The Sopranos Confessions

Now I know we’re a little bit late arriving at the party, but Emily and I are absolutely obsessed with the Sopranos at the moment. This follows years of complete indifference and, indeed, ignorance of the series. Then I took a punt on the boxed set of the first series on eBay and we were hooked. Several more boxed sets have been avidly watched since.

I think watching the Sopranos has an effect on the male psyche, especially if you’re a respectable, soft, middleclass type like me. The macho swagger and aggressive verbal style are infectiously attractive to harmless males. I noticed, for instance, that when my friend Franco (who is actually Sicilian) and I were discussing the Sopranos last night, the word ‘fuck’ began to pepper our conversation more than usual. Every other fucking word was fucking fuck, in fucking fact.

Of course, another compelling thing about the Sopranos for the middleclass male is the violent solutions applied to everyday difficulties. As much as we superficially disapprove of such behaviour, we’d secretly love to have the threatening presence to scare the shit out of anyone who crosses us or grab that bloke who’s bothering us by the balls and twist. I possibly draw the line at shooting lippy shop assistants in the foot, but sometimes it’s tempting.

This secret admiration of the violent criminal is lampooned in one episode in series two, where Christopher with the unfeasibly large nose is introduced to Swingers director, John Favreau. By the end of one scene, the beguiled Hollywood insider is mimicking Christopher’s aggressive patter and body language, until it all goes wrong and Christopher waves his gun in his face. This is where it all gets a bit too real.

The apotheosis of my Sopranos fetish has been the purchase of a ‘Paulie’ style Sergio Tacchini shellsuit (thank you again, eBay). I find it massively comfortable to wear around the house (with black vest underneath of course). But I also - and this is really sad – secretly like looking like a member of Tony’s gang.

Unfortunately my role play has been shattered every time I go down to the corner shop wearing the shellsuit. It’s guaranteed that some Polish blokes will always say ‘hello’ to me in their own language. Ah well, I suppose I’m blending in with the locals, at least…