Where do I start?
Home lads and I seated ourselves, in surrounds: local "Tigers" supporters with national flags, Adrian Mutu look-a-like, extra-vocal blue clad men. Pre-match atmosphere had all anxious, jitter-bugs come about.. and le lad and I climbed over the fence (me, the experienced, cough) to get shots after the Blues come out. Cech was numero uno to get out, with Carlo and Hilario-- for some side-line runs and in-goal training. Oh God, it was.. fucking magic. Rest of the squad ran out, cue "oohs" and "aahs" and me, again, "Deco! FILF!"-- but no Michael in sight. After the claps toned down-- I grasped the silent moment for a loud "Di Santo! Di Santoooo!" (he was on the bench, opposite us) and he turned and waved back at me. Me, and me. No one but me. Me! God damn, me. Me! Onto the match: started in time-- with three minutes into the game, ball falls on Deco, to Deco's long shot, whams!-- goalkeeper saved a brilliant one. Don't trust the media, but: the local "Tigers" had superb defence, Essien couldn't get past Hadi (or is it..) but clearings reigned rather than low passes. Home hero Zakhuan had his moments-- dribbling past Blues defence but shot wide. Our surrounds were extra, extra stellar: home fans clashing with Blues fans, national flags on Blues scarves.. it was ala Stamford Bridge, minus the Stamford Bridge. Half-time, Mika and I were on climbing the fence-- again-- and had Malouda waved at us because we were so close, and the extra-loud shout.. damn. Radical. No Blue lad gave out their shirts-- except John the skipper(!) to some random cunt (excuse the jealous clad lithe) and there's all that is to it. Cunt Cole scored on the 51st minute-- aha, Cunt Cole!-- and the final minutes had us "Tigers" attacking like there's no tomorrow, but couldn't get it pass Carlo "FILF" Cudicini. Great effort. Voice-- ha, I lost mine in the middle of the game, recuperated for shouts though. Post-match: Michael came out, like sex on legs-- rejoined the squad and the lads got their medals. Best night, hands down-- even better than Incubus night. And I am a cemented avid Blue for life. (Post-note: there were five, six rounds of Mexican wave, and at one point-- Joe Cole, after being substituted, walked around the back of the squad's blue booth and slapped the plastic cover to shock the other lads from the back.. damn hilarious!)
[MUSIC] Basement Jaxx - Intro Reprise
I don't have pictures of the match-- lad friends' got nice Lumix digs, hence I'm waiting for the snaps from them. For inexperienced, 3.2 megapixel shots of the training session: here. I've a video where Ballack lifts up his shirt (aha, scream, women!)-- I'll get that on Youtube soon. Oh God, Di Santo heard me. Waved at me. Please excuse me while I recover.
Warning: hormonal rants.
I can't thank God enough. At the stadium, pre-match-- I was balancing on the bricks, climbing the fence to look over (then again, who wouldn't, hm?). Cech came out. A legend in the making. The shot-stopper, with all the swagger. Hilario, Carlo came out, the latter a FILF in absolution. Aha, the Italian goalkeeper-- total Father I'd Like To Fuck. I thank him for the great seasons under Ranieri; and Hilario, for filling in the Barcelona game(!), didn't look an inch nervous, that lad. Joe Cole followed-- all sexed up, fit (oh God, I wanted to pet those muscles..) and waved at the fans. Le midget Wright-Phillips ran out, the fans cheered-- a nonsense lad screamed next to me: "Malouda!", and I was.. "Dude, that's Wright-Phillips." and he went all flushed. What the fuck, right? Right. Frank Lampard walked out with the pint-sized Deco-- "Frank! Frank" for the others, "Deco! Deco! FILF!" for me. Quite a fine one, that small Portuguese! Malouda ran out in subsequent, then to.. Ash "Cunt" Cole, whom I screamed "Stop cheating on the wife, now!"