Christmas week is over. Started the 21st, ended tonight, in this shitty airport (as always with Ryanair). What is left for me? Not the liver for sure, it should be long gone by now.
If I stay clean tonight and I'm not tempted in buying some of the overpriced alcoholic crap on the plane then this would be my first night without reaching the edge of being drunk.
Without sport, I'm just a sad and pathetic alcoholic. But at least I'm surrounded by so many beautiful people than are more than willing to share another last drink ("last drink" is an oxymoron by the way) with me, remembering the good old times of 10 minutes ago, when the "last but not the real last" drink was emptied in one gulp. Great times.
Don't trust someone who doesn't drink, a sentence of a great book received as a Christmas gift ("Another Bullshit Night in Suck City" - how can a title get better?). And usually I don't. I make some exceptions for someone too far to drink with me or someone too gay (even if he's not, but the word metro sexual was invented for him, and now he's a proud dad of a daughter and a son) and that's it.
Even my dog would share a drink with me if he could.
My dad does. My sister does. My mum does. My friends do.
All in different times, all in different locations, all in different drinks. I'm the minimum common denominator.
And oh God I love it.
But I love sport too and next month is my annual "stay away from alcohol" month. If I'd break my ankle again, or if I will injure my back more than it is now, well, George Best's first liver you found a proper competitor.
I love Christmas. Ok, technically Jesus was born probably in the summer or in the autumn and the 25th originally was a pagan festivity. But, really, who cares?
Christmas is about much more than that. For me, I can go back once a year in my small town and spend more time than I usually do in my traditional spring visit with the people I know and I love. Ok, some of them don't like me but hey, it's Christmas and the Meister is back in town to share his uncommon love.
Girls, please queue.
This time, instead of just relaxing and let it go by randomly meeting whoever I could, I decided to schedule almost all my week to fit as many people as possible. Obviously my schedule collapsed (alcohol and work didn't help keeping the timing right). But I was still surprised by how many people I randomly met after many years of silence.
Even an old auntie, the oldest woman in my family. The last time she spoke with me was 10 years ago, to give me the condolences about the death of my grandma. I wasn't even 18 back then, and buying porn for me was illegal. The time before that was around 25 years ago. I couldn't even say the word "porn" back then (but I bet my dad could).
Even on my visit to the remote city of Bassano del Grappa (best grappa ever) I met more people than know me than in my home town. And I even recognized them too. I don't know if some of them were very happy to see me there but, again, it's Christmas, give us a kiss and a hug(ga) and some grappa.
Ninth airplane trip of the year. This means I've already flown around 20 times this year, counting the connections in US.
Very impressive. I got ready probably in 45 minutes and got bored in my room for 2 hours.
I have a condition, you know: it seems that I can never make it just in time at the airport. It's always too early, or too late.
When is too early, I'm 6 hours early. When it's too late, usually I have to book another plane.
This time I even made my own calculations to get in Stansted just in time to
1) buy magazines with naked women
2) have a poo
3) eat something disgusting
4) look at the pictures in the magazine with the naked women.
Sometimes the order changes but this is my routine. I don't usually buy filthy magazines (my great Irish flatmate does it for me) but I make an exception every time I fly.
Once in Little Poland (Victoria Green Line) I jumped on the bus (late) to get in the airport (late). The flight was late so all my calculations were worthless.
I had 4 spare hours. Damn it.
In 4 hours I spent time thinking how stupid I am every time that I book my plane online. I should always avoid Ryanair. I'm not a Ryanair man. I'm a BA World Class Traveler Man (free drinks and films on board).
Then I remember that I have the Ryanair Man's money and I book a cheap ticket. But really, I hate Ryanair.
The baggage limit is 15kg. Usually I travel with 10-13 but in the last months some guests (girls) left me some stuff to bring it over in December. 22 pounds gone. Add this to the price for the bus and for the same price I could have landed in Milan instead of Bergamo (80km from my place) and fly from the nice and mighty Heathrow instead of the cheap and too damn far Stansted.
I landed in the middle of the night and thank God my sister and my cousin (who likes to drink just like me) Davide were there to collect me. Instead of going home we went straight to the best bar of Legnano (a 50k town known for the incredible amount of bars per head), the Texas Town.
Without no food and no sleep and no strength in my body I almost struggled to drink the two Americanos (or Negronis), the Chupito (rum + pear juice - I drank it straight, no juices for the real man) and the Absinthe.
Happy and (almost) drunk I went home only to wake up the next morning around 8am because my dad wanted to say hello.
Now, my dad is a beautiful man. He's strong, he's probably one of the strongest men I've ever known and fought with, and he's got forgotten "all around" skills.
He's like a MacGyver only with a better son and less hair.
He's like one day the producers of the A-Team decided to cut the budget and fit everything in one man: 15% Hannibal Smith, 5% Face, 5% Murdock and 75% B.A. Baracus, shook it and made it whiter, with a strong belly and the biggest hands ever found on a human in a 5'8 frame.
