Henry Winter

Martin Samuel is a fat, hairy piece of shit but will probably work for a daily plate of pie and chips and 50 quid a week, just to keep his name in print. So only one winner there really.

We're in the death throes of all this stuff now though. I can't imagine anyone under the age of thirty cares what these dinosaurs say anymore.

Samuel is on 500k per year mate!
 
400k. (These figures come from Private Eye).

Only reason I think they are letting him go is they decided that one highly paid sports guy was enough.
Probably - also noticeable how they are now expected to work across so many different platforms - The times, Sunday Times, Talksport plus online stuff
 
Dear Neymar,

We visitors to your country feel like we’re intruding on private grief. Brazil seems in mourning after your cruelly timed, cynically inflicted injury, the damage wrought on the Selecao by Germany, and the harm to your proud footballing nation’s self-esteem. To compound your misery, Argentines now swarm through Rio towards Maracana, chanting “in your house, in your face”.

Any attempt at consoling words from a neutral observer can bring little comfort at a time of such sorrow but please consider this. The sheer depth of the hurt felt by the Brazilian people at events in this World Cup tournament show why you belong to a truly great sporting nation. The sun does not always shine, even for those who have won five World Cups. Sometimes it is when the heavens weep and the tears flow that the size of a country’s love for the sport is revealed.

One English supporter present in the Rio fans fest during the semi-final compared the reaction to the humiliation beamed in from Belo Horizonte as akin “to the scene in Avatar where they all scream at the destruction of Home Tree”.

It was closely heard in Estadio Mineirao itself as fans spotted Careca sitting in the stand and beseeched him to come on. Careca’s 53 but most present would still have him in ahead of Fred. And Jo? “Did he really play for Manchester City?” one aghast Brazilian asked me. “He’s even worse than Fred.”

Howls of anguish roll across your mighty land ever since Tuesday. Those sounds shout of your stature as a passionate football nation. Many times, we have seen Brazil’s distinction in victory. Football fans across the globe, though probably not Italy, cherish the image from the 1970 Azteca final of the ball being ushered from Tostao to Brito and on to Clodoaldo, Pele and Gerson before it again reaches the shimmying Clodoaldo – what skill! those poor Italians! – and then on to Rivelino and out wide to Jairzinho. On it goes, in to Pele and on to Carlos Alberto, who arrives from the right of our screen and joyously thumps your fourth into the Italian net.

More recently, we remember the cradling celebration of Bebeto, the joy when Ronaldo beat Oliver Kahn. We also wonder how on earth that Eighties team of Socrates, Zico and Falcao, their wondrous gifts captured in a film shown in Rio on Saturday, never won a World Cup. Sometimes the sun goes behind a cloud.

But the obsession remains. Your supporters are not fair-weather. The outpouring of emotion after Belo Horizonte, the reddening eyes and the rage of the people signal even more strongly how seriously you take your football. Your desolation is so real we can almost touch it.

Football’s power here is everywhere. It is heard in your mascots singing their little lungs out during your national anthem. It is seen on the crossing outside the Maracana where children count the painted footballs on the stripes. That love imbues the kids queuing to get into the fans fests at 7am when the game doesn’t kick off until 5pm. It is the Rio teenager in your No  10 shirt walking through the Babylonia favela on Friday night with his hair razored to resemble the pattern of a ball. It is the football practice on the beach as dawn breaks over Copacabana and the games as dusk falls. It is 24/7.

Football is on everyone’s tongue, in everyone’s life. It is in the large, gutter-to-gutter paintings of the World Cup trophy on streets, in the sight of three policemen abandoning their beat on the beach to sit at a table in a Rio fish restaurant to watch the match. Unable to resist the siren call of a whistle. It is experienced in an out-of-the-way samba club on Friday when Brazilians walked up to this reporter, wishing me luck against Argentina, thinking I was “Alemanha”. But what about wonderful Lionel Messi? Some universally recognisable thumb and hand gestures confirmed their respect for Messi but enmity towards Argentina.
It is the speeding taxi driver with one eye on his dashboard television showing a game. It is on the flight from Sao Paulo to Rio after the second semi-final where the passenger in the next seat replies yes she loves football (stupid question really). She used to play for Brazil, winning a silver medal at the 2008 Olympics. Neymar, even your domestic airline carrier is called Gol.