-- I hope he didn't hear it, ha. Seconds later-- a band of six walked about-- Alex led the pack, with Di Santo (dear God, help me..), Ivanovic, Essien, Mikel, Bridge and Shevchenko (working it, like an Armani model) behind him. Di Santo is as tall as the next man who came out: Michael. Fucking. Ballack. Man of dreams. Man of wet dreams. Damn. He is.. a Godsent kind, brought his "guns" along-- fucking.. orgasmic. Curls, muscles, abs from the Heavens-- I don't have the perfect words. Picturesque? Goddamn picturesque. I shed a tear or two, upon his sight-- this was the man who I can't get enough of, from the '02 World Cup, to Munich, to Chelsea, to '06 World Cup to '08 Euros. Good God, I have a Michael Corner on le desk-- enough said. Lads got to work, training and.. parting their legs (oh God, I'd like to get in there..), running. The first XI took on the second team: Cech as a winger (class, man!), scored two goals-- aha, two-- with Carlo and Hilario on opposing ends. After the lads laid on the field, I screamed me heart out: "Joe Cole!" who was doing sprints for long assists.. and he waved. Lad fucking waved at me. I.. oh Lord, I? What? I forgot the next line. Joe Cole does that to people. Cunt Cole too, waved in me-direction, Di Santo (aha, me again) too, but he waved in random directions. It wasn't as special as Joe Cole's.. damn. Next up, match round-up!
[MUSIC] the Virgins - One Week Of Danger
Training session:
Joe Cole waved at me while he was training and I shouted his name out loud
Ashley Cole waved in my.. direction
Di Santo also waved in my direction
CHELSEA MATCH?
(cue silent moment after the match has started)
"DI SANTOOOOOOO" (cough, me)
"DI SANTO!!!!!" (me again)
he turns back, waves at me, and I
fainted, got up, squealed, shed a little tear (just one)
and waved shamelessly back
DI SANTO WAVED AT ME AND ME ONLY
nobody knew who he was in my surrounds
everybody was like, "who's Di Santo? Di Santo ke Dos Santos (ni lagi bodoh)?
so I was like.. seriously happy
cause he's fit like fuck and he's tall as fuck
fuck material
OK ENOUGH
Malouda also waved at me and Mika
we shouted his name out loud while climbing the fence (yes..)
and Ballack waved in my direction
YAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY
MY LIFE IS COMPLETE
Oh God, obscene..
It's coming, August-- August to me is; a week off workloads, disco dancing (ahem) to revert to, converting into pre-fall threads and continue with put-off fasting debts I owe to God. Twelve, in exact. I ain't used to the Weight Watcher bandwagon: starvation, hunger pangs. It reeks, now, doesn't it? I can't whip out a phone and speed-dial a fast food chain in the evening.. nor can I grasp a whipped cream can from the icebox. Please remind me to isolate sharp objects. Right on. Post afternoon high was.. spent perusing through Yahoo!'s Ask and Answer, multiple tabs lined up-- "How to grow taller.." and "Tips and tricks to add height.." but all ended in despair. And I, with another round of Dr. Feelgood (it's crack to me, so Dr. Feelgood it is.) Genetics aren't forgiving. Bad news is, I can't excel in the height department. Not for another six inches, but I can, though-- with Godsent inventions of mankind. Pure, unadulterated, hooker platforms. Radical. And so-- after the two-hour cruise on the e-World, le lithesome self donned a floral form for a stochastic stroll through the two-winged retailer. A quick recap, for mental storage: (i) an almost shoe purchase-- but seasonal goods shall not be given lavish expense; (ii) Zara's blazer cum vest thingamajig-- what the, sent down from the Heavens(!) and soon, into le closet; (iii) self-pleasure, the clean kind-- in the form of a pancake trio. Revelations as of late: love me some "wet look". Part whore, part masculine.. entangled in its' own continuum of fistfights and cabaret midnights. In rotation are.. the blazer (a demure attempt on Margiela's fall ideas: shoulder pads are kept), sweatshirts, the floral frock-- and that's it. Right on. Oh, tomorrow-- tomorrow is a class of it's own. Yes. God blesses me so, hm? The Blues in training. Two words: Petr Cech. I'd like to kiss those hands of magic, because that Portsmouth save was off the charts. Off the Billboard Top 100 Goalkeeping Saves chart. Yes. That one. What? You've never heard? Fuck off.