He traveled the whole life for work, building, fixing, painting, connecting stands for various firms in the fair trades.
In the 90's he finally stopped traveling to live the rest of his life surrounded by the family. But it worked quite differently: after the military service I left to go to London, my sister lived in Brazil for a while and my mum left. The dog stayed.
Shit happens.
Dogs and cats stay.
This is the lesson. And this is my dad.
But he's got heart. And a moral code from 4 or 5 centuries ago. So when he saw me, after the usual line "hello son" he soon followed it with "well, you're here know, get your ass out and cut some wood for the fireplace"
And I moaned, half drunk and half dead. But I did it. You know, keeping my dad happy in my short stays is always one of my goals.
After I cut the wood I walked my massive (40kg...) dog known as Bart outside, and I swear I almost connected with him.
He's just playing Forrest Gump with those eyes and his love for everyone.
Instead he was looking at me and saying
"Hey you, young man, let me take you out for a ride. You look crap man. And the wood you cut? That was shit man. Come, come here, I'll show you the crap of some other dog. See? Now look, I can do better" - he shat - "See? If I want something, if I'm focused on something, I can do it. Now walk me there and there and then give me some food. And some water. And give as much food and fresh water like your old man. No shitty leftovers and I will play the happy dog for you later. Say, deal?" - Deal - "Cool. Oooof".
Later I met my mum for the pre Christmas dinner with my sister. And later I went to my pub to drink with my friends. To dogs. And to Richard Pryor. And to Eddie Guerrero.
Morning of the 23rd. Big day. I managed, after many months of phone calls and emails to invite my "not so local" friends.
My best "fucking miles away" friends. Alessia, Mauro, Gualtiero. And, for the sake of the old times, even the man known as Lord V, Mattia. My original plan was to invite even more people but they all found nice excuses not to come. Well, how to blame them?
You see, many years ago I thought that I could never get lonely. From time to time I tried to stop the system before it gets me down (I know, it's a sentence stolen from a song). 
And I cut many of my connections, isolated myself, try to forget faces and names. This was around 2000, not too long after I left the army. I rebuilt a respectable life working in the daylight in Milan in a web agency and the evenings in the Texas Town pub. After many years of doing fuck all (the university period) I decided to change and that was it.
Then, once in London, as long as I was busy I was damn happy. I didn't have time to stop in the present (I had to plan my damn future) and the past seemed past and forgotten. New place, new football team, new friends. It sounds like a really good story. Well, it is, and not because of me (I'm the bastard one).
Then I got a letter, a random proper letter on a piece of proper paper. Then, since the Christmas of 2001 the memories got back to me, maybe not all in once, but I could see some pictures and clearly remember the laughs, the smell of alcohol, and the long travels to the North East to stay with these special friends.
They contacted me. Via internet, even on the phone. I tried to stay cool and I did it so well that for a while they thought I was some sort of a bastard (I am, but for another reasons). So every time I was back in Italy 
I spent time with my everlasting friends with whom I went to school and I played football and I watched the first porn (porn connects).
Even if I wanted I couldn't get rid of them (and I wouldn't do it anyway). Every time I was back in Italy they were in every corner, in every memory of my original place.
The bunch from the Veneto (North East) was easier to remove. There is no school that reminds me of them. Or football pitches. Or porn video (no porn when you hang around with girls..). All the locations were 300km from me. No chances of seeing them again. Friends from that weird period between the end of being a fuck all student and the start of being a professional fuck all.
But hey, life is weird. And so we got in touch again. A letter, some emails, another letter, some chat sessions online. I even spent some time with each of them in London and I met Alessia at least twice in the last 4 years, in Italy.
But I never managed to see them all together, again, on my table. Fortunately, this time everything worked up just fine.
Gualtiero now lives in Milan, following a career in journalism. So he arrived in Canegrate (that is the crap name - dog in a cell - of my town) before anyone else. Lucky man, he could start drink with me and my dog while we were waiting for the others.
They all arrived maybe one hour later, just in time to start drinking and eating. It was weird. Back then we used to call each other by nicknames. I was Durnik for example. And sometimes someone still used the old nicknames, now just empty shells of the Meister that never was.
Alcohol helped soon reach the point of "Hey, remember when?" "Fuck yeah! He was so fucking trashed" etc... My dad, who enjoys the company of youngsters more than the company of people his own age ("There is no energy left in them") sat with us to drink and celebrate something he probably couldn't understand. He showed off the amazing manger he did (how could he with those massive fingers? A work of fine art!) and then he said goodbye to go and relax and leave us alone.
The dog burped, I remember. A proper burp.
Obviously we soon moved to the Texas, when my sister was ready for me. In no time a table was ready in the crowded place, and Nicola (the fantastic owner) gave us the warmth welcome we all wanted and hoped for (well, I was).
