Tag Archives: football

The post about Manchester United that no one will read, but I wrote it anyway

In 1982, before I realised that I hated musicals with a passion, my parents took me to see Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, at Blackpool’s Grand Theatre, a staggering four times. The last time we saw the show, I remember there was a pre-curtain announcement which explained that Jess Conrad – the star – would be unable to perform due to a family bereavement, and that the role of Joseph would be played instead by the understudy.

On hearing this news, the audience emitted a deep guttural groan as if they’d just been told that Norman Tebbit had been bused in to play the lead. I imagine the sound of mass disappointment filling the auditorium didn’t make the understudy’s heart sink so much as it tried to burst through his chest and roll out of the nearest backstage exit. It must have been a terribly disheartening moment.

I can’t actually remember anything about the performance that followed. All I remember is the audience reaction to the announcement and the instant assumption that the performance would be sub-standard. After all, how could a young pretender possibly replace the mighty Jess Conrad and still provide us with the high levels of entertainment we’d come to expect?

Believe it or not, this Jess Conrad-based preamble is my way of easing you into a blog post about football. You see, I’m a Manchester United fan. Admittedly I’ve only ever been to one game (Old Trafford, March 1985: we beat Aston Villa 4-0, during which I accidentally hurled a meat and potato pie over the man sitting in front of me) so I’m probably more ‘armchair fan’ than dedicated ‘super-fan’.

True ‘super fans’ of Manchester United probably live in a subterranean netherworld beneath Old Trafford itself, where the blood, sweat and tears from every match filters through the hallowed turf and hangs in the air like a fine mist. (In contrast, I live in a light and airy flat in a small Warwickshire village.) Furthermore, true ‘super fans’ probably attend every first team match – home and away. They’d probably turn up to watch the ground staff kick an empty can around the car park if they could. I obviously can’t compete with that level of fandom, but I’m still a fan and I still care what happens to my team.

The incomparable and uncompromising Sir Alex Ferguson has been at the Manchester United helm for all but a couple of years during my time as a supporter, but the idea that he would one day retire never really crossed my mind. Part of me expected a Weekend at Bernie’s-style scenario to eventually transpire, whereby a complex pulley system would be employed to animate Sir Alex in the dugout, inspiring thrilling victories and late comebacks for evermore. But now he’s gone (retired, not expired) and David Moyes sits in the big chair.

I feel a bit sorry for David Moyes. When he first took over at Manchester United it was reported that Sir Alex Ferguson had seen him as his understudy and natural successor. He was the man standing nervously behind the grand drape listening to a groaning audience of doubters, dubious of his ability to deliver high quality entertainment and anything but disappointment. “Will David Moyes turn Man United into a team who have to fight to get into the top four?” asked one fan on Yahoo Answers, using a forum best known for people asking if it’s safe to eat urinal cake.

Does any manager go into a club with the aim of actively reversing its fortunes? No, of course not. It was an idiotic question that was posed before David Moyes had presided over a single competitive game.

Still, David Moyes and the new executive vice-chairman, Ed Woodward, have had a tough time so far, particularly in the transfer market. In July it was reported that Woodward had departed the club’s pre-season tour of Australia to deal with “urgent transfer business”, and like many supporters I salivated at the prospect of Gareth Bale arriving, or even Cristiano Ronaldo returning, perhaps to be joined later by the likes of Geoffrey Kondogbia, İlkay Gündoğan, Mesut Özil, Ander Herrera, Eliaquim Mangala, Ezequiel Garay…and any number of players that we were being linked with on a daily basis.

Speculation about the “urgent transfer business” was constant. Woodward was in Spain trying to tie up the Fabregas deal. He was in Hungary on the trail of Puskás. Meanwhile, reports of secret meetings with Jossy Blair suggested that he was close to securing the signature of a Glipton Giants playmaker. We were about to go wild in the transfer market – and I couldn’t wait!

My excitement was somewhat dampened at 11pm on deadline day, when our only signing was £27.5m Marouane Fellaini from Everton. It’s an over-priced signing that, granted, gives us some much-needed physicality in midfield. But signing just one player in a last minute frenzy of transfer activity on deadline day was undeniably disappointing. Especially when you consider that, in the same transfer window, Spurs managed to snap up Christian Eriksen from Ajax for a mere £11m, along with the likes of Erik Lamela, Paulinho and Roberto Soldado. “If even half of these impressive Spurs signings succeed – look out,” tweeted Sports Illustrated senior writer Grant Wahl.

