[Archived] The "Beautiful Game" is a pageant loser

[thenodrog]

Tashor..... is that you? The style fits.

[Alex Rover]

Agreed.

But if you think you're being clever writing like that, you're not. There's nothing wrong with plain, simple English written correctly.

That is simple English for some of us. Although not written correctly. simplicibus verbis amet.

[old darwen blue]

Edit

[old darwen blue]

Are you Stuart Hall in disguise :-O

My thought as well

My thought as well

Or is it also?

My head hurts now

[jim mk2]

This mortal coil our temporary home,

But Jim's impact will glisten from beneath the loam,

Like the most deluxe assembly of chrome.

Very good, enjoyed that. Your style suits poetry and rhyming couplets.

However when making a serious point please stick to plain English. Using pretentious words ain't clever.

Otherwise you leave everyone discombobulated.

[chris_h]

Tashor..... is that you? The style fits.

That somewhat fruity poster hasn't been seen since he was caught dreamily speculating on the size of Steve Kean's shlong. Done by alcohol and an inability to edit fast enough I think.

[Stuart]

Who loathes Jim?

Not I. Nor Him.

He puts the Waldorf in salad and the nut in Nutella

He's a genial old soul, a hell of a fella

His kindness is masked by his want for simple things

But don't misconstrue the passive aggression that he brings

To a messageboard sometimes (too often) devoid of real character

Where Abbey's always Final and Gordon's ever the orator

He loves to complain about punctuation and grammar

Yet a bard uses lard and he calls 'diarrhoea'

Tis true, this board would be darker without him on board

Cos he loves playing Ebenezer but he loves Rovers more

Though he's unapologetically Left he always feels immovably in the right

So Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night.

Fret not, nor fade, Rolo, my friend. Your feather-flicks are a faint flickering flame in a faceless, frequently flaccid forum.

Tashor..... is that you? The style fits.

I'd have gone for a reincarnated Carrol or Poe. Possibly even the greatest mind of all, Digence.

[thenodrog]

........ Done by alcohol and an inability to edit fast enough I think.

So what chris? That can happen to the best of us.

[M-K]

He loves to complain about punctuation and grammar

Yet a bard uses lard and he calls 'diarrhoea'

There once was a woman from Ealing

Who had a peculiar feeling ...

[Tardyrover]

Chin china ree , chin china ree chin chin charoo, we hate those bar stewards in claret and bloooooooooo

[Leonard Venkhater]

Who loathes Jim?

Not I. Nor Him.

He puts the Waldorf in salad and the nut in Nutella

He's a genial old soul, a hell of a fella

His kindness is masked by his want for simple things

But don't misconstrue the passive aggression that he brings

To a messageboard sometimes (too often) devoid of real character

Where Abbey's always Final and Gordon's ever the orator

He loves to complain about punctuation and grammar

Yet a bard uses lard and he calls 'diarrhoea'

Tis true, this board would be darker without him on board

Cos he loves playing Ebenezer but he loves Rovers more

Though he's unapologetically Left he always feels immovably in the right

So Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night.

Fret not, nor fade, Rolo, my friend. Your feather-flicks are a faint flickering flame in a faceless, frequently flaccid forum.

I'd have gone for a reincarnated Carrol or Poe. Possibly even the greatest mind of all, Digence.

Haha..Carroll, Poe and..Digence!!

More worrying is that fine contributors are being compared to both Stuart Hall and Lewis Carroll on the same thread..

[chris_h]

So what chris? That can happen to the best of us.

Not, I hope, whilst posting an uncomfortably enthusiastic eulogy speculating about the prospective dimensions of another bloke's choad.

[Peter]

Fret not, nor fade, Rolo, my friend. Your feather-flicks are a faint flickering flame in a faceless, frequently flaccid forum.

Faceless eh?

Fancy a pint in the rustic surroundings of the Riverside sometime, so I can put a face to the moniker of "Bald Eagle"?

