Newsgroup: it.cultura.linguistica.inglese
Titolo: Italy-USA, the pain, the ordeal and the revenge of the White Mountain

[È una copia (ripulita e corretta, la bozza originale la potete leggere 
su RSS: 
http://groups.google.co.uk/group/rec.sport.soccer/msg/73013d5bed4a7ee6
) 
di un testo che ho scritto Domenica scorsa. Mi è venuto nel frattempo in 
mente che da queste parti ci poteva essere qualcuno interessato a leggerlo.]
Everything started Thursday. Thinking straight about that, everything 
started a couple of years ago: back in Sicily, my dentist told me he was 
wishing to take away my top left wisdom tooth. He gave me all the good 
reasons, and warned me about the consequences of my stubborn refusal. At 
the time, I had just lost another tooth (a lurking olive seed in a 
lurking sandwich, can you believe?), and for the time being I was not 
absolutely in the mood to let him tinker again with my teeth, so I 
decided to keep the fragile, stillborn, crimped son of a bitch in my 
mouth. My wager paid off for a couple of years, but Thursday started to 
backfire.
Believe me, when a lonely, crazy and pathologically criminal wisdom 
tooth decide to backfire you, he will be more punitive of an Argentina 
or an Australia in their lucky day. He will score against you, without 
piety, and no request of mercy will break trough.
Over the counter painkillers proved vain, the dentists I called to tried 
to book me an appointment for the 3rd of July, or something like that, 
luckily, a friend of mine provided me with a couple of tablets of 
Novalgina, so Friday evening I was able to reconnect myself with my brain.
Saturday morning, I went out with a single aim: finding a dentist. On 
the way, I saw an open pharmacy (in Putney, if you care, the man was 
talking with an unusual American accent, I thought he was Canadian, but 
that is, I wouldn't bet on that), I went in, and asked them if they 
could sell me some more tablets of Novalgina. The girl at the counter 
looked me strangely and then called in the pharmacist. The man gave me 
back the tablet, and told me that thing is banned in UK. I remember I 
thought, "This is Novalgina, men, I mean, Novalgina", but I didn't tell 
him, I just got my little treasure back. Today I made a quick search to 
understand why, it looks "Metamizole sodium", the real name of the 
stuff, would kill 1 person ever 100 millions of once a month regular 
users (or something like that), so Sweden, USA, Japan, Australia and UK 
banned that. I usually don't take any kind of medicine at all, only 
under medical advice, but hey, with a battle cruise pounding your brain 
from the instant I open my eyes to the instant I close them (and why in 
heaven I don't suffer when sleeping?) I would take the stake even 
knowingly. I went around looking for redemption again; finally I got 
what I was needing: an open dentist surgery just outside Clapham 
Junction who let me walk in, God may have 'em in glory. I paid £100 to 
have my mouth checked, my gum cleaned and getting my hand on a 
prescription, then next week I will have to shell out another couple of 
hundreds to get rid of the little broken terrorist, but hey, now my 
brain is working again. British around will be surprised to read this 
perhaps, but private dentist prices are looking truly low to me, NHS 
ones are so cheap I am not sure I would entrust them, even if I would 
have the luxury of time.
 From the dentist I went straight to a Lebanese barber, from Southside 
Wandsworth on the way to West Hill, where I got rid of my excessively 
long hairs. London is just too hot those days. The barber, a nice chap 
who overpriced me £4 and did an awful show of its haircutting abilities 
even if everyone keep telling me how nice haircut I have got, was born 
in Beirut, some few hundreds of miles from the city of my girlfriend, 
Antioch, and he showed towards "them" (the Turks) the very same contempt 
“they” (the Turks) uses towards "them" (the Arabs). Still, I was able to 
reach home in time to lovely lay down to see the latter half of the 
first match of the day. That was just ended, when an Italian friend 
called, and asked me if we may organize something for the evening. I 
meant, and he meant, that something was going to watch Italy-USA. Past 
time we went to a pizzeria around Finsbury Park, a place so blatantly 
full of Italians that the only Ghanans around were the young husbands of 
a couple of Italian (not so young anymore) ladies. My friend tried to 
find a table somewhere in Angel, but we were probably too late, so I 
called in an English friend of mine (heck, we have born the same day, 
the same year, and save the different time zone, probably even in the 
very same hour), who has got two big TV set.
He couldn't be bothered to watch the match, having just bought the (game 
cube version of) latest King Kong, but was kindly ready to let us to use 
the other TV. I enjoyed the Czechia-Ghana match at home and then I went 
out and bought a very nice bottle of Sicilian red wine to thank him of 
the hospitality.
Things went mad when my Italian friend get stuck in the traffic, and 
could make the meeting point (outside Wandsworth Town station) only 5 
minute before the first whistle. When I started to run towards its car, 
my bag (I mean, a truly bag, like the one people use to carry computer 
around, not a plastic thingy) decided to open its zip herself, throwing 
the red bottle of wine exactly over my feet, who couldn't help himself 
to destroy that, throwing broken glass all around. To add injury to the 
