Autogrill / 2 Secchia East, from the Cretaceous hall

We were on our way home from Siena. We were five, including two very young, incognito in a bus of some northern Italian clubs. These are good people, real fans of Fiorentina, which feed hundreds of miles every weekend, at home as away games, for it makes no difference. On the contrary, games, Milan, Turin, Genoa, Bergamo and Verona are more favorable for them, because it is closer. But between them and the ultra mentality are worlds apart. They are peaceful, a club with merchandising stuff, songs, flags, banners with gehängtem against the railing, with a giddy-making history of travel to away games in Italy, Europe and the world. But there are no ultras. They are supporters, fans, fanatics, but no ultras. They sing, they flat out celebrate suffering, and, but they do not define themselves as Ultras.

We often travel for our hang them. This is convenient for us, we made ourselves comfortable at the end of the coach and turned the last four rows of seats in an inaccessible enclave that we - who knows why? - CHALK baptized ROOM ... There was always someone who had good stuff there and we the chorus "P. back over the stuff, we sniff, we must baun ooooooooh on you! "dedicated. At any time, day or night, on the outward or return journey, we sang to the seats of the Cretaceous hall "P back over the stuff, we sniff, we must baun on you ...." or "Tell me, why only 0.3 why only 0.3: I gave you 80 €, 80 € ... I gave you. "

This guy, P., was one of my area. We grew up together, who was a regular guy working in the factory, had his friends and pubs, as children we played football together, he recalled Baggio, both for his playing style as well as his stature. Serious person with the right truck. He loves it and is almost always the viola. P. I like really like.

Since there were these two "Gagni" from Milan, G. & P.. G. lived in a shitty satellite town in the Milan hinterland, and spoke as one of the Großkotze from the comedy program Zelig ("remain calm, I have bought to smoke with my friends at the park a bit ..."), he lived with his brain-amputated sixteen year old dealte friends at the park, in the disco with pills and coke and was my adopted son. At age 12, his father entrusted him to me while I just collapsed in front of a motorway service station. We were on our way to Parma Cup final.

It was oppressively hot. I had drunk three bottles of Mirto liqueur, two liters of beer, like a man possessed, pulled and coke to be on the safe, two weed smoking chillums. After three hours on the highway, we keep the rest stop, I get out of the car and the temperature difference hits me full in the stomach. At this moment, this guy comes over with the child by the hand and says "I know you're a real Viola Ultra. This is my son, I'll commit to you, you künmmer to him ... "I looked at him aghast, as if to say" and you trust your son as a deflated like me? You do not get with that I'm totally slammed, I'm a fucking addict and I when it really matters for a second think about it, to throw myself into a fight ... and you trust me to your son? ".

Anyway, I got the "Gagno" (the name we gave him, so they call in Turin a boy) brought up properly. He has received all necessary beatings from me. We have christened him with all the ceremonies: the first attack, the first away trip of some kind, the first shit that he hired and paid. His eighteenth birthday he celebrated in the coach on the way back from a game against Milan and we have him the entire round-trip long massacred in the back with kicks and blows to the head. He also had to buy coke for everyone because it was the birthday girl ... yes

Then how many shots out of the blue while he was asleep or clueless depended with his buddies. But I liked the boy from the heart. We were sometimes traveled in pairs only. We slept in cars, in vans, trains and houses from people like us who are housed. The Gagno grew up with me, he has never built a real crap when it ran poorly in school, I had him beaten up in front of the other with a belt. And he has become a man. Now he goes to work and send me messages fraternal eternal friendship.

P., however, was from Monza "it rhymes with eeeeeee Monza, which is Bonza ....". Nice guy, well mannered, quiet, respectful, but always in the right place when I turned around to look at the curve or in the chaos that followed him. An Associate. Works all day in the foundry and every Sunday he stands in the corner. Never sleeps. I have never tired of it yet collapse do not see the chalk hall, not on trains, not cars. Once he is without batting an eyelash of Lecce, Milan drove away ... like a robot. We had played 2-2 draw. There were nine with a borrowed Ford Transit road at Malpensa. A dizzying journey from Milan to Lecce, with nine people, fifteen servings of Coke and two cases of beer.

We have determined that we would draw the first two hundred kilometers with no lines. In the first four parcels Melegnano were already used up! V. raced the Adriatica highway guardrail along almost at the down, so that I almost seasick. Completely unaware of the danger, got drunk and banged on the other purely for 200 km / h of coke, as if nothing had happened.

