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.

Bandit Country

Up to the nearby village to post a letter. This was the view yesterday morning from the square. One of the few pictures you'll see in this self-indulgent nonsense that doesn't include a glass. After going to the post office I went to the bar to (yes, really) buy a newspaper. For the first three years I'd walk in and it would fall silent, and all the old boys playing cards would stop shouting at each other, turn and stare intently at me for a full five seconds like out of a John Ford film, and then resume their game, but with the volume right down. After seven years, one or two of them actually say good morning. The bar is festooned with dead animals, guns, pennants from hunting clubs and football teams, bottles carved out of wood, faded photographs and acres of real Formica. Paying for the paper, I felt a severe tug of envy when the octagenerian next to me ordered and necked in one go a glass of amaro (q.v.). At a quarter to nine in the morning. If I wasn't Anglican I'd have had a go too, but I've not only got a drink problem but also too much Protestant guilt.

A quiet night out

Please come around for some supper they said. But it's Friday tomorrow, I replied weakly, and I'm teaching at eight o'clock and I don't finish until one. Oh, don't be such a poof, they said, we're only cooking a plate of Milanese (delicate slices of beef, coated in breadcrumbs, and then fried in good oil), there's a plate of tomato salad and that's it, you'll be home by ten o'clock. Needless to say, at half past midnight we were bellowing out "Canto, canto, canto" and "Rido, rido, rido" and I was begging Mrs Combo for just five essential minutes of grace so I could drink some more Marzemino (an obscure red from Trentino and, in my opinion, the more obscure it remains the better). The bloke in the dodgy glasses bailed out early, as you might imagine.

Sod off, Lady Luck

I've just had to shell out €340 to have something done to the transmission on the Panda (purchased of course from car-dealer Bruno), my Italian accountant says I'm staring down the barrel, there's a badger that has declared war on the fence around the orchard and it's slashing down outside and the bit that connects the camera to the laptop is in The Doghouse and I'm bolloxed if I'm going out in all that rain to get it. So the news about last night's run-in with Mr Booze will have to wait. Instead I would like to show you a picture of an extremely relaxed Giulio the Singer at table during THAT WEEKEND. The ten bottles of wine at a dinner when one of the party (Mrs Combo) wasn't drinking. The photograph is courtesy of T. Savage Esq. Remarkably it is in focus, which is more than can be said for the shots he took later in the evening. O tempo! O mores!

The Day of the Dead

Well, that was a tough one. November 1st is a holiday in Italy and the cemeteries are mobbed. Everyone goes to say hello to the dead. It's also (another) excuse to eat and drink to excess. There was a lunch at our local pro loco, (village hall, for want of a better translation), with a sort of stew of chick peas and glistening hunks of pig fat as the main course. Chick peas are de rigeur on November 1st. And of course, gallons of wine served by the carafe, and re-filled upon request. Five courses and all you can drink for €15. It all kicked off because the bloke who runs the place is a tight sod and he bought a job lot of foul, thin red wine. General mayhem ensued. The good ol' boys shown here said (loosely) "bugger it, we're not drinking this piss" and the one on the left got in his clapped-out Fiat Panda and went and got four 2 litre bottles of Barbera from his cellar. And very nice it was too. He distributed it freely to all and sundry. Italians are like that. The day ended for me sometime around 10.00pm, I'm told.