quote:

After tonight's debacle I decided to sit down and do some research on the man currently called Royston Vontavius Hodgson XVII. Delving deeper than the usual "35 years" I found some information out about the man that I thought most people might not know about. Something to give us all a bit of perspective in this tumultuous time for our club.

Roy began his life, believe it or not, as a great leader of men.


Isildur Roy Hodgson deciding not to destroy the ring of Sauron.

Isildur Roy Hodgson

Picture the scene: You are battling against an army of unimaginable proportion and strength. The leader of that army, a loving massive guy made a sharp black metal, has a ring that he can use to beat you, no matter what you do. Pretty hopeless? Well not according Elendil Hodgson, Roy's father. Being full of hardy English mettle, this old man walked right up to his opponent and cut the weapon out of his hand. He died doing it, but more importantly, he killed his opponent as well.

Now Roy was left with a choice. The weapon was given to him, as his father's heir. Should he destroy it or keep it? Destroying it would mean that his enemy was utterly vanquished forever. Keeping it meant there was a risk of him coming back one day. A no brainer. But Roy being Roy, he decided to keep it. If that wasn't enough, he wore it around his neck on a chain, like a loving bullseye to all his enemies. When his generals warned him against it he just mumbled incoherently and told them he had "35 years experience" of wearing magic rings around his neck. Only problem with that was the rings he'd been wearing around his neck were of paltry magic. Some of them could turn off milk good again. Others created a force field around you to protect you from bad breath.

So what happens? You guessed it, Roy was slain by his enemies, dying with a "Wibble" and the ring was lost for thousands of years. During those years his enemy secretly rebuilt his power, eventually seeking out his lost ring.

Denethor Roy Hodgson


Denethor Roy Hodgson enjoying a frappuccino.

Now by the time the enemy had rebuilt his power, he had a most formidable opponent in the land of Gondor who went by the name of Denethor Roy Hodgson. He was a direct descendant of Isildur, but on the stupid side of the family.

Hearing of the recovery of the ring that Isildur had so spectacularly failed to destroy all those years ago, the old fool rubbed his hands together with glee (also his favourite tv show), and requested that his son Boromir Poulsen Hodgson retreive it for him. Unfortunately the documents I uncovered do not go into detail about what happened to Boromir, but they do say he died. There are suggestions that he was slain by numerous arrows to the chest, being totally incapable of defending himself, and really slow at attacking. But those are spurious rumours.


A publicity shot of Boromir Poulsen Hodgson taken before his fateful trip in search of the Ring.

Now that the ring was lost to him, he blamed his younger son Faramir Paul loving Konchesky Hodgson. Roy was genuinely shocked when Faramir came back from an important stronghold which he had allowed to fall into enemy hands. Why this was a surprise to him was anyone's guess. The popular left-leaning newspaper The Gondorian, in particular, pointed to a long history of defensive lapses made by Faramir in battle, but Roy seemed oblivious, simply rubbing his face when asked for comment.


Faramir Paul loving Konchesky Hodgson posing for a photo with a crowd of fans.

Eventually, with his city surrounded by enemies, Roy decided that the best form of attack was to set himself alight and dive off the top level of the seven-levelled city. Again, this tactic was atrocious, but it worked better than any of his previous tactics, in that some of his enemies fell to the floor laughing and ended up choking to death on vomit. He later described this as a "famous victory" despite his city lying in ruins and actually being dead.

Pontius Roy Hodgson


Pontius Roy Hodgson being requested to save Bwian from crucifixion by his subjects. This real life speech impediment would later inspire Michael Palin's portrayal of him in The Passion of The Christ

Now we enter the footballing era of Roy's historical legacy. His first job as manager saw him take charge of the Roman Empire. It was during this time that he oversaw the decline of the Roman first team. His mistakes are too numerous to recount here so I will concentrate one the one which has gone down as his biggest.
You may be familiar with the name Jesus Christ?

Of course we all know he was the left winger who went on to be one of the biggest stars in world football for almost two thousand years. But back then he was just a promising young talent. After a few appearances for the first team, Roy was starting to grow impatient with the tricky speedster, who had been singled out as one of the team's most inconsistent performers. In six appearances Jesus had set up no goals and hadn't even hit a shot on target. There was some controversy when Roy was recorded as saying that Jesus "Couldn't hit a cross if he was nailed to one." This sparked a feud between the two which culminated in Roy actually having Jesus nailed to a cross for three days and nights in an attempt to "familiawise him" to crosses. This method was contrary to the "arm around the shoulder" method that Roy had, somehow, become synonymous with during his short spell in Rome.


Jesus Christ playing for Barcelona in 2009 amid rumours of an imminent retirement.

Rome's misfortunes mounted after this, with several loses to rivals Carthage, managed by future Barcelona manager Hannibal, Roy saw his popularity hit an all time low and the board were forced to sack him in the face of a peasant revolt. He was replaced with Caligula. Roy himself used what was left of his reputation to secure the Bordeaux job.

