Some bitchfest currently taking place between Didi Hamman and Joey Barton on twitter. Barton has gotten down and dirty on der kaiser.
Joey Barton and Didi Hamann going at it⌠Of course Barton had to lower the tone accusing didi of being a coke head, talking about how he abandoned his kids for a young one. All didi said was have a bit of respect for your past clubs (newscastle and Qpr) who he was questioning as a choice of destination for Remny.
That gave me a right laugh reading all those tweets. Barton took it to a new level though getting that personal.
Does Barton actually exist or is he some form of caricature from an Irvine Welsh novel?
Just saw Welsh retweet someone saying that Bartonâs like Begbie.
[quote=âBandage, post: 334635â]
Just saw Welsh retweet someone saying that Bartonâs like Begbie.
[/quote]Barton likes to feel up trannys?
Did Barton punch a kid in the face in McDonalds?
Nolberto Solano has got involvedâŚ
And Warren Barton.
Its like the club of former Newcastle midfielders
Sent from my GT-S7500 using TFK App
[quote=âIl Bomber Destro, post: 334592â]
Hope it wasnât any of our resident Wexicans? My initial thoughts were Mac was on the sauce again.[/quote][quote=âGman, post: 334593â]
Des Cahill drawing attention to this tonight on Twitter. Expect RTE to run something on it again soon
Seems bizarre for Cahill to bring that up now.
Thefreekick having a right pop at Tony Leen lets see how this plays outâŚ
Hon TFK
Tony was âsavingâ this intro for a legend apparently. You might think heâd credit the work when he helped himself instead of passing off someone elseâs talent as his own.
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet] @https://twitter.com/rockotfk]rockotfk Would happily plead guilty. Mcilvanny one of fav writers, that intro I always kept for a legend. You'll find sign off similar too. â Tony Leen (@tonyleen) https://twitter.com/tonyleen/status/293842020538150912]January 22, 2013 [/quote] <script async src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js" charset="utf-8]</script>[quote=Rocko" data-cid=â729017â data-time="1358892727]
Tony was âsavingâ this intro for a legend apparently. You might think heâd credit the work when he helped himself instead of passing off someone elseâs talent as his own.
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet] @https://twitter.com/rockotfk]https://twitter.com/rockotfk ]rockotfk Would happily plead guilty. Mcilvanny one of fav writers, that intro I always kept for a legend. You'll find sign off similar too. â Tony Leen (@tonyleen) https://twitter.com/tonyleen/status/293842020538150912]https://twitter.com/tonyleen/status/293842020538150912 ]January 22, 2013 [/quote] <script async src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js" charset="utf-8]</script>[/quote] <p>Fact. Plagiarist.</p>Rocko, you might post that interaction on the thread set up by âCoincidenceâ. He might only look in on that original thread.
for the article Leen plagiarised on Jock Stein though.
The larcenous nature of death, its habit of breaking in on us when we are least prepared and stealing the irreplaceable, has seldom been more sickeningly experienced than at Ninian Park in Cardiff on Tuesday night.
Those of us who crowded sweatily into the small entrance hall of the main stand to wait for word of Jock Steinâs condition will always remember the long half hour in which the understandable vagueness of reports filtering from the dressing-room area lulled us into believing that Jock was going to make it through yet another crisis. The raw dread that had been spread among us by his collapse on the touchline at the end of the Wales-Scotland World Cup match gave way to the more bearable gloom of acknowledging that the career of one of the greatest managers football has known would have to be ended by immediate retirement.
Then - off in a corner of that confused room - Mike England, the manager of Wales and a deeply concerned first-hand witness of what had been happening to Stein, was heard to say that he was still âvery, very poorlyâ. There was no mistaking the true meaning of those words and suddenly the sense of relief that had been infiltrating our anxieties was exposed as baseless. We felt almost guilty about having allowed ourselves to be comforted by rumours. Then, abruptly, we knew for sure that the Big Man was dead and for some of us it was indeed as if our spirits, our very lives, had been burglarised.
