Regarding the punch bag....ideally she needs something fat, limp and useless hanging from her office wall. She can then take out her frustration on it every time she botches another transfer, so it should be used at least once a day. Reams is looking for a new job - can someone give him a call?
Its hard to tell because of the translation factor but the bit about the scattering of ashes didn't read well either.
if Meire really wanted to communicate directly with the remaining Charlton fans (also known as 'customers') there are better ways of doing it than coming across as a rather gauche and arrogant madam in the Belgian media. Why doesn't she give a proper interview to the Newshopper, the SLP, Voice of the Valley or even put something on the Club website? The problem is - she thinks she is too good for this sort of thing.
Maybe she has done an interview with the club website and they just misspelt the whole thing so that it looked like an article about the reserves...
Luzon says the same inane things every week. " I prefer to win than to lose" " it is important to score the first goal" " I make Avram Grant sound like Sir John Gielgud"
He made rather a long speach " ......MURRAY..'O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day! LUZON... What’s he that wishes so? My Chairman, Murray? No, my fair Chairman; If we are mark’d to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Murray and, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse; We would not die in that man’s company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call’d the feast of Douche. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d, And rouse him at the name of Douchelet. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say “To-morrow is Saint Douche.” Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say “These wounds I had on Douche's day.” Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words- Luzon the Manager, Bauer and Big Mak, Watt and Fox, Solly and Pope- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Douche Douchelet shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Douche’s day." Rather long winded I thought
