Ted Max

fuck me but I'm not Petunia B. Stop oppressing me.

Ah - a near miss, then. I watched the second half there. Received several quizzical looks due, I told myself, to a combination of my lack of repro Nylon + swarthy, Italianate, swoon boat* looks. Also received: an impassioned by-the-porcelain lecture in defensive tactics from a gentleman whose micturation was in full progress when I entered said facilities, and still in impressive flow when I left. That was probably Quids, right? * Pace *Bob*

Ah - a near miss, then. I watched the second half there. Received several quizzical looks due, I told myself, to a combination of my lack of repro Nylon + swarthy, Italianate, swoon boat* looks. Also received: an impassioned by-the-porcelain lecture in defensive tactics from a gentleman whose micturation was in full progress when I entered said facilities, and still in impressive flow when I left. That was probably Quids, right? * Pace *Bob*

Was there an EDF contingent in the Castle for the Italy game?

Was there an EDF contingent in the Castle for the Italy game?

Snorky, the OP is a fake - so are all the testosterone frenzy and off the cuff gangster remark responses. pfffft, as you used to say.

Green and Blue. Free and open WiFi, and the coffee's good. Plus they have plenty of power points as well.

If these people existed, I would advocate following the sensible advice on here from Sean, Giggirl, Jeremy and Ratty. But as they are invented so you can press a few buttons on the Forum, I'd say your best course of action is to gas them out like badgers.

Sounds like you need to do the place in any case up so I'd say just torch the gaff. You could either say the squatters' bong set light to their sleeping bags, or could do it tonight and claim it was a stray firework through the letter box. The polis won't be bothered, and you can then get your renovations done on the insurance.

I think the traditional way is to get a few lads together, secrete a half dozen snooker balls in a sturdy sock or two, and clear the place out. It is expected that you then reward your unofficial bailiffs with a half-evening's entertainment at a local drinking club. Your squatters are probably tree-loving, pasta-eating Aussies/New Zealanders in any case. So get stuck in.

When Ruth and Harry finally, you know, get to practice some old-fashioned field craft together, it's going to go on for about four days.

Don't tell 'im, Pike.

For all your Rafa needs see the link below. If this bloke has his facts correct then things don't look so bad. He calculates a total net spend of just over ?83m in 5 years at the club. An average of ?16.6m a year. Here are the league positions and points totals in that time: 2004/05: Finished 5th ? 58 pts 2005/06: Finished 3rd ? 82 pts 2006/07: Finished 3rd ? 68 pts 2007/08: Finished 4th ? 76 pts 2008/09: Finished 2nd ? 86 pts http://www.empireofthekop.com/anfield/?p=5851

Please can we have some respect for emc's attempts to pull a keeper? She's got seven hours left.

Spare squash ball.

I hope you get some genuine responses as well. But if you could post the more interesting ones up here that would be great, too.

Of course it's me, it says so on the attachment. Although by those rules emc is actually a licensed-to-kill MI6 operative.

I'm taken I'm afraid. But here's a photo of me anyway.

Drinking with one half a cross-dressing musical double act: Hinge drinking. I win.

1) Let the rain fall where it will 2) An over-riding sense of opportunity lost, somehow 3) Some inconsequential fannying about See you all in a couple of weeks.

Fixed that for you.

For you, Brendan It's just a red button that makes a badoom-tish noise when you click it

Stop boasting, ????.

"Grief wrongs us so." This breaches my sweet sorrow rule, coming as it does from the eviscerating emotional rawness end of things. But what the hell. If I had to read it, you have to as well. By Douglas Dunn: who's Scottish but once of Hull and with Larkin connections, so in that regard it's in keeping with the presiding spirit of this thread. The Kaleidoscope To climb these stairs again, bearing a tray, Might be to find you pillowed with your books, Your inventories listing gowns and frocks As if preparing for a holiday. Or, turning from the landing, I might find My presence watched through your kaleidoscope, A symmetry of husbands, each redesigned In lovely forms of foresight, prayer and hope. I climb these stairs a dozen times a day And, by the open door, wait, looking in At where you died. My hands become a tray Offering me, my flesh, my soul, my skin. Grief wrongs us so. I stand, and wait, and cry For the absurd forgiveness, not knowing why.