The bowl's barely emptied its cake mix into the baking tray and yet the Mundial has already served up a healthy slice of layer cake, a madeira sponge base of orthodoxy, flavoured by a thick and fruity layer of unorthodox jams. David has met his Goliath with 'pults packed with pebbles of tactical vicissitude that coursed the air with weightless ease and yet impressed upon their leviathanic adversaries like the prodigious meteorite. Crash. Bang. Wallop. Stretched out on the hammock or heavily reclined on the easy boy, Hamlet in hand, Stetson Vallejo dipped to cast an obscuring shade of super cool savvy and abstruseness, the conveniently and certainly circumstantially capricious back three/five. A shape shifting Optimus Primian autobot that has thrown the would be Hulk Hogans in a Jake Roberts sleeper-hold, the songs of suffocation calling Damien to dance his way out of the bag.
Needless to say, the approach was exact, granted luck was indeed flirted with and perhaps much more transpired between the two. Licentious and leisurely as ever, she lay bare her concupiscence for Spain, who, upon satisfying their own carnal desires, left a poverty of orgasm and plenty post coital tristesse. The Dutch were not least warm recipients of the concubine, but did her well, very well and reaped fair reward of a woman well pleasured. For all of Spain's midfield supremacy, there was an obvious struggle against the aggressive press of De Jong and Guzman and width of Blind. Interestingly, Sneijder was nothing like the number ten expected, the midfield was bypassed, those passes direct and attack, devastating. A truly ingenius tactical masterclass by Van Gaal.
“I didn’t expect the result but I did expect goals. We have players who can turn a match,”
It's not often I feel embarrassment bordering on shame.