It's Christmas!

Christmas to the Italians is still essentially a religious festival. Representations of the Nativity, or Crib, are a fundamental part of the celebration and every church has a display of Nativity Scenes, mostly made by children. The thing is, they make them out of themed items. So you might get a Nativity made of bread, or stones, or washing-up bottles or fag packets. OK, so I made the last one up but you get the picture. The Crib pictured here was in the church where the concert took place on Saturday and is composed, remarkably, of baby pumpkins. I particularly like the cattle in the background with their horns made of pumpkin stalks. I think Jesus is a pumpkin seed, which seems absolutely appropriate. Almost restores one's faith in misguided, left-footing infants.

A Real Bar

Went to Genoa on Sunday for the football. Arrived late so I managed to get a shot of the bar (where we go prior to each match to get loaded up) empty. All the usual suspects were at the match which had already kicked off. Behind the little counter on the left where all the dead pig is lying in state, sit two old boys with their Berkel machine, hewing away at pork bits for rolls and sarnies. The walls of the bar are lined with bottles of wine, floor to ceiling. Marvellous. Terrible match, Genoa losing 3-1.

Boozing in Church

The choir in which I sing gave a concert at a local hilltop village the other night. Like trembling crack fiends, three of us hard core drinkers huddle in the apse, right behind the altar, as the local Mayor welcomes the choir and addresses the gently snoring audience with a lightning 45 minute speech. We hold our glasses out in gentle supplication as Emilio opens a bottle of his home-made grappa and dispenses what is known as the acqua del coro, the blessed choir water that warms the throat and braces the vocal chords. The suitably cobwebbed and crucifixed Romanish backdrop adds to the sense of delicious sin. And, of course, as an Anglican my sense of pleasure soars heavenwards.

Pre-dinner dilemma

Dinner at the beautiful country house of a young, successful, wealthy, fulfilled couple, with whom Mrs Combo and I have so much in common. Mrs Combo had spent all afternoon preparing a special pudding. We took two decent bottles of wine as well. The automatic gates slid back, we parked the car and I got out. I had the two bottles of wine in a small gift box in one hand and the precious pudding in the other. There was Max, their big guard dog, on his chain. Barking and wagging his tail as usual. I skirted him and was about at the door to the house when Max sank his not inconsiderable teeth into the calf of my right leg. I was in mid-stride and slightly off-balance. I tried to swing around and hit Max on the head with the wine. I could feel myself going over. Which should I drop? The pudding or the wine? One would have to go. Max was still tucking in to my leg and emitting a low constant growl. I was flailing around. Just as I was about to let go of the wine, Max decided enough was enough, relaxed his jaws and ambled off. Fortunately, I was wearing a stout pair of moleskin trousers from Cordings so no flesh was actually removed. Our hosts were especially solicitous but asked me not to identify the dog when I went to A&E, as this time the authorities would have to give Max The Final Injection. "What do you mean this time?" I spluttered. Big silence as young, successful, wealthy, fulfilled couple looked at each other. At least I didn't drop the wine.

High Spirits

I don't know if it's possible to buy pure alcohol in Blighty. If it is available over the counter you probably have to apply firstly to the Home Office for a permit, undergo three months of psychometric testing and then supply the names of three character referees, one of whom must be a High Court judge. In Italy they virtually give it away because no one would dream of drinking it except washed-up expats on a budget. I imagine in the UK the label would scream out in 72pt type "DO NOT DRINK!!!!!". This one just has the fire hazard logo that means you shouldn't light a cigarette within three metres of the bottle as it may spontaneously combust. And no, I didn't have a sip. Well, not yet anyway.

Gin Heaven

A light 4 bottle supper at friends last night before choir practice. There was a big shout for grappa to accompany the coffee and along with three different grappas, Luciano pulled this museum piece out of his spirits cabinet. Bloody hell, I spluttered, how old is that? Well, he said, I think that's probably from the 1970s. I poured myself a decent belt and the fragrance was astonishing, all delicate violets and roses. It tasted wonderful. I mean, can gin mature? Blowed if I know. I tried to ask Diageo, the owners of Tanqueray, but you get a message from their Customer Center (sic) in Pigsknuckle, Arkansas saying have a nice day you Limey drunk.

Paying for it

At three o'clock yesterday afternoon I gave a lift to a prostitute with whom I have a nodding acquaintance. The sour tang of alcohol on her breath as she jumped into the car brought to mind what she may well have been necking* at lunchtime. Italy's answer to Buckie/Thunderbird/Diamond White is Tavernello, available in red or white versions costing about €1.20 per 1 litre container. It's the wine of choice for those people bumping along the bottom. I fill up on it every Friday evening when I eat at my mother-in-law's. The white is pretty foul but the red is OK once you get past the first glass. Of course the joy of the Tetrapak container is that one's dining companions/close family relatives can't see how fast it's going down.

*Cue vulgar observations. Over to you chaps.