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Pounding on the door, pounding inside your skull: that was the opener to Sunday. Budgie's internal clock - normally as accurate as Swiss quartz - had been somewhat thrown out by the previous night's shenanigans and it turned out we had only 5 mins to get to the train station. It speaks volumes for John's powers of organisation that the whole group made it there on time, despite half of us being unable to walk in a straight line. The train arrived on the dot and we clambered on, finding a couple of carriages quickly vacated by our presence... or perhaps aroma.
It was plainly catching up with some of the vets, who sat in silence with their heads pressed against the glass of the train window. However, the Crazy Gang already had the cards out and had started ploughing into the Amaretto once more. Budgie got his CD selection on the beatbox, treating the fellas to some classic tunes ("Son of a Preacher Man" was strangely popular), and very quickly the carriage was buzzing. It was a bit too much for Newman, who had to step outside to the passageway to get some air and ended up marking the territory with a thin string of bile down the train door. Although it seems uncivilised it probably worked out for the best as for the rest of the journey Steve's deposit, along with the now truly rank kit-bag barring the door, kept any other passengers from entering the carriage along the journey and being truly disgusted.
As the train finally pulled into Milan station an hour later, Steve's first words upon arrival spoke for many: "Burger King. Now". Once everyone had chosen their fast-food outlet of choice and had had their fill of mushed-up baby food, and Evans and Kaneo had paid a visit to the station toilets for half an hour, we slogged it outside to catch the tram to Andy Danieli's place. Destination San Siro, to see if Inter could finally lay to rest the curse of CPR and win a game for the boys from London.
Andy was impressed (or was that amused ?) by the balls-out persistence of the CPR hardcore: clearly they would not be be prevented by hangovers, fatigue or social acceptablity from drinking Amaretto straight out the bottle in the middle of the afternoon. Hats off to the boy Danieli - he was probably shunned by his neighbours for a month afterwards just for being seen in our company, but he was as gracious as ever. The kit went in his garage, then we crossed the road to join the crowds heading for the game.
By this stage the hang-overs/alcohol were starting to kick in and it was difficult keeping everyone together. When we hit the wide-open spaces of the San Siro it was like kiddies in a sweet shop, as everyone peeled off to get water, beer, and dodgy burgers. John, Garry and Scott sat down to wait for Guido with the tickets. The Zen-like state of meditation was broken by an incredulous "Oh my God" from John; they turned to see an utterly blitzed Stuart K swaggering across the expanse, bottle in hand like a care-in-the-community case, draped in a huge Inter flag and with a scarf tied pirate-style round his napper. The others quickly followed suit and soon the CPR contingent were covered in cheap replica Inter shirts and synthetic scarves. When Guido and Tone turned up they thought it hilarious but heartily approved.
We ascended into the inclines of the San Siro and quickly got into the spirit of things. The official Inter song got a good response, a jaunty Europop number which had Axis out of his seat showing off his best disco moves. By the time the match kicked off we were ripping up programmes to make confetti which landed repeatedly on the baldy guy a few rows down, and Scott and Axis were having a paper aeroplane contest - won, predictably, by the boy from Iran, who's obviously seen the designs for a few planes in his time. Although it was a great atmosphere in the stadium it wasn't the best of games, but happily Inter edged it 1-0 to finally prove to CPR that they can win at home. Oh, and it also got them into the Champions League as well
The journey back on the tram seemed to take an age. Crammed like sardines at the back of the tram, with ripening hangovers and waves of overpowering fumes rising from the kit bag in the heat. People stepping over Evans slumped half-conscious on the floor, with Newman and Kaneo aiming kicks at him whenever possible to keep him uncomfortable.
The airport provided a cocktail of extreme boredom and adrenalin which we just weren't up to at that point. After queuing for hours we ended up convinced we were going to miss the flight, so we legged it for the gate only to get there and find out the plane had been delayed. (This at least gave Axis the opportunity to go back to Duty Free and purchase every bottle of spirit in the shop.) We finally got off the ground and everyone conked out. We arrived back to discover that Alitalia had contrived to lose everyone's bags but ours. And with that happy glow of schadenfreude, we wandered our way into the night vowing to do it all again next year...
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