I must say though Stuart that you deserve great credit for the way in which you've raised that young lad of yours. His unabashed excitement reminded me of myself when I first auscultated the throbbing emotion and pulsating verve of the Ewood experience. The untrodden smell of the programme; the itch of that infernal first scarf; the scalding offal-and-spud cylinder; the corona-like-blinding-beam from the floodlights; the first terrace swear prodding the frontal lobe like a red-hot poker. My unfledged mind tried telling me this was a punishing baptism. Undeterred by it all, the game was riveting.

Previously my Dad would not permit under any circumstance the purchase of a junior LFC replica shirt that many youth chums donned in lemming-like fashion; and instead grabbed from the cobwebbed recesses of the loft his own wistful first strip handed to him by none-other than gent and genius Bryan Douglas (who, remarkably, after receiving a mere scribble of appreciation from my Dad and his pal Duncan, invited the pair to his terraced abode for tea and hospitality, on my Dads birthday to boot!) The shirt was understated but entirely resplendent. Blue-and-White halves that although slightly mothballed looked as regal as Edmund Blackadder but without frippery. Sponsor-less and nondescript in todays regrettable maroon of marketable this shirt naturally took on magnificent properties and from then on I was condemned to the fortnightly pilgrimage to Nuttall Streets famed framework.

I hate Venkys. Hate them with a passion that if unleashed would vibrate next-doors pristine bannisters but not nearly enough to end this sometimes-absurd-but-always-pardonable routine. Just who do Venkys think they are corrupting segments of this glorious clubs memorial with such despicable uncaring ignorance? They are nothing. Nothing but a boil on the arse of the club; tearfully useless and without care, but not sufficient to douse the furnace of positive emotion evoked in my Dad with every sight of Bryan Douglas' jersey or the allure I felt the moment I first realised it.

Magical club. Magical memories.

Venkys can blot but they cannot erase the ingrained greatness of BRFC

[Stuart]

Love it Rolo. Sounds like a great memory.

I've sent you a PM.

[bob fleming]

Faceless eh?

Fancy a pint in the rustic surroundings of the Riverside sometime, so I can put a face to the moniker of "Bald Eagle"?

I must say though Stuart that you deserve great credit for the way in which you've raised that young lad of yours. His unabashed excitement reminded me of myself when I first auscultated the throbbing emotion and pulsating verve of the Ewood experience. The untrodden smell of the programme; the itch of that infernal first scarf; the scalding offal-and-spud cylinder; the corona-like-blinding-beam from the floodlights; the first terrace swear prodding the frontal lobe like a red-hot poker. My unfledged mind tried telling me this was a punishing baptism. Undeterred by it all, the game was riveting.

Previously my Dad would not permit under any circumstance the purchase of a junior LFC replica shirt that many youth chums donned in lemming-like fashion; and instead grabbed from the cobwebbed recesses of the loft his own wistful first strip handed to him by none-other than gent and genius Bryan Douglas (who, remarkably, after receiving a mere scribble of appreciation from my Dad and his pal Duncan, invited the pair to his terraced abode for tea and hospitality, on my Dads birthday to boot!) The shirt was understated but entirely resplendent. Blue-and-White halves that although slightly mothballed looked as regal as Edmund Blackadder but without frippery. Sponsor-less and nondescript in todays regrettable maroon of marketable this shirt naturally took on magnificent properties and from then on I was condemned to the fortnightly pilgrimage to Nuttall Streets famed framework.

I hate Venkys. Hate them with a passion that if unleashed would vibrate next-doors pristine bannisters but not nearly enough to end this sometimes-absurd-but-always-pardonable routine. Just who do Venkys think they are corrupting segments of this glorious clubs memorial with such despicable uncaring ignorance? They are nothing. Nothing but a boil on the arse of the club; tearfully useless and without care, but not sufficient to douse the furnace of positive emotion evoked in my Dad with every sight of Bryan Douglas' jersey or the allure I felt the moment I first realised it.

Magical club. Magical memories.

Venkys can blot but they cannot erase the ingrained greatness of BRFC

Well said Sir. Merry Christmas.

[yoda]

Faceless eh?

Fancy a pint in the rustic surroundings of the Riverside sometime, so I can put a face to the moniker of "Bald Eagle"?

