May we now all rise and sing the eternal school hymn: "Attack. Attack. Attack Attack Attack!"

May we now all rise and sing the eternal school hymn: "Attack. Attack. Attack Attack Attack!"

To be extraordinarily happy and to have no concern for money drives some people nuts.

I really hate those Internet freaks who take each thirty minute bundle of joy and turn it into a cult game of Where's Wally.

We dwell amid pinheaded weasels who know only timid, the generic and the abacus.

When Rioch came to Millwall we were depressed and miserable. He's done a brilliant job of turning it all around. Now we're miserable and depressed.

International friendly games are not worth the lives of the silk worms who perish to make the pennants. They do not even have the philanthropic excuse that softens the otherwise unendurable tedium of testimonial matches. Quite simply, they are rotten games staged to pick the public's pocket, tiresome red tape left over from an era when nations and players were still insular and therefore curious about each other's potential.