jyrka posted:

American woman soccer player called Abby Wambach just finished her career. There should be a lot of juicy stuff out about that.

Crazy Ted posted:

Well she's already said that Jurgen Klinsmann needs to be fired in part because of "all the foreign guys" he's brought into the national team. She's also alleged that FieldTurf causes cancer.

African AIDS cum posted:

Ironically http://healthland.time.com/2013/06/03/its-true-you-can-get-throat-cancer-from-oral-sex/

Crazy Ted posted:

Well she's already said that Jurgen Klinsmann needs to be fired in part because of "all the foreign guys" he's brought into the national team.

Crazy Ted posted:

Well she's already said that Jurgen Klinsmann needs to be fired in part because of "all the foreign guys" he's brought into the national team.

blue footed boobie posted:

On a cold december evening in London, a young man takes a seat on a bench facing the Thames. Soon after, he is joined by another man, who removes his bowler hat as he sits down. The moonlight glints off his glasses and his shiny, shaved head.
"You're late."
"I know, Cesc. But you were early. He was meant to leave in February. But still, you did well. That's two London clubs you've damaged."
"Not that it's helped much. You should have made better use of the last one."
"What's done is done." A sigh, and pause - "I have a new mission for you now. You'll need to engineer a transfer to West Ham in the summer. Their Olympic stadium... could be problematic. You're very nearly done, my boy. Soon, you'll be able to come home."
A hopeful smile spreads across the younger man's face. "What a glorious day that will be."
Both men stare into the river, lost in their thoughts. Finally, the younger man stands up. "Goodbye Mr. Levy. I'll be seeing you soon."

Weaponized Cum posted:

Bogan Krkic posted:

lol they can only make 5 and they're the most stretched puns ever

Weaponized Cum posted:

The 'Spurs Wars' alreayd happened tbf

breathstealer posted:

who has been notably without his wedding ring of late

quote:

On a day when a barell of oil is set to reach low prices not seen for decades, when Chelsea lose again and The Minging One went full Gwyneth Paltrow in his post match performance, when rumours already fly about the hot seat tennancy at Chevrolet Stadium, i can finally see it all clearly. Its obvious. Its an extraordinary set of circumstances that could just as easily pass by unnoticed, just some things that happened. But it could also be the perfect storm that is sometimes needed to clear the air. The start of an unimaginable change.

It will start in the corridors of power at Stamford Bridge. Club captain and all round nice guy John Terry requests a meeting with his Manager and club owner. During a meeting which was later immotalised in the Pulitzer winning book "The King Rats Speech" by Terry himself, he made an annoucement that would start an avalanche. You see John had remained awake the previous night, haunted by his thoughts, frozen in his memories. It had been a great career, medals and captancies, hero to millions, leader of men, proud as punch was Englands Brave John. He also reasoned with himself that he had never really put a foot wrong in any other aspect of life. Role model. "Fackin gent", John mumbled drowsily. Something that John had recently read was also on his mind. An article on newly appointed Valencia coach, and ex international teammate, Gary Neville, had pointed out that Neville had relinquished his armband and hung up his boots midway through a title chasing season. That bothered John. That a Son of Neville knew when to walk away rather than tarnish his legendary status with team damaging, sub par performances.

"Fackin prick" thought John, remembering how much he had hated sharing a room with Neville on England duty. Straight as an arrow was Gary. Never into the booze or the hookers. Just an all round pain in the arse. Moaned about everything. Sense of humour bypass as well. John remembered the night when he had drunkenly placed a used condom in each of Garys slippers, and had braced himself for a hilarious bollocking when Neville bounced out of bed the following morning, jumped in his slippers, and froze stock still as he realised instantly what was going on. Instead of the rage induced bants John loved of a morning after, he sat open mouth as Neville removed the offending articles, put them in the recycle bin in the bathroom, and proceeded to lecture John on the importance of recycling and social responsibility, and also congratulating him on his awareness of STD rates in Bratislava. John had decided there and then that he couldnt stand this ball bag, and refused to share with Neville again. Added to that the know it all gnome had been taking a pop lately as well. Absolutley slated John several times for his performances. "I'll do the prick at one of those legends charity games" John resolved. "That fackin poodle headed mouth as well" All this musing led John to one conclusion. If Neville knew when to call it a day then so should he. Preserve the legacy. "Time to walk away John" he admitted tearfully to himself, before finally sleeping briefly.