Napoleon Roy Hodgson

There is a huge gap in the record after his time in Rome and he doesn't resurface until the late 18th century in France. Eyebrows were raised when Napoleon Roy Hodgson was given the France job. His predecessor was so unpopular that he had literally been guillotined. Roy knew from the off that he needed big results to appease the demanding fans of Les Bleus. To be fair to him, his early results were more than anyone expected after the previous regime's mismanagment. He unified the players and the fans under the same banner and went on a march throughout Europe that no one saw coming, winning three consecutive European Championships and a World Cup (although participation in the World Cup was much less at this point, it was still seen as a more difficult cup to win).


Napoleon Roy Hodgson posing for a Panini sticker album for the 1810 European Championships

Things seemed to be going incredibly well for Roy, until a poor Qualifying campaign for the 1814 European Championships, saw a French squad wracked by injuries, travel to Russia in a win or bust match. Roy, as he had become accustomed to in his time in France, set his team to attack from the off. For the first 60 minutes his France were all over Alexander's Russia, pressing high up the pitch and playing fast, offensive football that was a joy to behold. However, his poor grasp of sports science and tendancy not to listen to his physios, saw his players run out of gas with half an hour left and only a two goal lead. The Russians, accustomed to the intense cold, still had a lot left in their tanks and ended up running out 4-2 winners.

In a decision which shocked the footballing world, Roy was sacked the next morning and blacklisted from all the top leagues in Europe. It was here that Roy's attacking philosphy died. He would never go out to win from the start of a match ever again.

He took the only job that he could get and sank into obscurity managing the semi-professional island nation of St. Helena.


And that is where the record ends. While his exploits across the millennia must be wide-ranging, it appears that most of his troubled past is lost to the annals of time, perhaps to be rediscovered one day by a time-faring space adventurer. Until then, this is all we have of the life, the times, of Royston Vontavius Hodgson XVII

cat scratch achiever posted:

is that the same guy who did these:

luvd posted:

These are incredible.

cat scratch achiever posted:

is that the same guy who did these:

cat scratch achiever posted:

search deviantart for "lord of the reds" by all means

c0burn posted:

Well, loving Hell. Cringe.

Borogrove posted:

It could be worse, she could write Lord of the reds slashfic.

quote:

S/X Fic - Jealousy, Tattoos and Butterflies
Title : Jealousy, Tattoos and Butterflies
Pairing : Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso
Rating : PG13
Summary : Stevie is jealous of a certain Dane with tattoos.
Disclaimer : This is a story contrived from my imagination.
Warnings : Romance, fluff.
Feedbacks : I'd love to hear your feedback and comments. It keeps me going.
A/N : I am just reposting some of my old fics in this journal, so some of you may have read this before. And this story was written in 2007. And yes, I've been writing them for that long.

irlZaphod posted:

Just because you haven't read it doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

Jose posted:

Alan Smith?

cat scratch achiever posted:

is that the same guy who did these:

quote:

they need at least European football, I'm looking at a couple scenarios from most to least likely (hopefully):
1. New Manager, play attacking football cusp of the Champions League maybe get it, maybe settle for Europa.
2. Caretaker Boss, but damage done already midtable finish.
3. Hodgson Stays, fired at the the end of the season, not relegated.
4. Hodgson Stays, fired at the the end of the season, relegated. Buy a bunch of youngsters/ promote from within (classic American team type rebuilding)
5. Hodgson Stays, wins an away game or any three games in a row.

Borogrove posted:

oh lord

http://soccer-writer.livejournal.com/

c0burn posted:

Anyone who writes fan fiction should be hung drawn and quartered.

quote:

This is a collab between myself (chelletwi83) and my dear friend Chartwilightmom.

The idea came from my love of Manchester United (the biggest soccer club and england) and Chartwilightmom's love of all things british.

Edward is a from Manchester and I shall be handling his POV as I too am a Manc!

Chartwilightmom shall be handling the American side (BPOV)



Prologue.

All my life had led up to this moment.

The lights of the stadium were almost blinding and the atmosphere was undeniably electric.

The adrenalin pumped through my veins like a drug.

Every bit of training at Carrington, every Premier League match, the group stages of this tournament and even my time spent as a youngster at the academy made me the player I am, good enough to stand beside some of the biggest names in world soccer.

The mistakes I had made had enabled me to realize what really mattered. All the gently caress ups I was responsible for, the women I had used and thrown aside needing nothing from them but a cheap bit of pussy, the fights I got into because I had issues controlling my rear end in a top hat tendencies. They had all taught me valuable lessons about the kind of man I wanted to be.

I had the chance now to prove to them all, all the doubters that I had been worth the time, money and effort I was afforded.

I would play for the people who helped me get here, pulled me back from the brink of self destruction. Who believed I could change when there were those who thought I was a lost cause, a liability.