Oh, and Mesut Özil – one of the most technically gifted attacking midfielders of his generation – ended up at Arsenal. “The Premier League…is a league with much more space and Özil is a player that, given time and space, he will kill you,” warned Barcelona’s Cesc Fàbregas, fresh from playing the lead role in our long summer of unrequited love. Arsenal, it seems, could be deadly this year.

Fellaini’s arrival, on the other hand, was greeted with a mixture of dismay and indifference, with only a light dusting of vaguely positive reaction. “Probably our least exciting £20m+ signing ever,” sighed ‘kps88′ on the RedCafe.net forum. I wouldn’t be surprised if at least one contributor to a forum thread has, at some point in the last couple of weeks, predictably referred to him as “Marian FAILaini”. But that would be unfair, seeing as he hasn’t even pulled on a Manchester United jersey or kicked a ball competitively for us yet.

Fellaini could be a great signing for us, so we should give him time. And I really hope David Moyes is given time, too.

In spite of a pre-season Charity Shield win for David Moyes’ United, followed by four points and four goals in three Premier League matches (in what Moyes described as “the toughest start Manchester United have had [in the league] for 20 years”) I’ve already seen some fans calling for his head – which is madness. We’re not going to become that club, are we? The type of club that casts stability to the wind and throws a manager under the bus every time there’s a dip in form.

Sir Alex Ferguson’s first game in charge of Manchester United, on 8 November 1986, was a 2–0 defeat at underdogs Oxford United, which was followed by a goalless draw at newly promoted Norwich City. It was hardly a scintillating start, but it didn’t define Sir Alex’s managerial reign or prevent him from eventually building teams that went on to deliver a historic level of footballing achievement.

Robert Chalmers’ open letter to Sir Alex Ferguson, which appeared in GQ magazine shortly after the Scot announced his retirement, noted:

“Paddy Barclay wrote, at the time you were possibly facing the sack, around 1990, that you had got everything right at [Manchester United], except at first team level. We read those words, as supporters, and thought: what use is that? But a great manager – given time, as you were – moulds a club in his own image.”

Wise words indeed.

David Moyes has a six-year contract at Manchester United and I think we should let him have those six years to build his own empire and write his own history at the club, even if it means that we have to part with success temporarily. He needs to impose his own style, make further signings (something he was very good at as manager of Everton) and even create his own urban myths. Like the time Sir Alex Ferguson disemboweled a hapless boot boy following a 2003 FA Cup defeat at the hands of Arsenal, before angrily stuffing the organs into a boot and launching it at David Beckham’s head, with the steaming entrails flapping like a comet’s tail as it flew across the changing room.

I’m not qualified to give David Moyes tips on how to achieve success. Although, I do have a very successful Manchester United career under my belt courtesy of Football Manager. (Or I did until last week, when I jokingly resigned after 12 glorious [game] years following some poor results, then watched in silent horror as the game immediately autosaved.) Football Manager is one of the most addictive games of all time. It’s like being captivated for hours on end by a detailed and thoroughly entertaining PowerPoint presentation. And when you’ve played the game for so long that your new signings are all ‘regens’ (regenerated players), your squad begins to look like it’s made up of talented E-FIT criminals. It’s swallowed a lot of my spare time over the years. But here’s what I’ve learned from that virtual managerial world: give youth a chance!

David Moyes shouldn’t be afraid to blood the youth at his disposal. Wilfried Zaha reminds me of one of those talented footballers at school, who could beat you with a flashy trick and blistering pace one minute, then go from pirouette to crumpled heap, clutching his balls, the next. His skill certainly needs refining, but he’s absolutely fearless and can run all day – which should terrify any defender lacking concentration or pace. Similarly, I’d love to see Adnan Januzaj get some significant game time under his belt this season. I’ve just heard that Juventus might do another ‘Paul Pogba’ and poach him from us if his contract runs down, which I’d hate to see. Surely he’s the future of Manchester United – PLEASE GIVE HIM A NEW CONTRACT, DAVID!

Also, please play Shinji Kagawa as often as possible. I know the trick is finding a way for him to play alongside Wayne Rooney in a position in which he can excel, but just find a way. Injuries aside, I thought he was great in his debut season. Just the nimble, creative force we need.

