Cybereagles

30/1 on Danny Caravan, or whatever he’s called. Rudiger much the same. Little punt on both.

Doku has been Traoreish for some time. If ever there was a time to revert to usefulness, it’s now. More importantly, time for Arteta to send on the English. Enough with these Johnny Foreigners. Get our boys on and in the thick of it.

Few good men watching at the Lion, stone’s throw from Bierschenke, Covent Garden. Bavarian public house. Decent draft. If the result’s unsavoury, there’ll be some afters down yonder.

Can’t. Defend. Won’t. Defend. Simple.

^The irony being City ebubediked Inter, Real and Bayern enroute to being crowned Kings of Europe. Argument as water tight as an incontinent bladder. By the same playground Trump card trading rhetoric, Cristiano 196 games/84 goals, Man United. Real, ridiculous. Juventus much the same. Goals to games ...

The quality of fakes and filters, frightening. There was a Who did it? thriller on the Cambridge campus a few years back. An alumni’s image was edited into certain unsavoury engagements and shared, wholesale, across the dot com. Family, friends, career, reputation all destroyed. Turned out to be the...

^was that during Big Phil’s tenure?

^The kobokoed was Moroccan Abderrazak Hamdallah El-Ekhali El-Ennyar You ok Are You ok, Are You ok Enny. Full name.

Yep. Should’ve allowed the two of them to settle it with a “straightener”. That being said, can only imagine how Tetley treats his East African housemaid, given his readiness to do this before a wide audience.

^A fact that has not been contested. Riddock Bukayo, on the ropes, but still standing like Reginald Dwight’s defiant classic. Long into the twelfth and all the way to the starting XI. Bomber Sako, RAF 51st regiment. Was there in ‘45 and will be there in ‘24. Oh so reality has dawned on ya that thos...

Can’t Spursify the actions of grown men on account of indirect association. Pochettino. Both Madueke and Jackson showed petulance and immaturity. Much like the parents cannot be blamed for every wayward child well into their manly years, MP cannot be held accountable here. Drogba, a Chelsea Hall of ...

^A fact that has not been contested. Riddock Bukayo, on the ropes, but still standing like Reginald Dwight’s defiant classic. Long into the twelfth and all the way to the starting XI. Bomber Sako, RAF 51st regiment. Was there in ‘45 and will be there in ‘24.

And Djimi Traore is a Champions League winner. Guilty by association.

Let him score a hattrick and a double brace. Two words. OluBukayo Olawingplay. International tournament experience? Been there done that. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. London born, London bred. Farmhouse loaf. Kingsmill, Warburton’s.

@Scip, writing was on the wall. Nothing deep fried in the pre-match breakfast. Spanish omelette. Poached. Pathetic.

If there’s any high fives and handshakes at full time…it’s got to boil over.

Cromwell. 19 not out. Not a single penalty. English!

Oliver Cromwell Watkins. At the ready.

If it’s lost on the pitch, got to win it at Euston station. Proper punch up.

Olesksandr sympathy vote-chenko.

Big Leon Buju Bailey, dumpling, jerk chicken and 3 rotis. Wrote a piece to the House of Parliament a little while back about deporting as many Beenie Mans as possible. Was served a public order warning.

It’s now or never. The bottlejobs of the North have done their “usual”. Can’t send a bunch of Alejandros to do an Alexander’s job. All beef and no bacon. Big Ebubedeclan. Two pair. Big Willie Olusaliba. Two pair. Benjamin Okosisi White. Two pair. Men! Bottle? Nein. Strictly by the keg. Carling, Tetl...

Testicular softitude?

The latest episode of Tommy Pickles does Defending: Miseducation, sorry “space creation”. Eberechi Eze given all the time in the world and all the space in which to put it. Laughable.

^Boiled kidney? Nonsense. What is this, Master Chef? Big Declan “Singapore fried” Rice, first out of the trenches. Fully charged. Black pudding, hash browns, baked beans with a knob of butter to oil the joints. White bread, 3 slices, perfect fold and dunked into the tea. Breakfast of Champions.

^Let it even be six or seven. Wallahi, they will never see the broad beamed unsullied harem of Mesopotamia. The mighty Ashburton Army, for King and country. 3 o’clock kick-off, no bother, 12PM breakfast. Double bacon, sausage, two eggs and friend bread. Beans? Need you ask. One more sugar in the tea...