Disclaimer: Don’t even bother with this post if all you know about football is Manchester United.
There’s plenty of things to say about 2004. Prezzo was still on our airwaves, telling the fans he loves them, and to the haters: Kuleni sembe, meza wembe. It was the year I’d finally taste a girl’s saliva. And it wasn’t as disgusting as everyone had made it out to be.Read More »
This story starts like most of them, really. I was in a mat. I was drunk. And I was on my way home. I was riding shotgun in a white van. I lost the window seat to a bulky chap whose breath smelt like boiled eggs and smokies. I was wedged between him and the driver.Read More »
Once upon a time an Italian statesman by the name of Camillo Cavour sat down and thought: No, my beloved country won’t be freed from oppression by mass uprisings. The Austrian armies were too strong. Not many Italians were willing to take up arms anyway. They probably just wanted to put on their toques and make some lasagna.Read More »
David Agondoa. The name stuck. I woke up one morning and it was there, sitting at the back of my head. David Agondoa. Who the hell was David Agondoa? And where had I come by that name? David Agondoa. The name kept ringing but I just couldn’t place him. David Agondoa. Read More »
It’s a few minutes to 6am. Tuesday. I should have been up two hours ago but I couldn’t sleep last night. I suspect it has everything to do with the mug of coffee I had just before supper. My inner addict was like: Come on, just one cup.Read More »