beenthere
Dans les cactus il-y-a des cactus
Leeds Predictions
Thursday morning;
In the bucket section of the ironmongery department of Mr Singh's corner shop (Proud home cleaning equipment Partners of Brentford FC 2018-2019); three men, deep in thought, stand and consider the available options. Dean Smith scratches his head, Thomas Frank scratches his chin and Richard O'Kelly scratches his arse (Farmer Giles playing up again). After careful reflection, DS chooses a lovely red one with a white handle, TF goes for a retro brown and orange look; after what seems an eternity RO'K chooses a sturdy galvanised model. Deano bashes the company plastic (15% discount to all Bees) and they emerge into the autumn sunlight carrying their choices. Having read all about the Marcello Bielsa's gimmick, they intend to emulate the table topping coach's behaviour. Who knows, maybe they, like he will gain a unique perspective on the game from the low angle which will enable the Bees to win an away game? It's worth a go.
Given that all rational strategies have fallen short, anything is worth a go to be honest.
Back at Jersey Road gym they decide to try them out and are all sat in a row when Rasmus Ankersen enters the room. "Who the f*ck are you s'posed to f*cking be then?" Demands our Danish DOF. "The three wise f*ckin' monkeys or something? Those Ray Winston "Teach yerself f*ckin English you c*nts" CDs that he got down the car boot sale were never a good idea. "Get the f*ck back out onto the f*cking pitch and knock some f*cking sense into those f*cking overpaid tw*ts out there in them f*cking bras". He points towards a bunch of half-wits (ie our first team squad) who are wearing those funny vest/harnesses that relay data back to the coaches. Our three musketeers blush in unison and leave at a jog.
As they trot over to the lads, Deano has a lightbulb moment. He remembers well the problems he had with Pep, his depressive black labrador dog. After the beast's third escape Mrs Smith had come back from Pets at Home with an electronic collar that administered a mild shock every time the animal strayed. Within days the dog was a nervous wreck, but never absconded again. At lunchtime he gets onto Professor Honeydew at Brentford Labs and by knocking off time a brown paper parcel, his order within, is couriered over to Jersey rd. Sorted
Friday afternoon:
Following arrival in Yorkshire, the boys do a little light training at Garforth Town AFC. Each player' nipples have electrolytic gel applied to them, then each is given a modified vest to wear beneath his shirt. Any mistake during training is punished by a mild electric charge to the player's nipples. It works like a dream and within a few minutes we are back to playing like Barcelona on speed.
Saturday midday:
Team sheets reveal some significant changes. Moses, Nico and Josh Clarke all start. Maupay's on the bench (getting too cocky some say) and Forss starts in his place. The team gingerly don their harnesses and their handsome brown and orange strip.
DS, TF and RO'K sit in a line on their buckets, each of them holding an iPad. Dean controls the forwards, Thomas the midfield and O'Kelly the defence. Yards away El Loco sits on his blue bucket and twitches like a neurotic junkie. He's seriously bonkers.
But, hang on, something's wrong. None of our android players are responding. It's all horribly familiar stuff. We play well without scoring, then a misplaced back pass lets Leeds in and after they've scored we go to pieces and lose shape. The three coaches restart their iPads to no avail. They look at each other in despair.
HT:
Them 1 - Us 0
In the changing room Benrahma changes his perspiration soaked shirt. It is only then that TF notices the small Elastoplast patches on both his nipples. Due to the discomfort from the electricity the lads have used the plasters to minimise the transfer of electricity. O'Kelly rips them - and tufts of Said' s chest hair - off. The Algerian squeals like a stuck pig. Each player in turn suffers the same ignominious fate and eleven smarting players start the second half with all circuits restored.
Straight from the restart we are transformed, the lads respond to every low voltage tweak and we are all over a surprised Leeds. Maupay comes on and does what he does, with two minutes to go it's still one all. The ball falls to Romaine outside the area, an over excited Thomas Frank gives him full voltage, the charge rips through Sawyers' tits down into his leg, BOOOOOOOM. Sparks fly from our boy's boot and the ball rockets into the net. The other lads embrace and him and the combined voltages of all the vests shorts out the circuits. Deano and Frank hug as they jump up and down on their buckets, both buckets collapse and they fall in a heap. Deano clutches his knee, Frank his ankle. O'Kelly falls backwards and strikes his head on the post of the dug out. In the directors box MB looks down and shakes his head wearily. FFS.
Bielsa totally looses it and begins to foam at the mouth, he's forced into a straight jacket and sedated.
It's brilliant.
Full Time
Them 1 - Us 2
Good Times!
On the way back to The Smoke, as the lads look on in hysterics, the electric vests serve to administer emergency ultra-sound treatment to Dean and Thomas' injuries. (ouch)
O'Kelly's head is given a kaolin poultice (one for our older readers there). Luckily for him, the remainder of the cold electrolytic gel is at hand to use as a soothing balm for his haemorrhoids, made worse than ever by the cold galvanised steel of his foolish bucket choice.