Still, what the fuck do I know?

After 26 years of managerial continuity at Manchester United, our 2013/14 transition season is obviously going to be tough as hell – especially with five very strong teams challenging us for the title. But before he disappeared down the players’ tunnel for the last time, Sir Alex Ferguson instructed supporters to do one very simple thing: “Stand by your new manager.” And unless David Moyes uses the January transfer window to re-sign Eric Djemba-Djemba or sell Wayne Rooney to Chelsea, that’s exactly what we should do. Jess Conrad is gone, now it’s time for the understudy.


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Filed under Football, Sport

Eric Pickles spilling out of a négligée

If I was in charge of English football, I would radically overhaul the entire game. GONE would be the highly engineered footballs constructed from the same material that NASA astronauts wipe their bum with in space, and in their place, the trusty inflated pigs bladder would return. On match days the players would travel straight from the abattoir to the stadium, where they would step off the team coach, ashen-faced, with blood-spattered tracksuits and pigs entrails dangling from their Beats headphones. Adoring fans would quickly withdraw their autograph books and either avert their gaze in revulsion or vomit at their heroes’ supremely talented feet. A humbling experience indeed.

Sky Sports would also be forced to introduce a red button option for the TV audience watching at home, which would enable bored viewers to substitute the pigs bladder match ball for, say, a hand grenade. And instead of ‘parking the bus’ against top quality opposition, players would be instructed to park their Bentley Continentals and Lamborghini Gallardos.

And GONE would be the football shirts made with ‘breathable fabric’, which no doubt sigh with orgasmic pleasure each time they’re stretched over the players’ muscular torsos. Instead,  footballers would be forced to play the whole game in their post-match designer threads. The repellent stench of sweat and pigs bladder would then hang heavily over the VIP areas of exclusive bars and clubs, which would be so overwhelming, women would rather plunge headlong into a blooming ‘corpse flower’ than venture beyond the red velvet rope to join them. Footballers would be left with nothing to do but quaff champagne, compare expensive watches and pick flecks of mud from each other’s matted hair like grooming apes.

Footballers also wouldn’t be able to gain entry to premier nightspots unless they wore augmented reality beer goggles, with the power to cloak attractive women behind a vision of Eric Pickles spilling out of a négligée. The goggles would eventually make going out after matches a deeply traumatic experience. Any players refusing to wear the goggles would risk having their contracts terminated.

This tough approach could clean up football once and for all, eradicating sex scandals and deflating even planet-sized egos. We should give it a whirl!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big football fan. I love to watch football. But the recent conviction and imprisonment of Sheffield United’s Ched Evans – for raping a 19-year-old woman at a Premier Inn Hotel in May last year – has once again shone a blinding stadium spotlight on the debauched behaviour of some players.

In 2007, a ‘roasting’ sex tape emerged featuring Manchester City’s Micah Richards and one of his friends – also a Premier League footballer. If you were to go off the screen grabs of their faces alone you would be forgiven for thinking that Richards had just discovered that he could ejaculate £50 notes. The story went public after the two footballers circulated the sex clip around their group of friends because they thought it was “hilarious”. But unless the rhythmic slapping of Micah Richards’ balls – sounding like a disapproving slow hand-clap by the women of the WI – is something that his social circle delights in, it’s not a video that anyone could possibly find “hilarious”. The video was circulated simply because it was a result. It was a win.

When these players were starry-eyed kids emulating the skills of their footballing heroes down at the local park, did they dream of playing professionally for their boyhood club? Or did they dream that, one day, they would be able to gurn into a mobile phone while filming themselves ‘roasting’ a female fan in a spacious disabled toilet? What the hell happens to these talented, ambitious sportsmen that turns them into arrogant, self-aggrandising, amoral and, some might say, dangerous fuckheads?

When the aforementioned Ched Evans was arrested, he boasted to police that he and his friend “could have had any girl” they wanted in the nightclub they had visited. He told them: “We were drinking, having fun there. It’s not uncommon we pick up girls. Clayton [McDonald] is an attractive guy. We are footballers, that’s how it is. Footballers are rich, they have got money, that’s what the girls like.”

