When I was in Florence in 2008, my companion Fiona who I was travelling with had gone back to the hotel.
I, however, had consumed a considerable amount of the locality’s finest Martini – both Rosso and Blanco – and decided to venture out into the city on my own.
Not far into my quest, I was vaguely aware of a scruffy looking man up ahead with a bottle who was shouting something at me in Italian. (well, I assume it was Italian – it could have been Hungarian for all I know).
The gentleman proceeded to smash the bottle against the wall and hold it threateningly whilst continuing to shout who-knows-what.
In any other situation I may have fled, but being the intoxicated Glaswegian abroad, I responded confidently through the haze:
“Ayeee whitever mate, I don’t know whit the fuck ye’re saying”
The man looked back stunned at my casual riposte, bottle lowered, and I was allowed to carry on my merry way.
Since then, I’ve taken to a liking of a good old Martini, and I think of that man every time I have it.