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EU-hooligans

 article about Football hooligans
2004-06-17
Life isn't easy these days for a professional hooligan, particularly if
it's not only his hobby but his job to bash the averse fan on the head.
Let us assume that Bill is a big Arsenal supporter and he's fed up that
he cannot bop at home.

It is well known that every move could
be fatal on the Highbury. Even if he only yawns in front of the
security cameras, the man behind could think about the innocent fan
that he's starting a fight...then everything is over and the season
ticket is gone. Now Bill can go to Portugal! Summer, holiday and Euro
2004 are waiting for him.

The plan is clear: to dodge the
police, especially the 'bricks' from home, to search for a dinky pub
and when the evening game comes to reel (if it's possible) to the
stadium. Bill exchanged his daily red-white Arsenal wear to the
national "uniform," and he's ready to face the police and the match.
But then comes the (sub)cultural shock: It was clear to Bill that the
whole stadium scanned together the names from London, Manchester and
even Newcastle on the games between England and other countries. But
how can a real "good old" ultra, swear at Henry's mother, when her son
was a real goal machine the whole season long, the half god, the idol
of every supporter?

It's okay to fight with the campy, bum
French supporters before and after the match, but his tongue cannot
obey him to tell Vieira where to get off. It's a collapse; Bill is more
than confused. No one thought about the poor hooligans and their
schizophrenic state, when it was allowed for the teams and players to
make international transfers. If everybody signs up everything at
large, there won't be English, Scottish, French and German ultras, only
EU-supporters. Everything that's left is the World Championships and to
make a row, let's say, with a Chinese supporter. It is no wonder that
Bill and his friends cannot brawl carefree to everyone's surprise.

They
cannot focus on eliminating Lissabon's monuments, they give up the
IQ-fight and sink into themselves sitting on a bench near the street.
Next morning they will phone up a psychiatrist and who knows what will
happen further?



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