Warning.
Post contains raging testosterones. I am not entrenched in confidence for tomorrow's big clash-- the Gunners vs. the Blues at our home turf. The Bridge. Once a fortress, perhaps still a fortress no less-- but, goddamnit, I ain't so sure. The Blues' defensive line-up: A. Cole, Bosingwa, John, Alex/Ivanovic. As I've gloated about-- our defence is somewhat of a brick wall, a titanium-coated brick wall with Ricardo (but he is out, damn). In case defenders fail, The Great Petr Cech should extricate a save. Cech goes forward, John goes backwards. You noticed? Good, good. I can't find flaws from Bosingwa/A. Cole at the moment-- apart from the unibrow, the cheating (aha, let's get serious); but Bos needs to work on his long balls. Sometimes it's so out there, it takes me into a weird place.. where I laugh loud. Ah-ha. Midfield. Delectable, dexterous midfield. Lampard, Deco, Ballack, Malouda in front of Mikel (be it 4-1-4-1) or introduce Kalou into the game post-interval into a 4-4-2 to support Le Sulk. I have a problem with the 'lone striker' issue. Anelka isn't doing it for me. Arsenal (no bad words, I love good football-- but not Gallas) has Ade, Carlos Vela(!) and Van Persie who scores stunners from a distance and well, if we have an Amr Zaki backflip goal, we're dead, si? But I foresee trouble in the midfield with Denilson and Song (if the lads are on, I don't see options else) covering our experienced men. Gallas and Silvestre are two fat cunts. But it'll be tough. It will be. Fingers crossed for another fine afternoon for "What's that coming over the hill, is it Anelka? Is it Anelka?". Bolton fans know what I'm talking 'bout. Goodnight.
[MUSIC] Sufjan Stevens - To Be Alone With You
And, God? As much as I hate the dribbling wunderkind thumb-sucking child Robinho.. I'll want him to score at least two and Stephen Ireland to net one (he's on his best form, it's heartwarming to see!). And for Ronaldo to break a leg. In literal meaning.
Bad. And broke.
Goddamnit. I am tempted to resort into interim prostitution (I kid, I kid) for alleged impromptu shoe expenditures. I am sent down from Up Above to indulge in lavish kicks. Am I right, God? Yes. God agrees. At the moment-- I am a proud parent of double-strapped patent flats from Topshop (or faux Chloes, as I'd like it), noir lace-ups from Zara, fringed boots from Lacquer & Lace, bronze gladiators from the London retailer, mid-calf brown gladiators, a forsaken row of flip-flops and abandoned trainers. Please do not scoff at the small amount. Oh, and-- soon, faux Diors and the Reebok Freestyles. I am an unsatisfied lithe. On the 27th: gadded in a hemmed maroon vintage find (as I love thigh-grazing threads) with the lass to embark on a lifetime quest: an Herve Leger knock-off. Score. Banded noir and thigh-skimming. Scampered home before four in the evening-- le filles' (Birdie, V) freedom celebration and a Twilight film to catch.. but I, sleep-deprived and part wasted (from caffeine), skipped. Damn. Robert Pattinson is one fine lad. Champions League action to blame. Quintessential dose of testosterone rants: (i) the Blues vs. the Gunners-- I am drawing faith for the lads to put on a dexterous show ala vs. Middlesbrough or vs. Portsmouth earlier in the season; because the Gunners up their game with the big guns and us.. we ain't netting in enough wins either. Please unleash a darker side, Le Sulk.; (ii) after the Pompeii vs. Milan game last night (ugh, stellar free kick from Ronaldinho)-- I tuned in to Chelsea vs. Newcastle repeat post-interval. What the fuck. We ain't garbage. Fucking kick-arse counter-attacks and inexplicable-kind-of-good forward runs, crosses.. agh. Frustrating.; (iii) a non-wigged Stephen Ireland is warming up to me. Best form since.. ever? Oh dear God, no, no.. I am not rooting for pastel blue. No! [chants to self: "Robinho is a cash-dribbling cunt"]
[MUSIC] the Kills - No Wow
Please drop spare change if I am found on the sidewalks. Uh.. begging.
Sinking, sinking..
