Lontano by scotts Menswear

LONTANO

SCOTTS MENSWEAR / AW16

PRODUCER:

Owen Blackhurst MAGAZINE DESIGN:

Adam Gill PHOTOGRAPHY:

Elliot Kennedy MODEL:

Jacob Crosby at Boss STYLING:

Matthew Staples HAIR AND MAKE UP:

Lucia Giacomin WORDS:

Dan Sandison, Sam Diss, Owen Blackhurst, James Bird, James Wright SUBEDITOR:

Dave Blackhurst FOOTBALL IMAGES:

Offside Sports Photography ILLUSTRATIONS:

Dan Evans LOCATIONS:

James Wright VIDEO DIRECTION:

Alex Graham SPECIAL THANKS TO:

Andrea Parodi, Paolo Ercoli and Naomi Accardi. SHOT ON LOCATION IN CERNOBBIO, VARESE AND MILAN. SOCIAL: scottsmenswear YOUTUBE: scottsofficial VISIT OUR BLOG: blog.scottsmenswear.com A MUNDIAL STUDIO PRODUCTION ENQUIRIES: seb@mundialstudio.com SOCAL: @MundialMag

CIAO,

whether it’s through Gazza’s tears and his miraculous, sunburnt rebirth at Lazio, Roberto Baggio’s ballooned penalty, an adoration of a man called Massimo and his compass patch, or through lazy, hazy weekends spent trying to get your coffee to look as nice as the fella’s on Channel 4, we all have a relationship with Italy and, more often than not, it’s linked to football and fashion. While on-pitch flirtations with Italian imports have varied wildly in success—big shouts to Fabrizio Ravanelli’s empirical Middlesbrough reign and Marco Materazzi’s ill-fated Everton experiment—English football and its fans have always had a begrudging respect for Italian sophistication, both in the stands and throughout the game. From the first birth of mod or its countless re-hashings, through paninaro, casual culture, and the mid-90s obsession with designer labels, British terraces have rarely taken their eye off Italian style. It’s always lead the way in terms of what we wear—and perhaps more importantly why we wear it. The youth movements that have defined several generations of British subculture have to pay their dues, in one way or another, to Italian forerunners. In spite of Italy’s chaotic backdrop of bureaucracy and corruption, the aesthetic supremacy of its style reigns supreme, and has long been the focus of Britain’s aspirational, fashionable young men. Fila, Paul and Shark, Diadora, and Armani are just a few of the labels that were reappropriated and rejuvenated as terrace classics throughout the 80s and 90s. All Italian, all designed for sport, all invoking thoughts of nice beer, nice coffee, nicer weather, and all as relevant to a youthful audience dodging rain clouds on the way home from the match as they were in their Mediterranean heyday. Like a mahogany-hued James Richardson, ankles out and flanked by two Genoese midfield enforcers who can barely speak English, we teamed up with Scott’s Menswear, going to Italy to take you on a journey down memory lane to talk style, panache, panenkas with the best of them, and coats and football. Join us over the course of the next 50 pages as we revisit the madness and misery of the Anglo-Italian cup, take you through our all-time Serie A Style XI, bring the adidas Milano back to its spiritual home, explore the Italian lakes, and visit the factory in Varese where Paul & Shark still produce their clothing. Made in collaboration with some of Italy’s famous luxury sportswear brands, Lontano is a love letter to the country that provided some of the best outerwear, haircuts, and nil-nil draws of our childhoods. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed producing it.

Arrivederci, mates. The MUNDIAL Team

WHEN ITALIAN FOOTBALL RULED THE WORLD WORDS: Sam

Diss

IMAGES: Offside

Sports Photography

Not everything was better in the 1990s, but Serie A definitely was, and it all started at 10am on a Saturday morning...

It’s early morning and light is kicking up off the cobbles as mist falls on the city of Verona or Venice or Perugia or Naples, maybe, if you’re lucky, the hillside villa of an expat footballer, surrounded by olive trees and beautiful views. A small man with close-cropped hair, hair that eventually evaporates to nothing, sits at a small table in his button-down shirt under tasteful sweater, a tiny espresso and a pastry on a plate in front of him. That’s James Richardson of Football Italia, a man with a knack for irreverence and tongue-rolled surnames, wafting his giant pink newspaper about, guiding us through an alien footballing landscape filled with intrigue, passion, and really lovely kits. Britain’s love affair with Italian football might have been fleeting, but its impact will reverberate for generations to come. At odds with the often facile insistence of misshapen men from Newport or Huddersfield about their partisan love for rubbish foreign teams, from 1992 to 2002 a generation of men across the country sat, eyes glued to the flickering lines of their Sony Trinitron sets, a soundtrack of Peter Brackley and Paul Elliott on commentary, “GOOOOOLAZO!” ringing in their ears, were enthralled by the goings on of their favourite madcap Serie A side. It was the coolest thing in the entire world. While much of English football felt leaden and heavy going, imbued with a certain rough charm but without a whole lot of quality or class, Italian football couldn’t have been more different. Even if they were just turds polished in gleaming edit suites, every player on every Italian team felt like characters from a movie. There were erratic goalkeepers with mullets and double-digit squad numbers, marauding fullbacks with the lung capacity of blue whales, and centre halves split into two distinct categories: handsome Romans with flowing locks and cut-glass cheekbones who looked at tackling like a philosophical quandary to be poured over and never rushed, and gargoyle hitmen with rolled down socks and questionable tattoos and a penchant for tackles that aimed to take the ball, sure, but also to split your fibula in two like a lumberjack. Defensive midfielders were small, battle-scarred men with the lugubrious eyes of a bloodhound or else towering catenaccio impresarios who seemed to control games without breaking sweat or touching a single other person. Attackers were blonde lads with gold chains, Chileans with volatile personalities, Brazilians with knee ligaments made of shortbread, Brazilians who’d do skills you’ve never seen before, horrifying battering rams from tiny Italian suburbs where there’s nothing to do but farm and smash balls into nets with your face, or achingly effective goal hangers who celebrate every one yard tap-in like it’s the greatest goal of all time. Saying “there’s something for everyone” feels like a cliché but, for a decade, Serie A really did have something for every single football fan who wanted it. These were archetypes to be mocked and copied in rough asphalt playgrounds up and down the country, on precarious Astroturf on Tuesday nights with the lads from work, on muddy pitches in town on cold Sunday mornings with your mates from back home. It made it acceptable to orchestrate incredibly elaborate goal celebrations in front of nonexistent crowds—if it was good enough for Juventus in the echoing Delle Alpi, it was good enough for your mate Big Steve, a centre forward with a

