Its only Ray Parlour
08 Sep 2003, 06:27 PM
A friend of mine is a Newcastle season ticket holder and he reported much the same things about the Inter fans, i warned some Arsenal fans about going to Inter away for or CL match but i'm not sure how many took my warning.
Anyway this is an article from a Welsh supporter after their game against Italy in the san siro (Guissepe Meazza).
"Let me put my cards on the table – I love Italy, its climate, its food, its language, its culture, its people. I have been going to football for nearly 3 whole decades and have never hit anyone. Neither have I bottled, spat upon, vomited upon, masturbated in front of or pissed upon away fans. Never seemed all that necessary, really. Maybe I’m old-fashioned. I even love(d) the Azzuri, one of the world’s most admirable sporting outfits. Sadly, no more. I may never travel away again.
So much for context, and so much for la dolce vita. If the FIFA world rankings were for fans, Italy would be bottom of the league, or shipped to a different galaxy. If Wales fans had ever (ever, even once) behaved like the despicable hundreds of expectorating, phlegm and urine-projecting Italian cowards we had to endure in the bowels (and I use that word advisedly) of the Guiseppe Meazza on Saturday evening, this correspondent for one would have stopped going many years ago, ashamed.
Twenty-seven years (and counting) of attending football matches all over Eurorpe, even in so-called lesser-developed countries, and I saw things in Milan I never want to have the misfortune to witness ever again. The country that gave birth to the ’27 Club travel officer’s chic Italian daps heaped shame and deserved opprobrium upon itself, in a sustained and vile display of animalistic baseness that none of the 8000 travelling Welsh tifosi will ever, ever forget. Thanks Italy, we really, really hated what you did to us. Let us hope that at least some of your compatriots are ashamed of you because the guilty ones really were the scum of the earth. They will never get their come-uppance though, partly as no-one in the world would ever be that uncivilised in return, and partly because those clowns never travel away. Much too dangerous.
Strangely it was a lovely weekend in a beautiful country, spoilt only by the uptight rudeness of Milanese hoteliers, and the assembled ranks of low-life scum (believe me this is no mere hyperbole) who shed so many gallons of assorted bodily fluids all over colourful, singing, excited and peaceful travelling Gallese. It was an absolute disgrace, and the only legitimacy any of the filthy animals had was that lent them by the assembled ranks of the lazy, useless Carabinieri, who looked the other way when they were not laughing in our faces.
Blessed with one of the most stylish and successful footballing sides in the history of the world, my mind is still trying to compute 48 hours on precisely what possesses people to throw pints of urine over women, children and men many metres below them, knowing that they need not fear retribution from any Wales fans or their own lamentable security forces. How I wish the Police had given them a right good shoeing for us.
The most impressive footballing arena I have ever entered outside Canton will now forever be tainted by the memories, not of Inzaghi, Del Piero, Cannavaro and Nesta putting in masterful performances, but of massed ranks of Nazi salutes throughout the hosts’ own national anthem. Of my back being covered with thick viscous phlegm as we dodged the bottles flying at us during Hen Wlad fy Nhadau. Of cups full of urine being hurled from high above us, onto family groups proud to be present at what was supposed to be a showcase sporting event. Of the man who walked to the front of the Italian balcony and put his fingers down his own throat to vomit heartily over unsuspecting innocent people. I hope he is proud of himself, and telling his family how great he is. Of the people who filled empty water bottles with yet more urine and then hurled them at us, whilst we were unable to reciprocate or retaliate in any way. Grazie mille one and all. We now despise you, you are the biggest cowardly collection of trash we have ever seen (and we have been going since before some of you were mistakenly born).
I have been to over 300 football matches, including 65 internationals, and these people were the saddest attempts at humanity I have ever witnessed. Luckily they weren’t around after the game, or they might have found out. Innocent women and small children with bleeding head wounds, people feeling violated, soiled. Well done, big boys. We did nothing to you in Cardiff (but then you weren’t there were you, too busy hiding at home behind your mothers) and we did nothing to you in Milano. Do that against a more pugilistic set of away fans, and your precious Duomo and Scala might have been demolished. Then again, maybe you’ll be more quiet when the big boys come to town.
