'll kick
Square One pub just opposite the station, Tooting Bec, oddly not crowded, unassuming atmosphere. One evening in May. Champions League Final. I came here because the pub where I had first tried to enter were overflowing. I can even find a table all to myself. There are a few 'in English - a few - mostly old and in poor working class, those who here are called "white trash", or white trash. Then there ' some black, not many. Next to me a table full of Eastern Europe: Albania, Romania or something. I do not like. They are rough, angular. On the big screen the match: Manchester against Chelsea, to play in Moscow. I started the day by reading an article about Lugovoi, the Russian type that apparently killed, poisoned with polonium, the defectors Litvinenko and end up watching a team play in Moscow - the Chealsea - belongs to a Russian who looks a lot like that Lugovoi. Not only physically, but I think ... people with whom and 'better get along! I came in search of the hooligans, I wanted to see the rowdy British fans at work in an event that represents the apex of sacredness in their religious practice. But there is no hooligans' track. My English flatmate I had indicated this as a pub where I witnessed fights and stuff. Obviously he was wrong. The British seem to be present so distraught from the miseries of their lives to overcome, from not being able to react to the actions projected on the screen that are supposed to generate enthusiasm in the spectators. The only people screaming, jumping to his feet, gesturing, mimic slapping themselves on the back and punches are the East Europeans. Seem to have just finished work, wearing dirty clothes who does menial jobs to. It is to exalt the deeds of people who earn in a year what they will not earn in a lifetime.
I, as usual, I'm sitting at a table alone with a pint to write crap. The pint 'over. I'm going to take another. Second pint. Later. The game resumes. Replay of action is not successful. The director sends a few shots at a reduced speed of the players who badly wasted action. They are gestures of disapproval. The technique, often used in film and advertising, to slow down the succession of frames to give emphasis to the gestures, makes the idea of \u200b\u200bfailure in a more effective. Players who send fuck themselves, sent in slow motion look like total idiots. Clearly, the production tries to emphasize the event: what 's good becomes exciting, and what' bad horrible. The beer is calling. It 's a tense match, fought, it goes to extra time. People are starting to get excited. The game ends. Manchester won on penalties. The triumph and 'painted on the faces of the players of Manchester, the despair on that of the Chelsea players. Both the winners and the losers will be back at the end of the epic battle, with their gilded life. Supporters of the winning team is that of that losing their lives miserable.