Ugh. Frank Lampard's first official red card (his previous was rescinded-- goddamn angel he is!) and a late 1-1 draw from some bald, twinkle cunt. God bless Gourcuff, though. One, long-lashed lad to soothe pain. Hmm. The goal? Brilliant, to me. Bordeaux's defensive gaffe ricochets to Lampard, goddamn genius made a quick pass to Anelka, the shine from his baldness blinds me a bit and bam! Goal. Anelka's finish was a fine one-- he controlled it until the last minute, put a bit of strength on it and there. 1-0 up. Afterwards it was a downward spiral. Poor ball control from the lads. Come the fuck on. Lost 3-1 to Roma and if we need to pull a 10-man defense line-up, goddamnit, so be it. At the moment, I'm gaping at me-self because of the Kops reference. I kid, I kid. Chances weren't created. Attempts on goal was in a meager amount. Three sunshine-colored cards, one red.. ugh. A Hull vs. West Brom game would've looked more festive, to be honest. I am going to petition/send spam/molest Gourcuff (irrelevant) for a fast-paced striker come New Years. Anelka isn't.. there. He's on roll, he's not. Is. Not. Is. Not. It gets a bit tiring when it's inconsistent, si? Drogba is a useless alternative at the moment. 66% of the time he's diving/falling/throwing coins. Shit like that ain't helping us out. And what the fuck is wrong with Scolari? Kalou could've provided fresh legs, pace on the left flank and link-up with A. Cole-- and dude sparkles with Joseph John. It's simple mathematics. Arsenal on the 30th (shit, a draw/loss to me-- I have no faith in the current lack of tactical change and impossible striker/cunt) then against Cluj to invite ourselves into the knock-out stage. Doom.
[MUSIC] Para One - Fudge
For smiles: Bojan Krkic on the scoresheet. Barcelona is the best team in the world at the moment. If one needs convincing, one is a full-blown idiot. And Messi is an explosion of genius on the greens. What a Godsent midget.
No pants. Shorts.
Before I scrambled a vertical, mountainous pile of smart/casual threads for the Interact 40th District Conference (aha, I am naming it in full to increase chances of popping up on Google)-- I, the ever frugal and cheap, perused in mute on a grocer's long (and repulsive) racks of basic t-shirts at the men section. Score. And I wore the semi-tattered white t-shirt over the faux leather pants pair, rugged off with sempiternal best friend le noir lace-ups and the leather jacket. Clacked over the Gardens earlier with a maternal parent. Failed conquests. Again. I am more prone to drops in Celsius degrees as of late. Mind-boggling life questions sent down from God. Other mind-boggling life questions that hit me: (i) ugh, a couple of parties from the lads to go to-- I ain't got cash and I ain't got swagger-clad gear, damn.; (ii) I am determined in whole to wrap arms with the other trio of femmes I love to bits (Em, Birdie, V-- in random order, equal love to all) and entice potential leather-jacket loving/Kris Van Assche-ish men and welcome them into our lives. Or so. Something like that.; (iii) I am almost broke-- but fret not, a final non-impromptu shoe expenditure to forthcome: a faux Dior (or, the Bradshaw) to calm down rapid, uncontrollable desires for a pair of 4"s.; (iv) I can't wait until I receive the won Reebok Freestyle kicks from Tongue in Chic (what a nice web!). But I am not a kicks person. But I'll make it work. Methinks I'll develop into a hipster/scene kid in pseudostate conditions. Pull me back to the dominatrix lair if I were to veer off, si?
[MUSIC] Yelle - Je Veux Te Voir
Champions League action! Dork Affiliations Club reunion! Shoes! Godsent!
Guess who's back?