For the record, the 1927 Club was still able, outside the confines of the Scum Siro, to have its usual hugely enjoyable Wales trip. Lengthy epicurean sojourns in Bologna, Como and various Milanese satellites enabled us to appreciate that Italy has some of the finest food, countryside, culture and, frankly, men and women in the whole of the world. It also has an Ultra-culture that is endemically extremely racist and violent, even against non-combative innocents (hell, especially against them).
Questions should be asked at the highest levels (but won’t be) about why they are allowed to do that – for two whole hours – in front of the Police and, ironically, in the presence of one of the most powerful media moguls in the entire world. Maybe Berlusconi should apply to the Football Trust to get some TV cameras put in there. Where’s the perpetrator? Well, there’s 3000 there for a start, like that one pissing on the head of the child underneath him.
Wales now face a challenge to secure at least a play-off spot for Portugal. The team, down almost to bare bones, looked punch-drunk for the second half, and it will be down to us to lift them in the remaining games. It would be hard enough for us to raise ourselves, were it not for the fact that we have just been through one of the worst violations of peaceful fans’ rights ever seen in Europe, and this was no eastern European backwater. I for one will redouble my efforts to lose my voice singing the boys home.
All genuine Italian tifosi should be sick to the pit of their stomach, as their poisonous compatriots have, perhaps irreparably, soured Welsh perceptions of calcio-culture. As we now try to dust ourselves down, literally, I for one dread the day we ever play Italy again, especially if it were to be in Portugal.
To all the kind, intelligent and civilised Italians we met, thank-you. As for the rest, you should be ashamed, you are the worst human beings we have ever met. Our hitherto hugely enjoyable qualifiers have now been tainted, and we wash our hands of you, you sick disgraces. "
I guess this is the price you have to pay after English hooligans ran riot across europe in the past. The Italians have been out for revenge ever since the Heysel disaster.
Real pity. Mindless idiots.
Anyway this is an article from a Welsh supporter after their game against Italy in the san siro (Guissepe Meazza).
"Let me put my cards on the table – I love Italy, its climate, its food, its language, its culture, its people. I have been going to football for nearly 3 whole decades and have never hit anyone. Neither have I bottled, spat upon, vomited upon, masturbated in front of or pissed upon away fans. Never seemed all that necessary, really. Maybe I’m old-fashioned. I even love(d) the Azzuri, one of the world’s most admirable sporting outfits. Sadly, no more. I may never travel away again.
So much for context, and so much for la dolce vita. If the FIFA world rankings were for fans, Italy would be bottom of the league, or shipped to a different galaxy. If Wales fans had ever (ever, even once) behaved like the despicable hundreds of expectorating, phlegm and urine-projecting Italian cowards we had to endure in the bowels (and I use that word advisedly) of the Guiseppe Meazza on Saturday evening, this correspondent for one would have stopped going many years ago, ashamed.
Twenty-seven years (and counting) of attending football matches all over Eurorpe, even in so-called lesser-developed countries, and I saw things in Milan I never want to have the misfortune to witness ever again. The country that gave birth to the ’27 Club travel officer’s chic Italian daps heaped shame and deserved opprobrium upon itself, in a sustained and vile display of animalistic baseness that none of the 8000 travelling Welsh tifosi will ever, ever forget. Thanks Italy, we really, really hated what you did to us. Let us hope that at least some of your compatriots are ashamed of you because the guilty ones really were the scum of the earth. They will never get their come-uppance though, partly as no-one in the world would ever be that uncivilised in return, and partly because those clowns never travel away. Much too dangerous.
