We'll offer 1.5 million.
Actually, we've already spent 1.5 million this window.
The remaining budget can be seen in my avatar. ;'(
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Football Thread 2012/13 |OT| The Beautiful Game
- Thread starter elseanio
- Start date
- Status
We'll offer 1.5 million.
Actually, we've already spent 1.5 million this window.
The remaining budget can be seen in my avatar. ;'(
The Curious Case Of Anderson Luís de Abreu Oliveira
As long ago as 2007 it was the proper thing to be sold in the transfer window. At present, so I am told, the high gods of Premier League clubs have decreed that the first kicks of the young shall be uttered upon the illuminating air of a training ground, preferably one with a cafe. So young Mr. Ferguson were twenty years ahead of style when they decided, one day in the summer of 2007, that his first summer signing should be bought in a training ground cafe. Whether this anachronism had any bearing upon the astonishing history I am about to set down will never be known.
I shall tell you what occurred, and let you judge for yourself.
Ferguson held an enviable position, both social and financial, in ante-bellum Manchester. They had power over the Webb Family and the Clattenberg Family, which, as every referee knew, entitled them to every signing in that enormous window which largely populated the summer silly season. This was their first experience with the charming old custom of buying Brazilians -- Mr. Ferguson was naturally nervous. He hoped it would be a buy that could be sent to play on loan for Rangers, at which institution Mr. Ferguson himself had been known for four years by the somewhat obvious nickname of "Sharp Elbows."
On the August morning consecrated to the enormous event he arose nervously at six o'clock, dressed himself, adjusted an impeccable stock, and hurried forth through the streets of Manchester to the training ground, to determine whether the darkness of the night had borne in new life upon its bosom.
When he was approximately a hundred yards from the training ground he saw Roy Keane, the Irish midfielder, descending the front steps, rubbing his hands together with a washing movement -- as all players are required to do by the unwritten ethics of their profession.
Mr. Ferguson, the manager of Manchester United Football Club, began to run toward Roy Keane with much less dignity than was expected from a Scottish gentleman of that picturesque period. "Roy!" he called. "Oh, Roy!"
The midfielder heard him, faced around, and stood waiting, a curious expression settling on his harsh, mental face as Mr. Ferguson drew near.
"What happened?" demanded Ferguson, as he came up in a gasping rush. "What was it? How is David? A buy? Who is it? What -- "
"Talk sense!" said Roy sharply. He appeared somewhat irritated.
"Is the player signed?" begged Mr. Ferguson.
Roy frowned. "Why, yes, I suppose so -- after a fashion." Again he threw a curious glance at Mr. Ferguson.
"Is David Gill all right?"
"Yes."
"Is it a buy or a contract dispute?"
"Here now!" cried Roy in a perfect passion of irritation, "I'll ask you to go and see for yourself. Outrageous!" He snapped the last word out in almost one syllable, then he turned away muttering: "Do you imagine a case like this will help my professional reputation? One more would ruin me -- ruin anybody."
"What's the matter?" demanded Mr. Ferguson, appalled. "Injured?"
"No, not injured!" answered the midfielder cuttingly. "What's more, you can go and see for yourself. And get another player. I brought success into the world, old fuck, and I've been midfielder to your club for fifteen years, but I'm through with you! I'm through with Darren Fletcher, I'm through with Liam fucking Miller! I don't want to see you or any of your players ever again! Good-bye!"
Then he turned sharply, and without another word climbed into his Fiat Punto, which was waiting at the curbstone, and drove severely away.
Mr. Ferguson stood there upon the sidewalk, stupefied and trembling from head to foot. What horrible mishap had occurred? He had suddenly lost all desire to go into the training ground cafe -- it was with the greatest difficulty that, a moment later, he forced himself to mount the steps and enter the front door.
Mike Phelan was sitting behind a desk in the opaque gloom of the hall. Swallowing his shame, Mr. Ferguson approached him
"Good-morning," he remarked, looking up at him pleasantly.
"Good-morning. I -- I am Mr. Ferguson."
