It’s a low-key summer; the sun-kissed crowds have vanished and the super-rich are keeping a low profile. But here are the new arrivals

It’s the first Saturday in August and, once again in honour of Stefano Benni, as we do every year, we’re continuing our modest sub-catalogue of summer characters. A few dinosaurs have disappeared, and a few monsters have joined the ranks.

The tattoo removal. Latest news. He’s having his tattoos removed. He keeps his T-shirt on and rubs himself with very white ointments; he doesn’t catch a single ray of sunshine. He shows you that the treatment is working – there are greenish patches where the old dragons used to be. He tells you how much it’s costing him, and sighs.

The AI slacker. News. He’s a new Furio – he discusses nothing but artificial intelligence. With enthusiastic insistence, he asserts that this winter, using AI, he sent out cease-and-desist letters more effectively than a solicitor. He photographs clam shells and asks the AI whether they’re Italian or Filipino.

The Facilitating Parent. News. Fathers are helping their shy sons make friends with girls: ‘Don’t worry, Dad’s got this!’ And those lads – the new fifteen-year-olds – send him off full of hope to break the ice with the group of girls. Vanzina for people who haven’t seen the Vanzina films, except that here they aren’t laughing – they’re dead serious. Let’s save ourselves.

The Specialist. On the rise. He’s not a psychologist; he’s worse, because he’s been listening to podcasts. On every beach, there’s always that ill-fated encounter between someone who wants to talk about their troubles and someone else who, incredibly, wants to listen to them. We’ve been finding enjoyment in the smallest things of late; we’re rather taken with diagnoses.

The Super-Tanned. Extinct. People the colour of tree bark, withered by the sun. These days, no one goes below SPF 50; the 1990s saw some shameful times: amongst the antics of a very foolish humanity was blue Nivea; some people mixed beer and coconut oil: ‘It speeds it up,’ they’d tell you. Certain sunburns.

The boat owner. Fewer have turned up than in previous years. It’s not clear where the summer elite have gone. The super-rich. It’s as if frugality has spread like measles: the shutters are down at the seaside villas. The yachts last went out in May, and now there are only foreigners out at sea. Are you up north, in some cool little village? Did Mangione’s story scare you? Don’t you want us round at the weekends any more? That’s no way to treat your freeloading friends.

The ‘Best-Holiday-Seeker’. On the rise. He’s the one whose mind is elsewhere. He goes on a budget holiday and an interesting holiday, but not with you. His criticism is always aimed at the average tourist. “I’m off, I’m off.” And then he never actually leaves.

The ‘Fake Rich’. On the rise. Some have perfected the art of pretence to such an extreme degree that it has now become a parallel market; those pretending to be wealthy are almost indistinguishable from the genuinely well-off, and unmasking them requires vigilance. That five-second hesitation over the wine list – the tell-tale sign is always the same.

The Ice-Cream Kid. This character is one of the most feared by baristas. He’s one metre twenty tall, wears glasses and has a chimpanzee-like face. He turns up at the bar with a vacant stare, approaches the counter with a hundred lire in his hand and clings to the edge. The barista hardly ever spots him. If he’s a crafty little lad, he heads straight for the ice-cream freezer, opens it and sticks his head, shoulders and half his body inside. If the barista doesn’t notice in time, he’ll rummage through all the ice creams to find the one he wants. Then the barista asks him what he’d like. At this point, the child will ask for an ice cream with an absurd name, such as ‘Antartidino’, ‘Cremarancio’ or ‘Baden-Baden’, which the barman has never heard of. The barman checks the entire stock of ice creams with his head inside the freezer and every now and then emerges with monstrous ice creams, in strange shapes and colours, shaped like sheep and ambulances. The child looks at them seriously, one by one, and each time says: ‘That’s not the one.’ (A great classic, S. Benni, Bar Sport).