Loading ...Hell, that was a vanishing act.
I can hardly remember such a blitzkrieg from Galliani in the past few years, and frankly I was too young to remember the level of commitment it took him, and the club, to bring stars such as Van Basten, Savicevic, Boban, Desailly… But Ibracadabra, as those on the other side of Milan like(d) to call him, is now a Milan player. In just a matter of four-five days. Read the rest of this entry »
For some reason, I always believed that decadence is half in print and double on TV. This boyhood blinker lurked in my subconscious for years to come, irrespective of a couple of books that effectively challenged that notion. Read the rest of this entry »
How will I live through this season if it happens? I can hardly face the prospect of sitting down on the sofa, opposite side to my father, and watch the game in damn peace. My father will, rightfully, take the role of primary heckler. Read the rest of this entry »
Must say, I was pretty distracted by a few people whom I haven’t seen for quite some time. So, as the Moulettes’ own brand of (Celtic?Romanian?gypsy? they all sound the same don’t they?) folk coloured this particular sweaty night at Madliena Cottage, I find myself engrossed in a long conversation about Kyuss, QOTSA and stoner rock with my mate(s) Mr and Mrs Simon Dimech (Hairyamp).
True, the familiar faces are all here. Full kudos to the organisers for the event, which featured the aforementioned Moulettes and Plato’s Dream Machine (whose acronym seems to be settling in just that bit too quickly – but that’s a good sign, ultimately). Unfortunately, as I told Danjeli on our way out, I was too distracted to follow the event properly – call it a night off – and to be completely fair with everyone, I am less fond of folk (whatever’s happened to guitars?)
All in all, while I got the feeling that the audience had a mixed reaction to the British band, the event itself was FUN.
Well done to all those who worked hard for this event.
Arsene Knows, says the omnipresent banner hung in the first ring at the Emirates. The stadium itself knows less about winning than the illustrious manager: since the team moved from neighbouring Highbury to Ashburton Grove, there has been little in terms of joy.
Ok, the stadium itself is nice n’all that, and the youths are budding prospects who break into the national team at the tender age of 17 (Walcott) and 19 (Wilshere), even though the former seems to be regressing into a third division winger whose only skill, blinding speed aside, is to charge at anything in front of him like a bull who suddenly found himself in the midst of a Labour meeting. Read the rest of this entry »
If you’re out of line, you’ll get punished, not forgiven. Same goes for the church. The analysis by Michael Falzon gets me thinking whether Mark Montebello could have landed anywhere worse than Mehico.
I’m still fiddling with this thing. Seems like a deal. In a bit.
… why don’t you tell it like it is? The indomitable Guze Stagno faces the dictaphone.
Minn Inbid ta’ Kuljum ghal Maradona. Vjaġġ twil u lura.
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