England 1, Italy 1

Maybe it’s age, but the concept of nationality hangs heavy. Perhaps it’s exacerbated by the fact that England play another one of those “most important football matches for years” games tomorrow in an unexpected drink-in-the-last-chance-saloon attempt to qualify for the football-fest that will be Euro 2008, although I maintain that I’m a club-not-country kind of football supporter. “Nationality” struck me yesterday when watching a recording of the joyous predictability that was last weekend’s Top Gear on BBC2, as James May (the other tall one, the one in need of an hour in the company of Charles Worthington or Nicky Clarke) took an Alfa Romeo 159 out for a spin. “Mm,” I thought, pondering the Alfa’s pointy snout, plethora of gadgets and snarling top note, “now if I were looking to trade in the Saab tomorrow, I’d be straight down the ol’ Alfa dealer and no mistake.” Which led me to realise that all my automotive needs would then be taken care of by things Italian, the theoretical 159 joining the reality of the Monster on the drive.

Flights of fancy drove the concept further. In the event of a windfall, the Duke would gain a stablemate, the three favoured options for which currently stand at a second Ducati, the sublime 1098, an Aprilia RSV Mille or an MV Agusta F4. All Italian. If my lottery numbers came up (or Lotto numbers, or Superball numbers, or Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket numbers, or whatever the darned thing’s called in these days where everything gets fucked up by a marketing initiative) the imaginary Alfa would be joined by a Maserati Coupe, a concept only undermined by the fact that I don’t buy lottery tickets, but you see the connection?

This notion began to spiral. Lasagna. Risotto, raviolo, bruschetta, Gavi di Gavi, Barolo, panacotta, dolci e formaggi... At this rate I’d be turning Catholic before Christmas, a notion so unlikely that it pulled me up short (a huge admirer of Richard Dawkins, I sometimes get the as yet unfulfilled urge to graffiti “Richard Dawkins is God” on an unsuspecting wall, much in the way that Eric Clapton was deified in the 60s, in the hope that the jocular irony offsets the effects of wanton vandalism).

I’ve only even been to Italy twice, a short break on the shores of Lake Garda incorporating a day trip to Venice and a week in Sicily, and now I half expected North Yorkshire’s traffic police to be wearing white gloves. A determined backlash against this advance of a new Roman empire was required before I found myself incorporating Ciao into my vocabulary.

The resurgence of Triumph Motorcycles. Yes, that would be a start. Apparently the Daytona 675’s a complete thoroughbred, and I remember the ear-splitting sound that my friend Alex’s Scrambler made, as if composed during a collaboration between Edward Elgar and Guy Fawkes. Aston Martin, there’s another, now back under British ownership to boot. The BBC. A Full English. Black Sheep ale. Sir Ian McKellan, Ian McEwan, The Angel of the North, the London Eye, Sir Paul Smith…Warming to my theme, I began cross-referencing English and Italian like a demented translating dictionary, until I was confident that for every Dante there’s a Shakespeare, for every Michaelangelo there’s a Lutyens, for every Galileo, a Hawking, for each Monica Bellucci a, um, Keira Knightley.

Of course the fact that Italy has already qualified for next year’s European Championship by defeating Scotland last weekend holds no sway. Club not country, remember? And now, I’m off for a double espresso.