Unusually for two obscenely rich and attractive men, packing the kind of pheromonal power that can apparently render an entire nightclub of women utterly helpless, they decided to have sex with the one woman who was barely conscious. Evans’ brother and another friend, Jack Higgins, who clearly don’t have the same magic touch with women, had to make do with watching events unfold through a window, with Higgins filming the action on his mobile phone. I imagine they watched and sniggered like a couple of village idiots gawping through a car window at some Knowsley Safari Park baboons trying to hump a car aerial. Despicable.

Ched Evans’ incarceration for rape has since led to the creation of a #justiceforched Twitter campaign; the naming and subsequent harassment of his victim online (leading to the arrests of three men); and a misguided outpouring of support from some Sheffield United fans who don’t seem to see what all the fuss is about. One fan even showed his support for Evans by shaving “CHED” into the back of his head (with the same kind of results you’d expect if you asked Stevie Wonder to shave the name of your favourite convicted rapist into the back of your head). A group of fans were even planning to orchestrate two rounds of supportive applause at Sheffield United’s game last Saturday – in the ninth and 35th minutes of the game in homage to Evans’ old shirt number and the amount of goals he’s scored this season – but thankfully nothing of any significance materialised.

For the kids playing football right now in the parks and backstreets of England, with jumpers for goalposts, boundless amounts of energy and nothing but football on their minds, I hope the behaviour of their footballing heroes improves off the pitch. I am, of course, more than happy to implement my sweeping changes to English football to bring about the positive shift we need. But whether they like it or not, footballers need to remember that they’re role models…and it’s not the last days of Rome.


Filed under Comment, Current Affairs

Don’t mention the war. No, really, just stop mentioning the war.

So, here we are again. Another World Cup, another crucial tie with Germany. Oh, and the usual avalanche of hackneyed stereotypes and Second World War references plastered across the pages of the country’s tabloid newspapers.

Take the Daily Star, for instance. In just 61 words today, they managed to cram in: “war”, “Jerries”, “blitz”, “Huns” and “battle”, which all sat beside a photo of a grinning Wayne Rooney, striking a pugilistic pose and wearing an England-branded Tommy Helmet. And that was just the front page. Turn inside, and you could also find: “Fritz”, “blitzkrieg”, “Boche” and “master race”.


In fact, I found it almost impossible to read the Daily Star’s coverage of England’s forthcoming match against Germany without my internal reading voice adopting the style of Laurence Olivier’s distinctive World at War narration.

Admittedly, finding these terms in a newspaper that Glastonbury festival goers would be ashamed to line a soiled portaloo seat with, isn’t news. I know that. But it doesn’t make the use of these terms (in 2010) any less infuriating.

The fact that Joachim Löw’s German squad have an average age of just under 25 – their lowest at a World Cup since 1934 – seems to be wasted on Britain’s tabloid journalists. Germany’s latest footballing wunderkind, Mesut Özil, was only one-year-old when the Berlin Wall came down, for fucks sake! The cast of ‘Allo ‘Allo have a greater connection to World War 2 than Germany’s current World Cup squad. So why do the tabloids still believe that the war is our nation’s greatest galvanizer for a footballing occasion such as this?

Next to the Daily Star’s front page offers of a “free World Cup pint of beer” and “massive England body flag” (useful, with only one day left in the competition – probably), I was surprised not to see: FREE STEN SUBMACHINE GUN, BATTLE DRESS BLOUSE AND VUVUZELA! (Although, to be fair, my imaginary Daily Star offer probably contains too many words for their average reader to comprehend.)

There was a great article yesterday on the BBC website, which was a German view on English football. Like me, the writer of that article, Marcus Schuler, questioned why British tabloid journalists always fall back on the same old stereotypes. He thinks it’s because they lack creativity. And he’s right.

But it’s also just crass stupidity. Surprisingly, The Sun, like The Mirror, didn’t join the Daily Star with its WW2-heavy reporting, as they were too busy making the most of a photo showing the German team on safari, watching three lions from the safety of a caged truck (three lions – what are the odds, eh?).

From another angle there actually appeared to be eight lions strolling around the Germans’ truck. But as a tabloid headline generator it didn’t really do the same job: ‘German team watch lions and enjoy safari’. If I was a PR advisor to the German national team, I would’ve told them to avoid lions at all costs and ensure that they were photographed near a Hyrax colony instead. What the fuck can a British tabloid headline writer do with a Hyrax on the eve of an important World Cup match with Germany?

