ECHO Comment: "Fears of Witch-hunt Against Liverpool FC"

[AndyC]

Christ, look at their previews. Makes you thankful for Chico.

Thankful for Chico and some, if that is their idea of a game preview... Shakes head in disbelief.

 

[AndyC]

think mourinho will get the sack after this one. genuinely think so.

If he is to go, please let him go out with a win over them

 

[AlE]

That preview... My cringe glands are in overdrive

 

[davek]

think mourinho will get the sack after this one. genuinely think so.

It's Mourinho v Liverpool mate...only one outcome here!!

 

[Dithering Dougie]

So it's taken all of two games before Klopp has dropped Origi..

 

[TheFinnFan]

It's Mourinho v Liverpool mate...only one outcome here!!

i cant see chelsea winning this sadly. they are a total mess. total.
theres maybe ramires and one or two players playing for Mo, but other ones are not arsed. Certain win for RS sadly.
I hope im wrong.

 

[Kiwi]

But we won the most shots to hit the woodwork league lad.

 

[zirc]

Christ, look at their previews. Makes you thankful for Chico.

That's far, far too many words to say, "I couldn't be arsed supporting my local side because they were crap back then and I chose to support a glory club but it's ok because it was ages ago."

 

[davek]

i cant see chelsea winning this sadly. they are a total mess. total.
theres maybe ramires and one or two players playing for Mo, but other ones are not arsed. Certain win for RS sadly.
I hope im wrong.

This Chelsea team if they get even 60% of what they're capable of will beat this Liverpool team having a good day.

Two clear goals win for Chelsea, I reckon.

 

[Prevenger17]

Preview: Everton vs. Sunderland: The RAWK edition


I was supposed to be a Sunderland supporter. My father was one, and that was because my grandfather was one. You see, my grandfather died during the holocaust. Not in the holocaust per se, but around the same time it was happening.

Bear with me. This tale is Dickensian, Tolstoy-esqe, Lovecraftian all rolled into one, a labyrinthian tale of love and despair that reads like an EL James epic. My grandparents, trying to better themselves, had bought a straw hut on the banks of the Wear. During a particularly bad storm, the hut was washed away into the sea and, with it, my grandfather. He survived eating wet straw and seaslime terrines until he was hit by a boat and died. My grandmother loaded my 6 year old father and his sister on to a horse and cart and made haste for a little hamlet in the west called L'vyrpol. Sunderland had too many bad memories now, too many ghosts. She had been eyeing up a straw hut on the banks of the Mersey and would give the life to her children so cruelly denied to her husband. She was a wily old crone, my grandmother. Sometimes, when I gaze out over the windswept ocean, trying to make sense of this wild ride we call life, I wonder if my grandfather is still out there, swimming home to see his beloved Grendel one more time.

But Sunderland never left my father. Though my grandfather's fate had forever burdened him with a crippling fear of large, automated transport vessels, he would bring me to see their away games when they came to L'vyrpl, now called Liverpol after the last of the Welsh were finally driven out during the First Octavian War. The second "o" would later be added through an amusing administrative error.

We saw them play Tranmere. Even then, they were crap. It was as if simply putting on a Tranmere jersey infected them with a sort of brain virus that targeted whatever part of their lobe dealt with football-playing. I would not support Tranmere.

We saw them play Liverpool. A mawkish lot. The stadium cried and shook like a Mexican tribe before a child sacrifice. I didn't understand them really. Besides, I knew my modest ten fingers would not be enough to walk among their hordes undetected. I would not support Liverpool.

Everton. Efflusient, Eculoclusive Everton. I knew from the very moment I looked up at Goodison that I had been touched. Luckily the police caught him and I was able to enter without any further molestation. A blue, furry man gave me an unofficial match program, hurriedly scrawled on a roll of tissue paper, before he too was ushered away by the fuzz for race crimes. The photographs taped on to it were nice, though the content was a bit crap.

We beat Sunderland that day. The crowd went wild as Cannon-Foot Joe McConahoo fired in the only goal from 70 paces in front of a roaring, treacherous Glwadys Street Stand. McConahoo was soon dropped from the Sunderland starting lineup after that. I got talking to some of the fans after the match. They were passionate, handsome and, to various extents, homosexual. I had found my home.

