Hey British people. What’s the matter with you?

You got like a million Italian restaurants in this country. You wear Italian clothes, some of you drive Italian cars. Italian perfume. All of that crap.

Yet not one of you mamalukes seems to know the first goddamn thing about Italy or Italians. I can not even count the number of times some British person has asked me if I’m in the mafia when they hear that I’m Italian American.

What? You think because you seen a lot of mob movies that every goombah is some kind of gangster? How would you feel if I asked every one of you if you was one of them guards at Buckingham palace? You know, those guys– the ones in red who have to stand still when you go up and break their balls?  Or speaking of breaking balls, how about I say to every English person I meet – “La ti da – oh you’re some English guy- I suppose that means you like to kill Irish people and drink tea and that you live in Downton Abbey with Paddington bear. ” See – it don’t feel so good to be stereotyped, do it?

Okay, rather than just sit here and give you a hard time, I’m gonna give you some advice. So you’re not so damned stunad about Italians and Italian Americans. So scooch on over here and listen good:

Advice to make you not so stupid about Italy and Italian Americans

Pizza should be simple. You guys will put any friggin thing on a pizza, and that ain’t right. I think you don’t quite get the whole idea of pizza. I heard about this British lady, the one with the boobs who does the TV show. Nigella somebody. First off, what kind of name is that? That’s a name like a scoreggia. Like hey let’s take this English name, Nigel, add an ‘a’ at the end, and then like we got some Italian lady. It don’t work like that, and you don’t make a pizza crust out of meat and call it “meat-za!”  That lady with the boobs – she don’t know from pizza.

You don’t serve starch with starch. Like, I been to, I don’t even know how many pubs where they serve lasagne with french fries. Oh, sorry- chips. Whatever the hell you call them, don’t serve them with lasagne. It’s like serving spaghetti with a side of rice. What’s the matter with you?

Learn some Italian if you travel there. Italians, we’re like you. We don’t want to learn no other languages. But don’t go around Italy shouting at people. Learn a little Italian. Like ten words even. Try “Non mi piacciono le patate fritte con le mie lasagne. Grazie.”

Don’t even bother making Italian sandwiches. You take some flat bread, you put some crap in it, you call it a panino. You get two of them, you call them paninos. I’m just kind of embarrassed for you. First off, you cafone, it’s called a piadina. They ain’t all panini. And yeah, the plural is panini. And what the hell is this lasagne sandwich I read about? Why don’t you leave the lasagne alone already? It ain’t done nothing to you.

Don’t talk about the mafia. I got a cousin in Italy and he don’t like the British much. Cause when he comes over here, they ask him if he’s in the mafia. And he’s proud Italian. And he tells me in Italian, cause his English ain’t so good: “these British people, they look down on Italians, but when we were building the colosseum, they were rolling around in the mud, poking each other with sticks.” You can’t argue with that kind of pride. Don’t be asking Italian people if they’re in the mafia. It’s maleducato.

There ain’t no such thing as spaghetti bolognese. Like, it just don’t exist. Bolognese sauce, it’s meant to go on tagliatelle, maybe linguini in a pinch. But never spaghetti. Trust me, my momma’s from Bologna. And that crap you eat, Spag Bowl or Spagh Bowl, it looks like some big cat threw up on a small pile of spaghetti. Sauce is meant to be light. Repeat it after me: “Sauce is meant to be light.”

Why you gotta get so drunk? 

Learn how to play football. I’m sorry paisan, I know this one hurts, but like, you people aren’t any good at calcio. You do penalty kicks like you was a bunch of little girls in high heels trying to kick a bowling ball. It ain’t so hard. You look at the keeper and you stare at him like you want to kill him, and then you kick the ball into the net like that keeper was making time with your sister. That’s how Andrea Pirlo does it.  We got like so many world cups I can’t even keep track of them all. You got the one. I suppose that’s pretty good. That’s one more than Iceland has. So, yeah, well done I guess.

What’s with those Dolmio people?  You want to eat rancid tomato crap out of a jar, that’s your problem. But why do you have to make racialist stereotypes of my people? Like we all have some fat mamma, and all the men have moustaches and we all sit around all day eating schifoso tomato sauce out of a jar. How would you like it if I told you that back in New Jersey, the supermarkets all sell cans of baked beans with a picture of a family of little lord Fauntleroys on the front, sipping gin with their pinkies raised, wearing monocles? How would you like them beans?

Italians and Italian Americans ain’t the same thing. This is the last and most important thing I want to tell you. People in Italy ain’t like the people on the Jersey Shore. Those people, we call guidos. They wear gold chains and white shoes and have orange skin. They’re like, the poo that Italy pooped out and that floated over to America. It ain’t like that in Italy. They dress nice there, they’re educated, they eat lasagne without no fries on their plate. You gotta stop watching all these American movies about the mafia. That ain’t part of my experience. It’s a movie. And when you stereotype that crap about me being in the mafia on account of my having an Italian American name, it hurts my delicate feelings. Got it? Don’t make me break your faccia brutta.