We meet for six clock in the morning in Apulia. The game will kick off at six clock in the evening.

All around us there was absolutely nothing. The Salento is an infinite plane of earth and sky. We spent the day in San Cataldo, a beach that is the last of the Apulian Adriatic fjord opens out to Albania. A dream of a place to dissolve the blue of the sea in the sky. It was March, the sun shone clear and dazzling, but the wind was so icy that you were watering the eyelids. We played football, drank more and went hard lines. At a certain moment, the other guys are from Florence to them even in a nine-seater transit, it also in our state. A short time later, someone reported to the cops from Lecce our presence. And who came to us at the beach and asked if we wanted it to be accompanied by them. Of course, we have asked you politely to lick our ass. The Lecce ultras shot with their scooters to patrol the distance, but the two transits were full of violent and hopeless viola ultras does not suggest that further drank, koksten, sang and played soccer with empty cans. At five we decide to open ourselves without police protection to the Stadio del Mare. But when we arrive on the access road at the junction to the Curva Nord of Lecce, is opposing us, a delegation of police, forcing us to bend in the direction away sector. End of the festivities. On the way back I do not remember. Even though I've driven a certain distance, and we would have to give the van like new at Malpensa.

Then there is V, exactly, the Gypsies. Your own unique type. One should have been born in the 70s. Girl, Interrupted as anyone else completely irrational in his routes, "See you in Florence, before I have yet to Verona for the evening, then I'll go down to Rimini, because there is a concert and then I sleep with a friend, I must briefly to Rome for a demo and then I come by train to the game tomorrow ... ". Only he knows how many times I gave him a clean cut. Once I have him thrown off the train and forbidden to drive us away to Empoli. He had made me fucking mad. A scene at seven clock early at the station, to which one remembers today. But he is always there. Sometimes he does not, but that is his nature, and no malice. A brother, if I every two years to once again slammed the car somewhere, always comes first in the emergency room ...

In any case back to the Cretaceous hall. We were doing really been an elitist on this bekackten Kirchweihbus: we always came last, even in the middle of winter with sunglasses and the appearance of someone who had gone through the night (which was also above), and extravagant prassend. Circles under the eyes, the cigarette pimped already ready to scare away the fog and then the sound of snob because "we are not on the bag, we are the hardy here ..." And then all the very end of the bus and the pirate flag hung to wall off our Privè. With our kokspanierten CDs that dudelten since the first stop.

And then sing while sleeping normal fans wanted to organize chaos, guys hit, baptisms hold, all and all kidding, new chants and profane chants dense, vulgar and obscene hallucinogenic sonnets, aged seven clock morgends with the megaphone in his hand the types sing in your ear that if he complained caught a slap, vollzulöffeln the dirty bus driver to stop the would not, if we had to pee - "We throw up in the coach and piss on the floor, the driver you're an asshole drivers you 're an asshole "-! That was the same bag face, turned the air conditioning in the middle of the Siberian winter on full blast when he noticed that we have a joint fire to or with 120 on the fast track wedged so that we he stopped kidding about . The same Verräterschwein, which indicated to us at the traffic police if we stole from the campfire and had beaten us before boarding the bus. More than once I was about to beat me with any bus driver who thought he was somehow more exciting than the other.

"If we baun an accident, the bus driver goes on it only, is only the bus driver .... it!" Then, clearly, every now and then there was a driver, which all did not bother us and wanted to buy grass or sniff times ... but those were only the very fortunate opportunity ... Then of course it was logical to have fun at every stop to the looting of rest areas to prepare for the arrival in enemy territory, and although in a bus with "Normal people" sitting, ready for attack or to his defense. A pretty stealth, you have to say. Snow, plastic bags, beer and whiskey. Once on the road to Leghorn, I had the idea of ​​forcing everyone to drink, who took the word "Ballantine" in the mouth. So I started singing "until the 90th until the 90th, there's Ballantine's, there's Ballantines" and the whole post in full bus use the new system had to be approved at eight a mouthful! The moral of the story when we arrived in Alexandria east, were the first, in alcoholic coma, others threw up all over to a halfway Unconscious, the vollgöbelte like Jimi Hendrix himself. That was the same guy - a Toro Ultra, who was away on tour with us because we were still fraternize with those from Livorno - who believed that the whole country would be a fun outing, Potter!

