Ole should sell all of the players who don't put it in.

Rashford may miss chances and not always be great but he tries. He cares. Martial doesn't.

I don't think Rashy is probably good enough.

Or Martial with his attitude.

Sad day today with lots on questions answered

I just think you need to break up a decent chunk of the older core and replace them with oles guys, will massively change the dressing room.

De Gea, Pogba, Herrera, Young, Valencia, Jones to go. Bring in TFM (even tho he hasn’t set the world alight at Fulham), Romero to replace De Gea.

Then go and get a fullback, centre half, central midfielder and a right winger. I think that would make a huge difference to your side.

"Ole will fail"

What is it with you and overblown predictions?

Another couple of losses this season and there might be an opportunity for him to quit

-----------------

9 months of moyes and it was everyone else's fault except for poor daveys... Club legends were a cancer etc...

2 1/2 years of rubbish football, petulance and rubbishing the club and players left right and centre because he was in the huff.... And it was everyone else's fault apart from jose

66% win rate, season dragged out of the gutter (although ultimately falling at the last hurdles), supporters behind him... And after a short run of poor form he needs to think about resigning?

You should go back to being nobb

comment by Red Russian (U4715)
posted 1 hour, 4 minutes ago
"Ole will fail"

What is it with you and overblown predictions?
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Wow

comment by Red Russian (U4715)
posted 1 hour, 27 minutes ago
"Ole will fail"

What is it with you and overblown predictions?
----------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a prediction. Not an overblown one.

comment by Shugs (U14253)
posted 1 hour, 16 minutes ago
Another couple of losses this season and there might be an opportunity for him to quit

-----------------

9 months of moyes and it was everyone else's fault except for poor daveys... Club legends were a cancer etc...

2 1/2 years of rubbish football, petulance and rubbishing the club and players left right and centre because he was in the huff.... And it was everyone else's fault apart from jose

66% win rate, season dragged out of the gutter (although ultimately falling at the last hurdles), supporters behind him... And after a short run of poor form he needs to think about resigning?

You should go back to being nobb
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Read the article again and see who I’m actually blaming

Unfortunately, the changes needed may take 4-6 transfer windows to sort out, if you take into account time left on contracts, teams (possibly) unwilling to do business in January and what have you.

It also depends on scouting and recruitment, there was a consensus, around 2011-2013 sort of time that the likes of Welbeck, Fletcher, Cleverly, Anderson, Evans, etc should be moved on, fine, but the players we replaced them with have been poor, our recruitment has been poor since around 2010 in all honesty.

We brought in Martial, ADM, Memphis and Mkhitaryan but still need to spend in wide positions, Darmian came in, we still need a RB, Schweinsteiger, Schneiderlin, Fred, Pogba, Herrera have all came in, we still need creative CM’s.

So much time and money wasted on players who were never good enough or are just struggled to adapt to a string of managers who should never have taken charge in the first place (not inc Ole).

Lots of work to do, that’s for sure.

If I were to try that with my boss, I’d be thrown out on the
spot. Still, who knows whether that mightn’t be really good
for me. If I didn’t hold back for my parents’ sake, I would’ve
quit ages ago. I would’ve gone to the boss and told him just
what I think from the bottom of my heart. He would’ve fallen right off his desk! How weird it is to sit up at the desk and
talk down to the employee from way up there. The boss has
trouble hearing, so the employee has to step up quite close
to him. Anyway, I haven’t completely given up that hope
yet. Once I’ve got together the money to pay off the parents’
debt to him—that should take another five or six years—I’ll
do it for sure. Then I’ll make the big break. In any case, right
now I have to get up. My train leaves at five o’clock.’
And he looked over at the alarm clock ticking away by
the chest of drawers. ‘Good God,’ he thought. It was half
past six, and the hands were going quietly on. It was past
the half hour, already nearly quarter to. Could the alarm
have failed to ring? One saw from the bed that it was properly set for four o’clock. Certainly it had rung. Yes, but was it
possible to sleep through this noise that made the furniture
shake? Now, it’s true he’d not slept quietly, but evidently he’d slept all the more deeply. Still, what should he do
now? The next train left at seven o’clock. To catch that one,
he would have to go in a mad rush. The sample collection
wasn’t packed up yet, and he really didn’t feel particularly fresh and active. And even if he caught the train, there
was no avoiding a blow up with the boss, because the firm’s
errand boy would’ve waited for the five o’clock train and reported the news of his absence long ago.
He was the boss’s
 The Metamorphosis
minion, without backbone or intelligence. Well then, what
if he reported in sick? But that would be extremely embarrassing and suspicious, because during his five years’
service Gregor hadn’t been sick even once. The boss would
certainly come with the doctor from the health insurance
company and would reproach his parents for their lazy son
and cut short all objections with the insurance doctor’s
comments; for him everyone was completely healthy but really lazy about work. And besides, would the doctor in this
case be totally wrong? Apart from a really excessive drowsiness after the long sleep, Gregor in fact felt quite well and
even had a really strong appetite.
As he was thinking all this over in the greatest haste,
without being able to make the decision to get out of bed
(the alarm clock was indicating exactly quarter to seven)
there was a cautious knock on the door by the head of the
bed.
‘Gregor,’ a voice called (it was his mother!) ‘it’s quarter to seven. Don’t you want to be on your way?’ The soft
voice! Gregor was startled when he heard his voice answering. It was clearly and unmistakably his earlier voice, but
in it was intermingled, as if from below, an irrepressibly
painful squeaking which left the words positively distinct
only in the first moment and distorted them in the reverberation, so that one didn’t know if one had heard correctly.
Gregor wanted to answer in detail and explain everything,
but in these circumstances he confined himself to saying,
‘Yes, yes, thank you mother. I’m getting up right away.’

