Arseblogger had this to say: “We then lost Bacary Sagna to a broken leg (he
went down with nobody anywhere near him)...”
The Telegraph reported: “Sagna collapsed in the first half of
Arsenal's 3-3 Premier League draw with Norwich shortly after Johnson trod on
his leg, the same one he broke earlier in the season.
"I think he did
it on purpose," the 29-year-old told sports daily L'Equipe. "He
stepped on my leg. Play continues, I get back on my feet. And when I tried to
control the ball, I felt a crack, just like the first time at Tottenham.” ”
I saw it that way, Sagna's way, on an Internet feed occupying about ¼ of
my laptop screen. How can someone at the game and reporting on it not see it?
Arseblogger again: “quite how the penalty wasn’t given when
van Persie was pushed over as he was about to tap-in was a mystery to everyone...”
Then Chelsea win the cup, 2 - 1.
Liverpool did nothing for an hour, other than a very short response after conceding the first goal. Kenny changed things after 60 minutes when, after twenty or thirty it was obvious that things needed changing. There are similarities between him and Wenger. Too slow to respond, too late with the changes, seemingly too little input from other coaching staff, managers too revered to get criticism and unable or unwilling to take any adverse feedback on board.
But then there's always books.
Just finished 'Stonemouth'. Iain Banks does not produce duds, but this is his best for a while. A great book with a great, mature ending. Just started 'Skagboys'. I love the library. That's £30-worth of spanking new hardbacks to read for the £1.20 reservation fees, and they won't be clogging up the place when I've finished them, which should please BLISS no end.
Irvine Welsh kicks off with a description of Thatcher's private army, the polis, trapping and attacking miners that had the hairs on the back of my neck prickling, and that shows how little if any progress has been made since, with their kettling tactics and innocent people suffering and in extreme cases losing their lives at their hands. Later there's a Welsh classic, a character describing himself as "sweating like a blind dyke in a fishmongers". Heh.
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