It was early next morning when J.T strode up to the reception at Stamford Bridge, and told the bird with the cracking tits that he would be requiring a meeting with the Gaffer and the Owner as soon as they got here. "In the owners office if he dont mind" John said, giving the mortifed young woman another long slow glance. "Cut that out" he chuckled to himself as he walked away. The girl was only working at the club as she was one of the players Sisters or Cousins or something like that. University work experience someone had mentioned. Strings pulled no doubt. But John had learned his lesson in these situations, and shook his head clear as he headed upstairs to his meeting with destiny. John only had time to admire his portrait on the wall of the Owners waiting room, before the Russian strolled in, with the haggard looking Portugese a few steps behind. The Owner ushered them both into the inner office, where he had coffee and pastries brought in, and told them both to settle on the plush chairs. "Another Fackin gent" thought John. He would miss the Owner. Following pleasantries, or a pleasant as it gets in the Managers case, John cleared his throat and made his announcement. Effective immediatly John Terry was hanging up his boots. It was a heartbreaking decision, but made with the best interests of his beloved club in mind. It was time to go.

The silence was broken by a snigger from the Manager. "I knew you would be the one to betray me john" he said. "I made you, gave you all, raised your level, and you desert me in my time of need" The manager smirked smugly to the Owner and said " I told you these assholes were not with me, sabotaging my genius, heres your proof" He was slowly turning purple now. "Quiet" roared the Owner "I have also made a decision" he said. Turning to John, he first thanked him for many years of loyal service, and then said" But John, I dont want to lose you from the Chelsea family, and I have a project in mind you might like" "Oh, lets hear about it then" said John The owner went on to outline how he had recently acquired another football club, in the Russian second division, away in the North East of the place. Probably be closer to Vancouver than Moscow actually. But its a project that the Owner is going to take seriously and he needs a manager. This is where John comes in. "John, i have decided to send Jose here to Russia, to lead this new and very exciting project, and i want you to take over right here at Chelsea, right now" the Owner announced through the biggest poo poo eating grin John had ever seen. Stunned, neither Terry nor The Minger moved.

Time passed, impossible to tell how long. Finally the Manager exploded without warning and launched into a rant that J.T later described as "Fackin monster" The Owner stood, and very quickly the Minger retreated to his chair and silence. Towering above him the owner said" Jose i have taken the liberty of having your house packed this morning by a team of movers i brought over from Russia. Very large, very strong men. They will be quick. And of course i have put everyone you love on a plane to Russia where you will be re united on arrival. Now go. Out of my sight" Terrified, and not willing to give up that 37 million by quitting, jose scurried out of the office and off to obscurity, "gently caress me" John said. "What just happened? " "Your the new manager of Chelsea John" said the Owner, "Now get to work" "Yes Sir" John almost squeaked as he jumped towards the door. "Oh, Boss, I'll be needing a P.A. Dont mind if i just use that bird from the front desk do ya? John grinned over his shoulder as he headed off to his new post.

Chillao posted:

quote:

Dear Jose,

This is a very hard letter to write. You have never met me, but every week I sit with my daughter directly above your position in the Stamford Bridge dug-out.

Her name is Martha and she is now eleven. The first time I took her to Chelsea she was four, and you were the manager. She thought it was very funny that visiting Blackburn Rovers fans sang, "You're getting sacked in the morning," and then you actually were.
That was your first bad patch with us. I told her not to worry - you would find another job and Chelsea would find another manager. In fact we found enough to fill a bus: Grant, Scolari, Wilkins, Hiddink, Ancelotti, Villas-Boas, Di Matteo, Benitez. As my daughter grew older, half the new words she learnt were the names of Chelsea managers.

But it was never the same without you. Abramovich, your old boss, got so impatient with the coaches who followed he actually fired Di Matteo for winning the Champions League. It was as if we all knew the Special One would return.

You came back when Martha was nine. She was as thrilled as her dad. I told her what she needed to know: "Mourinho is off his rocker," I said, "but so are all the great artists." I mentioned Salvador Dali and Van Morrison to explain why sometimes the tortured soul makes the best art. I told Martha you knew how to behave - that the madness would work for Chelsea.

