THE beauty – and the curse – of the internet is that every morning one throws back its shutters and there is the world laid out, from all angles.

One could of course take a brief glance and firmly shut them again and I know many who have taken to doing just that.

I can understand their withdrawal on one level when the overload is too much to bear; but when the world implodes under the weight of man’s arrogance and stupidity I want to watch the build-up.

At the moment, like many, I feel I’m moving closer to the front seats of the Rocky Horror Show without the good music.

In Italy, the final count is not in for the elections, but it’s clear the far right will hold the dice in the divvy-up between this mix of anti-establishment, populist and right wing majority.

Persistent high unemployment, spreading poverty and the scapegoat of 600,000 migrants over the past four years has led to this and will no doubt give succour to many of those in the UK who voted leave.

On the face of it France did similar in our last elections, when Marine Le Pen’s far right party and Melanchon’s ultra left led the way.

Ah, but that was, thanks to the wonders of our system, the first round of voting, traditionally used by those who feel neglected and misused to vent their spleen.

Fortunately, in the manner of a pressure cooker, after the explosion of anger, the second ballot gives time to reflect and fully understand what such a choice could bring.

Both factions were kicked into touch, as were the traditional parties, by Macron’s En Marche. Something new was necessary without reverting to the past, and here it was. So far, so far, it’s working.

It is why I feel that if Brexit cannot be stopped then a second referendum – this time with reflection on the true facts – is the only decent way forward.

This morning I spoke to Livio, one half of the Italian couple who looked after the dog and me after my almost four-month stay in hospital and rehab when César smashed my leg.

A classic Italian, or as he would say, Roman, he feels everything with a hot intensity, particularly football, but he and his partner are digital nomads, a new tribe able to work anywhere via the net.

For now he’s home and among his equally young angry tribe, horrified at the return to what he sees as fascism; an old Italy that disgusts him.

Lazio, with Rome as its capital, is the biggest urban area in Europe by people per sq km.

With the vote there still to be announced as we spoke he said: ‘Here the left is still pretty strong – all the left parties together are able to get over 40 per cent of the vote, but they are divided.

‘I remember a song ‘If the kids are united, they will never be divided.’ Well, that’s how things have to go. We have to finally unite for the common sake. For Italy’s sake.

‘Why, why, was nobody, especially the Left Party, able to convince the youngest voters to go out and vote?

‘I’ll tell you why…because we prefer to leave since it’s impossible to change things in Italy.’

But then Livio, as a citizen of the European Union, has the right to leave and roam unrestricted – a right soon, it seems, to be denied to the youth of the UK.

They may never know the freedom we did of simple paperless movement across this continent.

Neither may 80 per cent of the roughly 1.2 million Brits in Europe who are of working age or younger.

It’s a sobering figure when set against the entrenched view of gin-swilling expats in Dordogneshire or the Costa del Sol boozing it up with the ill gotten gains of their baby-boomer luck.

Many crisscross borders for work either with small businesses or contracts. Now, seemingly back to being that infamous chip in the trade talks thanks to the UK’s intransigence on European citizens, they feel forgotten by both sides.

And from the US, Trump kicks all his allies into touch with his latest trade pronouncement. America First. Italy First.

Little England First.

Forgive me for this mish-mash of thoughts from my field but as a fully-fledged European each country’s death diminishes me.

In their house-sitting stays in many countries, Livio and Sandybell have earned their money through their Macs as sports reporter and photographer.

With each ‘posting’ they immerse themselves in the region; uncover the local foods and customs; try out the language; meet and talk with others to get a feel of the politics.

In free time they travel to the historical points of their neighbourhood and search for understanding in how life evolved.

Yet they never forget or deny their background or their country. They glory in it as part of a wonderful whole – united by a desire to grasp every bit of our mutual heritage.

It sickens and angers me that the youth of the UK may never again have such ease of movement.

But it worries me too that even Livio sees his companions leaving as fascism raises its evil head once more.