i thought they were a type of vauxhall to be honest
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Today's Football 2016 / 2017 Season
- Thread starter Mikey_Fitzgerald
- Start date
- Status
Krazy Kazak Kars Are Kool
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
Exactly.
http://www.umaxit.com/index.php/columns/the-international-champions-cup-in-1-word-farce
The International Champions Cup In 1 Word: Farce
Dan Levene
Covering four continents, and having a format more complex than the run for the White House, the International Champions Cup is here—and this, sadly, is what football may look like in the future.
Chelsea kick-off their crusade for pre-season Electro-Plated Nickel Silverware, with an all-Premier League crunch tie against Liverpool in Pasadena, California. And what will those hardy souls tuning in during the prime UK 4 a.m. to 6 a.m. slot, using a hooky stream with Arabic commentary, actually learn about their club’s preparation for the new campaign?
The square root of diddly squat, that’s what.
Teenagers, organically grown in darkened laboratories in Cobham, have have been put through all the trouble of filling in their ESTA visa-waiver forms, just so they can make gentle square passes to team-mates, avoiding any risk whatsoever of injury. They will be slowly baked in the 35-degree California sunshine, like apprentice grapes at the Sun Maid raisin factory a mere 200 miles away.
And, after putting in a rare move to impress viewers back home that this “could be the big year for youth,” they will be air freighted like veal calves to Arnhem, to sit out the rest of their contract looking like small boys, when facing the men of Ajax and PSV Eindhoven.
The Blues, international champions of nothing at this point in time, will then endure the same phoney war in the Michigan Stadium against actual real international (though not domestic) champions Real Madrid. In this ludicrously massive bowl, capable of holding the entire population of Donacaster (though, please, let’s not have all 109,000 Doncastrians in there), people who have saved a decade worth of food stamps will be able to drink 92 oz. canisters of Mountain Dew, while asking their near neighbours who this Papy Djilobodji guy is.
And that’s just Antonio Conte.
Outside of the Chelsea dugout, middle-aged men in baseball caps will be taken out by their friendly local health insurance salesman, for both to end up baffled why neither side scored a touchdown. Those actually interested in watching the soccerball will do so downtown, priced out of attendance at the match by corporately pitched ticket prices, and a legion of scalpers.
Finally in Minnesota, people with upward inflections at the end of their sentences will be able to see Conte study the machinations of a team he should, by this stage know intricately—that’s AC Milan, rather than Chelsea.
Like that other great pre-season nonsense of yore, there will be not one, not two, but three international champions: an Australian one, who probably won’t be Australian; as well as American and Chinese ones, who definitely won’t be American or Chinese.
There are no competitors from either China or America, saving both the potential Arsenal-esque indignity of losing their own tournament. And the Chinese leg may not actually be won by anyone, after the organisers contrived to stage the thing on a piece of scrubland so rough, even Mancunians wouldn’t set foot on it.
The odds of winning the thing are particularly unevenly stacked: with Barcelona only having to get the better of Gibraltarian laughing stock Celtic, imploding supernova Leicester, and Liverpool; while Bayern Munich have to face Milan and Internazionale, plus Real Madrid.
In the case of our German friends, no sponsorship opportunity has been missed, and they actually find themselves competing in a tournament-within-a-tournament: two of those fixtures being dubbed The Audi Football Summit, no less. And, from Kosovo to Mongolia, Montenegro to Puerto Rico, the thing will be televised.
After it is all done, that trophy will be shipped off to sit in the unfashionable corner of some club’s museum, partially obscured by an Airdrieonians pennant from a 1970s Anglo-Italian-Scottish scouts jamboree.
Should Chelsea reign supreme, it will be paraded around Stamford Bridge by Michael Hector, shortly before he hops back on the bus to Reading for some Championship bench-warming. And it will then be given pride of place in a glass cabinet, just behind the 1993 Makita Trophy: a power drill-sponsored cup awarded for shamelessly embarrassing Spurs in their own garden shed.
