Overheard in the spogliatoio

Hey you crazy gang of crazy people! How the Devil are you? Good/indifferent/bad, you say? Good/could be worse/oh dear (delete as appropriate), I reply. But enough about you. Get your own blog. Now let's talk about me.

I should begin this by saying hello and welcome in a comedy Dutch accent to Marc, who I found out during the week has read this blog. I always find it heartening if a little surprising when I hear that people beyond my immediate family read this. But thankfully it'd seem that a handful of you do, so thanks, it's much appreciated, and without your valuable time this blog would be the equivalent of shouting alone in the forest. But if there was no one around to hear me, would I make a sound?

Last Sunday was a football day (yes, you're right, every day is a football day, but Sunday was more so as there was a game at the stadium). I woke up naturally, i.e. without the need of an alarm, and with a deplorably clear head as I hadn't been out the night before. Outside was a beautiful sunny day, if pretty nippy, and I started the day drinking a coffee standing in the sun at my window. Everything was good. Then, I went down to the bar and a restaurant with my football-going buddies for some lunch, before adjourning to the pub for some pre-match libations. Everything remained good, and I was in a very chirpy mood going into the stadium. Because of the sun I was wearing my sunglasses, which in my no doubt erroneous opinion make me look quite cool. Perhaps because of this sheen of coolness, the stewards outside the stadium thought I was some kind of mirage of awesomenes, so they patted me down twice to make sure I didn't have anything forbidden secreted about my person. Very strange, as it's never happened before, but maybe security measures are like buses. My chirpy mood was soon to end though, as alas, Genoa are rubbish just now, and we were beaten by the disappointingly good Udinese. Ho and hum.

I play football every week with a friend of this blog, Patrick, who has apparently been waiting on tenterhooks for some kind of scythingly insightful comment on our games. So, here we go:
In Scotland we would often talk/shout at each other during a game to keep our spirits up and to give constructive criticism when it was deemed necessary. This was often delivered colourfully. Then afterwards when everyone was having a shower there would be a bit of banter, but not so much that we would stand about naked just shooting the breeze. It seems to me that in Italy, the opposite is true. During the game there is almost complete silence, save for the begrudging creak of increasingly distressed joints. But then after the game, it's a free for all of standing about as God/Allah/Santa (delete as appropriate) created us. I'm now officially one of the football players and my name has been added to the bottom of the Top Goalscorer spreadsheet, so what we talk about I can't divulge, but believe me when I say in terms of duration, it doesnt so much as cross the line into the realms of "guys, I've already showered, changed and had a cigarette, could you put your clothes back on please?", as build its own settlement there and then always claim it was there, and what's more was part of its ancestors land. The conversation is also often interrupted by the sound of hairdryers, which I'm pretty sure in the unreconstructed environs of a Scottish changing room wouldn't be allowed to last for long. I'm just dreading the week when all of there periods synchronise and football's cancelled, because I do enjoy it.

In my last post, I mentioned that I'd bought some trousers. Let's revisit that exciting time, as there was something that I'd forgotten to tell you about. After a couple of months of rain and dampness I'd bitten the bullet and decided to buy myself an umbrella. As far as umbrella's go, it was pretty ok. The fateful day I went shopping I took it with me as the sky was about as promising as Richard Keys and Andy Gray's futures as guest speakers for women's groups. In most shops they have a wee umbrella stand by the door where you should leave your umbrella while you peruse, but I rarely use this as I just plain don't trust other people. However, against my better judgement, in the last shop I went to I used it as it's a bit of an expensive shop and also a bit of a squeeze. After waiting for what seemed like forever to escape, I discovered that some little gobshite had stolen my umbrella. Hark, my distrust and lack of faith in people once again justified! As I stood in the doorway swearing at no one in particular, a very nice girl looked at me, so I stopped tout suite and when I realised that she worked there explained to her what cruel fate had befallen me. She went and got me a replacement one, which despite it being broken, was very kind of her. Result, kind of.