Anyway, The Sun’s contribution to World War 2 World Cup fever was a small article on page four of today’s paper, which told the story of how Fabio Capello’s father “starved in Nazis’ hell-hole”. Apparently, Cappello’s father’s weight dropped to just six stone after he was captured in Yugoslavia by German soldiers and then detained for around three years in 1943. Pretty shocking stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. However, the article concluded with the fascinating World Cup fact that “some 60,000 Italians died in Nazi hell-holes” during the Second World War.

Martin Phillips – if you can enlighten me as to the relevance of this story in relation to England’s World Cup match with Germany, please contact me. Thanks.

Mercifully, the aforementioned Marcus Schuler says that when he talks to English friends about football, they never ever use words like “Blitzkrieg” or “Fritz”, which is heartening. So just who are the tabloids speaking to? Possible answers to that question include: (1) white van men, who spend their days farting into their hand and mushing it into colleagues’ faces, and (2) the dwindling few who actually fought in the Second World War, some of whom perhaps still hold a grudge against the German nation. But that still doesn’t make the Second World War even remotely relevant to the build up to a football match.

So, tabloids, do you think we can just get past the war? I mean, do you think you can manage not to be so laughably predictable every time a match like this comes along? Please, give it a try – next time – that’s all I ask.

As for England’s chances in the match tomorrow, it’s been reported that a ‘psychic’ octopus called Paul has predicted a defeat for Fabio Capello’s side. This is another thing that tabloids love to cover when confidence in the national side is low: quirky predictions.

If the tabloids got wind of an illegal horse fighting competition, being held to determine England’s chances, they’d probably report with some glee that an English stallion (Ian) brutally defeated his German opponent (Albrecht) during a frenzied clash of hooves and bared teeth. And it would be a tabloid journalist’s wet dream if the victorious Ian then went on to trample an Argentinean stablehand, before crapping in a giant paella.

‘StalLION tips our boys to reach World Cup final!’

‘Hoof do you think you are?’ Stablehand in coma as England’s Lions are tipped for glory!

If you ask me (which you obviously haven’t), I’d say that if England take their group stage performances into the Last 16, they’ll be flying home tomorrow evening.  I hope I’m wrong, but, you know, it is England. I’d probably have a more pleasurable experience watching 90 minutes of colonoscopy footage. Still, we can dream.

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Filed under Newspapers, Sport, World Cup

What is it about Monopoly, computer games and sport that makes me so unpleasant?

By my own reckoning, I’m a nice bloke. And unless I’m hopelessly deluded, anyone who’s ever met me should be able to testify to that fact. But I carry a secret shame: losing makes me angry. In fact, losing can make me furious, petulant, ridiculous, destructive and vile. Losing makes me…well, not me.

The controller I broke after a bad night on Call of Duty: World at War.

The controller I broke after a bad night on Call of Duty: World at War.

I write this in light of the fact that I recently broke my PS3 controller during a game of Call of Duty: World at War online. In spite of my real life pacifism, I’ve spent many a late night over the last 18 months stalking the battle-scarred landscapes of Eastern Europe, the Middle East and Asia, scything through enemy players from around the globe with a range of machine guns and brutally knifing them at close range. It’s been fun!

However, when playing a couple of nights ago I just could not get a break. I was mown down by machine gun fire, sniped from distance, knifed at close range, had my limbs blown off by ridiculously accurate grenade throws, torched with a flamethrower, blown to smithereens while trying to lay my own Bouncing Betty, savaged by dogs and showered with mortars. It was quite simply the worst session on Call of Duty I’ve ever experienced.

I was so furious with constantly getting killed, I momentarily flipped out. Holding my controller with each hand, I pressed my foot against it (as if trying to break a branch), which subsequently led to the dislocation of the left analog stick when my foot slipped. Brilliant.

The sickening cracking sound was sobering, and I held the broken controller in my hands and tinkered with it for a while in a fruitless attempt at fixing it. I felt like a man who’d just beaten his lover to death during an uncontrollable rage, but was now tearful and remorseful, cradling her head in my arms and animating her lifeless hand by lifting it gently to my face. But the controller was gone, and the left analog stick sat at an unnatural angle – like Eduardo’s ankle after Martin Taylor had finished with it. The cost of my being a petulant and destructive baby: £34.

