#NFFC fans were once again a credit to the club. Thank you for your patience and support to us this evening during some frustrating times during the hold back.
Great to see fans so patient and not being drawn into confrontations.
See you all soon YOU REDS !
Purim tomorrow. Ancient Persia had Esther. Modern Iran has women who refuse to bow. If Israel or America are your excuse to abandon Iranian women, you stand with their oppressors.
"The United Kingdom played no role in these strikes".
Those words and the reason why our PM felt the need to say them have been bothering me since yesterday morning.
They were not said for the ears of our allies.
They were said for the ears of others.
The ears of whom?
Not mine.
An incredibly powerful statement from Syrian war journalist Hadi Abdallah, one that the vast majority of Western Leftists should listen to before opening their mouths on what is happening in Iran.
https://t.co/58PPLPzC79
The Deputy leader of the Green Party, Mothin Ali, at pro Iran regime demonstration.
This is the real face of the Greens. They’re no longer wacky tree huggers.
They’re dangerous people who side with a brutal regime who have massacred 40,000 Iranians.
On the left, you have Iranian women who are removing their hijabs and dancing in the middle of Tehran.
On the right, you have protesters in Parliament Square in London, against the U.S. attacks on the Iranian regime.
A striking difference.
Why are Western progressives and leftists NOT condemning the fact that the Islamists in Tehran are targeting civilian infrastructure in Gulf countries!?
Happy March 2026!
The hardest winter of our war in Ukraine has officially been over for a whole ten minutes now (at least the calendar winter).
And for the fourth time in this war, under a deluge of hundreds of missiles and drones aimed at our electricity and heat, Putin has once again failed to break Ukraine.
Let there be warmth!
We are in the 1990’s.
You’re a pub kid from the estate.
You’ve been dragged along so Dad can have “just the couple” before the game
(which is never just a couple).
Mum said, “Keep an eye on ’em.”
So now you’re part of the pub furniture.
You’re not on pints.
You’re on a pint glass of Coke that’s 90% ice.
Orange juice if they’re feeling flush.
Or a glass bottle of Panda Pop if the bar’s got some in.
You’re allowed near the pool table,
but only to “mind the cues”
and definitely not to touch the felt with sticky hands.
You build towers out of beer mats.
Little estates of your own.
Tower blocks.
Flats.
Entire communities that won’t make it past closing time.
There’s always snacks.
Scampi Fries.
Cheese & Onion crisps in blue packets.
Dry roasted nuts that make you cough but you pretend you like.
You drift about.
In and out of conversations.
Through clouds of smoke so thick you could chew it.
You start collecting empty glasses.
Two at a time if you’re feeling strong.
The bar staff call you “treacle” or “love”
and slide you a packet of crisps for your hard work.
The pub smells like stale lager, Embassy cigarettes, and someone’s overpowering aftershave they got for Christmas.
Big green ashtrays on every table.
All overflowing like tiny volcanoes.
The fruit machine is your PlayStation.
You stare at the lights.
The symbols.
The sounds.
Certain if you watch long enough, you’ll crack the code and become rich.
You get the shout from your Dad, ‘we’re going’.
On the way to the ground you have your starting 11 in mind.
On arriving the Dads get some beers in and tell you to bugger off to the seats/area or you begin to play football in the concourse with paper, plastic cups or other just to have a kick around.
The game goes by, win, lose or draw you have lost your voice from shouting, singing, calling the ref a wanker. You make your way back to the pub with the Dads and their sons. After a while you’re left with your Dad while the rest of the kids go home.
The dads are roaring.
Proper belly laughs.
Arguing about football like it’s politics.
Talking absolute nonsense with full confidence.
You hear words you’re not allowed to say.
Stories you’re not meant to know.
You don’t get all of it —
but you get the rhythm of it.
The warmth in it.
No one asks who you belong to.
They already know.
You’re our kid.
You get slipped a quid for crisps.
50p for the machine (that you’re not allowed to use… but do anyway).
Some old fella does a coin-behind-your-ear trick
while his cigarette ash hangs on for dear life.
It gets late.
Your eyes go heavy.
You curl up in the booth under Dad’s coat.
Sticky table.
Warm jacket.
Muffled laughter around you.
And everyone respects it.
They still shout across the pub like they’re hailing a bus,
but near you, voices drop.
Footsteps soften.
No one moves you.
No one complains.
You’re safe.
You’re known.
You belong to the room, and the room belongs to you.
And for a kid from the estate in 1990’s —
Life’s proper good
Sooooo good. Lolling out loud on the train. I really don’t think it’s possible to pack more laughs and delight into a couple of minutes than this.
Not sure but I strongly suspect this will have been written by Barker too, under his Gerard Wiley persona, one of the greatest and most benign deceptions ever practised by a professional entertainer. How absurdly lucky we were to have him.
Back in 1979, I believe Brian Clough gave his best interview with John Motson asking the questions. Cloughie was in great form.
They should show this interview to the likes of Sky, TNT, Match Of The Day, etc., because their presenters and so-called pundits would probably learn a thing or two from the great man.
Because let’s face it…he was right!
@DorkSirjur@Carl_Cox Thank you for posting - had a copy of this on cassette but it’s long since corroded and is unplayable. Was good to heard this master at work again ❤️