I told my father that I would support Everton. He was concerned. Punitive attacks by sewer-dwelling morlocks in Liverpool shirts were on the rise, and anyone who didn't subscribe to the idea that they were the biggest and best and most beautifulest team in the world were at risk. Many walls were destroyed. The 70's were a time of great economic upheaval too. A wave of Nordic auctioneers and mortgage advisors had laid down roots in the town hall, and papa was worried it might effect my ability to buy a house in the future. But I looked into papa's eyes and said "Papa, only in times of great difficulty can the weight of a man's heart be measured". Papa shed a single tear and left for America later that day.

But now is no time for sentimentality. A rejuvenated Sunderland under the agricultural stewardship of Sam Alldardyce is not to be scoffed at. A top poster on here,@Khalekan, has informed me that their quarterly pass-to-pocket ratio has experienced a 28.5% increasiance in Big Sam's short time there already, and that their meteoric ascent up the hypothetical table of dreams sees them now battling for a Champions League spot of the mind. Reasons to be weary. Myself and Khalekan will muse on this further in the Statistical Deconstruction and Analysis thread, a cracking read full of my incisive and scientific reading of the beautiful game. I really am brilliant.

Nil Satis Nis Optimum. For papa.

 

[SpurtingLesbian]

This Chelsea team if they get even 60% of what they're capable of will beat this Liverpool team having a good day.

Two clear goals win for Chelsea, I reckon.

JOSE SMASH!!!!!​

 

[Khalekan]

Preview: Everton vs. Sunderland: The RAWK edition


I was supposed to be a Sunderland supporter. My father was one, and that was because my grandfather was one. You see, my grandfather died during the holocaust. Not in the holocaust per se, but around the same time it was happening.

Bear with me. This tale is Dickensian, Tolstoy-esqe, Lovecraftian all rolled into one, a labyrinthian tale of love and despair that reads like an EL James epic. My grandparents, trying to better themselves, had bought a straw hut on the banks of the Wear. During a particularly bad storm, the hut was washed away into the sea and, with it, my grandfather. He survived eating wet straw and seaslime terrines until he was hit by a boat and died. My grandmother loaded my 6 year old father and his sister on to a horse and cart and made haste for a little hamlet in the west called L'vyrpol. Sunderland had too many bad memories now, too many ghosts. She had been eyeing up a straw hut on the banks of the Mersey and would give the life to her children so cruelly denied to her husband. She was a wily old crone, my grandmother. Sometimes, when I gaze out over the windswept ocean, trying to make sense of this wild ride we call life, I wonder if my grandfather is still out there, swimming home to see his beloved Grendel one more time.

But Sunderland never left my father. Though my grandfather's fate had forever burdened him with a crippling fear of large, automated transport vessels, he would bring me to see their away games when they came to L'vyrpl, now called Liverpol after the last of the Welsh were finally driven out during the First Octavian War. The second "o" would later be added through an amusing administrative error.

We saw them play Tranmere. Even then, they were crap. It was as if simply putting on a Tranmere jersey infected them with a sort of brain virus that targeted whatever part of their lobe dealt with football-playing. I would not support Tranmere.

We saw them play Liverpool. A mawkish lot. The stadium cried and shook like a Mexican tribe before a child sacrifice. I didn't understand them really. Besides, I knew my modest ten fingers would not be enough to walk among their hordes undetected. I would not support Liverpool.

Everton. Efflusient, Eculoclusive Everton. I knew from the very moment I looked up at Goodison that I had been touched. Luckily the police caught him and I was able to enter without any further molestation. A blue, furry man gave me an unofficial match program, hurriedly scrawled on a roll of tissue paper, before he too was ushered away by the fuzz for race crimes. The photographs taped on to it were nice, though the content was a bit crap.

We beat Sunderland that day. The crowd went wild as Cannon-Foot Joe McConahoo fired in the only goal from 70 paces in front of a roaring, treacherous Glwadys Street Stand. McConahoo was soon dropped from the Sunderland starting lineup after that. I got talking to some of the fans after the match. They were passionate, handsome and, to various extents, homosexual. I had found my home.