At this a look of utter terror spread itself over the short wearing assistant manager's face. He rose to his feet and seemed about to fly from the hall, restraining himself only with the most apparent difficulty.
"I want to see my signing," said Mr. Ferguson.
Phelan gave a little scream. "Oh -- of course!" he cried hysterically. "Upstairs. Right upstairs. Go -- up!"
He pointed the direction, and Mr. Ferguson, bathed in a cool perspiration, turned falteringly, and began to mount to the second floor. In the upper hall he addressed Rene Meulesteen who approached him, basin in hand. "I'm Mr. Alex Ferguson," he managed to articulate. "I want to see my -- "
Clank! The basin clattered to the floor and rolled in the direction of the stairs. Clank! Clank! It began a methodical descent as if sharing in the general terror which this gentleman provoked.
"I want to see my signing!" Mr. Ferguson almost shrieked. He was on the verge of collapse.
Clank! The basin had reached the first floor. Rene regained control of himself, and threw Mr. Ferguson a look of hearty contempt.
"All right, Mr. Ferguson," he agreed in a hushed voice. "Very well! But if you knew what state it's put us all in this morning! It's perfectly outrageous! The club will never have the ghost of a reputation after -- "
"Hurry!" he cried hoarsely. "I can't stand this!"
"Come this way, then, Mr. Ferguson."
He dragged himself after Rene. At the end of a long hall they reached a room from which proceeded a variety of cakes -- indeed, a room which, in later parlance, would have been known as the "kitchen." They entered. Ranged around the walls were half a dozen white-enameled rolling pins, each with a tag tied at the head.
"Well," gasped Mr. Ferguson, "which is mine?"
"There!" said Rene.
Mr. Ferguson's eyes followed Rene's pointing finger, and this is what he saw. Wrapped in a voluminous white blanket, and partially crammed into one of the cribs, there sat an fat bastard apparently about seventy pounds. His dreadlocked hair was jet black, and from his chin dripped a lot of baked bean sauce, which drizzled absurdly back and forth, fanned by the breeze coming in at the window. He looked up at Mr. Ferguson with dim, faded eyes in which lurked a puzzled question.
"Am I mad?" thundered Mr. Ferguson, his terror resolving into rage. "Is this some ghastly hospital joke?"
"It doesn't seem like a joke to us," replied Rene severely. "And I don't know whether you're mad or not -- but that is most certainly your signing."
The cool perspiration redoubled on Mr. Ferguson's forehead. He closed his eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was no mistake -- he was gazing at a man of thirty stone -- a signing of thirty stone, a signing whose gut hung over the sides of the chair in which it was reposing.
The fat man looked placidly from one to the other for a moment, and then suddenly spoke in a cracked and foreign voice. "Are you my manager?" he demanded.
Mr. Ferguson and Rene started violently.
"Because if you are," went on the fat bastard querulously, "I wish you'd get me out of this place -- or, at least, get them to put a fucking sandwich in here."
"Where in God's name did you come from? Who are you?" burst out Mr. Ferguson frantically.
"I can't tell you exactly who I am," replied the greedy whine, "because I've only been here a few hours -- but my name is certainly Anderson."
"You lie! You're an impostor!"
The fat bastard turned wearily to Rene. "Nice way to welcome a new signing," he complained in a weak voice. "Tell him he's wrong, why don't you?"
"You're wrong, Mr. Ferguson," said Rene severely. "This is your signing, and you'll have to make the best of it. We're going to ask you to take him on tour with you as soon as possible -- some time today."
"Home?" repeated Mr. Ferguson incredulously.
"Yes, we can't have him here. We really can't, you know?"
"I'm right glad of it," whined the fat man. "This is a fine place to keep a youngster of such tastes. With all this yelling and howling, I haven't been able to get a pie or a bacon butty. I asked for something to eat" -- here his voice rose to a shrill note of protest -- "and they brought me a bottle of milk!"
Mr. Ferguson sank down upon a chair near his new signing and concealed his face in his hands. "My heavens!" he murmured, in an ecstasy of horror. "What will people say? What must I do?"
"You'll have to take him on tour," insisted Rene -- "immediately!"