beer gut and a half-decent touch, turning out for Haltemprice Reserves in the East Riding County League Division 2. Even now, a decade and a half after its pomp, the names of erstwhile Serie A legends can be rattled off at pace. While some may have forgotten the talents of Marco Delvecchio, Roma’s Ronnie Wood lookalike second striker, or Croatian hitman Alen Bokšić, Yugoslav-crafted tank with headers like heavy shells, you have not. And then there was Lazio’s fast, prolific Beppe Signori—three times the league’s top goal scorer, with hair like a BMX-riding scally—and Igor Protti, the haunted opportunist—the only man to lead Serie A in the goal-charts in the same season his side was relegated. Zvonimir Boban, Álvaro Recoba, Sunday Oliseh, Hernán Crespo, Ciro Ferrara, the annoyingly effective Vincenzo Montella, Francesco Coco, Edgar Davids, Lilian Thuram, the majestic Rui Costa, Christian Karembeu, Pippo Inzaghi, Gianluca Pagliuca, Alessandro Nesta, Youri Djorkaeff, Iván Zamorano... All names too often struck from the rose-tinted constraints of memory, but players that conjure up simpler, standard-definition years before Transfer Deadline Day Parties and Football Manager and soulless millionaire puppets who sleepwalk their way through press conferences. Marco Van Basten’s best years just missed most British screens, but there were plenty of players to take up the slack. While many associate him with his tough time in Manchester, Juan Sebastián Verón was, for a time, king. Trotting about the park in his slippers, goatee and trademark bandage knotted around his knee, socks lolling lazily about his ankles, he’d dissect defences with precision and flair, like a Vegas plastic surgeon. Skidding, outside-the-boot passes were his stock-in-trade with rasping, swerving free kicks a close second. A vital part of the brilliant Lazio side that bagged a Scudetto in 2000, he came of age in a haphazard, mid-nineties Sampdoria team who couldn’t quite decide if they wanted to be the best or the worst team in the league. His time at United was unsatisfying—although fans forget how brilliant he was in their Champions League exploits: controlling the pace of the game and toying with the opposition, dribbling past challenges and simply doing things that couldn’t quite come to pass in the anarchic world of the Premier League—but Serie A fans will always remember what made him great. Ronaldo—the real Ronaldo for many, “fat Ronaldo” to a heinous few—blew away defenders with his power and stepovers at Internazionale, a heartbreakingly doomed spell at a club where he found the perfect foil in Roberto Baggio (we’ll get to him) and the giant Christian Vieri but injuries would always break the gang up. He eventually left Italy with 49 goals in 68 games, two FIFA World Player of the Year trophies, a Ballon d’Or, a UEFA Cup trophy, and yet still they wanted more… Francesco Totti (still somehow going strong) and Alessandro Del Piero (finally laid to rest in The Retirement Home for Beloved Second Strikers) were like nothing we’d seen on British shores. Beautiful men with flowing hair, Velcro control, and a Magic Circle of tricks, curling in free kicks for fun through the warm Med air, couldn’t really compare to rainy FA Cup replays down at Sheff Weds. Gianluigi Buffon—you remember

“ Attackers were blonde lads with gold chains, Chileans with volatile personalities, Brazilians with knee ligaments made of shortbread, Brazilians who’d do skills you’ve never seen before, horrifying battering rams from tiny Italian suburbs... ” him—in gold and blue of Parma then black and white of Juve—who brought new levels of class to goalkeeping and an array of natty scarves and inspired countless others to take up between the sticks. Gabriel Batistuta—168 goals in 269 games for Fiorentina—would’ve racked up hundreds of bookings for his machine gun celebrations, but nothing else could quite do his shooting justice: his agility and balance left defenders for dead with little more than a body feint and suddenly he’d rifle one into the goal past a keeper who wasn’t quite sure what just happened. And then there was some lad called “Zinedine Zidane”—he was quite good if we remember rightly. Hard to be sure, though. George Weah—King George, Africa’s greatest ever player—had it all; forging the mould to be followed by all other high work rate, high hit rate strikers to follow, with two great feet, pace, power, and vision. Roberto Baggio (finally) perhaps captured imaginations best: the dribbling, the goals, the Divine Ponytail, and the Divine Rattail which was somehow almost as cool as its thicker, pony brethren and also four hundred times cooler than the ubiquitous mullet. Paolo Cesare Maldini… Okay, we’re going to have to stop, because we’ll be here all day at this rate. The teams themselves felt exotic (obviously) and almost otherworldly—Juventus were The Old Lady, for reasons seemingly unknown—and everyone had their picks.