[MUSIC] Maximo Park - Postcards Of A Painting
Pure sex clad, non-Mother-approved.. oh, God, I want it so: damn!. Part of August's future conquests: top hat, blunt bangs, dangerous whore-tastic shoes and frameless glasses to emulate an after-midnight librarian. No, it does not involve books. Thanks.
Right on.
God damn it all. Good luck to bad luck, cheap tricks.. weight gain to weight loss (to weight gain again, pssh) and to headaches and the Dr. Pain reign. It sounds and feels like a vortex in a hurricane inside a microwave oven. Aha, fuck chaos. What's up, inflamed child? Dear blogger pulled a cheap trick, gone John Doe, flipped out of the deal and refused phone calls. It's an option, of course-- (i) first-degree manslaughter, but orange jumpsuits favors no lithe; (ii) recover with an amplitude of patience and thoughts about God (though I ain't no saint, I put faith to Up There). But, fret not. Problem is solved, I am going. Because I have extra-amazing friends. Michael is rested for the pre-season friendlies-- so "Drug and Molest" plans are to be put to rest.. unless Joseph John is up for it, but I doubt so. Midnights are on a slow pace. It's the usual rounds of mug of black, reshuffling re-loved mixtapes (read: the Virgins' week) and hitting the icebox. And because I fucking love lists!-- here, here. Future (future as in, when I am not skinned cash-wise) plans to forthcome: (i) to meet up with Mr. Hairdresser at the Curve to tame these wild amount of jet black; (ii) contemplating on a Blues kit, but it's goddamn hideous, isn't it!; (iii) frolic through Telawi for vintage-inspired goods; (iv) to stop making lists and pretend I am an organized person. Ah, testosterone clad rants-- caught the Blues pre-season match against Whats-The-Name-Again Club, from 0-0 to 7-0. A whiff, no less. "He's Just Not That Into You" debuts in October. I can't fucking wait that long? Oh, also-- le art lad doesn't work at night. Damn.
[MUSIC] the Airborne Toxic Event - Sometime At Midnight
Here's a little comedic snapshot of a Blue: Obi. What the-- is this post ice-cream? Damn. And the sole reason of divided attention during Chelsea versus Blackburn: Roque. Stuff of we-- hm? What? Oh, right. We.. ddings.
God's plans, euphoric I..
I don't like idiots. But recent results and hours of exhaustive research concludes that I might just be.. borderline idiot. Damn. I've secured a couple of the best grade-- two of the lowest (no fails though, after seductive "please.." and sunshine clad smiles) through Newton's subject and.. uh, a historical favorite. How did I.. I don't know. But, extra slaps of merriness: retaining best English marks, and uh, Civics. I can't think of a person who uses the word "cunt" or "fuck, what?" shamelessly frequent as I do, but hey! Cutting down attempts are ongoing, still. Romped through the Curve on Monday night-- sent a floral blouse to the little magic workshop for the machine wash rip. It goes like this-- I was.. test-driving the new floral frock from the weekend, I ain't got underpants left (Knicker Bucket failed on me, sad face inclusive)-- I didn't go commando, but with boxer shorts. Le pervert was staring at these stems, over-exposed to the Heavens. What a twat. Pedophile. Interact's Installation event is on the 10th of August; gifted self a partly sexy, partly lurid black feather mask. Forthcoming: (i) weekend frolic through Telawi, for stochastic finds, staircases and avocado sandwiches(!); (ii) the Blues training session tickets, credits to a blogger who couldn't make it-- you don't know what this means to me; (iii) dance floor music, and I'm in charge-- expect Basement Jaxx, intervals from "Graduation" (secret lover, please..) and rapid discos from.. God damn, I've missed Daft Punk. Ah, right. Got to get on with workload. Soccer updates: Ferguson labeled the Blues, "too old to compete for titles"-- whilst I decline bomb productions.. this, coming from the King of Scumbags-- please. If the Blues are a pack of old citizens-- then, good Lord, it's the best goddamn bunch now, isn't it? Porkface.
