Wops! Beer! Palaces! Filth!
This has only just occured to me. I have been sitting here all week, gazing at the screen and wishing I had something witty to contribute.

I don't, but I do have a story outside the usual tales of student filth (most of us have been there, stealing crockery from Wetherspoons as an alternative to washing up, using clean boxers to dry plates as there are no teatowels, building a pyramid out of smelly beer cans and whatnot).

My missus is of Italian descent (in fact, one of her antecedents was the Finance Minister for the country some years ago, and the family is well known in certain regions). This meant that while they lived we wree able to go and visit her crumbly old Italian relatives. Most of them thought I was German owing to a certain beefiness, and my shaved head (I am balding, and have terrible hair). But, nevertheless, I enjoyed the trips.

We had a great time whenever we went and, as it was a small village, we were very much regarded as local celebrities (or novelties). We spent most of our time in local bars (both of them[!]), or visiting the aforementioned crumblies.

Most properties were in a slight state of decay, but one set of relatives, a great-aunt and her brother, lived in a colossal four level house and they were also privileged enough to have the only real garden in the village. The village is built on a mountainside so, of course, flat land is at a premium. The only parts of the property in use were the garden, which was terribly overgrown, and the lower two floors of the house. These were appallingly kept. The living room was a disgrace, the sleeping quarters scruffy, but the piece de resistance was the kitchen.

Southern Italy is very warm, but you could feel the damp as soon as you walked in. Plaster was feeling from the walls and ceilings, spiderwebs were so dense they looked as though they were supporting the building, and the furniture, whilst expensive and beautifully carved, was beginning (ha!) to rot.

The relatives were lovely people, and friendly, and wanted to break bread, or have a drink with us. My missus, gamely, had a carrot juice. My own feelings can be imagined, but I saw a Peroni Red in the fridge, or biohazard development zone, and thought I'd try it. What could be wrong with a sealed beer, after all. As I took it I declined a glass, intending to drink from the bottle, and noticed the design was slightly different to those I drank in the bars. I raised it to my lips and was surprised to find it tasted hugely strong, and a little flat. Belatedly, I looked at the sell by date, and nearly dropped the bottle. It was 8 years past it's use by date.

Interestingly, and surprisingly, they took us on a tour of the top floor one day. It was stunning. I found it hard to believe it was the same property. It was never used, and it was immaculate. The floor was marble; there were top of the range, vintage 60s tvs and ashtrays, small golden toys and a library dating back 400 years plus. It was incredible, and I daren't imagine the value.

Sadly, owing to the corruption of Italian solicitors, since the death of her grandfather and other crumblies the family estate (worth between three and six million Euros, depending on property values) is in doubt; there are all sorts of delays and loopholes. Bloody Italians and their ridiculous legal systems - Berlusconi and his corrupt authorities are ruining the country.

Mind you, it's not my inheritance, and, if I'm honest, going and seeing these mad Italians living in squalor whilst upstairs they had a virtual palace, and having little comfort or luxury while being hugely wealthy, was a marvellous experience.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 1 Apr 2010, 7:10, 4 replies)

Now thats just lovely
Wops is as bad to Italians as the N word is to black people. Not very nice. Minus click for you.
(Lizard King, Thu 1 Apr 2010, 10:20, closed)

And you think I would care for what reason?
A frog is a frog, a kraut is a kraut, a wop is a wop, a camel-jockey is a camel-jockey, a ginger is a ginger, a slope is a slope, and my best mate, being black, and called Mickey, is Eff-Mick.

I am "albino rasta", "light-boy", "paleface", Rosbif (in France) and others, depending on company, and I don't care. To be honest, most of the dodgier names I get called are when I am in Hackney as I tend to be the only white in the group I know.

Incidentally, I work with most races/religions, exchange abuse with the lot of them the same way we exchange abuse with Scots, Irish, Welsh, other people from different regions in the UK, and I also count them as friends.

Not a day goes by without my Northern-ness being abused. Nor does a day go by without a crack at the my Arab colleague exploding with rage, or the guys from East Anglia having webbed feet and a distinct lack of intelligence.

Mockery and abuse is character building and helps integration. It's only when it is constant and becomes bullying that there should be a problem.

By the way, my wife is nicknamed "the wop" and I am nicknamed "monkey" (as in Northern). And, finally, I would have expected someone reading the post to have seen the affection I have for Italians.

Perhaps my constant exposure to and dealing with people across Europe, Mid-East, Africa and Asia when at work (everywhere bar the US, really) gives me a certain incorrectness with my language. Not that I care.

So, finally, fuck off! Oh, and having looked at your profile, have you considered posting a story? You're an idiot.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 1 Apr 2010, 10:50, closed)

^this
just earned you a click for your main post
(SarcasticBarSteward wants to be good at Photoshop when he grows up, Thu 1 Apr 2010, 11:19, closed)

I agree
The best way to stop racism is to justify it.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 1 Apr 2010, 11:28, closed)