Sampdoria were for the pretentious, Parma and Fiorentina (the Viola) for the dreamers. Juve were the giants and Milan and Inter their rivals, like Leonard, Hagler, Duran. Their stadiums hulking behemoths, giant concrete monsters with bowels echoing fireworks, screaming supporters, and Ultras. Nobody really knew what an Ultra was back then—back before every English team had a lad who bought some half-price flares from Amazon and called himself a Capo—and the pictures of these terrifying blokes leading the charge with a megaphone and a heart the size of a Fiat 500 couldn’t help but stir the senses. Red fire bloomed out of packed stands, parties jumped in unison yelling complicated call-and-response chants to other sides of the stadium. It was anarchy—beautiful, somehow both organised and formless—and thrilling. In the end, as always, it couldn’t last. Serie A lost a few of its best players, had less money sloshing about, and was crippled by corruption. Worst of all, on these shores, after burning the eyeballs of mesmerised football fans for all these years, the unknowable became known—familiarity bred contempt. And while the league won’t ever hold quite the same place in world football, it’ll always have a hold of our hearts—the place where anything could happen and did. Every single weekend.

Where to better to celebrate the rerelease of an icon than in front of the San Siro?

FORZA, MILANO

Originally introduced as part of the iconic adidas European City Series in the late 1970s, the adidas Milano is the latest adidas Originals shoe to be rereleased through Scotts. The City Series is one of the most loved trainer collections ever created, with the Milano one of its most sought after silhouettes. Initially framed as a low-top, athletic trainer, its evident aesthetic appeal quickly moved it towards the ‘leisure’ category. Two new colourways have been applied for the revival—with Dark Petrol and Copper Brown suedes complementing lightly translucent gum soles. With a lightweight but durable build, this is the perfect trainer in which to run away from a bubble jacket clad moped gang

IMAGES: Elliot

Kennedy

PHOTOGRAPHY:

Elliot Kennedy STYLING:

Matthew Staples HAIR AND MAKE UP:

Lucia Giacomin

BRAVI RAGAZZI

/ AW16

Opening Page: Jacob wears adidas Originals Sport Luxe Track Top - Black - £65 Above: adidas Originals California full zip hoody - charcoal - £55.00, adidas Originals California cuff pants - charcoal - £50, adidas Originals Gazelle - blue/white - £75

adidas Originals ID96 Crew Sweatshirt - Utility Green - £60, Levi’s 512 Light Wash £85

/ AW16

Left: adidas Originals Sport Luxe Track Top Black - £65 Opposite: adidas Originals Munchen £75, Levi’s 511 Dark Wash £85

Above: adidas Originals L.A Trainer - £75 Right: adidas Originals ID96 Crew Sweatshirt - Utility Green - £60, Levi’s 512 Light Wash £85, adidas Originals L.A Trainer - £75 Opposite: adidas Originals L.A Trainer - £75

All available at www.scottsmenswear.com

/ AW16

THE SERIE A STYLE XI

GOALKEEPER: GIGI BUFFON

CENTRE BACK: ALESSANDRO NESTA

Forget, if you can, Buffon’s tears this summer. Cast aside memories of that time he wore a roll neck in goal like he was the star of a Fellini film. Pretend he hasn’t played 800 odd games with the grace of some ageless panther. Because even if Gigi had made one solitary appearance, he’d stand a very good chance of making this team. AC Milan haven’t been great for a long time, but on November 19 1995, the day the 17-year-old Buffon made his debut for Parma against the Rossoneri, they were absolutely mustard. Gigi didn’t care. Gigi, with the callow looks of an Italian scooter boy who’s lost his sweetheart to some brutish capo, waged a one man war against Baggio, Weah, and the rest. Flying off his line to repel the pair of Ballon d’Or winners, steaming through the goalmouth throng to claim crosses, making preposterous saves and then celebrating like mad, he secured a 0-0 draw against the eventual champions and walked off the pitch a man. He never looked back.

Sven Goran Eriksson might be best remembered on these shores for the nocturnal activities that eventually made his position as England manager untenable, but in the four years that preceded his descent into tabloid caricature he assembled a Lazio team that swashbuckled their way to becoming the original hipster club, obliterating the northern hegemony with a league and cup double in 1999/2000. At the heart of this team was Alessandro Nesta, the youth team product who Eriksson made captain within days of arriving in 1997, and a defender whose acceleration, timing, and sheer ‘CHRIST ALMIGHTY, LOOK AT THAT’ aesthetics made him the Ferrari of centre halves. Fittingly, he also continually broke down throughout his career and, despite over 400 appearances in Serie A for Lazio and Milan, his injuries robbed him of glory with Italy as he memorably missed the knockout stages of the Azzuri’s 2006 World Cup win. He did marry the physio though, so it wasn’t all bad...

WORDS: Owen

Blackhurst

IMAGES: Dan

Evans

WE ALL LOVE UNSUNG FULLBACKS, DESTRUCTIVE MIDFIELDERS AND THE TOKEN BIG MAN UP FRONT, BUT FOOTBALL IS AT ITS BEST WHEN IT IS PLAYED WITH STYLE, AND THE ELEVEN PLAYERS HERE DEMONSTRATED IT MORE THAN MOST...