Please understand that respect for your football-fixated society heightened in Belo Horizonte. The looks on André Schürrle’s face after he scored his second said it all; there was confusion, followed by delight and honour as the German substituterealised he was being applauded by those he’d just condemned to further indignity. Though their eyes were filled with tears and their hearts heavy, your compatriots could see and appreciate and acknowledge supreme quality. Just as they admire yours. And now you experience the mourning after the nightmare before.

People lash out. Your coach, Luiz Felipe Scolari, is blamed. He promised Brazil a sixth World Cup. Players’ motivation are questioned, though not yours. A scarier response would have been indifference but people are in pain. They care.

They lambast your CBF about the lack of technical talent coming through to match yours. More broadly, they rail at your politicians. World Cups can hide a multitude of blemishes. A nation puts on its glad-rags, smiles for the cameras, works overtime to keep the planes and buses moving and crosses its fingers for a month. Tournaments are a summer romance, a few weeks of fleeting thrills, rarely sustained. Like Brazil’s passion for the Selecao, problems run deep.
At the Manaus fans fest when you were skewering Croatia, the television director unwisely flashed up a picture of Dilma Rousseff. The park dissolved into derision. The man on my left almost let go of his beer as he vented his ire. The couple on my right stopped feeding their baby (in full Brazil kit) to vilify the president. There’s so much understandable unrest at the crowded, delayed, overpriced transport “network” and at the inadequacies in the health and education systems. One road back from Copacabana beach there are people lying on the pavement, curled up in doorways, a plastic sheet covering them. More parochially, Brazilian club football has manifold issues, from finances to attendances.

Neymar, your country is flawed and crazy. But the memory that many of us sadly boarding planes home after Sunday will take with us is what a special place Brazil is. Venturing any generalisation about such a diverse, huge nation is difficult, and naive, but a few common traits can be surmised, namely about the humanity and friendliness of your people and the addiction to football, the highs and low.

We English invented and codified football, Neymar, but you Brazilians reinvented it with that 1970 team and reminded everyone this summer of how football dominates lives. So harness all this emotion rolling through your country, rebuild the team, and go again in glorious pursuit of the World Cup. Good luck.
 
Dear Neymar,

We visitors to your country feel like we’re intruding on private grief. Brazil seems in mourning after your cruelly timed, cynically inflicted injury, the damage wrought on the Selecao by Germany, and the harm to your proud footballing nation’s self-esteem. To compound your misery, Argentines now swarm through Rio towards Maracana, chanting “in your house, in your face”.

Any attempt at consoling words from a neutral observer can bring little comfort at a time of such sorrow but please consider this. The sheer depth of the hurt felt by the Brazilian people at events in this World Cup tournament show why you belong to a truly great sporting nation. The sun does not always shine, even for those who have won five World Cups. Sometimes it is when the heavens weep and the tears flow that the size of a country’s love for the sport is revealed.

One English supporter present in the Rio fans fest during the semi-final compared the reaction to the humiliation beamed in from Belo Horizonte as akin “to the scene in Avatar where they all scream at the destruction of Home Tree”.

It was closely heard in Estadio Mineirao itself as fans spotted Careca sitting in the stand and beseeched him to come on. Careca’s 53 but most present would still have him in ahead of Fred. And Jo? “Did he really play for Manchester City?” one aghast Brazilian asked me. “He’s even worse than Fred.”

Howls of anguish roll across your mighty land ever since Tuesday. Those sounds shout of your stature as a passionate football nation. Many times, we have seen Brazil’s distinction in victory. Football fans across the globe, though probably not Italy, cherish the image from the 1970 Azteca final of the ball being ushered from Tostao to Brito and on to Clodoaldo, Pele and Gerson before it again reaches the shimmying Clodoaldo – what skill! those poor Italians! – and then on to Rivelino and out wide to Jairzinho. On it goes, in to Pele and on to Carlos Alberto, who arrives from the right of our screen and joyously thumps your fourth into the Italian net.

More recently, we remember the cradling celebration of Bebeto, the joy when Ronaldo beat Oliver Kahn. We also wonder how on earth that Eighties team of Socrates, Zico and Falcao, their wondrous gifts captured in a film shown in Rio on Saturday, never won a World Cup. Sometimes the sun goes behind a cloud.

