Tonight Matthew, I'm P Castelli

Hello guys 'n' gals,

Last night I was drunk from the sheer euphoria that football can bring. Ya see, if you read my last blog you'd know that I had wanted to go the football to see the derby. Due to the prohibitively exorbitant (or should that be exorbitantly prohibitive? I think probably the latter. Yes, let's go with that.) cost of a ticket I had resigned myself to going to the pub with Katarina to watch it (not that that's necessarily a bad thing, but football always comes before talking to girls). But beforhand, I wanted to go to the pub to meet my football-going-to amigos. So, I went along and had a few beers, and they said they'd try to get me a ticket, or just push me through the turnstiles. I didn't really think it'd happen, so wasn't too fussed by this offer. However, after a couple of beers I was presented with a man-mountain who gave me a ticket. It cost me 20 euros, whereas a normal ticket costs me 25 euros. I love the black market. At least so far - this was my first real brush with it.

But anyway, they called the guy Paoloni, and apparently he's quite the big fish in the pond of hooliganism here. Everyone seemed quite impressed. Before my mum sends me an email warning me of the perils of talking to such sorts, assuming she continued reading (hi mum), I'd like to point out that they have a different kind of idea about what a hooligan is here. I'm not saying that he's the salt of the earth, all round great guy that abhors actual violence like me, but here a hooligan appears to just be someone who has a deep passion for their club. I don't know if this also includes cracking heads: they're kind of scary looking, so I didn't want to probe too deeply. But the man gave me a ticket to see the derby, so he's A-OK in my book.

Tickets have your name printed on them, to avoid undesirables getting into the ground. As I had bought my ticket off a man in the street, my ticket didn't have my name on it, so if questioned I had to use the rather improbable line that my name was P. Castelli, and I didn't speak any Italian and had left my ID at home. I was a bit concerned that the eagle-eyed stewards might see through my ruse, but true to form, they didn't care and only directed me to the stand. I normally buy a ticket for the gabbia (charmingly, 'the cage') but normally ignore this and just go to the Gradinata Nord (north stand). However, last night the goons were at least half on the ball, and so I spent the virtually alone in the stand - no one chooses to go there.

Genoa won 3-1, rather fantastically, and were down to 9 men by the end, rather unfairly I think, but I would need to see the highlights to make a more reasoned decision. But still, 3-1, in your face Sampdoria! The match was no classic, but then again, it doesn't matter. During the game, I had the old familiar sick feeling in my stomach that I had when I watched Hibs invariably struggle against Hearts. Or maybe I just needed a pee. But still, I enjoyed the singing and shouting so much that I may try to minimise talking today, and it took a while for the excitement fuelled adrenaline to leave my system, so sleep was difficult too.

Here's some photos of the stadium.

Enjoy, and cheerio