A grotesque picture formed itself with dreadful clarity before the eyes of the tortured man -- a picture of himself walking through the crowded streets of the city with this appalling apparition stalking by his side. "I can't. I can't," he moaned.
People would stop to speak to him, and what was he going to say? He would have to introduce this -- this fat fucking monster: "This is my new signing, bought early this morning." And then the fat man would gather his blanket around him and they would plod on, past the bustling stores, the transfer market -- for a dark instant Mr. Ferguson wished passionately that his son was a City supporter -- past the luxurious houses of the residential district, past the home for the aged....
"Come! Pull yourself together," commanded Rene.
"See here," the fat man announced suddenly, "if you think I'm going to walk home in this blanket, you're entirely mistaken."
"Fat wankers always have blankets."
With a malicious crackle the fat man held up a small white swaddling garment. "Look!" he quavered. "This is what they had ready for me."
"Fat bastards always wear those," said Rene primly.
"Well," said the old man, "this fat twat's not going to wear anything in about two minutes. This blanket itches. They might at least have given me a sheet."
"Keep it on! Keep it on!" said Mr. Ferguson hurriedly. He turned to the nurse. "What'll I do?"
"Go downtown and buy your signing some training gear."
Mr. Ferguson's player's voice followed him down into the hall: "And a cake, gaffer. I want to have a cake."
Mr. Ferguson banged the outer door savagely...
As long ago as 2007 it was the proper thing to be sold in the transfer window. At present, so I am told, the high gods of Premier League clubs have decreed that the first kicks of the young shall be uttered upon the illuminating air of a training ground, preferably one with a cafe. So young Mr. Ferguson were twenty years ahead of style when they decided, one day in the summer of 2007, that his first summer signing should be bought in a training ground cafe. Whether this anachronism had any bearing upon the astonishing history I am about to set down will never be known.
I shall tell you what occurred, and let you judge for yourself.
Ferguson held an enviable position, both social and financial, in ante-bellum Manchester. They had power over the Webb Family and the Clattenberg Family, which, as every referee knew, entitled them to every signing in that enormous window which largely populated the summer silly season. This was their first experience with the charming old custom of buying Brazilians -- Mr. Ferguson was naturally nervous. He hoped it would be a buy that could be sent to play on loan for Rangers, at which institution Mr. Ferguson himself had been known for four years by the somewhat obvious nickname of "Sharp Elbows."
On the August morning consecrated to the enormous event he arose nervously at six o'clock, dressed himself, adjusted an impeccable stock, and hurried forth through the streets of Manchester to the training ground, to determine whether the darkness of the night had borne in new life upon its bosom.
When he was approximately a hundred yards from the training ground he saw Roy Keane, the Irish midfielder, descending the front steps, rubbing his hands together with a washing movement -- as all players are required to do by the unwritten ethics of their profession.
Mr. Ferguson, the manager of Manchester United Football Club, began to run toward Roy Keane with much less dignity than was expected from a Scottish gentleman of that picturesque period. "Roy!" he called. "Oh, Roy!"
The midfielder heard him, faced around, and stood waiting, a curious expression settling on his harsh, mental face as Mr. Ferguson drew near.
"What happened?" demanded Ferguson, as he came up in a gasping rush. "What was it? How is David? A buy? Who is it? What -- "
"Talk sense!" said Roy sharply. He appeared somewhat irritated.
"Is the player signed?" begged Mr. Ferguson.
Roy frowned. "Why, yes, I suppose so -- after a fashion." Again he threw a curious glance at Mr. Ferguson.
"Is David Gill all right?"
"Yes."
"Is it a buy or a contract dispute?"
"Here now!" cried Roy in a perfect passion of irritation, "I'll ask you to go and see for yourself. Outrageous!" He snapped the last word out in almost one syllable, then he turned away muttering: "Do you imagine a case like this will help my professional reputation? One more would ruin me -- ruin anybody."
"What's the matter?" demanded Mr. Ferguson, appalled. "Injured?"