I must say though Stuart that you deserve great credit for the way in which you've raised that young lad of yours. His unabashed excitement reminded me of myself when I first auscultated the throbbing emotion and pulsating verve of the Ewood experience. The untrodden smell of the programme; the itch of that infernal first scarf; the scalding offal-and-spud cylinder; the corona-like-blinding-beam from the floodlights; the first terrace swear prodding the frontal lobe like a red-hot poker. My unfledged mind tried telling me this was a punishing baptism. Undeterred by it all, the game was riveting.

Previously my Dad would not permit under any circumstance the purchase of a junior LFC replica shirt that many youth chums donned in lemming-like fashion; and instead grabbed from the cobwebbed recesses of the loft his own wistful first strip handed to him by none-other than gent and genius Bryan Douglas (who, remarkably, after receiving a mere scribble of appreciation from my Dad and his pal Duncan, invited the pair to his terraced abode for tea and hospitality, on my Dads birthday to boot!) The shirt was understated but entirely resplendent. Blue-and-White halves that although slightly mothballed looked as regal as Edmund Blackadder but without frippery. Sponsor-less and nondescript in todays regrettable maroon of marketable this shirt naturally took on magnificent properties and from then on I was condemned to the fortnightly pilgrimage to Nuttall Streets famed framework.

I hate Venkys. Hate them with a passion that if unleashed would vibrate next-doors pristine bannisters but not nearly enough to end this sometimes-absurd-but-always-pardonable routine. Just who do Venkys think they are corrupting segments of this glorious clubs memorial with such despicable uncaring ignorance? They are nothing. Nothing but a boil on the arse of the club; tearfully useless and without care, but not sufficient to douse the furnace of positive emotion evoked in my Dad with every sight of Bryan Douglas' jersey or the allure I felt the moment I first realised it.

Magical club. Magical memories.

Venkys can blot but they cannot erase the ingrained greatness of BRFC

Fabulous, Kamy, please send a copy to the Roas

[Peter]

Well said Sir. Merry Christmas.

And you Bob.

btw Was it your wife who spoke with cynicism-squashing skill on the now-forbidden SSN at the Brockhall stake-out? Just how could they go on ridiculing Rovers fans on that wretched channel with witless regularity after hearing such a civil and convincing case for the defence? Regardless she was as savvy as one of your famed reviews.

Just another corp. Sky who's only significance to the game beneath the harrumphed cartel of Champions League bigwigs is largely sinful. No Premier League clash could accommodate my attention now. Its just been exhausted to a state of shoulder-shrugs. Or, as Dylan and Petty once sung in impeccable tandem: "over-exposed, commercialised".

[arbitro]

Faceless eh?

Fancy a pint in the rustic surroundings of the Riverside sometime, so I can put a face to the moniker of "Bald Eagle"?

I must say though Stuart that you deserve great credit for the way in which you've raised that young lad of yours. His unabashed excitement reminded me of myself when I first auscultated the throbbing emotion and pulsating verve of the Ewood experience. The untrodden smell of the programme; the itch of that infernal first scarf; the scalding offal-and-spud cylinder; the corona-like-blinding-beam from the floodlights; the first terrace swear prodding the frontal lobe like a red-hot poker. My unfledged mind tried telling me this was a punishing baptism. Undeterred by it all, the game was riveting.

Previously my Dad would not permit under any circumstance the purchase of a junior LFC replica shirt that many youth chums donned in lemming-like fashion; and instead grabbed from the cobwebbed recesses of the loft his own wistful first strip handed to him by none-other than gent and genius Bryan Douglas (who, remarkably, after receiving a mere scribble of appreciation from my Dad and his pal Duncan, invited the pair to his terraced abode for tea and hospitality, on my Dads birthday to boot!) The shirt was understated but entirely resplendent. Blue-and-White halves that although slightly mothballed looked as regal as Edmund Blackadder but without frippery. Sponsor-less and nondescript in todays regrettable maroon of marketable this shirt naturally took on magnificent properties and from then on I was condemned to the fortnightly pilgrimage to Nuttall Streets famed framework.

