All-Italian Bollocks

This morning my tea is Ginkyo Green. I don't know what it is with my cups of tea that gives me such delight, but I always loved the quote that is attributed to Confucius (as is everything Chinese interesting or profound) which says of tea, "the first sip is ecstasy; the second, enlightenment; the third, madness."

Perhaps it is that I no longer enjoy that sip of red wine with an evening meal, that breakfast cognac, perhaps it is the smoking morning reefers of yesteryear, curling their psychoactive weed fragrances around the corners of my sleepwaking manglemind no more; but in fact, tea was my first drug, and it shall be my last - tealeaves of the future, and tealeaves of the past...

And with my morning tea, a moment of joy to parallel the first near-scalding sip as the complex anti-oxidant rich flavours cascade across my tongue and send frolicing shivers of fun into my central nervous system - courtesy of the Italian election. Like everything else in their extraordinary culture (except tea, which they make poorly, if at all) the Italians imbue their elections with a style and vivacity unknown to the so-called developed world. My tea was enhanced this morning by the following exchange between Italy's PM Silvio Berlusconi and rival Romano Prodi who swapped the following banter in their second televised head-to-head encounter:

"The prime minister clings today in the way a drunkard clings to lamp-posts - " Mr Prodi said, "not for illumination, but to keep him standing up."

Mr Berlusconi replied: "I will not accept that. Have a little respect for the prime minister. Let me return Prodi's remark about the drunk by saying that Prodi is like a useful idiot - he lends his cheery parish priest face to the left, which is 70% made up of former communists."

What class of insults are these! What beauty in their construction! What relish in their delivery! And yet, I read that a great apathy holds the great modern Italian nation in a vice-like grip, as they witness the same old public figures swapping the same old tired arguments in an endless attempt to wrest and keep power, with 25% of them still undecided.

With the aid of tea (rather than an espresso coffee) I have come to the conclusion that they are held back by their elegance, restricted by the grace and poetry of their language. I think we need to come to the assistance of the Italians, inventors of ice-cream, the ten-hole ocarina and liposuction, with some gritty Anglo-Saxon insults for their would-be leaders. I see the exchange developing in London street-style thus:

"Oi, Berlusconi - slag! Media ponce! Fuck off back to your rich-list pals and sort out the cheesy syrup!"
"Prodi - you hairy stone-age commie bastard! Fuck off back to Europe and eat chips you Belgium-loving queer!"
"No you fuck off!"
"No you fuck off!"
"Fuck off back to your lampost you dog-fucker!"
"Fuck off back to China you baby-boiler!"
"Dog fucker!"
"Baby boiler!"
"Dog fucker!"
"Baby boiler!"
"Dog!"
"Baby!"
"Dog!"
"Baby!"
"Drunkard!"
"Priest!"
"Drunkard!"
"Priest!"
"Drunk Priest!"
"Don't try and confuse me with your left-wing intellectualism you filthy socialist!"
"Don't accuse me of socialist intellectualist tricks you media-manipulating capitalist!"
"Left Wing Arsehole!"
"Right Wing Prick!"
"Commie Wanker!"
"Fascist Cunt!"
"Fuck off!"
"You fuck off!"
"No you fuck off!"
"You fuck off!"
"Fuck off!"
"Fuck off!"
"Wanker!"
"Fart breath!"
"Shit head!"
"Tit head!"

If they would only adopt this lesson in insults, they would soon see a lifting of the terrible apathy that afflicts their mighty nation; and as young people flock to join the political parties which provide them with the choicest insults, a reinvigoration of the political process.

Desiderano in tensione gli italiani ed i loro insulti glorious!