sad loss of that scenty fiver, a taxi driver didn't find anything better 
to do to ask me, while I was cleaning the pavement from the glass, if I 
was going to lick it up. I sent my friend to park, and we went in the 
first pub we found advertising live games. A lager each later, we were 
sitting down, together with other 5-6 more or less uninterested British, 
to watch the first 30' of that crazy match. 1-0, 1-1, the De Rossi's 
elbow, you know this story. My 2 cents, the thuggish thug was probably 
just aiming to scare the USian, but the latter, being what he is, didn't 
care too much to fear the fear, and then one left the pitch and the 
world cup with a red card, the other left the field temporarily with a 
bloody red face. Sorry, but I don't buy the story that the Romanista was 
devilishly smiling before and/or after hitting the face of its opponent. 
He is silly enough not to have cared of a possible yellow, but I am 
pretty sure he didn't mean too much evil.
About Zaccardo, I wouldn't like to spent words. He gave USA a goal in a 
WC in Europe against European opponents.. Now, this is not first time 
(USA had scored as far as 1934, 1-7 against Italy in Rome), but it is 
still a big achievement, isn't? Incidentally, I would like to add 
something about USA's stats at WC level: I just found that in 1934, they 
played their qualification match against Mexico 3 days before the 
inaugural game of the WC. Yep, they both played in Italy. That is, 
Mexico and USA team travelled an ocean in a liner, to play a 
qualification game in Rome. That's amazing. FIFA should include that 
match on the official list of matches played during the finals. At last 
USA would proudly show off a victory in Europe, and Mexico would add 
another WC participation in their scalp.
Barring any further involuntary irony, what I hated more in the first 
30', apart Gilardino's goal (sorry, I can't stand the guy, and the fact 
that he is paid by Berlusconi, who I had failed to quote so far, doesn't 
help), was the music. Believe me or not, in that pub, "Live WC games" 
means there is an idiotic DJ bombarding your tympana with shitty music 
found in some 80s music outlet. The manager even confessed me after the 
WC they wish to turn the place in a cocktail bar. What a piety.
My friend evidently shared my musical tastes, so we decided to leave, to 
reach our English friend's house, somewhere between Streatham Hill and 
West Norwood. My Italian friend is a nice chap, very nice indeed, I know 
only a little defect of him: he is a fanatic follower of a weird 
religion, the adoration of the satellite navigator. They believe that, 
after a complicate ritual, a little totem, called from the ones in its 
particular sect Tomtom, will finger them the way to the paradise. I have 
brought him around same way three or four way before, without asking any 
interception to its Gods, but he has still not got a clue about that, 
and insists on its rituals. The result was that we reached our targeted 
TV set just in time to see the red card for the Pope.
Now, will you excuse me, but being Italians, it looked as everything was 
already written. I mean, you don't red card the Pope. Believe me or not, 
it is a sign of destiny, Hussits will have their chance, we all know, 
and they may not squander that again.
At the time, when the speaker told now it was 10-9, we automatically 
assumed Italy was in 9 and USA was at last in 10. Everything in the way 
they were playing suggested that. Everything, bar the BBC speakers and a 
painful count of the men in the field. Honestly speaking, the show of 
the Italian players in the pitch, looked ignominious, at last to us 
(only the leftmost linesman of the last half looked worst). It can be 
they were scared from USian thuggery, as someone is suggesting around 
here (I didn't witness a great part of the match, so I don't wish to 
comment about that, I even didn’t' notice the yellow card to Totti), it 
can be they were shocked by the 2-3 minutes of madness who had left them 
in 10 and had already set the final result of the clash, but frankly 
speaking, in 180' so far USA didn't manage to create that a very few of 
proper goal chances, and watching them playing, you also understand why. 
If I think that one of Italy, Ghana and Czech Republic are risking to go 
home at this stage, and even two of them under certain circumstances, 
there is no way you should play a match like that. That's a World Cup, 
not a pub league! If Ghana will defeat USA, as I am would await from 
them, there should be a good and rightful God sending Italy home and 
letting the Czechia in. Luckily after the matches, we had a kebab, and 
lovely laid down, while our English friend was reminding us of the bad 
and the good of the life, _entertaining_ us with "Execution II" (how did 
they actually managed to make up a follow up to that?) and some 
playboish Snoopy Doggish (plus probably overpaid “models”) videos. 
Dulcis in fundo, after an antibiotic, I called it a day 10 minuts in 
Spider Man II..
The next morning, the pernicious little bothering criminal was still 
there, and it will probably try to hit me again during next week, like a 
little vicious Maradona in the wild against a bandwagon of English 
defenders.
But next Saturday I will sent him off, I've got a ref, and the little 
money I need to bribe her.

 su RSS: 
Dio che spataffiata, che ha voglia di leggerla... Detto in cinque righe?

 a lurking sandwich, can you believe?
not quite... what in the hell is a "lurking sandwich"?
then i gave up, sorry