On Saturday I had Burns Supper Episode 1 at the flat with Simone and Laura, which was very nice, and a fine excuse for me to eat the haggis that I'd brought back over after Christmas. Needless to say, the company was sparkling and the cooking magnifique, as the French may or may not spell it. But my Italian was a bit crap, which much like life in general, seems to swing wildly and without warning between dizzying mediums and spiralling nadirs. Most disappointing.

Ok, I think that's your lot. I look forward to remembering something that I've forgotten to mention in the frustratingly near future, but will save whatever that comes to be for the next post.

Until next time, I bid you adieu.

Football and trousers - New Year, same old twaddle

Hello you, and Happy New Year! I hope and trust that you are well, and that your festive period was suitably festive and gay, in the traditional sense, unless the more modern sense is what rocks your boat in which case, hope it was that too.

Now that I'm done with all of the introductory pleasantness, I should tell you that I have an illness that I fear is uncureable. I suffer from an ailment that drives me to do things that I would normally think foolish, and spend money and time obsessing about something that probably isn't all that important in the grand scheme of things. Or that's what other people claim it to be, although I put very little faith in other peoples thoughts, especially when it's about....... that's right, football.

You see, I suffer from Calciolism: A love, nay, a yearning, a desire, a need, of football. What's that? A youth player from a big team is signing for an insignificant, backwater team, you say? I'm on it. I need to know who, when, why and how much. Which leads me into a rather easy jibe about Federico Macheda signing for Sampdoria. Chortle.

But anyway, if there was such a thing as this illness, I would probably reject off-hand the notion of getting help from a support group, who for the purposes of an upcoming play on words (you have been warned: set face to mildly amused) could be called FA (Footballitis Anonymous). Alternatively, it could be called SFA (Supporters of Football Anonymous). However, as I don't think that this love of jumpers for goalposts etc etc is a bad thing, I intend to do Sweet FA about this. Boom boom! (It's taken me longer than is healthy to animate those last few tortured sentences into life, so I hope that my effort was appreciated. Or if not, that you keep the hate mail to a minimum.) The acronym SFA and the governing body and organisation that it represents is a joke in itself of course, but that's a bit too niche, I think. You're already reading a blog which, no matter how it's dressed up, is basically about me, which is probably niche enough for anybody. And if you don't know what the SFA is, don't worry, it's not important.

But as someone sitting on a train in Britain might think to themselves, is this actually going anywhere? To which I say, yes. For it went like this: On Thursday I got back to Italy after spending the holiday period in Edinburgh. My flight landed at about 1.20, I got back to the apartment to dump my stuff at 2.20, and made it to the stadium in time for kick off at 3. We played the dirty dirty fascist pigs, who sometimes go by the name of Lazio, and valiantly drew 0-0, a scoreline which belies the fact that the game wasn't all that bad. It was wet and bloody freezing though, and if it wasn't for the football I wouldn't have ventured outside again that day. But like I say, I'm sick. One good piece of news shortly after the game though was that the statue that impersonates a man, Luca Toni has packed his bags and even now is lumbering soporifically towards his new home at Juventus. Seriously, I've had constipation that's faster than him.

Not a lot else has happened in the two days I've been back, so not a great deal more to waffle about, although yesterday I did buy new jeans. I consider buying trousers about as interesting as buying pants for myself - they're truly the underwear of outerwear. However, my reluctance to splash the cash on new trousers was tempered with the almost-reality of being able to see my actual pants through my trousers. I'm not quite at the Superman stage yet, so this forced my hand somewhat. Ho, and very much, hum.

You may recall that in the past I have mentioned Operation Unlocked Toilet Door. Before Christmas I accidentally put this plan into full effect, to suitably hilarious consequences. Needless to say, I saw one of my flatmates faces cross the whole gamut of surprise, shock, revilement (and I'd like to think, but don't really believe, a wee bit of being impressed) in a split second. We didn't really make eye contact or speak to each other for a few days. So there's a tip for you: if you want to avoid speaking to someone, have them open the door on you while you're having a crap. Easy.

Right, on that note that's your lot, I'm off to read about football.

Bu Bye!