I told my father that I would support Everton. He was concerned. Punitive attacks by sewer-dwelling morlocks in Liverpool shirts were on the rise, and anyone who didn't subscribe to the idea that they were the biggest and best and most beautifulest team in the world were at risk. Many walls were destroyed. The 70's were a time of great economic upheaval too. A wave of Nordic auctioneers and mortgage advisors had laid down roots in the town hall, and papa was worried it might effect my ability to buy a house in the future. But I looked into papa's eyes and said "Papa, only in times of great difficulty can the weight of a man's heart be measured". Papa shed a single tear and left for America later that day.

But now is no time for sentimentality. A rejuvenated Sunderland under the agricultural stewardship of Sam Alldardyce is not to be scoffed at. A top poster on here,@Khalekan, has informed me that their quarterly pass-to-pocket ratio has experienced a 28.5% increasiance in Big Sam's short time there already, and that their meteoric ascent up the hypothetical table of dreams sees them now battling for a Champions League spot of the mind. Reasons to be weary. Myself and Khalekan will muse on this further in the Statistical Deconstruction and Analysis thread, a cracking read full of my incisive and scientific reading of the beautiful game. I really am brilliant.

Nil Satis Nis Optimum. For papa.

Stop it, Prev......you are killing me here lol

I was rolling about the floor at the thoughts of the "straw hut on the Wear"

 

[AndyC]

Preview: Everton vs. Sunderland: The RAWK edition


I was supposed to be a Sunderland supporter. My father was one, and that was because my grandfather was one. You see, my grandfather died during the holocaust. Not in the holocaust per se, but around the same time it was happening.

Bear with me. This tale is Dickensian, Tolstoy-esqe, Lovecraftian all rolled into one, a labyrinthian tale of love and despair that reads like an EL James epic. My grandparents, trying to better themselves, had bought a straw hut on the banks of the Wear. During a particularly bad storm, the hut was washed away into the sea and, with it, my grandfather. He survived eating wet straw and seaslime terrines until he was hit by a boat and died. My grandmother loaded my 6 year old father and his sister on to a horse and cart and made haste for a little hamlet in the west called L'vyrpol. Sunderland had too many bad memories now, too many ghosts. She had been eyeing up a straw hut on the banks of the Mersey and would give the life to her children so cruelly denied to her husband. She was a wily old crone, my grandmother. Sometimes, when I gaze out over the windswept ocean, trying to make sense of this wild ride we call life, I wonder if my grandfather is still out there, swimming home to see his beloved Grendel one more time.

But Sunderland never left my father. Though my grandfather's fate had forever burdened him with a crippling fear of large, automated transport vessels, he would bring me to see their away games when they came to L'vyrpl, now called Liverpol after the last of the Welsh were finally driven out during the First Octavian War. The second "o" would later be added through an amusing administrative error.

We saw them play Tranmere. Even then, they were crap. It was as if simply putting on a Tranmere jersey infected them with a sort of brain virus that targeted whatever part of their lobe dealt with football-playing. I would not support Tranmere.

We saw them play Liverpool. A mawkish lot. The stadium cried and shook like a Mexican tribe before a child sacrifice. I didn't understand them really. Besides, I knew my modest ten fingers would not be enough to walk among their hordes undetected. I would not support Liverpool.

Everton. Efflusient, Eculoclusive Everton. I knew from the very moment I looked up at Goodison that I had been touched. Luckily the police caught him and I was able to enter without any further molestation. A blue, furry man gave me an unofficial match program, hurriedly scrawled on a roll of tissue paper, before he too was ushered away by the fuzz for race crimes. The photographs taped on to it were nice, though the content was a bit crap.

We beat Sunderland that day. The crowd went wild as Cannon-Foot Joe McConahoo fired in the only goal from 70 paces in front of a roaring, treacherous Glwadys Street Stand. McConahoo was soon dropped from the Sunderland starting lineup after that. I got talking to some of the fans after the match. They were passionate, handsome and, to various extents, homosexual. I had found my home.

I told my father that I would support Everton. He was concerned. Punitive attacks by sewer-dwelling morlocks in Liverpool shirts were on the rise, and anyone who didn't subscribe to the idea that they were the biggest and best and most beautifulest team in the world were at risk. Many walls were destroyed. The 70's were a time of great economic upheaval too. A wave of Nordic auctioneers and mortgage advisors had laid down roots in the town hall, and papa was worried it might effect my ability to buy a house in the future. But I looked into papa's eyes and said "Papa, only in times of great difficulty can the weight of a man's heart be measured". Papa shed a single tear and left for America later that day.