I hate Venkys. Hate them with a passion that if unleashed would vibrate next-doors pristine bannisters but not nearly enough to end this sometimes-absurd-but-always-pardonable routine. Just who do Venkys think they are corrupting segments of this glorious clubs memorial with such despicable uncaring ignorance? They are nothing. Nothing but a boil on the arse of the club; tearfully useless and without care, but not sufficient to douse the furnace of positive emotion evoked in my Dad with every sight of Bryan Douglas' jersey or the allure I felt the moment I first realised it.

Magical club. Magical memories.

Venkys can blot but they cannot erase the ingrained greatness of BRFC

Probably the best post I have ever read on this board. Hate is a strong word my friend but I am on the front line with you when it comes to the hateometer as far as them wretched Indian people are concerned.

I raise my hat to you Sir.

[bob fleming]

btw Was it your wife...

Yes. I asked the Sky reporter that day, off camera (no bottle here), when they were going to start asking some proper questions about what was happening to our club. I seem to recall that he said the club wouldn't answer any questions anyway, but he also seemed confused as to what I was getting at. As though owners who admitted to knowing nothing about the game, who never attend, who employed an Agent as their main advisor and who continued to employ an inept football manager (who was hated by the fan base), presumably because they were on the Agents roster, was worthy of further investigation?

Then again maybe it's best not bite the hand that feeds you - as they say at the FA.

[Leonard Venkhater]

Faceless eh?

Fancy a pint in the rustic surroundings of the Riverside sometime, so I can put a face to the moniker of "Bald Eagle"?

I must say though Stuart that you deserve great credit for the way in which you've raised that young lad of yours. His unabashed excitement reminded me of myself when I first auscultated the throbbing emotion and pulsating verve of the Ewood experience. The untrodden smell of the programme; the itch of that infernal first scarf; the scalding offal-and-spud cylinder; the corona-like-blinding-beam from the floodlights; the first terrace swear prodding the frontal lobe like a red-hot poker. My unfledged mind tried telling me this was a punishing baptism. Undeterred by it all, the game was riveting.

Previously my Dad would not permit under any circumstance the purchase of a junior LFC replica shirt that many youth chums donned in lemming-like fashion; and instead grabbed from the cobwebbed recesses of the loft his own wistful first strip handed to him by none-other than gent and genius Bryan Douglas (who, remarkably, after receiving a mere scribble of appreciation from my Dad and his pal Duncan, invited the pair to his terraced abode for tea and hospitality, on my Dads birthday to boot!) The shirt was understated but entirely resplendent. Blue-and-White halves that although slightly mothballed looked as regal as Edmund Blackadder but without frippery. Sponsor-less and nondescript in todays regrettable maroon of marketable this shirt naturally took on magnificent properties and from then on I was condemned to the fortnightly pilgrimage to Nuttall Streets famed framework.

I hate Venkys. Hate them with a passion that if unleashed would vibrate next-doors pristine bannisters but not nearly enough to end this sometimes-absurd-but-always-pardonable routine. Just who do Venkys think they are corrupting segments of this glorious clubs memorial with such despicable uncaring ignorance? They are nothing. Nothing but a boil on the arse of the club; tearfully useless and without care, but not sufficient to douse the furnace of positive emotion evoked in my Dad with every sight of Bryan Douglas' jersey or the allure I felt the moment I first realised it.

Magical club. Magical memories.

Venkys can blot but they cannot erase the ingrained greatness of BRFC

Nice one. It always warms my heart to see the passion of other contributors for Blackburn Rovers.

Venky's know not what they tarnish. The trouble is that it looks like they don't care much either.

Saturday's 5 Live phone in featured the intellect of one Darren Fletcher, who actually tried to reconcile listeners to an uncritical acceptance of foreign ownership. Not in our house. Never!

This dark hour will pass.In the meantime, happy Christmas and New Year

[thenodrog]

This dark hour will pass.In the meantime, happy Christmas and New Year

Unfortuntely the darkest hour is usually just before dawn.