Shamefully, I have a track record on Championship Manager as well (later known as Football Manager). I once cracked the casing on my old laptop when I hurled it a short way across the floor after my unbeatable Manchester United team was inexplicably trounced 6-1 by a rampant Manchester City. And when I used to play the game on my old computer, I took out every defeat on my long suffering mouse. It was eventually reduced to an unresponsive chunk of plastic, about as effective as a potato tied to my computer with a shoelace.

My sister won’t even play Monopoly with me anymore because of the way our games used to turn out. In a nutshell, I would be cocksure and happy when blessed with multiple property developments (albeit built across the likes of The Angel Islington or Pall Mall), where I would pinch bank notes from her hand with a “rent, please” smirk on my face.

However, when my sister had a more profitable property portfolio (Mayfair, Park Lane, Bond Street) it was a different game entirely. Because when my lovely sister tentatively – and with not a hint of glee – quietly asked for the rent for her properties, I would grumpily sell-off my houses and practically throw the money in her face, while sneering that she was “smug”. She was nothing of the sort. But I was borderline Mafioso in the way I reacted: “You like money, eh? Well here’s your fucking money! I wanna see you eat it! Eat the fucking money…I wanna see you choke on it!”

My sore losing (and bad temper) was also evident when I used to play football and badminton at university during my lean and healthy years. These were meant to be enjoyable sporty pursuits with friends, but I often made them excruciatingly miserable experiences. (Although, my friends often told me that my meltdowns often made for hilarious viewing.)

I remember breaking my badminton racket once when I smashed it on the ground after going down a few points to my best friend. As we’d only just started the game, I then had to play the remainder of the match with a hired racket. So while my best friend reaped the benefits of smash after smash with his ultra-lightweight graphite racket, I struggled with something that appeared to have been fashioned from solid oak, strung with leather strings. As a result of my ridiculous outburst, I suffered an even heavier defeat than I might have done originally.

Football was no different.

During our five-a-side games, I was usually the most vocal. We had a lad called Ben on our team who we used to invite simply to make up the numbers. Had the secrets of Josef Fritzl’s basement been known in 1997, I would’ve strongly suspected that that’s where Ben had spent his formative years. Watching him develop during the first year of university was like watching Brendan Fraser’s thawed caveman character, Link, discovering the modern world around him in California Man. He chased around the five-a-side court like a gangling, but loveable, moron who’d been instructed to man-mark a wasp for the duration of the game.

Whenever we were losing, it was always poor Ben that used to get an earful. However, rather than shouting something motivational or encouraging, I used to become incensed with his performance to the point of near screaming. (If you imagine Ben as the grandma in the Aphex Twin’s ‘Come to Daddy’ video, you get close to what he endured.) Added to that, I’ve kicked walls (nearly broke my foot once, actually) and even briefly fell out with my best friend and housemate when he dared to utter the words: “it’s only a game”. That was a decidedly frosty drive home.

I remember one of my mate’s cousins visiting from Liverpool one weekend. He played football with us (on the opposing team to me), so I played like a man possessed to ensure that we got the win, while frequently barking at Ben during another one of his classic sub-standard performances. I genuinely can’t remember what the final score was. However, I do remember the visiting cousin chatting to me over a pint at the Union that night, and saying in his broad Scouse accent: “I can’t believe what a nice bloke you are…because this afternoon, playing football, you were a fucking maniac!”

I’ve recently tried to reign in my appallingly bad behaviour, which I blame on acute competitiveness. Only last year, I played (and enjoyed) several games of football with my mates at Maverick Television. And in spite of us losing heavily to the London office during one match, which had the potential to tip me over the edge, I didn’t have a single meltdown. I’ve even had some very good natured badminton matches with my best friend…and my racket is still intact.

However, given that I’m currently a PS3 controller down, I’m obviously still not immune to flashes of self-defeating stupidity. But I want to play nice, I really do. Maybe when the rest of my life is a success I’ll stop caring so much about winning the meaningless little battles, and enjoy them instead. But until that day, things might get broken…a bit.

Before 2009 was through, I’d hurled my badminton racket at a wall and broke it. I’m currently playing with my best friend’s racket, which means I have to remain calm – even in the face of defeat. Oh, and I’ve since had to buy yet another PS3 controller. The other one was faulty. Well, it was after I’d kicked it to death.


Filed under Memories, Personal