Avast, ye salt-crusted bilge-rats and land-lubbing bookmakers! Gather 'round the grog tub and lend an ear to Captain Iron Ink, for the winds of the Italian Peninsula have shifted, and they smell of gunpowder, victory, and the fine silks of the Nerazzurri merchant fleet. This past weekend, the fearsome galley known as Inter Milan docked at the treacherous Friulian outpost of Udine, and by the time the smoke cleared, Skipper Lautaro ‘The Argentine Bull’ Martinez had left their defenses in splinters and their treasure chests empty. It wasn’t just a win, ye scurvy dogs; it was a ruthless boarding party that saw the Skipper fire his crew six points clear at the top of the naval charts!

The battle was fierce, or so the Udinese militia would have ye believe, but in truth, it was like watching a shark navigate a bathtub full of kittens. Skipper Martinez, a man whose boots are surely forged in the fires of Mount Etna, found the back of the net with the precision of a master navigator hitting a port in a hurricane. Every time he struck, the Udine fortifications crumbled like hardtack in a rainstorm. The ruthless efficiency of the attack has sent ripples across the Mediterranean, proving that while others might dither with their charts and their compasses, Inter simply points their cannons at the horizon and fires until there’s nothing left to sink.

“I’ve seen many a skirmish in my days on the rigging,” hollered Bosun Barella, wiping the sweat and sea-spray from his brow as the crew celebrated on the poop deck. “But the Skipper? He’s possessed by the ghost of a thousand strikers! He smells blood in the water before the first whistle even blows. Those Udine boys thought they could block the channel with their defensive lines, but Martinez just sailed right through ‘em, laughing as he took their points and their pride. We’re six leagues ahead now, and the rest of the fleet looks like they’re rowing with spoons!”

The consequences of this plundering are dire for the rest of the scum inhabiting the Serie A waters. The 'Old Lady' of Turin is currently drifting in the doldrums, her sails tattered and her crew arguing over who forgot to pack the salt beef. Meanwhile, the Rossoneri raft is taking on water faster than a lead-bottomed dinghy. With a six-point lead, Inter now controls the lucrative salt-routes of the Scudetto. Trade in Milanese silks is up, the price of victory-ale has plummeted, and the Admiral of the Fleet, Lord Simone Inzaghi, was heard muttering that he might even allow the men an extra ration of rum if they keep this pace until the spring thaw.

“The sea is a cruel mistress, but she loves a winner,” remarked Lord Marotta, the Grand Vizier of the Inter Dockyards, while polishing his monocle with a handful of stolen gold. “We’ve established a blockade that no other captain can breach. Six points is more than a lead; it’s a fortress built on the waves. If the chasing pack wants to catch us, they’ll need more than luck—they’ll need a kraken and a miracle, and I’ve already put a bounty on the kraken’s head.” So, mark my words, ye lot: the black-and-blue flag flies high, the Skipper’s cannons are still hot, and the high seas belong to the Nerazzurri. Lay down your bets or lay down your arms, for the Argentine Bull is hungry for more!”