Talking and Boozing with Italians

Italians love yapping. Anytime, anyplace, any topic. Give them a chance 'though to speak in public on a subject about which they have more than passing knowledge and they seize it with both hands, clutch it to them and snog it until their tongue is aching. And so it happened at the reception for the new 'University' which is to be (if anyone bothers to enrol) a languages unit as an offshoot of the University of Genoa. It should be a banker however because it is in a remote hilltop village (pop. 173) with no public transport connections whatsoever. But don't worry because you lot paid for it via the EU's regional development fund. The people at the table above are all language specialists. And they went on. And on. And on. For about one hour and forty minutes. It honestly seemed like two days. Talking bollocks of course. All against a backdrop of gentle snoring from some of the old boys from the village who scented a free drink. The old buffer seated second from the right with the white hair is the Vice-Chancellor of the University of Genoa. More about him later.
However, everything comes to him who waits. Afterwards there was a rinfresco in a 15th century cellar belonging to the local council. All red wine and decent grub, including little crispy pan-fried ravioli. Delicious. Being a borderline alky (water always finds its own level), I soon found myself boring two Germans, an Italian and the V-C glassy-eyed with London drinking tales (big nod to Lord Ashley). The old boy (the V-C that is) could certainly stick it away.

Two hours later (after having fended off a frantic Mrs Combo on the 'phone) I found myself with the dregs of the group in this private cellar in the village. On the left of the table is a model of the US Cavalry Fort at Tuscon made out of fag packets and corks and the other is of St. Peter's in Rome made conventionally out of polished wood. Just cop the posters on the wall.

The biblical-looking owner's cellar is a shrine to the 70s. I had never met him before. Here he is extolling the benefits of a Remington razor. I think him and his mate opened some eight bottles while we were there and there were only six of us. My final, hazy memory of the evening is leaving the cellar and seeing the V-Cs enormous wife staggering around in the garden trying to find the way out. There was a bizarre green light flashing under her lower clothing. I think it may have been a warning that her bag was full.

Blood red

Look at the wonderful colour of my peppers! And I like the way the are so knobbly and misshapen. Very appropriate at Casa Combo.
Sorry if this is a bit Under The Tuscan Sun (possibly the worst book I have ever read about Italy, lots of eulogising over food, beautiful sunsets, honest toiling peasants, cypress trees, you know the form) but normal service should be resumed from tomorrow; I am having a day off the sauce as it's Monday and I am filled with the usual post-weekend remorse.
Tomorrow there is a reception at a new university where, if I behave myself on the free drinks front, I may have the possibility of some work as a part-time lecturer.
So that's that one ruled out then.

Brekker

Now that's what I call a real breakfast. Duchy sausages (grateful thanks to the marauding Celtic visitors), eggs from Riccardo and Peddy from The Intrepid One.
I was celebrating Genoa's fantastic 3-1 win over Roma yesterday evening.
Just the job. Yum yum, pig's bum.

Stuffed and Cellared

And there they are, those little fiery bleeders, all done and dusted, hunkering down in the dark cellar and waiting for Christmas.

Get Stuffed

In an almost certainly hopeless attempt to overcome the sweaty shakes and general nausea that is the result of a 4 dayer with The Intrepid Explorer and assorted other friends from Caerdydd and Lestah, I am starting on the stuffing of some of the Combo chilli peppers this being a sort of regional speciality. They are fiery little buggers so in the cleaning process, using the tool in the pic which is essentially a 'corer', I have to wear rubber gloves. Always a bonus. Once they have been cleaned I boil them briefly in vinegar and cheap white wine and when they have dried out I stuff them with anchovies and capers and jar them under olive oil. They will be consumed at Christmas, presuming I am still of this world.

The shame! The shame!

Oh God, I'm sitting here at my desk, it's early in the morning, my head spinning with hangover, my stomach sick with nausea. The hunting season's started and the fields around here are full of fucking barking dogs. There's sporadic gunfire. There's a thick fog and it's cold. Why do I drink so much? Why did I drink so much last night? And then to make things worse, why did I berate the people we had round for supper so badly? It started off pleasantly enough of course. I had the Italian version of Radio 3 on and they were broadcasting The Last Night live from the Royal Albert Hall. I'd started the evening in the best way possible with a pint of gin and tonic and then raced along with a lot of red wine. When it got to Land of Hope and Glory I was plastered. Truly trolleyed. Ratfaced. So I stood up and started singing. Then when it had finished I started shouting. Shouting with tears in my eyes. Shouting that this (Land of Hope etc) was the reason that Italians had identity cards and we didn't, that Blair should be impeached, locked up in the Tower of London, executed and have his stupid grinning fucking mug stuck on a pole on Westminster Bridge as a warning to all the other bastards on the Fascist fucking left.
I seem to recall that it all went rather quiet when I eventually slumped back down on the table.

Cuore di bue

The tomatoes that I grow are very good, even if I say so myself. And so they should be with all the dung I had dumped on the plot (see distant post). The plants are just about at the end now. This is what I'm having for lunch today, the cuore di bue (bull's heart=beef tomato) with decent olive oil, fresh mozzarella, basil and good commie bread. No wine on the table as it is lunchtime, but as I sank two industrial G&Ts, a bottle of red and, bizarrely, a large calvados (where did that come from?) last night, it wouldn't be a good idea anyway. Very hot and muggy today, storms are forecast with a subsequent temperature drop of 10 degrees (in foreign money). Summer's on the way out so we should all start drinking more I say.