SWEEPER: FRANCO BARESI

CENTRE BACK: PAOLO MALDINI

David Platt, him of the acrobatic volleys, once played against Franco Baresi on a stinking hot Italian Sunday. Drenched in sweat and out on his feet, he swapped shirts with Baresi at the end, and was flabbergasted to receive a shirt that was bone dry and smelt only of Aramis. Baresi might’ve looked like the Italian stopper from your nightmares, with his faced carved from granite and eyes blacker than a flooded mine shaft, but he was in fact the exact opposite. It’s not that he couldn’t tackle or mix it physically; it’s just that he was so good, so positionally perfect, that he rarely needed to. Across a 20-year career for Milan that coincided with three European Cup wins and six Serie A titles, stretching to tackle or running to recover were just things that other people did. Players of the Season are rarely defenders; Baresi was voted Milan’s Player of the Century.

Even at the end, when Maldini was 41 years old and his knees seemed to have been injected with iron, you could play with him on FIFA and make tackles from literally anywhere. Stick him within six yards of another player and simply press the square button, and out would come a telescopic leg and win the ball cleanly. Anything else would’ve been a travesty, really, because unlike his defensive partners here, Maldini played hundreds of games at left-back and absolutely loved a slide tackle, and nobody has done it with such clean precision in the history of the game. Paolo simply is Italian football to millions of fans of a certain age—Milan’s youngest ever player became the longest serving and his 21 years, five European Cups and seven Serie A crowns won’t be beaten in our lifetime. Even more remarkably, he never dipped below world class in all that time, and remains a man you wouldn’t leave your missus alone with for a second.

RIGHT MIDFIELD: FRANCESCO TOTTI

CENTRE MIDFIELD: RUUD GULLIT

Even though this team is absolutely chocker with superstars, imagine the scenes in the dressing room when the actual King of Rome is told that a) he’s playing right wing, and b) some midget has been given the number 10 shirt. It’s what makes him who he is, though: the arrogance and self-belief that run through him in the way the Tiber bisects Rome. It’s what allowed him to puff his chest out on his debut back in NINETEEN NINETY BLOODY THREE and make everyone believe he was the man. To watch Totti at his best—graceful, inventive, impudent—is to watch an absolute master of his craft lost in the moment. He loves playing football, he adores Roma, and with the Stadio Olimpico as his Coliseum, he’s given the fans hundreds of thumbs up moments over the past 23 years. Oh yeah, and he panenkad a crucial penalty in the Euro 2000 semi-final, the cheeky fuc….

Way before sexy football, dropping Alan Shearer, and being called a squealing pig by one Vinnie Jones, the man born Rudi Dil was quite simply the best midfielder in the world. With his shoulders back, chest out, and dreadlocks exploding, Ruud annihilated teams. His range of passing—short, long, chips, and outside of the foot atom-splitters—was otherworldly, he scored every sort of goal with the ease of a man buying a Sunday paper, and, in his first season at Milan, won the Ballon d’Or as he led them to the title. Even later at Sampdoria, when his knees had begun to betray him, Ruud at his best was just too good, too clever and too powerful for normal footballers. Gullit still cops a lot of flak for being arrogant, but on receiving his Ballon d’Or he dedicated it to the then imprisoned Nelson Mandela. Now that’s style...

CENTRE MIDFIELD: ZINEDINE ZIDANE

LEFT MIDFIELD: ALESSANDRO DEL PIERO

Because of that Champions League-winning goal against Bayer Leverkusen, there is a feeling that the best Zidane was the one who peaked with Real Madrid’s Galacticos. Nonsense. The Zidane who lit up Serie A from 19962001 was Zizou’s pinnacle, and not only because his stay in Turin coincided with his World Cup and European Championship victories for France. Serie A was still the toughest and most competitive league in the world when he joined the Old Lady from Bordeaux, and he won the Foreign Player of the Year as Juventus wrestled the title back from Milan. Of course, he oozed style, pirouetting his way through midfields that resembled medieval battle grounds, scoring seven times and setting up countless more along the way. Close your eyes and remember him freeze framed, right leg lifted above the ball, eyes facing the opposition, ready to obliterate them with ball and foot locked in a glorious embrace.

If Totti would undoubtedly kick off at being shunted out to the flanks, then you can imagine Del Piero thinking about it for a minute, smoothing back his hair, taking the number 7 shirt off a peg and rifling home a free kick before Maradona had chance to shake off the effects of a night on the tiles. In 19 seasons for Juventus, the kid who signed from Padova after slipping under the radar of Italy’s big clubs only failed to reach double figures on four occasions, and he is one of those rare players who was both a scorer of great goals and a great goal scorer. Delicious in possession with vision to die for, he remains Juve’s record appearance maker and all-time top goalscorer. More than that, though, he displayed his mettle by staying with them when they were relegated to Serie B and finished as top scorer in the second tier as they went straight back up. “A true gentleman never leaves his lady,” he said. That’s class.

ATTACKING MIDFIELD: DIEGO MARADONA

CENTRE FORWARD: ROBERTO BAGGIO

Forget the Hand of God. Forget the second goal. Forget the weight gain, heart attacks, drug addiction, tax evasion, shooting journalists, buddying up with the mafia, and generally starring in his own soap opera. Forget the Messi comparisons and even forget that he dragged Napoli kicking and screaming to the very top of Italian football, sticking two fingers up to the hated northern Italians to boot. Forget it all, and remember instead that Diego was, above all else, the single greatest pisstaker the world has ever seen. Every second he had the ball, until the inevitable coup de grace, was a masterclass in how to send the opposition into a rage. Through the legs, over the head, sitting them on their arse, doing it again after being booted to high heaven, he was five parts circus act and five parts assassin and we should just bloody watch him instead of the endless revisionism. Even his warm ups, featuring little forward rolls and volleying an inflatable globe around, are more interesting than 90% of matches played today. The one true God, and then some...