Pre-season comes but once a year: don’t you just love it?
http://www.umaxit.com/index.php/columns/the-international-champions-cup-in-1-word-farce
The International Champions Cup In 1 Word: Farce
Dan Levene
Covering four continents, and having a format more complex than the run for the White House, the International Champions Cup is here—and this, sadly, is what football may look like in the future.
Chelsea kick-off their crusade for pre-season Electro-Plated Nickel Silverware, with an all-Premier League crunch tie against Liverpool in Pasadena, California. And what will those hardy souls tuning in during the prime UK 4 a.m. to 6 a.m. slot, using a hooky stream with Arabic commentary, actually learn about their club’s preparation for the new campaign?
The square root of diddly squat, that’s what.
Teenagers, organically grown in darkened laboratories in Cobham, have have been put through all the trouble of filling in their ESTA visa-waiver forms, just so they can make gentle square passes to team-mates, avoiding any risk whatsoever of injury. They will be slowly baked in the 35-degree California sunshine, like apprentice grapes at the Sun Maid raisin factory a mere 200 miles away.
And, after putting in a rare move to impress viewers back home that this “could be the big year for youth,” they will be air freighted like veal calves to Arnhem, to sit out the rest of their contract looking like small boys, when facing the men of Ajax and PSV Eindhoven.
The Blues, international champions of nothing at this point in time, will then endure the same phoney war in the Michigan Stadium against actual real international (though not domestic) champions Real Madrid. In this ludicrously massive bowl, capable of holding the entire population of Donacaster (though, please, let’s not have all 109,000 Doncastrians in there), people who have saved a decade worth of food stamps will be able to drink 92 oz. canisters of Mountain Dew, while asking their near neighbours who this Papy Djilobodji guy is.
And that’s just Antonio Conte.
Outside of the Chelsea dugout, middle-aged men in baseball caps will be taken out by their friendly local health insurance salesman, for both to end up baffled why neither side scored a touchdown. Those actually interested in watching the soccerball will do so downtown, priced out of attendance at the match by corporately pitched ticket prices, and a legion of scalpers.
Finally in Minnesota, people with upward inflections at the end of their sentences will be able to see Conte study the machinations of a team he should, by this stage know intricately—that’s AC Milan, rather than Chelsea.
Like that other great pre-season nonsense of yore, there will be not one, not two, but three international champions: an Australian one, who probably won’t be Australian; as well as American and Chinese ones, who definitely won’t be American or Chinese.
There are no competitors from either China or America, saving both the potential Arsenal-esque indignity of losing their own tournament. And the Chinese leg may not actually be won by anyone, after the organisers contrived to stage the thing on a piece of scrubland so rough, even Mancunians wouldn’t set foot on it.
The odds of winning the thing are particularly unevenly stacked: with Barcelona only having to get the better of Gibraltarian laughing stock Celtic, imploding supernova Leicester, and Liverpool; while Bayern Munich have to face Milan and Internazionale, plus Real Madrid.
In the case of our German friends, no sponsorship opportunity has been missed, and they actually find themselves competing in a tournament-within-a-tournament: two of those fixtures being dubbed The Audi Football Summit, no less. And, from Kosovo to Mongolia, Montenegro to Puerto Rico, the thing will be televised.
After it is all done, that trophy will be shipped off to sit in the unfashionable corner of some club’s museum, partially obscured by an Airdrieonians pennant from a 1970s Anglo-Italian-Scottish scouts jamboree.
Should Chelsea reign supreme, it will be paraded around Stamford Bridge by Michael Hector, shortly before he hops back on the bus to Reading for some Championship bench-warming. And it will then be given pride of place in a glass cabinet, just behind the 1993 Makita Trophy: a power drill-sponsored cup awarded for shamelessly embarrassing Spurs in their own garden shed.
Pre-season comes but once a year: don’t you just love it?
Fabregas sent off versus RS in a friendly...you can't make it up.
Chelsea up 1-0.
Chelsea up 1-0.
