Out comes the scarf. Abbiamo vinto!

19:32. we arrive at the Inter Club London. 200 people. The place is exploding with nerazzurri, the last time I saw as many Interisti was in S.Siro 10 years ago. 100 chairs, the rest have to stand. I drag Polly, my wife right up to the first raw. In front of the bar. I stand there, look around. nobody complains. Good, this tile is mine, standing alongside a chinese girl boarded up in black and blue. Perfect. I've waited 45 years and I'm not prepared to move. It's like being in Italy anyway, so my move is legal here. Polly is delighted to find an empty chair at an impossible angle, she may see 1 inch of monitor from there. But she's not bothered, in fact, I think she's already on facebook.

15 minutes to go to kick off. Now that I've solved my 'spot' situation I can start stressing about the game. Boy I'm nervous. This time we're close. really close. So close it feels it's there for us to reach out and take it. Nobody says so in the room, but, deep down, we all know it. In a fraction of a second I go through the history of 40 years of Inter history, from Altobelli to Zanetti through Bini, Oriali, Beccalossi, and hundreds of other nerazzurri. I snap out of it and realise I'm huffing and puffing, I'm a mess. I look up and see that one of the leaders of the fan club is looking at me. He sees what a mess I'm in. He's probably around my age so he's been through a fair amount of suffering in his Inter lifetime. (OK, he may be younger, but I have more hair than him). But he's in control. He's relaxed. He looks at me, he doesnt' say anything, but rather sends me a sublimal message by means of a single hands motion and simultaneous facial expression: 'dontcha worry 'bbout a thing'. I feel better already.

The game? Oh yes that. Twice mi wife sees me disappear in the depths of an abnormal mass of legs, arms, sweaty hair, black and blue scarves, beers and dozens of pulsating jugulars. Milito take 1 and 2. Twice I emerge with only minor injuries. We're in control. Only few minutes left on the clock. I keep my scarf well hidden. I'm superstitiuos. Polly - happy that extra time seems out of the question and we'll save few bobs on the baby-sitter -keeps on saying : 'it's in the bag, it's in the bag'. In a frenzied attempt to chase off any UK or Italian bad spirits I knock wood, touch iron and grab testicles (mine, of course, it's not that kind of party), you know, just in case, better safe than sorry, cover all your bases and all that. I implore her, 'stop saying that, please..'.

Minute 89, 90. Injury time. And then it happens. With 2 minutes of injury time still to play Mourinho stands up, walks across to the other bench and shakes hands with his counterpart. And than - and only then - I believe it. If Jose thinks it's over, then it is over.

Out goes the scarf. We've won the Big Cup.