By the time Roberto Baggio was 19 he had suffered two career threatening knee injuries, shattering his cruciate ligament at Vicenza, then destroying his whole knee so badly after his move to Fiorentina that he needed 220 stitches to repair it. Quite simply, he should never have played again, but beneath the ponytail and slalom dribbles, the ice-cool finishes and eye of the needle passes, Baggio was also a hard bastard who suffered from rejection and ridicule throughout his career, yet remains a hero at each of the seven clubs he played, and somehow managed to nearly win a second Ballon d’Or while in purgatory at Bologna. History’s broad strokes might paint him as the man who missed a penalty in a World Cup final, but ask any of his contemporaries and they’ll tell you that the man christened Bobby Badger by Football Italia’s James Richardson was, undoubtedly, the best they played with.

CENTRE FORWARD: GEORGE WEAH

MANAGER: DINO ZOFF

For a time it seemed that, whenever you watched Gazetta or Football Italia, the man who won World Player of the Year and the Ballon d’Or in 1995 would do something so ridiculous, so beyond the pale, that you had to check if your drink had been spiked the night before. George could finish alright, but his signature move was dribbling. And not just any old mazy dribble, but a full on, 100 miles per hour rampage that would result in teams being skittled like bowling alley pins; Weah, calmness personified, like something out of The Matrix as bedlam kicked off around him. He once scored a goal for Milan that started with him 10 yards from his own penalty box and finished, 8 seconds later, with the ball in the back of the net and a bunch of highly paid professionals flummoxed after having their pants pulled down on live television. Franco Baresi put Weah up front in his greatest XI of players he’s played with. And that, surely, is enough.

Dino could’ve easily been in goal in this team, after all he played 112 times there for Italy, winning both the European Championship in 1968 and the 1982 World Cup, and his jet black hair and piercing eyes definitely made your Nan get her corsets in a twist. But no Italian manager, player, Godfather or otherwise, has ever looked so wonderful clad in a trench coat and a pair of bifocals, while banging on a Marlboro Red and bellowing instructions at a bewildered fullback. Even his name is brutally stylish; three syllables and no pissing about. You can imagine him turning up as a kid at Udinese, grunting his name, donning the gloves and going out on to the training pitch to order around seasoned professionals until they bent to his iron will. Just imagine the half-time row when these lads are 3–0 down after playing keepyups for 45 minutes and Maradona is showing a bemused Maldini pictures of last night’s conquest on his phone...

VOI BELLEZZA PHOTOGRAPHY:

Elliot Kennedy STYLING:

Matthew Staples HAIR AND MAKE UP:

Lucia Giacomin

Page 24-25: Jacob wears - Napapijri Rainforest Padded Jacket - Olive £160.00 & Napapijri Flag Bobble Hat - Navy - £35.00 Page 26: Napapijri Rainforest Padded Jacket Black - £160.00 Page 27: Colmar Lightweight Hooded Puffas - £270.00 Page 28: Pyrenex Hudson Down Jacket - Red - £345 Page 29: Emporio Armani EA7 Train Core Cap - £45.00, Emporio Armani EA7 Down Bubble Jacket - £150.00, Emporio Armani Back Eagle Tee £40, Exclusive Emporio Armani EA7 Long Sleeve Polo Shirt - Grey - £95.00 Page 30-31: North Sails Bernard Jacket - Navy - £155.00 & North Sails Jochem T-Shirt - White - £25.00 Page 32: North Sails Bernard Jacket - Navy - £155.00 & North Sails Jochem T-Shirt - White - £25.00 Page 33: North Sails Buddy Bubble Jacket - Black - £160.00 Left: Pyrenex Falco Light Weight Jacket £260.

All available at www.scottsmenswear.com

BEHIND ENEMY LINES WORDS:

James Bird

IMAGES: Offside

Sports Photography

Bobby Charlton preparing for his Anglo-Italian Cup debut, probably...

From its inception to the inevitable implosion thirty-odd years later, the Anglo-Italian Cup was a lunatic of a tournament, full of abandoned matches, broken jaws and fans going fully tonto... Luigi ‘Gigi’ Peronace’s ring-clad fingers were in all the right crostatas, and the Anglo-Italian Cup was his biggest toy. Gigi was the rich kid with the Subbuteo pitch permanently ironed to his Nana’s dining room table, surrounded by battery-powered floodlights, curva nord stands, and paper advertising boards. When QPR of the old Third Division beat West Bromwich Albion to win the League Cup in 1967, they should’ve automatically qualified for the UEFA Cup (then the InterCities Fairs Cup) but their lowly status scuppered it, and when Swindon met the same fate two years later, Peronace saw an opportunity to provide naughty Euro adventures to lower league, small island-bound teams. Peronace’s first incarnation of the Anglo-Italian Cup was in 1970 and played out like a steamy one night stand between Salvador Dali’s subconscious and the vein from Vinnie Jones’ bulging temple. It involved three groups made up with two sides from each country. Swindon, Sheffield Wednesday, Middlesbrough, West Brom, Sunderland, and Wolves—a mix of the First, Second, and Third Division clubs—repped for England, with Serie A’s Napoli, Juventus, Roma, Fiorentina, Lazio, and Lanerossi Vicenza in the Italian corner. Although each side would be in a ‘group’ with others from its own nation, they would only play against clubs from the other nation. A new offside rule was trialled, whereby one could only be off in the opposition’s penalty area - creating pockets of mirth for number 10s but a nightmare for poachers. And, just in case this didn’t gild attackers with enough empowerment, an extra bonus point was awarded for each goal scored. It was loosely organised chaos, like a 12-year-old creating a custom tournament on RedCard 2003. Gigi was the original wheeler-dealer and over the various forms of the competition, he provided fans with a bloody, bewildering fresco rich enough to grace any wall. Here are ten of the most memorable games...