Eighteen years have gone by, and still I can bring back every detail of
that day in the meadow. Washed clean of summer's dust by days of
gentle rain, the mountains wore a deep, brilliant green. The October
breeze set white fronds of head-high grasses swaying. One long streak
of cloud hung pasted across a dome of frozen blue. It almost hurt to
look at that far-off sky. A puff of wind swept across the meadow and
through her hair before it slipped into the woods to rustle branches and
send back snatches of distant barking - a hazy sound that seemed to
reach us from the doorway to another world. We heard no other
sounds. We met no other people. We saw only two bright red birds
leap startled from the center of the meadow and dart into the woods.
As we ambled along, Naoko spoke to me of wells.
Memory is a funny thing. When I was in the scene I hardly paid it any
attention. I never stopped to think of it as something that would make
a lasting impression, certainly never imagined that 18 years later I
would recall it in such detail. I didn't give a damn about the scenery
that day. I was thinking about myself. I was thinking about the
beautiful girl walking next to me. I was thinking about the two of us
together, and then about myself again. I was at that age, that time of
life when every sight, every feeling, every thought came back, like a
boomerang, to me. And worse, I was in love. Love with
complications. Scenery was the last thing on my mind.
7
Now, though, that meadow scene is the first thing that comes back to
me. The smell of the grass, the faint chill of the wind, the line of the
hills, the barking of a dog: these are the first things, and they come
with absolute clarity. I feel as if I can reach out and trace them with a
fingertip. And yet, as clear as the scene may be, no one is in it. No
one. Naoko is not there, and neither am I. Where could we have
disappeared to? How could such a thing have happened? Everything
that seemed so important back then - Naoko, and the self I was then,
and the world I had then: where could they have all gone? It's true, I
can't even bring back her face - not straight away, at least. All I'm left
holding is a background, pure scenery, with no people at the front.
True, given time enough, I can remember her face. I start joining
images - her tiny, cold hand; her straight, black hair so smooth and
cool to the touch; a soft, rounded earlobe and the microscopic mole
just beneath it; the camel-hair coat she wore in the winter; her habit of
looking straight into my eyes when asking a question; the slight
trembling that would come to her voice now and then (as though she
were speaking on a windy hilltop) - and suddenly her face is there,
always in profile at first, because Naoko and I were always out
walking together, side by side. Then she turns to me and smiles, and
tilts her head just a little, and begins to speak, and she looks into my
eyes as if trying to catch the image of a minnow that has darted across
the pool of a limpid spring.
It takes time, though, for Naoko's face to appear. And as the years
have passed, the time has grown longer. The sad truth is that what I
could recall in 5 seconds all too soon needed 10, then 30, then a full
minute - like shadows lengthening at dusk. Someday, I suppose, the
shadows will be swallowed up in darkness. There is no way around it:
my memory is growing ever more distant from the spot where Naoko
used to stand - where my old self used to stand. And nothing but
scenery, that view of the meadow in October, returns again and again
to me like a symbolic scene in a film. Each time it appears, it delivers
8
a kick to some part of my mind. Wake up, it says. I'm still here. Wake
up and think about it. Think about why I'm still here. The kicking
never hurts me. There's no pain at all. Just a hollow sound that echoes
with each kick. And even that is bound to fade one day. At Hamburg
airport, though, the kicks were longer and harder than usual. Which is
why I am writing this book. To think. To understand. It just happens
to be the way I'm made. I have to write things down to feel I fully
comprehend them.

Franz was a genius. But who is going to become the cockroach Black Hawk? Or do you mean the club?

comment by manusince52 (U9692)
posted 2 minutes ago
Franz was a genius. But who is going to become the cockroach Black Hawk? Or do you mean the club?
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Rob is already the cockroach lol.

Nah, not having that Black Hawk, decent poster. Always right ? no. Always wrong? no.
So just like a lot of us.

What made you post Kafka anyway Black Hawk?