A weekend away in the mountains meant that Bruno decided to bring a Nebuchadnezzar of Refosco (a lively and cheerful red from Friuli Venezia Giulia) to accompany that evening's supper. This 15 litre monster he had bottled and corked that morning. Your correspondent was charged with keeping the beast upright between his legs (cue Affer please) on the 200km journey. All was well until a combination of the motion of the car and the heat made the wine want to leave the bottle at speed. "Christo!" shouted Bruno as he considered the possibilities, the principal one being the loss of a lot of decent wine. Interior damage to vehicle and passengers was, I believe, a secondary consideration.
What to do? I sat there with two thumbs pushing down on the cork which really was straining to leave the bottle.
"Porca puttana di quella troia"* shouted Bruno, his voice an octave higher. We had to find a bar and lo and behold an anonymous village came up on the horizon. Bruno skidded to a halt, came around to my door and blaspheming without pause lifted the brute out of the car as I continued to press down the cork and off we waddled, both of us holding the bottle.
In the bar, Bruno called immediately for glasses, we went to a quiet corner while the horribly inbred locals looked on, slack jawed but hopeful. We rested the bottle on a table and Bruno stood, poised. On his command I took my thumb off the cork, it shot upwards, ricocheted off the ceiling and hit a peasant on his head. The wine foamed and creamed happily out of the bottle and the locals started cackling and pointing as Bruno let fly with a volley of seriously foul language. "Wine for everyone!" shouted Bruno as the barmaid brought a tray of glasses. "We need to get rid of at least a litre before we get back in the car or it'll go again!" The gap-toothed locals cheered to a man and gathered around, chortling and elbowing each other, barely able to believe their luck.
It was a good start to the weekend.
*Pig whore of that trollop slut in case you're interested.