NAPOLI 0-3 SWINDON TOWN — 28TH MAY 1970 (MATCH ABANDONED) When Arthur Horsfield put Swindon Town three up after 63 minutes in the inaugural final, the Neapolitans weren’t really into it. The Robins had already beaten both them and Juventus away during the group stages, with their 1–0 victory over the Partenopei giving them the extra goal point they needed to reach the final. The ore 17 kick-off time—interrupting premium aperitivo time—had the 55,000 Napoli fans’ stomach’s rumbling already, but three goals down to a Third Division English team and the Vesuvius in their ventricles erupted. Rocks, bottles, and torn up seats were thrown at both sets of players and the ref abandoned it after 79 minutes. As the home fans set fire to the stands, the ref awarded Swindon the Cup. More than 100 fans and players were injured, including what was reported to be a particularly nasty boo-boo on Horsfield’s thigh. Don Rogers, the Swindon midfielder, looked back on the game like it was a Polaroid of a dreamy Campanian holiday and gushed “I have got a nice medal for it and my wife’s got a bracelet.” Not bad that, Don. Not bad at all.

WEST BROMWICH 1–1 LANEROSSI VICENZA — 2ND MAY 1970 (MATCH ABANDONED) The Baggies had a poor end to their domestic 1970 campaign, losing seven of their final 13 games and finishing 16th in the First Division. However, they qualified and started well with a 0–0 draw against Lanerossi Vicenza and a 4–0 pummelling of AS Roma at The Hawthorns. Centre half John Talbut scored one of the four, his only goal in 193 appearances for West Brom. Smethwick is a difficult place to visit for the most hardened of Gladiators, even Caesar would run from a Smethwick ‘Kiss’. Albion found it more difficult on the continent, with a 0–0 draw at Roma then an abandonment at LR Vicenza. Asa Hartford, the esteemed Scottish international, destroyed Lanerossi’s captain Roberto Di Petri in a hearty challenge after 76 minutes, instigating a player brawl. The 12,000 strong crowd at the Stadio Comunale Romeo Menti joined in and the ref subsequently abandoned the game at 1–1. Both teams had their draw point and Brucey Bonus goals point deducted. Hartford, whose blood-curdling tackle was the catalyst for the riot, was found to have a hole in his heart during a pre transfer medical examination just a year later.

LAZIO 0–0 MANCHESTER UNITED — 21ST MARCH 1973 “It started with flowers and hugs between the captains Wilson and Charlton. And it ended in a brawl” wrote the Italian daily L’Unità after a balmy night in Rome. Both Bryan Kidd and Bobby Charlton missed chances in the first half to put United ahead before shit got nuts after the break. Kidd and Lazio midfielder Facco clashed off the ball and, although Facco continued until half-time, his iron jaw had been fractured. The second half exploded.

“THERE WERE SIX INJURIES FOR LAZIO AND ONE FOR THE REFEREE.” Lou Macari, in the first year of a career spanning 400 games for United, was punched in the face by Manservisi, only to be decked by Frustalupi ten minutes later. There were six injuries for Lazio and one for the referee. Gordon Hill, flown over from Leicester for the evening, endured the full force of the Ultras’ odious wrath for 90 minutes, and then left the field needing treatment on a mangled finger. The mummified Lazio squad were left ‘reconsidering their training’ for their trip to Crystal Palace the next month.

LANEROSSI VICENZA 0–10 BLACKPOOL — 10TH JUNE 1972

COSENZA 0–1 WEST HAM — 8TH DECEMBER 1992

Blackpool had won three on the trot by the time they got to their final group game against Lanerossi Vicenza. Having thrashed Sampdoria 4–0 away, and already beaten Lanerossi on their travels, the Tangerines were feeling particularly fruity as they welcomed the North Western Italians to Bloomfield Road. According to Goalkeeper John “Budgie” Burridge’s autobiography, the Blackpool players had been offered a £10 bonus each for every goal scored when they won the competition the year before. This was halved for the 1972 campaign, but they made up for the decrease by slamming ten past Lanerossi.

In a reformatted 1992 version of the Cup, whereby English teams had to progress from a group to earn the right to play the Italian sides, West Ham and Bristol Rovers finished joint top with the same goal difference and a 2–2 draw in their own match. In the most mild-mannered Anglo-Italian fixture to date, the game was decided on a phone call coin-toss in the referee’s changing room - Alvin Martin called tails and the Hammers marched on.

Gerry Wolstenholme’s account in the Blackpool Gazette the day after reports how “Lanerossi were eager for revenge after already being beaten at home” yet they found themselves 2–0 down within the first three minutes with Alan Ainscow and Micky Burns both notching. The goals kept coming, and after Ainscow completed his hat-trick to put Blackpool 7–0 up after 68 minutes, the Lanerossi ‘keeper Anzolin threw in his towel and, unprompted, trudged off the pitch to a chorus of boos. Blackpool were making easy-peelers of their Serie A opponents.

They visited Cremonese for a 2–0 dross loss in their first game, and with the tournament’s popularity waning, only 250 made the journey for their second at Cosenza’s Stadio San Vito. Cosenza is in Calabria, on the first metatarsal of Italy’s Diadora boot and miles away. As the Hammers fans arrived in the afternoon greeted by winter storms and a flooded pitch, English referee Michael Gilkes gave an inspection and postponed the game. However, the Irons’ fans, who had made the ridiculously long journey from East London, weren’t ready for home time and they accosted and intimidated Gilkes until he agreed to reassess. He gave the game the go-ahead, Clive Allen scored the only goal, the Italians kicked lumps out of their opponents, but the Hammers failed to progress from their group. Cremonese won the tournament, beating Derby County 3–1 in the Wembley final.