But the obsession remains. Your supporters are not fair-weather. The outpouring of emotion after Belo Horizonte, the reddening eyes and the rage of the people signal even more strongly how seriously you take your football. Your desolation is so real we can almost touch it.

Football’s power here is everywhere. It is heard in your mascots singing their little lungs out during your national anthem. It is seen on the crossing outside the Maracana where children count the painted footballs on the stripes. That love imbues the kids queuing to get into the fans fests at 7am when the game doesn’t kick off until 5pm. It is the Rio teenager in your No  10 shirt walking through the Babylonia favela on Friday night with his hair razored to resemble the pattern of a ball. It is the football practice on the beach as dawn breaks over Copacabana and the games as dusk falls. It is 24/7.

Football is on everyone’s tongue, in everyone’s life. It is in the large, gutter-to-gutter paintings of the World Cup trophy on streets, in the sight of three policemen abandoning their beat on the beach to sit at a table in a Rio fish restaurant to watch the match. Unable to resist the siren call of a whistle. It is experienced in an out-of-the-way samba club on Friday when Brazilians walked up to this reporter, wishing me luck against Argentina, thinking I was “Alemanha”. But what about wonderful Lionel Messi? Some universally recognisable thumb and hand gestures confirmed their respect for Messi but enmity towards Argentina.
It is the speeding taxi driver with one eye on his dashboard television showing a game. It is on the flight from Sao Paulo to Rio after the second semi-final where the passenger in the next seat replies yes she loves football (stupid question really). She used to play for Brazil, winning a silver medal at the 2008 Olympics. Neymar, even your domestic airline carrier is called Gol.

Please understand that respect for your football-fixated society heightened in Belo Horizonte. The looks on André Schürrle’s face after he scored his second said it all; there was confusion, followed by delight and honour as the German substituterealised he was being applauded by those he’d just condemned to further indignity. Though their eyes were filled with tears and their hearts heavy, your compatriots could see and appreciate and acknowledge supreme quality. Just as they admire yours. And now you experience the mourning after the nightmare before.

People lash out. Your coach, Luiz Felipe Scolari, is blamed. He promised Brazil a sixth World Cup. Players’ motivation are questioned, though not yours. A scarier response would have been indifference but people are in pain. They care.

They lambast your CBF about the lack of technical talent coming through to match yours. More broadly, they rail at your politicians. World Cups can hide a multitude of blemishes. A nation puts on its glad-rags, smiles for the cameras, works overtime to keep the planes and buses moving and crosses its fingers for a month. Tournaments are a summer romance, a few weeks of fleeting thrills, rarely sustained. Like Brazil’s passion for the Selecao, problems run deep.
At the Manaus fans fest when you were skewering Croatia, the television director unwisely flashed up a picture of Dilma Rousseff. The park dissolved into derision. The man on my left almost let go of his beer as he vented his ire. The couple on my right stopped feeding their baby (in full Brazil kit) to vilify the president. There’s so much understandable unrest at the crowded, delayed, overpriced transport “network” and at the inadequacies in the health and education systems. One road back from Copacabana beach there are people lying on the pavement, curled up in doorways, a plastic sheet covering them. More parochially, Brazilian club football has manifold issues, from finances to attendances.

Neymar, your country is flawed and crazy. But the memory that many of us sadly boarding planes home after Sunday will take with us is what a special place Brazil is. Venturing any generalisation about such a diverse, huge nation is difficult, and naive, but a few common traits can be surmised, namely about the humanity and friendliness of your people and the addiction to football, the highs and low.

We English invented and codified football, Neymar, but you Brazilians reinvented it with that 1970 team and reminded everyone this summer of how football dominates lives. So harness all this emotion rolling through your country, rebuild the team, and go again in glorious pursuit of the World Cup. Good luck.

My favourite Winter nonsense was when he was having a Twitter meltdown pre 2010 World Cup because Capello wouldn't entertain picking a washed up Michael Owen after a season where he scored 3 league goals and Henry had spent a year campaigning for him along the lines of "Poor Owen...didn't score but impressed with runs" every week.

Tweet after tweet after tweet along the lines of

"Just watching highlights of ENGBRA in 2002. Owen so sharp. Can Capello afford not to take him ?"

