Italy. An interesting, infuriating place to live as a gin-raddled expat. Some notes and observations.
I thought the Sportiva newspaper was reading itself until I spotted the delicate fingers. What on earth were you up to Ron?
A tad too much meat in your pork fat for my liking. Right with you otherwise. half way down an up market Riesling as I type.
What foodstuff do we all eat loads of that means 'cooked twice'? Anybody? Anybody? (Not that I've just got back from a pub quiz or anything, oh no). Also, Ron, if this was early doors, what happened next?
Biscuits, Justin. Oh I'm such a smart arse I've got to go downstairs and get the rest of those fig rolls sorted. And maybe a couple of petit beurres followed by five or six of those biscuits with the cow embossed on 'em. Yes, I think I'll scan one tomorrow and blog it so that I can go on about the bovine influence on brand recognition. Or not.
Congratulations Peter! You win EITHER a ride in the Napier Hillman OR a packet of Garibaldis. The choice is yours!
After the bar we journeyed to Genoa for the derby match against Sampdoria. It all went horribly downhill I'm afraid. Now girding my sagging loins for Caerdydd and probably about 76 pints of Brains. God be my Guide.
Look out for old Brains logos on buildings, the two middle letters are enlarged to read A1. I once knew the son and heir of the Brains empire, he had a very infectious laugh. Well, he would have wouldn't he. Justin: Napier please. I once knew a chiropracter called Victor Napier who ran the length of his consulting room corridor in order to knee me in the back whilst I watched tube trains leaving Golders Green station from his dusty window.
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