SHEFFIELD UNITED 1–2 UDINESE — 24TH AUGUST 1994 Eight years before cuddly teddy bear Neil Warnock and sharp trendsetter Gary Megson played out the compassionate Battle of Bramall Lane, there was another sportingly played football match at the ground. Both Dave Bassett’s Blades and Adriano Fedele’s Le Zebrette sides had just faced relegation in their domestic campaign, and in front of 7,000 fans let out their frustrations on a hot Yorkshire evening. Udinese already had a fly in their stripes about their training arrangements and their hotel, and seemed intent on winding up the United players from the start. There were five red cards during the game - Nathan Blake, Charlie Hartfield and Glyn Hodges were sent off for United, with Marek Kozminski walking for Udinese. Bassett was shown to the stands after thoughtfully teaching the Italian referee the universal sign language for “wanker”. Although Udinese ran out 2–1 winners, this wasn’t enough for them to get out of their group and Notts County went on to win the tournament in a 2–1 win over Ascoli at Wembley.

LAZIO 1–2 HULL CITY – 21ST FEBRUARY 1973 BACCA DE NETTA yoped (Hullensian for singing raucously) the Hull Daily Mail as the Tigers ran out 2–1 winners against a Lazio side that would go on to win the Scudetto the following season. Ken Knighton and Roy Greenwood scored in the victory at Boothferry Park in front of a crowd of 7,235. Hull had finished a disappointing 13th in the old Division Two, but this solid start to the fourth tournament was followed up with another home victory against Verona. Brian Taylor of the Mail wrote that “A match that started so quietly it was almost tame, deteriorated into a rough and tumble that twice threatened to develop into a wholesale punch-up”. Fists were flying as things turned into a slapstick session reminiscent of Basil Fawlty and Manuel, with Lazio fitness coach Tommaso Maestrelli soaking an uninjured Hull City steward with his magic sponge and bucket. Hull missed out on progressing from their group after a 1–0 loss to eventual finalists Fiorentina and a dour 0–0 draw away at Bari, but the torneo was a welcome distraction from their disappointing domestic campaign.

ANCONA 1–2 BIRMINGHAM CITY — 15TH NOVEMBER 1995 The Blues travelled to Ancona in a strong position in their group on the back of a one nil win away at Perugia. Ninety two Zulus made the Thursday night trip to the Adriatic Coast, and after two early first half goals all seemed swell for the Porn Barons’ Boys. This was right at the beginning of their David era, with Messrs Gold and Sullivan installing Karen Brady as managing director . Just after David Tentoni knocked in an own goal to put Birmingham two up, Marco Sesia smashed into Paul Tait and chaos ensued. Tait started on Sesia, Sesia’s teammates started on Tait, and then Ancona manager Massimo Cacciatori tag-teamed himself onto the pitch and whacked Tait in the face before moving onto Blues winger Ricky Otto and chokeslamming him to the canvas. Colin Tatum, the only English journalist at the Stadio del Conero described the Sunday League-esque free-for-all as “some of the most amazing scenes I have ever seen on a football field”. A spokesman for Ancona alleged that coach Cacciatori had been “punched and butted” so hard that he had to leave the field on a stretcher. Northern Ireland centre back Liam Daish was namechecked ‘King of the Ring’. The Football League set up an inquiry after receiving the match report from ref John Lloyd, who was hospitalised with broken fingers as he tried to stop more fighting in the tunnel afterwards. The Independent reported that the Italian police were looking to extradite four Birmingham City players, who fled the country that night ‘winding down mountain roads like something from the Italian job’ as Barry Fry remarked. The saga continued for years, with the four refusing to return to Italy on the advice of a high-profile lawyer hired by Brady.

SAMPDORIA 2–3 HUDDERSFIELD — 1ST JUNE 1971 Huddersfield had already welcomed the blucerchiati to Leeds Road front of 10,000 snarling Terriers fans, and waved them off back to Italy with a 2–0 victory. The group stage was played at an English festive period pace - with a game at home to Bologna three days later and then a trip to Genova to play Sampdoria three days after that. Huddersfield lost 3–2 to Bologna, with Trevor Cherry and Dave Smith both scoring. Huddersfield arrived to a fiery atmosphere at the Stadio Luigi Ferraris. The home supporters had already had enough of chairman Mario Colantuoni, calling for his resignation at the start of the game. As Huddersfield ran out 3–2 victors, with Cherry scoring the winner, the atmosphere turned dirty. The home fans ramped up their protests after the final whistle, throwing anything they could find (including cushions) at the Town players. As the sides left the pitch the Ultras Tito Cucchiaroni invaded it, running to the dressing rooms to try to kick the doors in. The Terriers’ fans were kept behind until the streets were clear, remaining in the ground celebrating with a big tasty Trevor Cherry on top. Huddersfield travelled west to Bologna’s Stadio Renato Dall’Ara (then the Stadio Comunale) three days later, losing 1–0 and ending their Anglo-Italian Cup dreams and nightmares.

