5am alarm, canal cans, San Siro tears and police trouble post-match - My AC Milan experience
The air was thick with the smell of sweat and suncream. Thick with the cloying Milan heat. Thick with the voices of thousands of Geordies.
It was the trip we’d been waiting for. A long wait too; 20 years. The trip of the lifetime we were told; and boy, was that right.
Whispers of the Champions League started early last season. They didn’t feel real during our spells of excellent form. When we flirted with the Europa League instead. When it was confirmed on that magical night at St James.
They didn’t feel real during the Champions League draw. When the fixtures were announced. When I booked my flights to Milan and secured my match ticket. They didn’t feel real until the Champions League music played at the San Siro.
As has often been the case when following Newcastle United away, the game was the least exciting part of the trip. The rest of it was a heady rollercoaster from start to finish.
My journey started with a pre-5am alarm on Monday morning for my train to Manchester. After a pleasantly uneventful journey to the airport, I felt my knees go when queuing for my flight. It was really happening, wasn’t it?
12 hours after my day started, I arrived in Milan. Shortly after, the heavens opened. I missed the scenes of topless supporters sliding belly-first down the canal streets (surely that must still be stinging now?), but the canal was still bouncing when I arrived.
For hours, we sang relentlessly. The earworm Gordon song must have been chanted for an hour straight. The streets were soaked with rain and booze and spirits were high.
I’m pleased to report that there wasn’t a spot of trouble from us on the Monday night - or at any point on my trip - but that didn’t stop the police, armed unnecessarily with riot shields and helmets, from chasing us away around the 2am mark.
The next morning, we arrived back at the canal in the blistering sun. I was one of only a handful of supporters not dressed sensibly in shorts, because my superstitions got the better of me and I stuck with the outfit I wore to the Brentford match - but with a classic NUFC shirt added in for good measure. I enjoyed baking in the heat.
The beer flowed, the Newcastle flags lined the canal majestically, the chants continued. We took a brief respite from singing to cheer on boat racers on the canal; regrettably, I missed the NUFC supporter who dived in and tried to keep up. But spirits were high. Time flew and before we knew it, we had to head to the San Siro. Horribly early if you ask me, but never mind.
The scenes down to the metro and on the journey to the stadium were some of the best I’ve experienced on an away day. The tunnels through the station provided the perfect acoustics for our singing. The platform filled with thousands in black and white. The metro bounced as we whipped through the stations. Bemused locals at each station decided not to get on amidst the carnage, not knowing that every following train would carry the same chaos.
We flooded off the metro and basked in the sight of the San Siro. The sun continued to beat down as we soaked it all in. Customary photos in front of the stadium were a must.
It was a long trip to the away end; a trip apparently for our own safety, but surely there was a faster way to do it. But it didn’t dampen spirits.
The passport and ticket checks weren’t as arduous as I expected; the body checks, perhaps a bit more thorough. Although I suspect I was checked extra thoroughly because I’d forgotten to take my phone out of my bra.
You can’t really appreciate the size of the San Siro until you’re right outside of it or inside. I’d been fretting about the stairs all day, but the spiral walkways were a godsend. As long and trippy as the journey was, it was much better for our already-knackered feet and legs.
Inside, the stadium really does take your breath away. It’s enormous. It feels miles bigger than Wembley, though that’s possibly because it’s so steep. My one complaint is the lack of concourse and booze; an area at each side of the away stand for food and drink isn’t good enough.
The Milan crowd was incredible, and truthfully European home supporters put English home support to shame. The stadium bellowed every player’s surname. It rocked continuously. Flags waved and displays lit up the stadium (though we can certainly hold our own there thanks to Wor Flags). Atmospheres at St James have been renewed since the takeover, but we’ve got a way to go before we match up to our mainland European supporters.
Then came the big moment; the Champions League music. Despite the fact it was a bit muffled, it was magical. I have goosebumps writing this as I relive it. As expected, I sobbed. That was the moment it became real.
The game was tense; the atmosphere a touch flatter than that on the canal and the metro, but we still gave a good account of ourselves both on the pitch and in the stands. We watched in awe as the middle tier opposite us holding the Milan ultras appeared to literally bounce throughout the game. Our hearts were warmed with Milan supporters’ love for Tonali. I nearly bashed my head on the safe standing railings at the Longstaff chance at the death. We erupted at the final whistle.
Sam Fender blasted throughout the stadium as we were held back for around half an hour; a nice touch from Milan. The descent down the final walkways felt trippier (pardon the pun) than the journey upwards. We shared a touching moment of mutual appreciation and applause with Milan supporters as we headed away from the stadium.
Here’s where things went downhill a bit - although I’d preface it by staying it still wasn’t enough to ruin the night.
We queued outside the metro station only for police to burst in and declare it closed. From what I’d heard, Milan supporters were causing trouble. But instead of sorting it out, the police closed the station and left us to our own devices. I know people who walked the full way to the city, which took about two hours. We found our way to a tram station and waited for what felt like eternity for one to show up. But then, happily, the station reopened.
To shut down the main route away from the stadium for away supporters is nothing short of shameful. There were no directions to nearby stations, no instructions on alternative ways to get around, no hope of taxis. Instead, we were left to figure it out ourselves when we were dead on our feet - with some struggling with mobility issues expected to press on.
But the night ended on a high. We headed back to the canal running on nothing but adrenaline as the party continued. We’d all sobered up at this point thanks to the long journeys and dry stadium, so it was a touch more subdued, but still sensational. The beer flowed again. More niche songs began to come out; Peter Lovenkrands, Gutierrez from Buenos Aires, the lot. I don’t know where we found the energy, but for the trip of a lifetime, we dug deep. It was another 3am finish.
From start to finish, the experience was incredible. The party never stopped, the vibes were immaculate. It flew by in a heartbeat and while I’m devastated it’s over, I’m so happy it happened.
Roll on Dortmund and Paris.