The balance of this away trip for him was that half of alcohol poisoning on the way, self-referential Kotzspuren, arrest and banned from stadiums in Livorno, because he was caught, as he watched us in the fight that we received from the ACAB during the half time break against the Stadionbullerei from fence broke. He had really done nothing, if only because he was still stunned and totally absent from Alk and lines. He sat on the railing, in order to enjoy the spectacle, while we in our block like crazy kloppten with the cops. Suddenly, I was haunted by a bull, probably would not return empty-handed for a few meters with the circling truncheon in his hand and tried to hit me as I disappeared down the stairs. Disappointed, he turns around and has nothing better to do than to attack our poor friend, who sat around as easily have done without anything. He was beaten up behind the patrol car, got a sending off and they let him go just because we were going and wanted him back and explained that the bus would not leave without him. He got his three years and was the entire stadium ban for three years no longer see his Toro. That's a decent jackpot for a quiet ride away, right?

In any case, there would be countless stories to tell from these underground journeys that took the section north of Italia ACAB in 1926 in the wake of Fiorentina. With our undercover amidst the quiet and sometimes embarrassing (because of the different types of strange, so that's clear) charge of viola-supporters from outside the city walls.

Like when we had to take on our way to Verona at the toll station of Bergamo Viola fans from Brescia. The bus slowed down, then, to let people enter the Fiorentina. But at the bus stop was also a black man who was waiting for the bus to Bergamo. He had two plastic bags in their hands. I gave him a sign from the window that he could come with us that he will enter it and then we would take him to Bergamo: "Come on brother, a sidewalk! If he kicks two pills, we drive you to the end of the world! "And you see these poor devils, as he was on the verge a 200m sprint completed and skips his two Einkaustüten in the hands of the guard rail, us chasing after what Ben Johnson and finally manages to hop on the bus. I offer him a seat next to me, as the black man looks around and notices that people are to him only with purple scarves singing: "Let us sniff sniff oh let's Black" The unhappy, confused, asks us to get grace, wants, because he would have to Atalanta, and he was also so no dealer! El negher ...

But the most striking case, which meant in practice or at least almost the end of our semi-underground collaboration with the fan club from the north was when we met at the rest area east Secchia in the province of Modena on a squad of Piacenza-Ultras. This was an Autogrill, the president of this viola-clubs from northern Italy especially loved because there was a very tempting discount promotion for Tortello and Lambrusco. And in fact, he forced the entire bus trip from Florence or the away games in Central Italy for "Tortello and Lambrusco" break in the Fini-rest area. The Tortelli us cared a damn clear that interested us the Lambrusco and all the obvious ways to not pay and thus to expropriate the Signor Benetton and fuck as bold. They lined up neatly in with the receipt of any entknitterten honest customers in the queue and took his five or six servings Tortello meet with attached half-liter of Lambrusco.

Now it is so precise that we are on my behest resting places without flags or other identification marks that would identify us as a stadium fans busy. This is firstly because when fans in the rest area, immediately alarm goes off and you mitkriegst as clerk or cashier, or stewards or sheriffs to follow you to the bathroom to shake it to you after the ritual Pisserei. Secondly, because you never know at a rest area, on whom you can meet and therefore anonymity and surprise factor should always have on your side. If you're traveling with five or six people, it is not recommended that one patrol Roman or Neapolitan-or Bergamo people or anyone else to fall into their hands, because in the majority of Piacenza are dangerous ... and accurate. These unsuspecting fan of, precisely because they are clueless and good-natured and not very familiar with the devious evils of violent ultras believed that their status would give them as normal fans a kind of immunity from corporal or repression. They have understood shit. And so we talked a little more removed from them if they are equipped with violet gadgets, scarves, track suits and jerseys as the pope Boys on the way from St. John the rounds down in the queue. This is not to be confused with them, but also to preserve their physical integrity, if they had unpleasant encounters. This Sunday we were angry anyway, because the coke we had was pathetic concerned. It was laced with magnesium and besides, it was dirty all at once, it was raining like crazy and Fiorentina lost in this shithouse of a stadium in Siena through the gate of a 1:0 Albanians.

So we stopped at this fucking motorway service station. We had absolutely no desire to eat something. We, as usual, stole a few beers and hung out in the parking lot, smoking, and we were scratching at the bag. Meanwhile, the super fans had woken up inside with their scarves and jerseys the attention of a group of Piacenza-ultras who were driving home from Empoli. [...]

On 11/15/2011 seems Domenico mongoose ultra-novel "Stray dog" (originally "Cani sciolti"). rely As always, we need your help: Liken, sharing, retelling!