The news of the mysterious disappearance of Pierflavio has taken everyone by surprise.
All except me, I'm leaving the stadium whistling, riding his scooter. Esterina
Zia failed to stretch the dough as you have the lasagna and the rumenta her husband made a pesto of shit. I was convinced that he did not care much about that as a child came out wrong TORCETTO Biella in a box of strike-breakers to Casale.
For a week no news from him.
girlfriend, with whom now you could see through the intermediary of i-phone only on Facebook, believed to be in a military training camp of the Movement Five Stars, the broker friend has asked him back because it's impossible to find vinyl music "prog" of the seventies, the company's Irish pub swears that neither of the Matteotti Rapallo or the O'Donaghy Dublin. He remains the only
Pontetto. There
step just before the game, hoping to avoid being recognized by my detractors. I only do it as a favor to the two old men who have always treated me like a son. My brother is an only child.
They asked me almost crying to investigate where it could be done.
Any idea I would have. An old guy never grew up like him, must be hidden not too far from here. It is not the type to leave his Zena, and do not have enough imagination to go beyond the narrow confines of the satellite.
Surely it is disappointed and saddened, as any coach after a 5-0 defeat when they can not even appeal to the bad luck, the arbitrator or the two owners of gastroenteritis.
My cousin had the first hit in June with the confirmation of Gasperson, then pass the fans, no transfer of Sculli. Finally, the blasphemy of Berlusconi the other day, must have definitely put KAPPAO. There are people brutalized
to Pontetto, among which seems to do their Omoni all to no ends meet, others that "Genoa for us that we are in the bottom of the countryside" and boys who laugh as if they always knew to be fellow citizens of Paolo Villaggio. It
imbenzinano of draft beer from two cents and belch in the face of the Gryphon judgments on the presidency, and the majority of the Gaspensiero rossoblu fans, who have only demerit to believe it. Eventually even the males, Pontetto here to have a smile as you wish each other well. I pull out half-liter bottle of mineral water from San Benedetto, which I filled with Dalwhinnie, and shredded mercilessly.
I also get a barrel on the sly. I would give my eye if I refuse. I
expression gaia type idiot staring arrived yesterday from Kenya.
a joint, you think. Last Morgan had offered me a gig in Abruzzo, where he sang in the style of Marillion De Andrè. Seeking
, eavesdropping on the conversations of the Pontifical Pontetto, to perceive something. There must have been a migration, because it lacks only Pierflavio, is said to have given lump sum after tens of years even Zapatista intellectuals, immigrants of Chinese rice, the former punk-rocker bald, historical resistance bridge Carrega and industrious mice grifoteca .
The card's fan in his right hand, "We genoani" in the left, I make my grand entrance into the North.
It 's the first year that I set foot there, I have always loved to see the choreography or the tribune distinct from sucking on a candy, but this year seems less livable and choreography. Incidentally are the Gryphon, mica Nureyev ... What a beauty! I am not obliged to make any choir, there are no glares at me, I meet him also two of my high school classmates, who at the time cheering Juventus.
Genoa-Bari is about to begin in a quasi-atmosphere: the stadium is almost full, the fielding side is almost what I want, the pitch is almost impassable, I am almost lost.
breathe fresh air and grass of home again. Whistle in Ventura, the Gaspallecoperte ovation.
Hashish is not a nice to alcoholics, in first twenty minutes I seem to see a strangely unbalanced Genoa forward, albeit subject to the game of Bari and I find it technically impossible. Dalwhinnie
I finish but unfortunately I get another whiff of Pakistan in the face.
then went ahead and increased my confusion, because finally now playing in Bari counter as if he won, and that I find absolutely amazing! Ahaha, but what happens? I have fun! I also support him on the shoulder of my neighbor looking at me as if I were Lele Mora. Nor is it attractive as a Fabrizio Corona!
I'm really out, boys, discordant and uncoordinated movements and thoughts, like a cupboard in a trullo. The only advantage is that only now (it will be the drug or the North?) fully understand the game Gasperini! The effect, however, still rocking, in fact I am convinced to see that, after a draw and be left us with ten men, the Bari backlog of more than the center of gravity, the stuff of comic books! Haha I'm like ... we put in ten without a player in his original role that we have made under the numerical superiority in Bari, physics and the rationality of those who have always played a 442 with high wings. Bonino God, I feel better than Mimmo Dani Alves, Rafinha makes me enjoy Mesto seems more haunted me, think Chico is playing another game but not play badly and win especially when you finally break Veloso and enters Milanetto. The North exploded in full recovery, and I also do two drops of pee in excitement! What a journey I did! The great heart of Genoa has made me forget all the suffering, the flaws and the hardships that I have ever had. But rather a preventive than a memory forgotten fake, right? I live in the present, we do not want to make the nostalgic, not I want to miss this show as a matter of principle! Gryphon always! While
extension before the Little Club, approached me a very sinister, with a leather jacket and graying long hair tied at worst. A metropolitan
fucking apache.
"You are Beccioni?"
Shit. I escaped it.
This is not the present, is the recent past which pursues me.
Courage.
"Yes, dear, in person ..."
"Beautiful song ... and you too, as a metaphor are not evil" Fuck
. According to me you've never tasted the Caroni.
Metaphor is your sister and if I bring it here, I'll also see the inside half.
smile.
"Thank you brother! Until next time ... "
starts to leave and I try.
"Play-by-case ... you know what happened to my cousin Pierflavio?"
moves faster, as he had not heard.
Then he turns and smiles.
Shake a hand.
"Rosaaarioooo!" I scream with the expression dell'oritteropo in the breeding season.
"Nooo, Pierflavioooo!" I say.
"Ahahahaaaa"
What the fuck you laugh, an anachronism!
The next time I drink the beers of the fucking Pontetto, I shoot three guns one after another and within the stadium convinced to attend Genoa-Montevarchi.
It seems that the spirit is good.
Other than the camel, but 'I'm fucking whiskey.
Maybe it's the old subservience that turns into new resistance.
What the fuck should I do to invent their own happiness, Sunday after Sunday ...
Fuck!
toast victory of the Gryphon, and the Spirit! What Pierflavio
lost and that the friend of the gay longhair.
Rosario.
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