"Watching Michael Owen's goals when he burst onto the scene. No celebrations. Just business. All goals"

"With Heskey in squad, would be v. foolish not to select Owen. Still his favourite strike partner after all these years"

"With respect to Defoe and Crouch, no one strikes fear into defences like Michael Owen. Germany 2001. Brazil 2002. Argentina 2005. Ask them"
 
Dear Neymar,

We visitors to your country feel like we’re intruding on private grief. Brazil seems in mourning after your cruelly timed, cynically inflicted injury, the damage wrought on the Selecao by Germany, and the harm to your proud footballing nation’s self-esteem. To compound your misery, Argentines now swarm through Rio towards Maracana, chanting “in your house, in your face”.

Any attempt at consoling words from a neutral observer can bring little comfort at a time of such sorrow but please consider this. The sheer depth of the hurt felt by the Brazilian people at events in this World Cup tournament show why you belong to a truly great sporting nation. The sun does not always shine, even for those who have won five World Cups. Sometimes it is when the heavens weep and the tears flow that the size of a country’s love for the sport is revealed.

One English supporter present in the Rio fans fest during the semi-final compared the reaction to the humiliation beamed in from Belo Horizonte as akin “to the scene in Avatar where they all scream at the destruction of Home Tree”.

It was closely heard in Estadio Mineirao itself as fans spotted Careca sitting in the stand and beseeched him to come on. Careca’s 53 but most present would still have him in ahead of Fred. And Jo? “Did he really play for Manchester City?” one aghast Brazilian asked me. “He’s even worse than Fred.”

Howls of anguish roll across your mighty land ever since Tuesday. Those sounds shout of your stature as a passionate football nation. Many times, we have seen Brazil’s distinction in victory. Football fans across the globe, though probably not Italy, cherish the image from the 1970 Azteca final of the ball being ushered from Tostao to Brito and on to Clodoaldo, Pele and Gerson before it again reaches the shimmying Clodoaldo – what skill! those poor Italians! – and then on to Rivelino and out wide to Jairzinho. On it goes, in to Pele and on to Carlos Alberto, who arrives from the right of our screen and joyously thumps your fourth into the Italian net.

More recently, we remember the cradling celebration of Bebeto, the joy when Ronaldo beat Oliver Kahn. We also wonder how on earth that Eighties team of Socrates, Zico and Falcao, their wondrous gifts captured in a film shown in Rio on Saturday, never won a World Cup. Sometimes the sun goes behind a cloud.

But the obsession remains. Your supporters are not fair-weather. The outpouring of emotion after Belo Horizonte, the reddening eyes and the rage of the people signal even more strongly how seriously you take your football. Your desolation is so real we can almost touch it.

Football’s power here is everywhere. It is heard in your mascots singing their little lungs out during your national anthem. It is seen on the crossing outside the Maracana where children count the painted footballs on the stripes. That love imbues the kids queuing to get into the fans fests at 7am when the game doesn’t kick off until 5pm. It is the Rio teenager in your No  10 shirt walking through the Babylonia favela on Friday night with his hair razored to resemble the pattern of a ball. It is the football practice on the beach as dawn breaks over Copacabana and the games as dusk falls. It is 24/7.

Football is on everyone’s tongue, in everyone’s life. It is in the large, gutter-to-gutter paintings of the World Cup trophy on streets, in the sight of three policemen abandoning their beat on the beach to sit at a table in a Rio fish restaurant to watch the match. Unable to resist the siren call of a whistle. It is experienced in an out-of-the-way samba club on Friday when Brazilians walked up to this reporter, wishing me luck against Argentina, thinking I was “Alemanha”. But what about wonderful Lionel Messi? Some universally recognisable thumb and hand gestures confirmed their respect for Messi but enmity towards Argentina.
It is the speeding taxi driver with one eye on his dashboard television showing a game. It is on the flight from Sao Paulo to Rio after the second semi-final where the passenger in the next seat replies yes she loves football (stupid question really). She used to play for Brazil, winning a silver medal at the 2008 Olympics. Neymar, even your domestic airline carrier is called Gol.

Please understand that respect for your football-fixated society heightened in Belo Horizonte. The looks on André Schürrle’s face after he scored his second said it all; there was confusion, followed by delight and honour as the German substituterealised he was being applauded by those he’d just condemned to further indignity. Though their eyes were filled with tears and their hearts heavy, your compatriots could see and appreciate and acknowledge supreme quality. Just as they admire yours. And now you experience the mourning after the nightmare before.