In the bucket section of the ironmongery department of Mr Singh's corner shop (Proud home cleaning equipment Partners of Brentford FC 2018-2019); three men, deep in thought, stand and consider the available options. Dean Smith scratches his head, Thomas Frank scratches his chin and Richard O'Kelly scratches his arse (Farmer Giles playing up again). After careful reflection, DS chooses a lovely red one with a white handle, TF goes for a retro brown and orange look; after what seems an eternity RO'K chooses a sturdy galvanised model. Deano bashes the company plastic (15% discount to all Bees) and they emerge into the autumn sunlight carrying their choices. Having read all about the Marcello Bielsa's gimmick, they intend to emulate the table topping coach's behaviour. Who knows, maybe they, like he will gain a unique perspective on the game from the low angle which will enable the Bees to win an away game? It's worth a go.
Given that all rational strategies have fallen short, anything is worth a go to be honest.
Back at Jersey Road gym they decide to try them out and are all sat in a row when Rasmus Ankersen enters the room. "Who the f*ck are you s'posed to f*cking be then?" Demands our Danish DOF. "The three wise f*ckin' monkeys or something? Those Ray Winston "Teach yerself f*ckin English you c*nts" CDs that he got down the car boot sale were never a good idea. "Get the f*ck back out onto the f*cking pitch and knock some f*cking sense into those f*cking overpaid tw*ts out there in them f*cking bras". He points towards a bunch of half-wits (ie our first team squad) who are wearing those funny vest/harnesses that relay data back to the coaches. Our three musketeers blush in unison and leave at a jog.
As they trot over to the lads, Deano has a lightbulb moment. He remembers well the problems he had with Pep, his depressive black labrador dog. After the beast's third escape Mrs Smith had come back from Pets at Home with an electronic collar that administered a mild shock every time the animal strayed. Within days the dog was a nervous wreck, but never absconded again. At lunchtime he gets onto Professor Honeydew at Brentford Labs and by knocking off time a brown paper parcel, his order within, is couriered over to Jersey rd. Sorted
Friday afternoon:
Following arrival in Yorkshire, the boys do a little light training at Garforth Town AFC. Each player' nipples have electrolytic gel applied to them, then each is given a modified vest to wear beneath his shirt. Any mistake during training is punished by a mild electric charge to the player's nipples. It works like a dream and within a few minutes we are back to playing like Barcelona on speed.
Saturday midday:
Team sheets reveal some significant changes. Moses, Nico and Josh Clarke all start. Maupay's on the bench (getting too cocky some say) and Forss starts in his place. The team gingerly don their harnesses and their handsome brown and orange strip.
DS, TF and RO'K sit in a line on their buckets, each of them holding an iPad. Dean controls the forwards, Thomas the midfield and O'Kelly the defence. Yards away El Loco sits on his blue bucket and twitches like a neurotic junkie. He's seriously bonkers.
But, hang on, something's wrong. None of our android players are responding. It's all horribly familiar stuff. We play well without scoring, then a misplaced back pass lets Leeds in and after they've scored we go to pieces and lose shape. The three coaches restart their iPads to no avail. They look at each other in despair.
HT:
Them 1 - Us 0
In the changing room Benrahma changes his perspiration soaked shirt. It is only then that TF notices the small Elastoplast patches on both his nipples. Due to the discomfort from the electricity the lads have used the plasters to minimise the transfer of electricity. O'Kelly rips them - and tufts of Said' s chest hair - off. The Algerian squeals like a stuck pig. Each player in turn suffers the same ignominious fate and eleven smarting players start the second half with all circuits restored.
Straight from the restart we are transformed, the lads respond to every low voltage tweak and we are all over a surprised Leeds. Maupay comes on and does what he does, with two minutes to go it's still one all. The ball falls to Romaine outside the area, an over excited Thomas Frank gives him full voltage, the charge rips through Sawyers' tits down into his leg, BOOOOOOOM. Sparks fly from our boy's boot and the ball rockets into the net. The other lads embrace and him and the combined voltages of all the vests shorts out the circuits. Deano and Frank hug as they jump up and down on their buckets, both buckets collapse and they fall in a heap. Deano clutches his knee, Frank his ankle. O'Kelly falls backwards and strikes his head on the post of the dug out. In the directors box MB looks down and shakes his head wearily. FFS.
Bielsa totally looses it and begins to foam at the mouth, he's forced into a straight jacket and sedated.
It's brilliant.
Full Time
Them 1 - Us 2
Good Times!
On the way back to The Smoke, as the lads look on in hysterics, the electric vests serve to administer emergency ultra-sound treatment to Dean and Thomas' injuries. (ouch)
O'Kelly's head is given a kaolin poultice (one for our older readers there). Luckily for him, the remainder of the cold electrolytic gel is at hand to use as a soothing balm for his haemorrhoids, made worse than ever by the cold galvanised steel of his foolish bucket choice.
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