Damn, I am home. I graced the loo at first sight-- because back in the conference compound (albeit, equipped with a kick-arse miniature skate ground) I had to emit utmost strength in refraining self from visiting the toilet often. Repulsive. Youths don't flush. Is there a seminar or a motivational talk for flushing? No? Damn. Doom for all. Ah-ha. I am back from the 40th District Conference for Interactors-- club councils are obliged to participate. Hence, there I was. Traipsing with loved friends, scouring out potential stalking objects to lessen pain/boredom/percentage on self man-slaughter/derailment. It was great. I was irked with the thoughts of missing weekend soccer action (ugh, top five teams didn't win) and plausible shoe expenditures but, (don't know the but's for what). What went on? I was a Delta (one), introduced le lithesome self to faces I presume talk-able to, kept a quiet one throughout to make no absolute use of self (for sloth reasons) and survived a grueling 5-hour process of a business challenge. In which, le lithesome self's group, Delta won. Kick-arse, ain't it? I was apart of the liveliest bunch for a baking store, named Bakery?-- confusing, si? It was weird but it worked. For the unconscious men who scored a place in the Who I'd Shag (But Can't Because I'm Muslim) List-- blah, inferior amount. But I scored a video of a (handsome, shaggable) friend who indulged in a mini pillowfight session in his room earlier. Perhaps he's a faggot. I have no further intentions so an acceptable faggot nonetheless. Educational things brought home? Notes on.. placing action on ambitions, blah, blah. I was awake 34% of the time. You can tell? You know me well. Congratulations. A quick shout-out to Delta members (if those who Google, and stumble upon this); and Jordan, Marissa, Angeline, Eric (self-proclaimed genius/geek ambassador), Chris, Karishma and others for the handshakes and good conversations. Dear God, the power of Google. I love Google.
[MUSIC] Keane - the Lovers Are Losing
I am indulging in Arsenal's latest crises. Is that bad? Yes? No? Hmm I need new shoes. And to Em-- I miss thou! Please, please, please score me a piece of Commes des Garcons for H&M because if not, we are no longer friends. Lovesthous.
Rants in pants, part VII.
No, I don't know what number that is. Yes. Please stop talking. You are unimportant. What's important is beautiful men. Le beloved Em, who is half-man, like me (we, the half-men, need to stick to our population, si?) frolicked in Pavilion with our semi-wasted selves. Scoured shoes, threads, and men in between-- dear God, lace bandage dress(!) and a tassel-tastic noir top almost broke a lithe's bank. But I am strong. Or so I perceive. Shh. I, entangled in the dominatrix fantasies.. extricated dollar bills for a pair of high-rank leather pants. It's sort of like doughnuts. It is never enough to have one. I never want.. one. I want three. Glutton is the word. What was I talking about? Yes. Beautiful men. Ah-ha, our fatigued selves commuted home with potential rapists/Hawaiian-shirt lovers/excessive odour until one man saved mankind. A handsome one. In work clothes. Please do not let imaginations run wild with fantasies. Beautiful men go to work? Beautiful men don't need to trouble themselves. Ridiculous. What's up with me, on the other hand: (i) a 3-minute brainstorm, entangled in a tornado of clichés-- I scored these awe-inspiring kicks.. read and vomit, but the shoes are pure jazz.; (ii) on Interact duties over the weekend-- 40th District Conference with faces I love, a lad with an A-grade arse and.. leadership talks. Yes. Fun.; (iii) scouring internships with plausible e-webs/magazines..; (iv) ugh, missing Chelsea vs. Newcastle match. To those who knows me-- please send a text of the scoreline. Uh.. each 10 minutes. Thanks. There. An irksome post. Be back on 23rd.
[MUSIC] Keane - Spiralling
Young Michael Mancienne got called up for England squad. Congratulations, little Blue!
Good morning.
Apologies for the lack of posts. I am down with fever-- a round of Thank Yous to le Boss (who's aging with grace, turns 52 on the 20th). Offbeat frolicking are in a sad number-- went out to Mid V on the 13th for fuck's sakes.. and to please raging hormones' plea for Quantum of Solace. Ugh, fail. Opening credits listed Marc Forster as director. Marc Forster is a kick-arse director. But then again, Quantum of Solace perhaps lacked direction and plot.. the scenes' cut were out of place and a bit of a mess, but who am I to judge a man with all the credentials in the world? I am Zeus. Ah-ha. Excuse the failed attempt on wit. As ailment-- hunted for zipper-inclusive threads, or long lost love in the form of studded shorts at the London retailer. Fail. Failures come in threes on the 13th. Damn. On the threads note: (i) I am slanting towards black-on-black with multiple textures as of late. Don't get me? Hmm. Yohji, Rad Hourani.. Haider Ackermann did something awesome for Spring '09 as well. In truth, it's Rei anchoring me over to the dark side. Bad, bad Rei.; (ii) I am going to beg/weep/endure interim public humiliation for this: Marc by Marc Jacobs Strippy Zippy Nati Bag because it looks like this genius item from Alexander Wang: mmm, zippers. It's a sweet 16, no? Wish me luck.; (iii) online shopping is bad. Ah, and-- a band of lads are inviting me over a dancing-inclusive gathering at a banquet. Dancing! How could I reject?
