arabic zine.
That`s another horror story.
And sure -- I know I run this same story every third year. Anyways it is so cool - so cannot just forget. If some of my sons happen to have kids - this is a story to tell ´em. The very granddaddy running around in Venice so dirty, smelling and itching cause of scabs. Ain`t that some real finnish sadness from the backwoods.
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