"No, not injured!" answered the midfielder cuttingly. "What's more, you can go and see for yourself. And get another player. I brought success into the world, old fuck, and I've been midfielder to your club for fifteen years, but I'm through with you! I'm through with Darren Fletcher, I'm through with Liam fucking Miller! I don't want to see you or any of your players ever again! Good-bye!"
Then he turned sharply, and without another word climbed into his Fiat Punto, which was waiting at the curbstone, and drove severely away.
Mr. Ferguson stood there upon the sidewalk, stupefied and trembling from head to foot. What horrible mishap had occurred? He had suddenly lost all desire to go into the training ground cafe -- it was with the greatest difficulty that, a moment later, he forced himself to mount the steps and enter the front door.
Mike Phelan was sitting behind a desk in the opaque gloom of the hall. Swallowing his shame, Mr. Ferguson approached him
"Good-morning," he remarked, looking up at him pleasantly.
"Good-morning. I -- I am Mr. Ferguson."
At this a look of utter terror spread itself over the short wearing assistant manager's face. He rose to his feet and seemed about to fly from the hall, restraining himself only with the most apparent difficulty.
"I want to see my signing," said Mr. Ferguson.
Phelan gave a little scream. "Oh -- of course!" he cried hysterically. "Upstairs. Right upstairs. Go -- up!"
He pointed the direction, and Mr. Ferguson, bathed in a cool perspiration, turned falteringly, and began to mount to the second floor. In the upper hall he addressed Rene Meulesteen who approached him, basin in hand. "I'm Mr. Alex Ferguson," he managed to articulate. "I want to see my -- "
Clank! The basin clattered to the floor and rolled in the direction of the stairs. Clank! Clank! It began a methodical descent as if sharing in the general terror which this gentleman provoked.
"I want to see my signing!" Mr. Ferguson almost shrieked. He was on the verge of collapse.
Clank! The basin had reached the first floor. Rene regained control of himself, and threw Mr. Ferguson a look of hearty contempt.
"All right, Mr. Ferguson," he agreed in a hushed voice. "Very well! But if you knew what state it's put us all in this morning! It's perfectly outrageous! The club will never have the ghost of a reputation after -- "
"Hurry!" he cried hoarsely. "I can't stand this!"
"Come this way, then, Mr. Ferguson."
He dragged himself after Rene. At the end of a long hall they reached a room from which proceeded a variety of cakes -- indeed, a room which, in later parlance, would have been known as the "kitchen." They entered. Ranged around the walls were half a dozen white-enameled rolling pins, each with a tag tied at the head.
"Well," gasped Mr. Ferguson, "which is mine?"
"There!" said Rene.
Mr. Ferguson's eyes followed Rene's pointing finger, and this is what he saw. Wrapped in a voluminous white blanket, and partially crammed into one of the cribs, there sat an fat bastard apparently about seventy pounds. His dreadlocked hair was jet black, and from his chin dripped a lot of baked bean sauce, which drizzled absurdly back and forth, fanned by the breeze coming in at the window. He looked up at Mr. Ferguson with dim, faded eyes in which lurked a puzzled question.
"Am I mad?" thundered Mr. Ferguson, his terror resolving into rage. "Is this some ghastly hospital joke?"
"It doesn't seem like a joke to us," replied Rene severely. "And I don't know whether you're mad or not -- but that is most certainly your signing."
The cool perspiration redoubled on Mr. Ferguson's forehead. He closed his eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was no mistake -- he was gazing at a man of thirty stone -- a signing of thirty stone, a signing whose gut hung over the sides of the chair in which it was reposing.
The fat man looked placidly from one to the other for a moment, and then suddenly spoke in a cracked and foreign voice. "Are you my manager?" he demanded.
Mr. Ferguson and Rene started violently.
"Because if you are," went on the fat bastard querulously, "I wish you'd get me out of this place -- or, at least, get them to put a fucking sandwich in here."
"Where in God's name did you come from? Who are you?" burst out Mr. Ferguson frantically.
"I can't tell you exactly who I am," replied the greedy whine, "because I've only been here a few hours -- but my name is certainly Anderson."