[MUSIC] Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Is This Love
Ah, here it goes.
In about a week, I-- I'll get to glass the Blues first eleven line-up. An honor, an unscripted kind of gush, pangs.. all that euphoria clad jazz. Reminiscing the great games (cue: Tottenham 4-4, Champions League semis with Liverpool 3-2, and else) and the ones where luck skipped us: the Champions League final. Cruel, cruel slip.. the Carling Cup final-- Woodgate's header braised with luck. Remember that, lads? But in the end, in true honest self.. the Blues looked the dexterous part, roaring with glorious games and getting out of that Jose curse, into a (sad) runner-up place in the Premier League. It's no first place, but the Blues did battle it out until the last game, now! We've gone far enough into the Champions League, a first final and I hope not the last. Next season, we're on to some great things. Scolari is known for an attacking fetish, and with Portuguese signings Deco (perhaps, past his prime age, but he's still capable of runs and stellar assists) and right-back unibrow lad Bosingwa (fast-paced, useful down the right plank to give assists into the box)-- we're off to a nice start there, aren't we? Our defensive line-up are one of the best, with John and Carvalho (the best in Premier League, claimed Torres..) and Bosingwa with Cole on opposing sides. I'd love to see what Deco can do.. though after countless Barca games I've caught, I know he can do a lot. Partnership I love? Essien and Ballack. Tall lads, Essien's good at dribbling; and we know how Ballack is superior with long range passes, nor short. Strikers? If Didier doesn't leave, then we'll have an answer. And if Scolari's plans for Shevchenko work, we'll have two answers. If we could sell Anelka, we'll have three. I kid, I kid. There. I can't wait, and I can't sleep either. Truckloads of love to the Blues!
[MUSIC] the Fratellis - Chelsea Dagger
The Blues season 07/08 round-up: here. And constant mixed feelings for the Kaka rumor-- but he's not for sale, no? Blues needs a striker though. A reliable one who doesn't spend half of the time on the greens. Get me? I kid, Didier. I kid.
God damn, God damn..
Caffeine abuse. And I'm facing an obese desktop computer, extra white, extra blinding-- and I'm in an orange visor. And reshuffling rap hits circa the 90's. How am I? I feel goddamn ridiculous. And goddamn fine at that. Left for the retail haven in the afternoon.. after chaotic time-challenged affairs with Birdie and V-- and the two lads. And, fuck public commutes. In brown plaid, I scampered to Rock Corner to withdraw five (five!) hundred for five tickets. I was a merry wreck-- but I replaced off-key screams with mute shivers to express the awaited euphoria pang. And left a London retailer with a floral-inclusive frock, up from 296MYR to 88MYR. Because the lass worked up the cashier wrong and I.. flirted with guilt but it wasn't me.. but I ain't no saint and I left. Wrong things. Kids, don't do this. On the film-- it wasn't good, wasn't bad either.. more of a "fucking fantastic" for a reel with a spandex clad man with ridiculous man-made bat wings. I couldn't get enough of the Joker. All that haggard vigour is a one-off wonder. Please, do, catch it-- before it's gone. Because I'm no fan of mainstream movies, let alone one with ample amount of tight suits. But for Christian Bale, I'll let this spandex snub slid off for once. Ah ha, that's about it. The Dark Knight, the Blues tickets, a floral good-- I am in a good place. And I'm anxious to meet Dr. Feelgood in the icebox for a casual post midnight weight gain. Off to the kitchen!
[MUSIC] the Apples in Stereo - Same Old Drag
Hold it-- the stuff of wet dreams, Kaka, wants to skip off to the Bridge? The-- Stamford.. Bridge? Hah? Here's something for satanic cackles: (i) Darth Vader announcement: lame; (ii) David Pleat's mis-pronunciation thread: read me.