The lovely Cristina (long time waitress with my sister) gave us drink and we never stopped drinking for a single minute. Only the sissy Mauro gave up, and my sister kept giving him juice fruits with exotic names "a bit too strong for me" with no alcohol.
Giuseppe, crashed from the night before (he had a big part too) joined us for a free (Meister's paying) drinking session. It was his birthday. Long life my best assist man ever (10 years ago he played football with me. He was running and doing the hard work, I was just scoring from his assists).
At the end of the evening I even managed to drive them safely home. For a moment I thought I forgot my liver in the pub. But it was still with me.
I don't remember it. 
Dog wants to go out "Ooooof. Get your ass out young man. Or I sniff your ass"
A book named "Another bullshit night in suck city". Finished this morning. A magnetic world map. 
I'm happy, it's the gift I always wanted and I never found the inner strength to buy. Joey Potter. Never met anyone so lovely in my whole life in front of a TV, on the day channels (a lot of lovely ladies in the night channels).
At the Texas town. I go out with Vava and Max and meet in a mulled wine session friends from the last century. Weird. 
Bassano del Grappa is to the spirit called Grappa what Lynchburg Tennessee is for the whisky called Jack Daniels. People are proud of it, old people still drink it and young people are more than happy to buy it and drink by the great old bridge.
Destroyed in the first world war, rebuilt, destroyed again in the WWII, rebuilt again: this is what I call love for alcohol. People on the other side of the bridge didn't give a crap if the Austrians or the Germans destroyed the bridge. They wanted the grappa and they rebuilt it. Twice. How about that?
Grappa is a weird alcohol. They drink it only in the north Italy, usually by old people, but everyone I know enjoys a sip of the "too strong to be real" liquid. Italians exported wine, limoncello, sambuca and other nice drinks but grappa is just too strong and difficult to be exported properly.
And I like Bassano del Grappa. It's a beautiful town in the North East. And they recognize me there.
I used to spend so much time over here maybe 6-7 years ago, but they remember my face. I met more people who welcomed me in their town thanks to nice (well, almost) memories of a past glory than in my home town. And driving around with Alessia and her old 500 was incredibly great.
They know if you're not from the place. They are all cousins. If you're not part of the few families around, it means that you're from outside. Ok, it sounds a bit too much like the Appalachians (hillbillies) but at least they don't do incestuous things. I hope.
With Michela, Alessia's lovely and single friend (because I know some of you need a girl) I spent a day eating and drinking and talking about the usual things that grappa makes you talk: sex, Japanese anime, dreams about sex, old 
memories from old times and previous sex experiences. Great fun.
You can always learn a lot from two girls talking about sex (I always do, and I have a good memory).
I left Alessia's house the next morning for another trip back, to spend my last two days in my home (hole) town.
For some reason, on my way back, I slept on the train with some Chopin music in my ears. Chopin, nice polish chap, you know?
Last days in Italy of a long week.
Out with my friends from a very old time (10 years ago) from my high school. Barbara, who once was a dark scary cure fan and now she's a white not scary anymore cute girl, Fabio, a guy with a respectable presence but deep down inside a party animal, and Jumba, my short and dark friend who visited me already three times this year. We had a great evening (ended at the Texas, obviously) and they all won an invitation to visit me in London.
I invite always everyone while I'm in Italy, anyway 75% of them won't bother. Cheap way to be nice.
The next day I met the eldest member of my family (the auntie of my dad... is she my auntie as well?). 88 years old, widow since the 70's, and she still lives alone. I met her only once, when I was a kid (don't remember her) and when my grandma died (same as before). She had some problems remembering me as well, since the contacts with my dad were as rare as the ones with me.
You can always understand how old is the person in front of you by watching his/her surroundings. There is always something wrong for this era. In this case a map of the world in the kitchen, showing Germany as two different countries, Yugoslavia as a one and this huge country as big as half of the world called URSS (CCCP). Great stuff.
But she's still independent. And I really admire that.
I met Paolo again, like I've been doing all the years since 2001. Happy with his wife to be Very and his three sons. He doesn't drink, and I shouldn't trust him, but because I've always thought he was a bit too gay to be a proper metro sexual, just to understand later that it was just part of his plan to score with the girls, I respect him.
And he called his son Olaf, so how can I not trust him? (in fact I trust him almost more than anyone else)
And that was it. I said goodbye to friends and what is left of my family and boarded the plane in another Ryanair nightmare (flight delayed, baggage lost, bus missing).
Shit happened while I was away but I guess it was part of the plan that the Guy with the white beard (old, good looking, looks a bit like Santa Claus but he never gives away gifts) had reserved for me this year.
Maybe I should add some consideration about my weird 2005. But I'll wait until next week. 2006 is approaching. Fucking Finally.