"You lie! You're an impostor!"
The fat bastard turned wearily to Rene. "Nice way to welcome a new signing," he complained in a weak voice. "Tell him he's wrong, why don't you?"
"You're wrong, Mr. Ferguson," said Rene severely. "This is your signing, and you'll have to make the best of it. We're going to ask you to take him on tour with you as soon as possible -- some time today."
"Home?" repeated Mr. Ferguson incredulously.
"Yes, we can't have him here. We really can't, you know?"
"I'm right glad of it," whined the fat man. "This is a fine place to keep a youngster of such tastes. With all this yelling and howling, I haven't been able to get a pie or a bacon butty. I asked for something to eat" -- here his voice rose to a shrill note of protest -- "and they brought me a bottle of milk!"
Mr. Ferguson sank down upon a chair near his new signing and concealed his face in his hands. "My heavens!" he murmured, in an ecstasy of horror. "What will people say? What must I do?"
"You'll have to take him on tour," insisted Rene -- "immediately!"
A grotesque picture formed itself with dreadful clarity before the eyes of the tortured man -- a picture of himself walking through the crowded streets of the city with this appalling apparition stalking by his side. "I can't. I can't," he moaned.
People would stop to speak to him, and what was he going to say? He would have to introduce this -- this fat fucking monster: "This is my new signing, bought early this morning." And then the fat man would gather his blanket around him and they would plod on, past the bustling stores, the transfer market -- for a dark instant Mr. Ferguson wished passionately that his son was a City supporter -- past the luxurious houses of the residential district, past the home for the aged....
"Come! Pull yourself together," commanded Rene.
"See here," the fat man announced suddenly, "if you think I'm going to walk home in this blanket, you're entirely mistaken."
"Fat wankers always have blankets."
With a malicious crackle the fat man held up a small white swaddling garment. "Look!" he quavered. "This is what they had ready for me."
"Fat bastards always wear those," said Rene primly.
"Well," said the old man, "this fat twat's not going to wear anything in about two minutes. This blanket itches. They might at least have given me a sheet."
"Keep it on! Keep it on!" said Mr. Ferguson hurriedly. He turned to the nurse. "What'll I do?"
"Go downtown and buy your signing some training gear."
Mr. Ferguson's player's voice followed him down into the hall: "And a cake, gaffer. I want to have a cake."
Mr. Ferguson banged the outer door savagely...
Tim the Wiz
Banned
Like 10 minutes haha. Was just a matter of changing the word Button to Ferguson 500 times and talking about cakes a lot.
Best avatar.
Regulus Tera
Romanes Eunt Domus
another sleepless night for me 
fuck this shit
fuck this shitDoes he have a penis tattooed on his arm?
Vivalaraza
Member
Andow's instagramed a picture of himself with Scholes.
Like most of his pictures, this makes me happy and sad in equal measure.
Scholes has a right cheeky smile on in the pic though. I wonder how they communicate. Anderson doesn't know English and Scholes doesn't definitely doesn't know any Spanish or Portuguese.
Like most of his pictures, this makes me happy and sad in equal measure.
Scholes has a right cheeky smile on in the pic though. I wonder how they communicate. Anderson doesn't know English and Scholes doesn't definitely doesn't know any Spanish or Portuguese.
another sleepless night for me
I know how you feel. We're playing Brazil though, so I don't exactly have the highest expectations.
He's been there since 2007 and still doesn't speak English? :O
Vivalaraza
Member
tbf I haven't heard his most recent attempts but up until about a year/2 years ago...his English was very very very basic.
He speaks english, just not very fluent, must be enough to communicate. Loved Rio's video diary for last years tour. Naan bread Nani.
btw anyone got the free Fantasy football gaf-league code?
United's USA Tour last year - Rio Video Diary
part 1 - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1xx3BPEy5YI
part 2 - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SgI4aSRf0oo&feature=relmfu
Ando's english isn't bad in these videos
another clip - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d7BVV2Pvp-s&feature=related
part 1 - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1xx3BPEy5YI
part 2 - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SgI4aSRf0oo&feature=relmfu
Ando's english isn't bad in these videos
another clip - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d7BVV2Pvp-s&feature=related
Tim the Wiz
Banned
He does. Saw an interview with him recently. It's decent.