[MUSIC] the Duke Spirit - Red Weather
Chelsea 3 - 0 West Brom-- love 'em lads. Arsenal lost to Villa. Agbonlahor is pure lethal, si?
God's little gifts.
I am back to square one. Monochrome nights. Post-midnight mugs of black. Tumbling men on the greens of mid-week soccer action. Breaking down self accounts for impromptu (pfft) shoe expenditures. Eternal dominance of sloth aesthetics. Rituals, si? What's up with me as of late: (i) gaped over deer leather accoutrements at le Twin Towers, embraced pain in noir lace-ups on the 9th, topped off with a black slouch headgear.; (ii) a miniature chill session at Old Town and afterwards, a jamming studio (damn, drums..) with Em; over dirt-encrusted stories. You'll never guess what our friends did. Of sinful nature to the highest extent. Repulsive.; (iii) ah, what I am waiting for-- Quantum of Solace in approx. 24 hours. Expect intense heart palpitations and biased reviews. Because I am built weak (also) to Daniel Craig, British accents and.. Aston Martins. I am.; (iv) le fringe boots (strong blame-game over Christophe Decarnin-- who doesn't love Balmain's FW08 is a barefaced liar) arrived in the mail earlier-- pricetag's a meager weight, noir suede with tie-up closure, a generous amount of fringe on the outline.. almost Godsent. Almost. A real Balmain is Godsent.; (v) As a long-time lurker-- I am no longer a virgin on Chictopia (credits due to an encouraging lass, thanks); zzz to experience potential pedophile vibes. Oh come on-- don't laugh/snicker/burst into satanic cackles. On the other hand, I am in a relationship with the jacket. Love, love, love.; (vi) Chelsea vs. some inhumane club in First Division in the morning-- truckloads of luck (and the Gunners' kids were kick-arse last night, damn). Signing off.. to spend time making collages. Hmm. I need a job.
[MUSIC] Keane - Perfect Symmetry
Dear God, I'm half dead.
A proximate death is to forthcome. I am a manic lithe tangled in sleep deprivation, ironing pile growing in an intolerable vertical manner (agh!), a semi-confused state on vacuous subjects and further slipping into a self re-discovering mode. But, fret not-- sadness is the foe, merriment is cuffed with me. Baptised le noir biker jacket earlier; over clichéd bad-ass (to me) accents: lace-ups, faux-leather pants and le Boss' tattered white t-shirt. Recovering addict/sadomasochist/potential Crips alliance. Cross where appropriate. Rampaged a tad with the twosome of indecisive creatures of God-- embarked on a full-fledged quest to search for manic kicks. Fail. Aldo holds racks of shoes of morphine.. alas to be canceled out because the pricetag weighs more than me. In a metaphoric sense. Hmm. Ain't quite right, was it? Ah-ha. On the modé note: (i) Wang's F/W '08 is a sempiternal solution to wardrobe's Boggle. Is that sentence right? It is to me.; (ii) I have a monstrous pile of light-charcoal/charcoal/black clothes. As I'd love to conclude it's an unconscious icon emulation of Godsent Kate Lanphear-- it is not. Love is lost in rainbow palettes. Richard Nicoll's S/S '09 though is love, coated with Jil Sander-esque accents and I am prepared to cause malicious damage to other people for it. Yes. Manslaughter is the answer to all.; (iii) hunting for eccentric-clad pieces; warehouse sales to come.. I am fueling cash. A friend noted a repleting "fashion snapshot and words"-inspired posts as of late on other blogs. I am not a conceited lithe (lie) henceforth I deem innocence with silence. Champions League action downstairs. I am off to connect with 4-3-3 formations. Off to the tube!
[MUSIC] Love and Rocket - No New Tale To Tell
As I'd like it to be-- Obama is president. Up the Democrats!