GENOA 5–2 PORT VALE — 17TH MARCH 1996 And, as if the ghost of Gigi Peronace crushed his players into the Subbuteo felt, that was that. Four incarnations of the Anglo-Italian Cup had provided nonsensically aesthetical chaos, and perhaps fittingly it ended with a whimper at Wembley. After the final whistle the players exchanged shirts instead of fists, and both Finnish referee Ilkka Koho’s fingers and cards were left unblemished. The Grifone had been relegated from Serie A the year before, and had scraped a 0–0 draw at few months earlier at Vale Park. Yet, they were three up at halftime and ran out 5–2 winners with a hat trick from captain Gennaro Ruotolo. The Independent reported that captain Ruotolo ‘epitomised the chasm’ in class between the two sides and commentator John Helm said it was “men against boys”. Martin Foyle scored a consolation brace to give the 12,000 Valiants in the crowd something to cheer but cheering was it. There were no eruptions, no riots, and not even a magic sponge assault in sight. Perhaps it was right, if not mundane, that the two oldest clubs in their respective domestic leagues gave such a fantastically undignified tournament such a morally dignified end.

UNA REGIONE PER FARE PHOTOGRAPHY:

Elliot Kennedy STYLING:

Matthew Staples HAIR AND MAKE UP:

Lucia Giacomin

Jacob wears Paul & Shark Button Shoulder Knit £175, Paul & Shark Oxford Shirt £100

Exclusive Paul & Shark Sleeve Badge Crew Neck Â£120

Paul & Shark Oxford Shirt Â£100

Paul & Shark Ribbed Knit Hat in Black Â£65.00

Exclusive Paul & Shark Full Zip Hoody Â£175

Exclusive Paul & SharkYachting T-Shirt in White Â£70

Paul & Shark Block Stripe Polo Â£89

All available at www.scottsmenswear.com

UN AFFARE DI FAMIGLIA WORDS: James Wright

IMAGES: Paul

& Shark Archive

HERITAGE, STYLE, INNOVATION, ADVENTURE, AND THAT BEAUTIFUL RED SHARK... The obsessive attention to detail. The specialised packaging that demanded exploration. Those distinctive buttons positioned meticulously on the sleeve. The iconic red shark proudly etched onto unique fabrics. An outline that’s unmistakable to those that know. The unrivalled combination of heritage, adventure, and innovation. Nothing stands out quite like a Paul & Shark. It was this take on technical outerwear that grabbed the attention of fashionconscious youth across Europe in the 1980s and 90s. In the UK, their work quickly became seminal—each new piece an exotic Italian license to brag for those in the best dressed youth movements. Ever since, the brand’s been synonymous with exclusive, high-end sportswear with a reputation for quality that’s never changed. Though while Paul & Shark made their breakthrough being on the cutting edge of design, the family-run company were continuing a tradition of almost 60 years’ experience in world fashion. The company’s Dama S.p.A facility in Varese has been run by the Dini family since 1957, a design dynasty that continues today. The factory dates back to 1921, starting life as the Maglificio Daco mill. With Gian Ludovico Dini at the helm, it was reinvigorated through a partnership with design powerhouses Balenciaga and Christian Dior, with everything from fabric to packaging manufactured under one roof. But it wasn’t until the 1970s that the Dini family truly made their mark. Gian’s youngest son Paolo was exploring the harbours of Maine in the US where, in a small sailmaker’s workshop, he came across an elegant 18th century clipper—the Paul & Shark. It was fate.

Inspired by the spirit of adventure and exploration Paolo experienced on his travels, the Yachting Collection launched in the mid-1970s, blending high-end technical fabrication with the comfort of luxury leisurewear. This would become a hallmark of the brand, creating pieces that felt just as at home during a drink in the clubhouse as on a boat exploring the ocean. This spurred a long line of iconic productsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;perhaps none more so than the C0P918 pullover. Dropping in 1978, this piece of waterproof knitwear remains one of the companyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most memorable items, sold in that highly sought-after metal can. Available fabrics often failed to meet the high standards of functionality demanded by the Paul & Shark design team, so new ones were painstakingly created and patented, drawing contemporary comparisons to Massimo Osti and Nigel Cabourn. The spirit of adventure that inspired Paolo Dini resonates through everything Paul & Shark produces. The historic surroundings of Dama S.p.A remain a hub for forward-thinking design as the brand continues to explore, evolve, and expand. Now found in 73 countries and 458 cities, a lot has changed for Paul & Shark. But some things remain crucially constantâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the quality demanded by the Dini family, and the commitment to continuing a century of fashion excellence.

PHOTOGRAPHY:

STYLING:

HAIR AND MAKE UP:

Elliot Kennedy

Matthew Staples

Lucia Giacomin

TEMPO LIBERO

Left: Diadora B.Elite in White ÂŁ65 & Diadora B.Origin in Tibetan ÂŁ70

Top: Diadora B.Origin Saltaire in Blue £70 Bottom: Arch Bonded FZ Hood £55, and Faraday Slim Pant £40, both exclusive to Scotts

Ellesse Zip Up in Green Â£60

All available at www.scottsmenswear.com

HAT’S YOUR LOT

ADIDAS ORIGINALS RIBBED LOGO BEANIE. £18 This is the beanie you buy your Dad for Christmas and then steal when he’s had too much port and cheese.

PAUL AND SHARK RIBBED KNIT HAT. £65 Mansfield (A), middle of December, vertical sleet and below zero temperatures. This and a Bovril and you’ve won again.

NAPAPIJRI FLAG BOBBLE HAT. £35 Sounds Japanese, looks Norwegian, is actually Italian. It’s like Brexit never happened with a bobble on top.

LACOSTE KNITTED HAT. £35 The lads from La Haine have gone straight and are knocking bootleg beanies out from the back of a Renault 5.