But now is no time for sentimentality. A rejuvenated Sunderland under the agricultural stewardship of Sam Alldardyce is not to be scoffed at. A top poster on here,@Khalekan, has informed me that their quarterly pass-to-pocket ratio has experienced a 28.5% increasiance in Big Sam's short time there already, and that their meteoric ascent up the hypothetical table of dreams sees them now battling for a Champions League spot of the mind. Reasons to be weary. Myself and Khalekan will muse on this further in the Statistical Deconstruction and Analysis thread, a cracking read full of my incisive and scientific reading of the beautiful game. I really am brilliant.

Nil Satis Nis Optimum. For papa.

I'm in bits here mate, laughing, crying the whole nine yards

 

[malfosse]

Preview: Everton vs. Sunderland: The RAWK edition


I was supposed to be a Sunderland supporter. My father was one, and that was because my grandfather was one. You see, my grandfather died during the holocaust. Not in the holocaust per se, but around the same time it was happening.

Bear with me. This tale is Dickensian, Tolstoy-esqe, Lovecraftian all rolled into one, a labyrinthian tale of love and despair that reads like an EL James epic. My grandparents, trying to better themselves, had bought a straw hut on the banks of the Wear. During a particularly bad storm, the hut was washed away into the sea and, with it, my grandfather. He survived eating wet straw and seaslime terrines until he was hit by a boat and died. My grandmother loaded my 6 year old father and his sister on to a horse and cart and made haste for a little hamlet in the west called L'vyrpol. Sunderland had too many bad memories now, too many ghosts. She had been eyeing up a straw hut on the banks of the Mersey and would give the life to her children so cruelly denied to her husband. She was a wily old crone, my grandmother. Sometimes, when I gaze out over the windswept ocean, trying to make sense of this wild ride we call life, I wonder if my grandfather is still out there, swimming home to see his beloved Grendel one more time.

But Sunderland never left my father. Though my grandfather's fate had forever burdened him with a crippling fear of large, automated transport vessels, he would bring me to see their away games when they came to L'vyrpl, now called Liverpol after the last of the Welsh were finally driven out during the First Octavian War. The second "o" would later be added through an amusing administrative error.

We saw them play Tranmere. Even then, they were crap. It was as if simply putting on a Tranmere jersey infected them with a sort of brain virus that targeted whatever part of their lobe dealt with football-playing. I would not support Tranmere.

We saw them play Liverpool. A mawkish lot. The stadium cried and shook like a Mexican tribe before a child sacrifice. I didn't understand them really. Besides, I knew my modest ten fingers would not be enough to walk among their hordes undetected. I would not support Liverpool.

Everton. Efflusient, Eculoclusive Everton. I knew from the very moment I looked up at Goodison that I had been touched. Luckily the police caught him and I was able to enter without any further molestation. A blue, furry man gave me an unofficial match program, hurriedly scrawled on a roll of tissue paper, before he too was ushered away by the fuzz for race crimes. The photographs taped on to it were nice, though the content was a bit crap.

We beat Sunderland that day. The crowd went wild as Cannon-Foot Joe McConahoo fired in the only goal from 70 paces in front of a roaring, treacherous Glwadys Street Stand. McConahoo was soon dropped from the Sunderland starting lineup after that. I got talking to some of the fans after the match. They were passionate, handsome and, to various extents, homosexual. I had found my home.

I told my father that I would support Everton. He was concerned. Punitive attacks by sewer-dwelling morlocks in Liverpool shirts were on the rise, and anyone who didn't subscribe to the idea that they were the biggest and best and most beautifulest team in the world were at risk. Many walls were destroyed. The 70's were a time of great economic upheaval too. A wave of Nordic auctioneers and mortgage advisors had laid down roots in the town hall, and papa was worried it might effect my ability to buy a house in the future. But I looked into papa's eyes and said "Papa, only in times of great difficulty can the weight of a man's heart be measured". Papa shed a single tear and left for America later that day.