Strangely it was a lovely weekend in a beautiful country, spoilt only by the uptight rudeness of Milanese hoteliers, and the assembled ranks of low-life scum (believe me this is no mere hyperbole) who shed so many gallons of assorted bodily fluids all over colourful, singing, excited and peaceful travelling Gallese. It was an absolute disgrace, and the only legitimacy any of the filthy animals had was that lent them by the assembled ranks of the lazy, useless Carabinieri, who looked the other way when they were not laughing in our faces.
Blessed with one of the most stylish and successful footballing sides in the history of the world, my mind is still trying to compute 48 hours on precisely what possesses people to throw pints of urine over women, children and men many metres below them, knowing that they need not fear retribution from any Wales fans or their own lamentable security forces. How I wish the Police had given them a right good shoeing for us.
The most impressive footballing arena I have ever entered outside Canton will now forever be tainted by the memories, not of Inzaghi, Del Piero, Cannavaro and Nesta putting in masterful performances, but of massed ranks of Nazi salutes throughout the hosts’ own national anthem. Of my back being covered with thick viscous phlegm as we dodged the bottles flying at us during Hen Wlad fy Nhadau. Of cups full of urine being hurled from high above us, onto family groups proud to be present at what was supposed to be a showcase sporting event. Of the man who walked to the front of the Italian balcony and put his fingers down his own throat to vomit heartily over unsuspecting innocent people. I hope he is proud of himself, and telling his family how great he is. Of the people who filled empty water bottles with yet more urine and then hurled them at us, whilst we were unable to reciprocate or retaliate in any way. Grazie mille one and all. We now despise you, you are the biggest cowardly collection of trash we have ever seen (and we have been going since before some of you were mistakenly born).
I have been to over 300 football matches, including 65 internationals, and these people were the saddest attempts at humanity I have ever witnessed. Luckily they weren’t around after the game, or they might have found out. Innocent women and small children with bleeding head wounds, people feeling violated, soiled. Well done, big boys. We did nothing to you in Cardiff (but then you weren’t there were you, too busy hiding at home behind your mothers) and we did nothing to you in Milano. Do that against a more pugilistic set of away fans, and your precious Duomo and Scala might have been demolished. Then again, maybe you’ll be more quiet when the big boys come to town.
For the record, the 1927 Club was still able, outside the confines of the Scum Siro, to have its usual hugely enjoyable Wales trip. Lengthy epicurean sojourns in Bologna, Como and various Milanese satellites enabled us to appreciate that Italy has some of the finest food, countryside, culture and, frankly, men and women in the whole of the world. It also has an Ultra-culture that is endemically extremely racist and violent, even against non-combative innocents (hell, especially against them).
Questions should be asked at the highest levels (but won’t be) about why they are allowed to do that – for two whole hours – in front of the Police and, ironically, in the presence of one of the most powerful media moguls in the entire world. Maybe Berlusconi should apply to the Football Trust to get some TV cameras put in there. Where’s the perpetrator? Well, there’s 3000 there for a start, like that one pissing on the head of the child underneath him.
Wales now face a challenge to secure at least a play-off spot for Portugal. The team, down almost to bare bones, looked punch-drunk for the second half, and it will be down to us to lift them in the remaining games. It would be hard enough for us to raise ourselves, were it not for the fact that we have just been through one of the worst violations of peaceful fans’ rights ever seen in Europe, and this was no eastern European backwater. I for one will redouble my efforts to lose my voice singing the boys home.
All genuine Italian tifosi should be sick to the pit of their stomach, as their poisonous compatriots have, perhaps irreparably, soured Welsh perceptions of calcio-culture. As we now try to dust ourselves down, literally, I for one dread the day we ever play Italy again, especially if it were to be in Portugal.
To all the kind, intelligent and civilised Italians we met, thank-you. As for the rest, you should be ashamed, you are the worst human beings we have ever met. Our hitherto hugely enjoyable qualifiers have now been tainted, and we wash our hands of you, you sick disgraces. "
I guess this is the price you have to pay after English hooligans ran riot across europe in the past. The Italians have been out for revenge ever since the Heysel disaster.
Real pity. Mindless idiots.