People lash out. Your coach, Luiz Felipe Scolari, is blamed. He promised Brazil a sixth World Cup. Players’ motivation are questioned, though not yours. A scarier response would have been indifference but people are in pain. They care.

They lambast your CBF about the lack of technical talent coming through to match yours. More broadly, they rail at your politicians. World Cups can hide a multitude of blemishes. A nation puts on its glad-rags, smiles for the cameras, works overtime to keep the planes and buses moving and crosses its fingers for a month. Tournaments are a summer romance, a few weeks of fleeting thrills, rarely sustained. Like Brazil’s passion for the Selecao, problems run deep.
At the Manaus fans fest when you were skewering Croatia, the television director unwisely flashed up a picture of Dilma Rousseff. The park dissolved into derision. The man on my left almost let go of his beer as he vented his ire. The couple on my right stopped feeding their baby (in full Brazil kit) to vilify the president. There’s so much understandable unrest at the crowded, delayed, overpriced transport “network” and at the inadequacies in the health and education systems. One road back from Copacabana beach there are people lying on the pavement, curled up in doorways, a plastic sheet covering them. More parochially, Brazilian club football has manifold issues, from finances to attendances.

Neymar, your country is flawed and crazy. But the memory that many of us sadly boarding planes home after Sunday will take with us is what a special place Brazil is. Venturing any generalisation about such a diverse, huge nation is difficult, and naive, but a few common traits can be surmised, namely about the humanity and friendliness of your people and the addiction to football, the highs and low.

We English invented and codified football, Neymar, but you Brazilians reinvented it with that 1970 team and reminded everyone this summer of how football dominates lives. So harness all this emotion rolling through your country, rebuild the team, and go again in glorious pursuit of the World Cup. Good luck.

Gutting myself at this. What a fanny
 
My favourite Winter nonsense was when he was having a Twitter meltdown pre 2010 World Cup because Capello wouldn't entertain picking a washed up Michael Owen after a season where he scored 3 league goals and Henry had spent a year campaigning for him along the lines of "Poor Owen...didn't score but impressed with runs" every week.

Tweet after tweet after tweet along the lines of

"Just watching highlights of ENGBRA in 2002. Owen so sharp. Can Capello afford not to take him ?"

"Watching Michael Owen's goals when he burst onto the scene. No celebrations. Just business. All goals"

"With Heskey in squad, would be v. foolish not to select Owen. Still his favourite strike partner after all these years"

"With respect to Defoe and Crouch, no one strikes fear into defences like Michael Owen. Germany 2001. Brazil 2002. Argentina 2005. Ask them"

I'm not sure if those quotes are legit or fictionalised, but if the latter, some of your finest work yet :D
 
I'm not sure if those quotes are legit or fictionalised, but if the latter, some of your finest work yet :D

We will always have Paris and Casablanca. And Lisbon and Geneva, Tallinn and Charleroi. And, unforgettably, St Etienne, Munich and Shizuoka. Those who seek to chart Owen's formidable achievements for his country must equip themselves with an atlas as well as an abacus.

In amassing 40 goals, Owen set an England record by scoring in four consecutive tournaments, even striking in four separate continents, finding the mark in places as contrasting as New York and Tirana, Baku and Niigata.

Back from his travels, Owen delighted England supporters at home, scoring at Anfield, St James' Park, the Riverside, Portman Road, Old Trafford and at Wembley (Twin Towers and Single Arch).
But it is over. Owen's dream of finishing his career on a high, of gracing a fourth World Cup, has been ended by his oldest enemy, a shredded hamstring.

The one opponent this tough competitor could never defeat, a vulnerability to injury, has terminated his season and his hopes of a final hurrah with England.

How cruel that the injury should be sustained at England's HQ. Events at Wembley in last Sunday's Carling Cup final encapsulated Owen's career: a nerveless strike on a big occasion followed by the frustration of injury.

One of those watching on, Fabio Capello, a man not given to sentiment, has always been dismissive about his "tormentor'', ignoring Owen's reputation for scoring in major games.

As many England fans were quick to point out on their private message-boards, Owen should have been under consideration for South Africa simply as an impact sub, as a late rescue act who needed only a couple of touches to hurt opponents.

