Showing posts with label Italy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Italy. Show all posts

Wednesday, 13 July 2011

How to Outdrink ...OTHER POPULATIONS

I close this series with a roll-call of populations who are too easy to beat for them to deserve an entry in a tactical manual, or whom I do not know enough to discuss. Mediterranean countries in general can be trusted to yield poor drinkers, even with their own beverages. Spaniards are easy to outdrink as long as you can tolerate their scandalous cocktails (google the Calimocho and see if you're not retching... frankly, their vulgarity is second only to that of the Americans. It's hard to believe they're Mediterranean at all). Greeks have some strength with liquors, being trained with Ouzo, but little else.

Italians, I hate to say, are pussies. I had two Italian drinking fellows in Paris whom you can see in the photo above, and despite their enormous good will, neither could take a solid night of drinking without vomiting like a hurricane. Today, one of them is married and has retired from the drinking arena, while the other is still practicing how to down one litre of beer. I've seen him do it only once, and he ended up leaping towards the balcony and vomiting on the freshly washed laundry of our (English) host. The funniest thing is that he didn't even succeed in his endeavour, as he left just a finger of beer at the bottom of the pub, meaning he failed by the thinnest margin possible. I wish I could say these two guys are the exceptions, but they're actually among the better men I've known. If you drink in Italy, you're outdrinking by default.

The most powerful force that I know by reputation alone are the Eastern Europeans. Poles, Romanians, Bulgarians, Ukrainians, Croatians and so forth are said to be phenomenal drinkers by everyone I've ever asked, but I've never had the chance to take them to task. I've tried Palinka, which is the typical Romanian drink, and frankly I thought it was disgusting beyond description. Apparently Romanians slaughter themselves with that by the hour. I suspect that the Eastern European style falls somewhere inbetween that of their two circumpolars, Germany and Russia, and no doubt that makes for an awe-inspiring combination in principle. But I've never seen it put in practice, and for all I know, they may have weaknesses no more difficult to exploit than their stylistic forebears.

I hear Scandinavians are very habitual drinkers, to the point that alcoholism is a real problem in their country. I can say no more of them, since I've only been to their countries by sea (and therefore by day), and there was no opportunity for duelling. Australians are supposed to be decent too. They were banned from the Oktoberfest a number of decades ago because a group of them got so drunk that they pimped a column of buses and drove them wildly around the city. Apparently they're allowed into the city again, these days, so either they've calmed down or they're better at subterfuge. It's a shame I won't be meeting them in Munich this year. Any major or minor drinking culture I have not mentioned goes beyond the stretches of my knowledge and their entry into this manual is left to volunteers.

With that said, I am done. Good luck to those willing to try the sport, and to anyone looking to engage me personally, come and get your ass grilled! As long as you're not Irish or Scottish, I have known and owned your type. Believe it.

Thursday, 17 March 2011

One hundred and fifty



Just a couple of lines tonight. This isn't much of a post, but I just wanted to celebrate the anniversary of someone very special: my country of birth. :)

Italy became officially 150 years old today. Since 1861 we've had monarchies, dictatorships, republics and media regimes. Since before that date we've had... sheesh. No point even in recounting it all. The fall and rise of empires, religions, cultures. At least two golden ages of literature (Latin and Medieval), more art than you can begin to quantify, luminaries of all sciences (Copernicus, Galileo, Leonardo Da Vinci), three hundred years of music of all types, some of the greatest explorers in history (Marco Polo, Columbus). And then the supposedly lesser things, the ones which don't really get into the history books: the food, the climate, the enormous and yet (mostly) internationally obscure traditions in sports, comics and song-writing (how many know, for instance, that 70% of Walt Disney's global comic publications are produced in Italy?).

Italy has a typical reputation for triviality: our country is seen as amiable and benign, and Italians are the guys who make it into Japanese videogames with the name of Mario or into American films as fat guys saying Mamma Mia. It's seldom associated with notions of greatness.

I'm not going to claim otherwise - though it wouldn't be hard to put up an argument, if one wanted - especially because of the situation we're floundering in now. It's hard to explain what loving one's country means to people whose greatest idea of a political crisis is an inefficient President. Perhaps it is the shame that I am forced to bear on account of my motherland, as our international image is constantly reduced to mud by the scoundrels who are ruling us, that makes me feel so tender towards all the good things that there are in it. History goes by ups and downs. The last great down lasted twenty years, and it was called fascism. The present one has gone on for a similar period of time, and it's the age of Berlusconi. I have hope that it will end soon.

Time passes and takes away the houses and the cities, the empires and the myths. It will take away this generation of inept rulers as well, and then I'll finally be able to feel proud about being Italian again (in truth, I can't wait). In the meantime, Happy 150th Birthday, Italia. May the 200th fall under better days, as there are people who believe in it. Like me.

Never let it be said that I'm not going to close with a flourish. Here's an old sonnet I wrote a few years ago. Enjoy!

To Italy

There is a vine that binds us, made of rose
And olive leaves, and figs and spikes of pine;
It is entwined with sunlight, grain and wine,
The song that is our language lets it close
Around our wrists and waists, and we are led
As one into the ribcage of the self.
A monumental doorway, clean like health,
Bears these old words once Polyphemus said:
Who. Are. You. – I don’t speak, air goes amiss.
Italia, sacred no-one, earth and mother,
This question (cryptologically spelt, 'bliss')
Was only made by Time to break or smother
The heart in me, the flag in you. And this
Is why we’re bound: we answer for each other.