Anderson's become that guy you can get away with telling
Broder Salsa
Banned
I'm fairly certain the same can be said for Scholes.
United team playing Fifa - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNVOvm9SpS0&feature=relmfu
Grover Cleveland
Member
Rio and Nani are fucking trips!
Vivalaraza
Member
Nani is hilarious, always clowns about.
Regulus Tera
Romanes Eunt Domus
THIS Brazil is mortal. High pressing like the one you guys did against us will drive them crazy.
KidA Seven
Member
Just imagine Ando and Shinji communicating with each other. Shinji probably has his translator with him all the time.
Tim the Wiz
Banned
Didn't Shinji mention in an interview that he's close with Anderson (and Valencia)?
KidA Seven
Member
He's close with Anderson, Valencia, and Chicharito. I wonder if he'll become close to De Gea since De Gea hangs out with Valencia and Chicharito all the time.
He'll learn spanish before he learns english.
lol loved the pedo smile on the Fifa Video.
Regulus Tera
Romanes Eunt Domus
He's getting ready for his inevitable move to Real Madrid/Barcelona in three years or so.
There's really not going to be a legal way to do it that I know of. ESPN shows Premier League matches with regularity and Fox Soccer Channel does as well as Ligue 1 (I think this was mostly on Fox Soccer Plus as I recall) and Serie A, but I can't recall many (if any) Bundesliga matches.
You'd be surprised how much communication you can have with people who can only speak a few words of English.
Shinji can speak at the very least high school level English. 6 years of English is the requisite for Japanese. He can probably understand at least 60-75% of what they say in training but only speak in small succinct phrases or single words.
It's definitely enough to have a friendship off of. I had a girlfriend in Korea who barely spoke a lick of English and everything was communicated through body language, from when we met all the way to the bedroom. Of course it ended when she learned how to say "Married." hahaha
Shinji can speak at the very least high school level English. 6 years of English is the requisite for Japanese. He can probably understand at least 60-75% of what they say in training but only speak in small succinct phrases or single words.
It's definitely enough to have a friendship off of. I had a girlfriend in Korea who barely spoke a lick of English and everything was communicated through body language, from when we met all the way to the bedroom. Of course it ended when she learned how to say "Married." hahaha
Regulus Tera
Romanes Eunt Domus
I should find this offensive but it's actually pretty cool. lol
Ahh forgot about GolTV since I've never had it. The wiki entry mentions Bundesliga matches are sometimes sublicensed to ESPN Deportes and ESPN3 as well.
TWC in NYC apparently has it but no one else does seemingly outside of DirecTV.
KidA Seven
Member
Guaranteed victory for Mexico. Japan has the ultimate choker, Ash.
Welcome. Good thing you're following the Bundesliga, is a very interesting league.
I think you can watch a few Bayern matches on ESPN3, and the rest on GOLTV.
According to wikipedia:
GOL TV has exclusive U.S. and Canadian rights to broadcast the Bundesliga, however ESPN3 also broadcasts certain games that GOL TV does not pick up.
Broder Salsa
Banned
Godammit, less than a week after Morganella got kicked out of the olympics for his racist tweets, Palermo a circus as always.
Mr. Luchador
Member
Japan have so many more global icons. STEP IT UP, MEXICO!
LabouredSubterfuge
Member
Man, I would fucking love it if our buying RVP meant Juve bought Suarez. Delicious.
Sinister.
We're absolutely petrified of his capacity to spurn chances Emile Heskey would bury.
LabouredSubterfuge
Member
Fair point.
In hindsight my comment seems like I'm wishing ill on Juve. Apologies JuveGAF.
The_Hitcher89
Member
It's okay. We're used to it, with FIGC trying to fuck us royally and all that.
Speaking of Suarez, we're not willing to pay 30M€ for Jovetic and we go after Suarez? Bahaha. This is the week our dreams die, I think. I'm ready.
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