An injury to Jermain Defoe, a similar type of striker to Owen, would surely have prompted a rethink by Capello. Not now. The door to the England dressing room really is closed on Owen. He hass limped into the treatment room at Carrington and will not reappear until after the World Cup. It is over.

What a shame. Apart from Wayne Rooney and Defoe, there is no better English finisher around. Even this season, when people have sought to belittle a forward who stands behind only Sir Bobby Charlton, Gary Lineker and Jimmy Greaves among England's all-time scoring greats, Owen still showed his enduring class.

There was the masterful way he engineered his chance against Manchester City or, last weekend, the clinical strike against Aston Villa at Wembley. Treasure was found in European fields.

After Cristiano Ronaldo on six, guess who is the leading scorer in the Champions League this season? Yes. Michael Owen. His four goals have come in only 267 minutes, a remarkable return.

Those who deride the hat-trick against Wolfsburg as a 'dead rubber'', coming when Manchester United had qualified, ignore the reality that the Germans were fighting for their lives.

As the City game showed, Wembley confirmed and Europe highlighted, Owen scores at crunch moments. But his game has always been about more than goals.

Glenn Hoddle's 1998 comment that "I'm not sure whether he is a natural goalscorer'' stirred huge controversy. The point that Hoddle was trying to make – in that 'English as a foreign language' way of his – was that there was more to Owen's game than simply putting the ball in the back of the net.

Even as a teenager, Owen was a more rounded footballer than perceived, a point Hoddle stressed when phoning the player to clarify his remarks. "You create chances for others,'' the then England coach said in an exchange reported in Owen's autobiography Off The Record. "To me, a natural finisher is someone who stands in the box and waits for the ball. But you can link play.''

Hoddle had long been an admirer of Owen, even making a special trip up the A11 to Carrow Road on a cold December night in 1997 to watch Owen partner Heskey against Greece Under-21s. The pair were unstoppable.

Afterwards, I telephoned Hoddle, as part of a pool agreement, and he was effusive in his praise.

When Hoddle announced his next full squad, Owen's name was there and he duly became England's youngest international of the 20th century against Chile. The rest is history.
Or hysteria if you were an Argentina defender at France '98. Many of the England fans now lamenting Owen's cruelly-timed incapacitation were in St Etienne when he scored against Argentina.

They loved the way he took David Beckham's slightly high pass into his stride with the outside of his foot and then embarked on that odyssey through Argentina's defence. Roberto Ayala backed off, crazily. Jose Chamot could not react in time. Carlos Roa was beaten by a shot back across him.

Each of these was a respected international performer. Each was embarrassed by an 18 year-old. Inevitably, the anger surrounding Beckham's dismissal and the heartache of penalties fuelled an emotional retreat from St Etienne. But there was also hope for England's future granted by the blur of a white shirt speeding through blue-and-white-striped ones.

That goal was special but what also impressed those present was the way Owen responded to Hoddle's tactical instructions when Beckham departed.

Reacting with powerful lungs and brains, Owen and Alan Shearer shuttled between midfield and attack, ensuring England never looked depleted. In the shoot-out, Owen followed Shearer's advice to "do what you always do, and stick it in the ------- net''.

England fans will never forget that night, nor the one in Munich in September, 2001. Whether from Nicky Barmby's cushioned header to Heskey's knock-down or Steven Gerrard's cool pass, Owen's response was devastating.

Germany's humbled keeper, Oliver Kahn, almost required counselling afterwards. :D :D :D

This ability to vanquish good opponents ensures that the name of Michael Owen will always be cherished by England fans.

They were in Shizuoka in 2002 when he spooked Lucio. Brazil's accomplished centre-half became so scared by Owen's proximity that he took an eye off Heskey's over-hit pass.