And work it did. Your intensity is incredible and I love the sense of danger you bring to every waking moment. You always reminded me of the most popular boy at school: people would do anything to be his friend, and your players would do anything to impress you.
For a brief moment in time, the midfield were as tight as Led Zeppelin. Although Diego Costa turned out to be a description of a mood rather than the name of a player, for a few wonderful months he was irresistible. Terry's legs actually moved, Ivanovic scored goals out of defence, and I even remember tweeting that "Hazard is now the greatest player in the world," to a torrent of abuse from Messi fans. The point is, you did that; Jose, you made us winners again. You are a stunningly successful manager and you took us back to the top. Martha and I loved you for it despite the madness.

And then something utterly unhinged happened. I had to explain to my young daughter why you had exploded at the popular team doctor (one of the most prominent women in the Premier League) and I could not give her a decent reason. You didn't just demote her and cause her to leave, you humiliated her. You should not have done it and I believe the players were also at a loss as they tried to explain it to their young daughters.

She was popular; they sided with her against you; you lost the dressing room. You caused the doctor to leave and the players sacked you. Do you understand that, Jose? You were fired by your own players. When you realise that is what has happened, I believe you will find the thought unbearable.

We will now get a sane, sober-suited manager, and it will not be the same. I believe it was a terrible mistake for the club not to view this season as a write-off and start to rebuild a new squad around you. Somebody once said to me, "The problem is that Chelsea doesn't have a Beckham," in other words a single figure who symbolises the team. But we did. It was you. As Lynette tells her ex-husband Tom in a moving scene in Desperate Housewives, it was always you.

As a desperate fan, I know there will be no Third Coming. You parked the bus and burnt your boats. You gave Chelsea more trophies than we dreamt of and then we woke into a nightmare: placed sixteenth with our manager blaming Leicester's ball-boys. So take some time off now, Jose. See your family and get your priorities straight. And if one day you regret what happened, rest assured that there's a father in west London who got to spend precious afternoons with his young daughter because she wanted to be taken to Chelsea and watch your magic and madness unfold on the green in front of her.

Yours sincerely

Jeremy Vine

JFairfax posted:

Mourinho left to make his fortune and succeeded, but when he wanted to return they denied him. He was a little bit different. He wasn’t a player but a translator-turned-coach. He wasn’t one of them. He didn’t think like them. He didn’t instantly revere Rinus Michels. He looked at the game and asked not how to win while playing well, but simply how to win. He had a pragmatic edge that meant he never quite fitted in. He came, in 2008, replete with honours, wanting to be coach and they preferred one of their own, whose coaching experience consisted of one season with the reserve team. He became the outcast, the rebel, the fallen angel. He began to define himself in opposition to Barcelona and thus to the prevailing footballing ethos of the age, determining, like Satan in Paradise Lost, that “glory never shall his wrath or might extort from me.” He would not play by their rules; he do things his way in self-conscious opposition and prove that he was right. He vowed, like Milton’s Satan “to wage by force of guile eternal war, irreconcilable to our grand Foe.”

quote:

Although Diego Costa turned out to be a description of a mood rather than the name of a player

dex_sda posted:

oh my god

edit: where the gently caress did you find this holy poo poo

Broletariat posted:

Johnathan Wilson did a cool and good 2 part obituary for mourinho


https://www.theblizzard.co.uk/articles/the-devils-party/

https://www.theblizzard.co.uk/articles/the-devils-party-part-2/

An Actual Bear posted:

trem_two posted:

You may move on after Chelsea as the carrots from other clubs tempting you in get bigger...I hope you have knowledge that you killed him.

With your bare feet protected by some studded boots. You all stuck it in. Who really is proper Chels out the lot of you? None. You really do not understand Jose and Chelsea Football Club. There's history, good history.

You've come in, built on that then stopped. You don't stop. Make the book of Chelsea more thicker; there's more chapters to write of famous nights, cup final salvos, league glory.

You stopped, took off your boots, got the knives and started turning on the man that turned you from a loser, a loser to a champion. You kept stabbing.

Until he fell. The King of all. Dead. Gone, forever. No Lazarus resurrection. Hang your heads in shame. Hang them. And one more thing...look at your hands. Put them under the sink. Run the tap, scrub. It's not coming off, Jose's blood stays. Look in the mirror. You did it.

It's the darkest day, the blackest hour but the end has been quite prepared for. There's no need to fear it- for the other side has light.

I hope you can bare with the reflection. If not, I'll happily hand you some rope.

trem_two posted:

Until he fell. The King of all. Dead. Gone, forever. No Lazarus resurrection. Hang your heads in shame. Hang them. And one more thing...look at your hands. Put them under the sink. Run the tap, scrub. It's not coming off, Jose's blood stays. Look in the mirror. You did it.