#oaf keepers lawyer

[socialjusticeinamerica]

👍

[northernmisery-blog]

Celebrate the right thing.

Garry Monk, Pep Clotet and James Beattie have done something that I genuinely never expected and that is give us a football team and club to be proud of. We’ve been in the news for all the right reasons. Our main blip coincided with a certain Italian gobshite sticking his unwelcomed face out of Terry Georges rat hole and moaning about the FA being mean to him, enforcing arbitration under the “Rule K” to try and get his well deserved ban overturned, I’m not going into that in detail here, that we should even still be talking about this is infuriating. I will say one thing - He broke the rules. He knows he broke the rules. The FA knows he broke the rules, but, as a man of marked criminal tendencies is prone to do, he doesn’t think the rules should apply to him and he’s going to waste more of the clubs time and money (what is the figure at now? Must be pushing £14million he’s spunked up the wall in pointless, unwinnable court cases and lawyers fees). Anyway, back to the coaching staff. Who would have thought we’d be here now? This is a club who appointed Dave Hockaday as manager, after all. This is a club who courted Karl Robinson as manager in the summer after deciding that Steve Evans wasn’t the right man for the job (something Stevie Wonder could see was painfully obvious). Garry Monk and his staff have done nothing shy of a miracle here at Leeds. They’ve taken what is essentially the Raggy Dolls out of the reject bin and turned them into something resembling a bloody good football team. Even the lamentable oaf Doukara, one of the final remnants of the heinous sicknote shits has managed to vaguely fulfil his contractual obligations as a professional footballer. Robert Green has been a revelation, giving us, in my opinion, the best all round goal keeper since Paul Robinson.  Poppadom wrists Spilvestri, the man who drew on his back with a lipstick to get out of playing, backing away from crosses like Dracula seems a distant memory. Our Swiss Pyscho Berardi stepping in for the injured Taylor. Ayling being a revelation. Pontus and Bartley, giving us centre half pairing that would make even a hardnut centreforward think twice before befouling himself and running away in the opposite direction. Wood smashing the ball into the net like his life depended on it. Every player, from the back to the front, working in perfect unison, no player bigger than the team (as proved by Monk dropping Pontus at the weekend), the sum of its parts, loanees and forgotten men, working together for a greater good. It’s been great. And our fans have loved every minute of it. The crowds have increased again, the feel good factor sweeping through the fanbase like a contagion. The noise and atmosphere at games spurring the players onwards. Here we are, 8 games to go until the end of the season.  Sitting comfortably in the playoff positions, over achieving way beyond my pre-season expectations of a 15th place (+/- 2 positions) finish. We have a very real chance of stealing that second place, nicking automatic promotion and giving the Premier League an injection of pure Vitamin Leeds. So, I really didn’t want to have to write about Massimo Cellino again. Truly, I really didn’t. This season, his forced silence in the media (thanks to the PR savvy Andrea Radrizzani firmly ramming some suave Italian socks into his gullet) and lack of interference in first team affairs have been a welcome respite to the pure unadulterated chaos and utter embarrassment he’s forced on our club during his tenure. Yet, I have to bring up his name again. Not just to re-iterate that he’s still a proven fraudster, convicted of false accounting at a football club and a man of marked criminal tendencies who in my opinion should be no more allowed to run a football club than Karen Matthews should be asked to be the face of the World Hide and Seek championships. No, I have to bring up his name because once again, across the moronic halfwitted ramblings of special groups on Facebook and Twitter, some people continue to spew the rhetoric that Massimo Cellino deserves credit for some of this, ending their babbling tweets with such punchy final words as “FACT!”. You’ve seen them, the sort of Tweets that make Sean Spicer sit up and take notice of how to condense utter bullshit into such a limited number of characters. An appalling lack of grammar, punctuation and basic spelling comprehension normally accompanies such “facts”, interspersed on their timeline with retweets of such sterling accounts as the English Defence League, Tommy Robinson and endorsements of Katie Hopkins and her hate filled propaganda. Their timelines a torrent of (sometimes not so) thinly veiled racism and xenophobia, they try and tell you that Massimo Cellino has saved our club. That this resurgence is somehow to be attributed to him and him alone. Why, it must be Massimo Cellino who has got the tune out the broken instrument. It must be Massimo Cellino who is the Championships top goal scorer. It must be Massimo Cellino who palms those shots around the goalposts in the 90th minute, or punts an opposition winger into the fourth row with a crunching tackle. It must be Massimo Cellino who is singing so loudly in London that they can hear it on the other side of the Thames on a cold Tuesday night. Except it’s not. Imagine suggesting that he deserves credit for NOT sacking Garry Monk six games in like he has done to countless managers in the past. I have said all along that any success would be DESPITE Massimo Cellino, not BECAUSE of him. That is a fact, backed up by evidence. Provable on an etch-a-sketch. It defies logic to support a football club, to support a team of players, to go with your mates and raucously cheer on the players on the pitch only to turn round and celebrate a proven criminal as the cause of such joy. Imagine celebrating a criminal. The people that do so are the sort of people who would write, (in pigeon English) to a serial killer in prison;  “Dear Rose, please send me some of your used scuds so I can smell what Fred smelled. PS – I love Massimo, Fill Hay is the Devil” Cellino will eventually (and hopefully soon) slink off, crawling away on his belly like the loathsome crooked slug that he is, onto the next club where he can divide the fanbase, pillage their assets and continue to fund his lifestyle, sucking the life out of another institution like a vampire. We can celebrate all we want, we can all rejoice when we hopefully reach the Premier League and call ourselves united again, but it’s absolutely ludicrous, preposterous in the extreme to still claim Massimo Cellino deserves anything other than the utmost disdain for everything he’s done to our club. And if you think he is more deserving of credit than Garry Monk, his coaching staff, the players, or the long suffering fans who finally have something to celebrate again, you should follow your idol to his next club, latch yourself onto whatever set of fans follow that club and try to become “the biggest fan account on Twitter”, begging local journalists to retweet your inane causes or defend you when people have rightfully taken the piss out of you for your idiotic behaviour.  You can bitch and cry that you’re not being taken seriously and moan about a mean competition where you get called a playground name. One thing you won’t be is here, latching yourself onto a progressing and awakening giant. Like the crook who deserves no credit, you’ll no longer be the source of division and arguments among our fanbase.  You’ll be a forgotten memory, buried in the past like the murdered sailors on board Massimo’s ship “Lucina” So celebrate Garry Monk. Celebrate Pep Clotet , James Beattie and all the coaching staff. Celebrate the players, even the useless ones that have been stealing a wage for years or refused to play for our club. Celebrate Elland Road roaring again. Celebrate Dirty Leeds being an enjoyment.  Enjoy the debate about what walkout music we should have and where Lewis Cook would be playing were it not for a lying charlatan selling him. Don’t celebrate a crook. Ever. Unless you’re a fucking div and you’re intent on showing your true colours. Again.