But now is no time for sentimentality. A rejuvenated Sunderland under the agricultural stewardship of Sam Alldardyce is not to be scoffed at. A top poster on here,@Khalekan, has informed me that their quarterly pass-to-pocket ratio has experienced a 28.5% increasiance in Big Sam's short time there already, and that their meteoric ascent up the hypothetical table of dreams sees them now battling for a Champions League spot of the mind. Reasons to be weary. Myself and Khalekan will muse on this further in the Statistical Deconstruction and Analysis thread, a cracking read full of my incisive and scientific reading of the beautiful game. I really am brilliant.

Nil Satis Nis Optimum. For papa.

Good one Chico, 3-1 to the Mighty Blues.

 

[maccavennie]

Preview: Everton vs. Sunderland: The RAWK edition


I was supposed to be a Sunderland supporter. My father was one, and that was because my grandfather was one. You see, my grandfather died during the holocaust. Not in the holocaust per se, but around the same time it was happening.

Bear with me. This tale is Dickensian, Tolstoy-esqe, Lovecraftian all rolled into one, a labyrinthian tale of love and despair that reads like an EL James epic. My grandparents, trying to better themselves, had bought a straw hut on the banks of the Wear. During a particularly bad storm, the hut was washed away into the sea and, with it, my grandfather. He survived eating wet straw and seaslime terrines until he was hit by a boat and died. My grandmother loaded my 6 year old father and his sister on to a horse and cart and made haste for a little hamlet in the west called L'vyrpol. Sunderland had too many bad memories now, too many ghosts. She had been eyeing up a straw hut on the banks of the Mersey and would give the life to her children so cruelly denied to her husband. She was a wily old crone, my grandmother. Sometimes, when I gaze out over the windswept ocean, trying to make sense of this wild ride we call life, I wonder if my grandfather is still out there, swimming home to see his beloved Grendel one more time.

But Sunderland never left my father. Though my grandfather's fate had forever burdened him with a crippling fear of large, automated transport vessels, he would bring me to see their away games when they came to L'vyrpl, now called Liverpol after the last of the Welsh were finally driven out during the First Octavian War. The second "o" would later be added through an amusing administrative error.

We saw them play Tranmere. Even then, they were crap. It was as if simply putting on a Tranmere jersey infected them with a sort of brain virus that targeted whatever part of their lobe dealt with football-playing. I would not support Tranmere.

We saw them play Liverpool. A mawkish lot. The stadium cried and shook like a Mexican tribe before a child sacrifice. I didn't understand them really. Besides, I knew my modest ten fingers would not be enough to walk among their hordes undetected. I would not support Liverpool.

Everton. Efflusient, Eculoclusive Everton. I knew from the very moment I looked up at Goodison that I had been touched. Luckily the police caught him and I was able to enter without any further molestation. A blue, furry man gave me an unofficial match program, hurriedly scrawled on a roll of tissue paper, before he too was ushered away by the fuzz for race crimes. The photographs taped on to it were nice, though the content was a bit crap.

We beat Sunderland that day. The crowd went wild as Cannon-Foot Joe McConahoo fired in the only goal from 70 paces in front of a roaring, treacherous Glwadys Street Stand. McConahoo was soon dropped from the Sunderland starting lineup after that. I got talking to some of the fans after the match. They were passionate, handsome and, to various extents, homosexual. I had found my home.

I told my father that I would support Everton. He was concerned. Punitive attacks by sewer-dwelling morlocks in Liverpool shirts were on the rise, and anyone who didn't subscribe to the idea that they were the biggest and best and most beautifulest team in the world were at risk. Many walls were destroyed. The 70's were a time of great economic upheaval too. A wave of Nordic auctioneers and mortgage advisors had laid down roots in the town hall, and papa was worried it might effect my ability to buy a house in the future. But I looked into papa's eyes and said "Papa, only in times of great difficulty can the weight of a man's heart be measured". Papa shed a single tear and left for America later that day.

But now is no time for sentimentality. A rejuvenated Sunderland under the agricultural stewardship of Sam Alldardyce is not to be scoffed at. A top poster on here,@Khalekan, has informed me that their quarterly pass-to-pocket ratio has experienced a 28.5% increasiance in Big Sam's short time there already, and that their meteoric ascent up the hypothetical table of dreams sees them now battling for a Champions League spot of the mind. Reasons to be weary. Myself and Khalekan will muse on this further in the Statistical Deconstruction and Analysis thread, a cracking read full of my incisive and scientific reading of the beautiful game. I really am brilliant.

Nil Satis Nis Optimum. For papa.

lol