Sky Sport
Stadio Meazza Milano, Inter - Milan - 24.01.10

More than just a mere football spectacle, last night under the Madonnina was something memorable in every sense. With all its changes of tempo and atmosphere, progressions and regressions, solos, interludes, animalistic screams, and calm, one-sided arbitral silence, it seemed more like an Opeth-ian opera than anything else. Or to be concise, only in the first twenty-six minutes of play did it not seem like FC Internazionale was on the field, but rather the Slayer masked as football players intent on playing Reign in Blood at 200 mph, but not with their professional instruments, rather with a circular object.

The semi-bald golden boy Sneijder, both cross and delight, establishes his dialectic as much with the Berlusconian Ghedinis and Pecorellas, as with his exquisite and elegant ItalianGliano his liaison with the referee's collar. Until, like a good virile male, the referee, taking his turn as Farina, hears, sees, and takes action, calmly pointing them to the exit of the theater.

Before this, we saw the best black and blue rainbow of the season shine in the starry and frozen sky of Milan, with the usual scene of crazy Inter, sick, android, headlong more than ever due to tactics, physical and mental plan, a sort of footballing transposition of the model of the foolish, the Pirandellian madman.

With the Milanists from the start teetering between Marxist drifts (Abate) and a collective alienating estrangement that leads them to the elegiac chant "for a minute there...i lost myself".

We confess, however, that deep down we like to win like this, we like to dominate, subdue, and rape the lady in a skirt with red and black stockings, especially after suffering a double mafia-style crippling of Sneijeder and Lucio. One must not look at the mere result, but the game expressed and the players on the field, and the real estate brigade suffered a much worse humiliation than the one suffered in the first leg in 11 against 11.

And it doesn't matter much if in a distant future, as Marco Travaglio says, Italy suddenly finds itself without clandestines, immigrants, blacks, and the Mourinhesque pitbulls of the moment, and the Inter(t)rist fans will pour into the streets to strike for the abandonment of the team from the championship. Time will tell.

As of now, Galliani, to win the national-popular 'title', can only hope for a little personalized law for the future.

After the short trial, the short championship?