Of all the reactions to Steinâs death, none meant more than that of the thousands of Scotlandâs travelling supporters who learned of it haphazardly but with eerie swiftness as they got ready to celebrate a ragged draw against Wales that should guarantee their team a passage to the World Cup finals in Mexico next summer. They are, given half an excuse, the most raucously exuberant fans in the game but as midnight neared in Cardiff on Tuesday they wandered through the streets in subdued clusters, sustaining the unforced atmosphere of mourning that pervaded the hundreds who waited silently in the darkness outside Ninian Park after the last hope of reviving the stricken man inside had been abandoned.
There is no doubt that the Scots have a highly developed capacity for the elegiac mood, especially when there is a bottle about, but what was to be encountered in South Wales last week was no cheap example of the genre. When travel-soiled units of the tartan expeditionary force interrupted their morose drinking to propose toasts to the lost leader, anybody cynical enough to see such behaviour as just another maudlin ritual doesnât know much about the way the power of Jock Steinâs nature communicated itself to millions of ordinary people.
His achievements in football were monumental, but they can only partially explain his impact upon and relevance to so many lives. Perhaps he was cherished simply because he was a true working class hero - and that is a species which is disappearing almost as fast in industrial Scotland as elsewhere, if only because the values that governed its creation are being relentlessly eroded day by day. Even the common misery of unemployment has not halted the fragmentation of a sense of community that once seemed indestructible.
In an age when, if I may quote a line from my brother Williamâs latest novel, it is as if âevery man and his family were a private companyâ, Stein was the unpretentious embodiment of that older, better code that was until not so long ago the compensatory inheritance of all who were born of the labouring poor. No one was ever likely to mistake him for saint, or even a repository of bland altruism. He could look after himself and his own in the market place or anywhere else, but there was never the remotest danger that he would be contaminated by the materialism that engulfs so many of those who find prosperity through sport or other forms of entertainment.
These days it is hard to avoid having the eardrums battered by some unlikely pillar of the New Right who - having persuaded himself that a largely fortuitous ability to kick a football or volley a tennis ball or belt out a pop song or tell a few jokes more acceptable than the next man is actually evidence of his own splendid mastery of his fate - insists that the dole queues would fade away over night if people got off their arses, got on their bikes and showed the enterprise that has carried him to what he imagines is glory. Steinâs whole life was a repudiation of such garbage.
He was utterly Scottish, utterly Lanarkshire in fact, but his was the kind of loyalty to his roots that made his principles universal. His father was a miner who was a minerâs son and Stein himself worked underground until turning belatedly to full-time professional football at the age of 27. During a long, incalculably rewarding friendship with him, I heard him say many memorable things and some of the most vivid were inevitably about the game he loved and the great practitioners of it, but he was most moved and most moving when he talked of that earlier phase of his working experience.
There was a dynamic, combative quality to most of his conversation (mischievous wind-up was a favourite mode and, though he did not drink alcohol, he occasionally dipped his barbs in curare) but when the subject was mining and miners, a tone of wistful reverie invaded his voice. 'I went down the pit when I was 16 (at first I was working with ponies - it was still that era) and when I left 11 years later I knew that wherever I went, whatever work I did, Iâd never be alongside better men. They didnât just get their own work done and go away. They all stayed around until every man had finished what he had to do and everything was cleared up. Of course, in the bad or dangerous times that was even more true. It was a place where phoneys and cheats couldnât survive for long.
âDown there for eight hours youâre away from Godâs fresh air and sunshine and thereâs nothing that can compensate for that. Thereâs nothing as dark as the darkness down a pit, the blackness that closes in on you if your lamp goes out. Youâd think you would see some kind of shapes but you can see nothing, nothing but the inside of your head. I think everybody should go down the pit at least once to learn what darkness isâŚâ