The ball bounced off Lucio and Owen was away, gliding through and dinking it expertly over Marcos. Until Ronaldinho turned the game on its head, England seemed to have the world at their feet. Thanks to Owen. It is over – but the memories never will be.
OWEN HIGHS...
ST-ETIENNE, 1998
Owen flashes past Jose Antonio Chamot, Nelson Vivas and Roberto Ayala before beating Carlos Roa to put England ahead against Argentina and announce his gifts to the world.
MUNICH, 2001 The Liverpool striker scores a hat-trick as Sven-Goran Eriksson’s side rout Germany 5-1 in a World Cup qualifier, a result widely regarded as the national side’s best of the decade.
ANFIELD, 2002 Owen captains his country for the first time at his club’s home, scoring as England warm up for Korea and Japan with a 4-0 win over Paraguay.
AND LOWS...
SHIZUOKA, 2002
Owen puts England ahead in the World Cup quarter-final against Brazil before seeing goals from Rivaldo and Ronaldinho eliminate Eriksson’s team, despite the latter’s dismissal.
COLOGNE, 2006 After starting against both Trinidad and Tobago and Paraguay in the opening two games of the tournament, Owen tears his cruciate knee ligament after just 51 seconds of England’s final group game.
PARIS, 2008 Owen’s last game in an England shirt and his only appearance under Fabio Capello comes as a second-half substitute in a 1-0 friendly defeat to France.



 
Who let Leo Tolstoy in?

If I didn't constantly make a Roger Hunt of posting gifs, the Peter Griffin truffle shuffle would be front and centre. :cool:
 
Yet fannies like Stewart and Sutton are actively encouraged and welcomed with open arms to spout their inflammatory negative pish.
World's completely fcukced.
The dumbing down of society occurring in all areas

Everything has a reality tv / tabloid journalism gossip column approach

For some reason companies think only making content to be consumed by morons is what the majority want
 
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As annoying as the sanctimonious pricks were on Sunday Supplement, chugging each other off under that breakfast table, in hindsight they were a damn sight better than the random YouTubers, bloggers and ‘fantasy football experts’ from every demographic you can think of that we are being served up these days.
 
Martin Samuel is a fat, hairy piece of shit but will probably work for a daily plate of pie and chips and 50 quid a week, just to keep his name in print. So only one winner there really.

We're in the death throes of all this stuff now though. I can't imagine anyone under the age of thirty cares what these dinosaurs say anymore.
Can’t fucking stand him. Fat, skid-marked mess with Playmobil hair and that saliva-addled, rubbery-lipped, wobbly-jowled estuary drawl. Gives me the boaks. No idea if he writes or talks any sense as I can’t read or listen to him.
 
As annoying as the sanctimonious pricks were on Sunday Supplement, chugging each other off under that breakfast table, in hindsight they were a damn sight better than the random YouTubers, bloggers and ‘fantasy football experts’ from every demographic you can think of that we are being served up these days.
With the YouTubers, bloggers and podcasters, there are plenty of options out there to listen to and you can pick and choose who gets your attention. They only get the views if their content is good and people want to tune in.

While Winter is at least many steps above the likes of Keith Jackson and the shit we're served up here, these guys are paid regardless of the sanctimonious pish they often come out with.

I'll rather listen to the podcasters and YouTubers over them any day.
 
Sky have definitely struggled to find the right balance on their football coverage I find.

They lurched from ivory tower pricks like Winter and Samuel, to this current bizarre model of YouTubers and idiots with nicknames. Coupled with the likes of Neville and Carragher getting more high pitched and hysterical every week, its clear they are going after the 'clicks' and TikTok views.

TNT/BT have/had a good formula with Richardson, Honnigstein, Horncastle etc, especially on their goal shows, but for every good one they balance it out with a prick like McManaman.
 
Almost forgot this one. You just know Henry typed that first paragraph, sat back smugly in his chair, cocked an imaginary finger gun at the screen and pulled the trigger.

When John Ruddy stepped through his front door after a round of golf on Tuesday, his daughter rushed up and presented him with some cakes. The cakes were wooden ones, from her toy cooking set, but they meant so much to Ruddy. His family’s embrace mattered even more as the England keeper dealt with the heartache of being told by Roy Hodgson that he was not going to the World Cup.

 
Almost forgot this one. You just know Henry typed that first paragraph, sat back smugly in his chair, cocked an imaginary finger gun at the screen and pulled the trigger.

When John Ruddy stepped through his front door after a round of golf on Tuesday, his daughter rushed up and presented him with some cakes. The cakes were wooden ones, from her toy cooking set, but they meant so much to Ruddy. His family’s embrace mattered even more as the England keeper dealt with the heartache of being told by Roy Hodgson that he was not going to the World Cup.


One of many who was butthurt at Hodgson getting the gig over 'Arry.
 
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