But she, she had believed and I would do this ultimately for her.

Even if she couldn't be here to see it, I would pour every ounce of my being into my game tonight to make her proud so if she ever did get to see, she would know I hadn't given up.

I looked to the stands, trying to see my sister and my friends I spotted them almost immediately and my sister was already in full soccer hooligan mode and I could see her exchanging some not so friendly banter with the opposing teams fans.

Bella would have loved to come with me to Italy, she had once told me it was one of her favourite places on earth.

I would bring her here someday, if I got the chance, gently caress that, I would move heaven and earth to make sure I did.

I had lot of people to thank for the faith they had in me but none more so then Bella Swan.

Her 'take no poo poo policy' had been a little hard for me to deal with at first but once I had got past the cold exterior she like to exude I discovered the most loving and amazing woman I have ever known.

Bella Swan was my saving grace.

And I had not been able to save her back, not from that bitch. She was too determined to make me suffer.

A woman scorned and all that.

I believed she was still alive that she wasn't quite far gone enough in the loving head to kill her or really hurt and anyhow I knew if she was truly gone from this world I would feel it.

I felt her absence greatly, no more so then in this very moment but my heart told me she was still on this earth somewhere, she should be here witnessing first hand the culmination of her efforts.

But that loving bitch took that away from her, from us.

The chances of that bunny boiling twatwaffle actually letting her watch it were very slim.

We were lining up, both teams standing side by side as they always do before a Champions League match.

The flashes of thousands of cameras went off trying to capture the moment. I could feel the hairs stand up on my neck, it all felt so surreal.

I felt Jasper and Emmett who were stood on either side of me shifting from foot to foot, it was not like either of them to get nervous before a match.

But this wasn't just any match. This was the match, the one that every player at club level aims to be a part of.

Being part of a club like Manchester United you are always likely to play at the very top level of the sport but it's still a huge deal for all of us young lads who have never been here. Not like Paul and Ryan who have done this three times.

"Man, I really hope Kaka's off his game tonight," Jasper whispered out the side of his mouth. I simply nodded in agreement not wanting to be caught on camera seeming anything less then one hundred percent focused so on the unlikely chance that motherfucking bitch was letting her watch then she would see that all those things she said and did had stuck with me.

The first notes of the Champions League theme song sounded and the already charged atmosphere went stratospheric.

The players from the Real Madrid team began to move across our line shaking our hands as was customary but not before the team Captains had exchanged their respective clubs motif.

I glanced over to Carlisle, he nodded his head at me and I knew he was trying to tell me that Bella would want me to play and it would all be okay one way or another.

I had to have faith although with everyday that she was gone my faith was tested more and more but I knew she would want this, she had worked so hard to get me here, not playing would have been a huge slap in the face to her.

All twenty-two of us took up our individual positions and kept out muscles warm by moving around while we waited for the ref to blow the whistle and start the game.

Then all of a sudden the whistle was blown, I kissed the club crest on my playing shirt as I always did at the start of a game and sent out thoughts to my Bella hoping she could some how hear me.

That this was for her.

quote:

The difference between Mourinho and Rafa is the difference between Alexander The Great and Julius Caesar.

One strived for fame and built an empire that only lasted during his lifetime, once he went it all fell apart. Short-term it was, nothing was left afterwards for continuation. Not the affection of the populace or of he generals to continue on his legacy.

The other strengthened what he was given and tried to build a dynasty, in the end he lost the battle with his life but ultimately in time he won the war and which led to an empire lasting centuries.

quote:

A footballing tragedy. A human tragedy

I wasn't fortunate enough to be following the shirts on that fateful day in 1989, but I've often fantasised about it. Being caught up in it all. My family being caught up in it. It's given me nightmares. I've had sleepless nights.

I never thought I would have an experience like it. Infact, I prayed to God that I wouldn't.

But now I have. It's here.

Roy Hodgson is my generation's tragedy. Our Hillsborough. He is our South Yorkshire police.

We need to get Hodgson out of our club. He is a tragedy for our club that ranks right up there, or greater than any tragedy we have ever experienced.

This time, though, we can do something about it. We have the power. Not them. Not the media. Not the police. Not the politicians. Us. Scousers. Supporters.

We all need to get on Twitter and message John Henry (@John_W_Henry) and tell him how we feel. Tell him that he is the only man capable of performing chemo on our cancer.

Maybe then, if we all stand up, we won't be telling our grandchildren of our great tragedy in 2011.

luvd posted:

and


but that last one is probably a troll

c0burn posted:

Do you think?

Grez posted:

Grez posted:

TyChan posted:

How could you leave out the titles?

"Rafa the White"

"Nandolas and Carragorn"

ibroxmassive posted:

openbook.org, disparaging team names and player nicknames are a goldmine.

The worlds best scarf for a start

ibroxmassive posted: