Let it be real!

A little something I read in Football365's transfer gossip today:

In the words of The Times:

'Sunderland agreed a deal to sign Kieran Richardson last night, after completing the signing of Michael Chopra earlier in the day. The club have agreed a fee of £5.5 million with Manchester United for Richardson, the midfield player who came through the ranks at Old Trafford.

' £10.5m for the pair. Ten point five million pounds.

Jesus wept. As, we assume, did a lot of Sunderland fans."

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

I couldn't believe my eyes man when I read that. If it does happen, I'll be so muthafucking relieved that Kieran Richardson is not gonna be at ManU next season. But I feel a bit sorry for Roy Keane. For 10.5 mil all he's got is an ex-Magpie who didn't make the grade at Newcastle and a fucking twat no decent ManU supporter rate.

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. -
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

- Wilfred Owen

One of my favourite pieces of all time, reading, or in this case, typing, the last paragraph never fails to freeze the blood flowing through the veins. It is a sort of crescendo for me, reminding me how frail the human being is.


*Latin quotation= "It is sweet and becoming to die for one's country."

When I Was One-and-Twenty

Unable to die as I lie, staring at the whitewashed boards, Housman greeted me with the utmost cynicism

When I was one and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,

"Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart. away;

Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free."

But I was one-and-twenty -
No use talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,

"The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;

'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue."

And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.