Toast
Player Valuation: £80m
Exactly.
http://www.umaxit.com/index.php/columns/the-international-champions-cup-in-1-word-farce
The International Champions Cup In 1 Word: Farce
Dan Levene
Covering four continents, and having a format more complex than the run for the White House, the International Champions Cup is here—and this, sadly, is what football may look like in the future.
Chelsea kick-off their crusade for pre-season Electro-Plated Nickel Silverware, with an all-Premier League crunch tie against Liverpool in Pasadena, California. And what will those hardy souls tuning in during the prime UK 4 a.m. to 6 a.m. slot, using a hooky stream with Arabic commentary, actually learn about their club’s preparation for the new campaign?
The square root of diddly squat, that’s what.
Teenagers, organically grown in darkened laboratories in Cobham, have have been put through all the trouble of filling in their ESTA visa-waiver forms, just so they can make gentle square passes to team-mates, avoiding any risk whatsoever of injury. They will be slowly baked in the 35-degree California sunshine, like apprentice grapes at the Sun Maid raisin factory a mere 200 miles away.
And, after putting in a rare move to impress viewers back home that this “could be the big year for youth,” they will be air freighted like veal calves to Arnhem, to sit out the rest of their contract looking like small boys, when facing the men of Ajax and PSV Eindhoven.
The Blues, international champions of nothing at this point in time, will then endure the same phoney war in the Michigan Stadium against actual real international (though not domestic) champions Real Madrid. In this ludicrously massive bowl, capable of holding the entire population of Donacaster (though, please, let’s not have all 109,000 Doncastrians in there), people who have saved a decade worth of food stamps will be able to drink 92 oz. canisters of Mountain Dew, while asking their near neighbours who this Papy Djilobodji guy is.
And that’s just Antonio Conte.
Outside of the Chelsea dugout, middle-aged men in baseball caps will be taken out by their friendly local health insurance salesman, for both to end up baffled why neither side scored a touchdown. Those actually interested in watching the soccerball will do so downtown, priced out of attendance at the match by corporately pitched ticket prices, and a legion of scalpers.
Finally in Minnesota, people with upward inflections at the end of their sentences will be able to see Conte study the machinations of a team he should, by this stage know intricately—that’s AC Milan, rather than Chelsea.
Like that other great pre-season nonsense of yore, there will be not one, not two, but three international champions: an Australian one, who probably won’t be Australian; as well as American and Chinese ones, who definitely won’t be American or Chinese.
There are no competitors from either China or America, saving both the potential Arsenal-esque indignity of losing their own tournament. And the Chinese leg may not actually be won by anyone, after the organisers contrived to stage the thing on a piece of scrubland so rough, even Mancunians wouldn’t set foot on it.
The odds of winning the thing are particularly unevenly stacked: with Barcelona only having to get the better of Gibraltarian laughing stock Celtic, imploding supernova Leicester, and Liverpool; while Bayern Munich have to face Milan and Internazionale, plus Real Madrid.
In the case of our German friends, no sponsorship opportunity has been missed, and they actually find themselves competing in a tournament-within-a-tournament: two of those fixtures being dubbed The Audi Football Summit, no less. And, from Kosovo to Mongolia, Montenegro to Puerto Rico, the thing will be televised.
After it is all done, that trophy will be shipped off to sit in the unfashionable corner of some club’s museum, partially obscured by an Airdrieonians pennant from a 1970s Anglo-Italian-Scottish scouts jamboree.
Should Chelsea reign supreme, it will be paraded around Stamford Bridge by Michael Hector, shortly before he hops back on the bus to Reading for some Championship bench-warming. And it will then be given pride of place in a glass cabinet, just behind the 1993 Makita Trophy: a power drill-sponsored cup awarded for shamelessly embarrassing Spurs in their own garden shed.
Pre-season comes but once a year: don’t you just love it?
Excellent writing
Is every nike strip EXACTLY the same this season? awful.
Just going off BBC here but West Ham seem to be all over the show.
Pleasing.
Pleasing.
pornpimol2
Player Valuation: £1m
watching it on BT2
Only just clocked it's on, gonna watch the last 15.
- Status