What's the RAWK reaction to this story: Liverpool kit deal price disputed | News
RAWK Goes Into Meltdown (2011/2012)
- Thread starter Plan M
- Start date
They never disappoint
Michael A said:
I'm sorry, but I'm still laughing whenever I think of this post. A true classic, Steve!
'Nothing would surprise me with that shower of shite!'
- Martin Luther King
I can almost imagine that banner... 
Anyway, this RAWK quote takes some beating:
What was the last book you read?
Anyway, this RAWK quote takes some beating:
What was the last book you read?
I love 1948. It's a real tour de france.
1948!
"Was that the prequel? Touché.
Touché.
I love 1948. It's a real tour de france.
mange tout my dear boy, mange tout
It's a Catch-33 situation.
Is there a review of Conspiracy and Punishment in that thread as well? Can't be arsed to look.
Nah, only The Brothers Carragher.
I love a bit of Tolstoyevsky.
Summertime for Gandhi
eye-ron-eeeee
Surely the 'greatest single financial calamity in the club's history' was selling to Hicks & Gillett?
But what about Aquilani? Keane? Johnson? Babel?
The dynamic Gareth Barry
Selling Alonso in the hopes of replacing him with Barry was probably the dumbest thing Rafa did, and that says a lot. It was made even worse that he didn't end up getting Barry and pissed Alonso off in the process.
[iimg]http://themondaysupplement.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/robbie_keane_1210260c1.jpg[/img]
Who are they?
RAFA - A VISION
By Krispin Rice, Chief Righter
Gerrard & Torres tell Roy Bloody Hodgson to piss off & bring back Rafa
Four simple words: RAFA. How is it that an unassuming señor from Spain captured the hearts of a million Scousers? And how did this love affair end so badly, with Rafa on the dole & me in bits after his final game? Let's go back in time, to ponder this mystery while I regale you, his disciples, with a personal anecdote about the great man...
As the rain lashed against my duffle coat and half-eaten pasty, it seemed that God was crying...or perhaps some journalists from Hell were pissing themselves. For you see, Liverpool had just been knocked out of the Corrupt FA Cup by Dynamo Prestatyn of the South Wales Senior League. Despite Mr Benitez's daring and revolutionary formation of ten men behind Pepe Reina, those jammy Welsh bastards had somehow scored six goals without reply, and now the frustrated Anfield masses were on Rafa's back: "Sacked in the morning," they warbled, the soulless gits. How ungrateful they are, I thought - have they forgotten how we beat the famous AC Milan, average age 87, to win our first European Cup since the Jurassic period? Did they not recall how Rafa would have won the League if it wasn't for the Mossad Illuminati? Did they f*ck - they were too busy demanding that Benitez 'Piss off back to Spain,' in a shameless display of xylophonephobia quite alien to the traditions of this great club. After everyone else had left the stadium, I sat alone, bobble-hatted head raised towards the heavens, and screamed at the chuffin' injustice of it all. As the chimes of midnight bonged uncaringly, I left...a man forlorn, with Doritos crumbs gradually filling his scarlet socks.
I trudged homewards with a black cloud of fizzy rage shadowing my lonely footsteps. My wife Ringo greeted me with the piercing observation that 'it's only a bloody game. Cheer up, soft lad - yer dinner's on the ironing board'. My fury ignited, I drop-kicked her precious poodle through the patio doors - "Only a f*cking game?!?!? There's a man back there," I pointed towards the microwave, "who's being crucified by twats!!" "'Oo? Jesus??" the be-pinnied moron squawked. By now I recognised that home is where the heart aches, so I took to wandering the rainswept Liverpool streets in the hope of redemption, enlightenment and a dropped scratchcard. In a nearby shop, I started to buy a newspaper before realising that I was boycotting all of them because of the crap they printed about Our Rafa...so I picked up a Ben 10 comic and, alas, the words on the cover read: 'Benitez turned down by Stockport. Ha ha'. "Will this racism never end?!?" I cried, as the dinghy-lipped coloured bloke who owned the shop stared and clutched his sweeping brush tightly.
I could have tumbled into a black hole of despair but instead I recalled the maestro's philosophical words during his legendary 'Rafa Rant': "At the end of a storm, there's a job at Sky", so I wrote to Natalie Sawyer to complain about the media's assassination of my hero, and gain some insight straight from the horse's mouth. "I don't know - I'm just a girl, tee hee" she replied. Christ, with brainboxes like her and that Sian Massey about, it's no wonder that the game's full of racism, sexism and cubism. More direct action was needed, so I marched straight to Rafa's humble 60-bedroom mansion on the very fringes of Merseyside.
I'd decided to serenade the boss back to Anfield and his destiny with a selection of hits by Liverpool bands. I was halfway through my version of Relax when Mrs Rafa set her alsatians on me. She must have thought I was a pervert, seeing as I was dressed-up as that bald bloke from Frankie Goes To Hollywood. Next thing I knew, I lay in a hospital bed, my arse in plaster.
A particularly chunky nurse - or so I thought - approached my prostrate and prone body and I cried aloud: "End my torment! Pull the plug!!" But this mysterious figure in white had a strange, homemade beard...I was just about to blame the Tories for giving local jobs to bloody foreigners when the man/woman came closer - it was RAFA(!), eating my bananas and asking if I had any Jaffa Cakes. I thought he had a halo but it was just the strip-light reflecting off his bald patch.
As usual, the maverick genius from the land of castanets did the unexpected - instead of dishing out bland shite like 'Get well soon, mush' he began to speak of Istanbul, net spend, Gareth Barry...I soon felt drowsy. A vision came to me - Rafa was back at Liverpool and I was his right-hand man; oil-rich Scousers had bought the club and were signing Xabi Alonso, Iniesta and that ponce Ronaldo while bloody Torres begged to come back, even as a tea lady, but to no avail. We even turned down Messi because we had Jonjo Shelvey. Sir Alex Baconface had quit Sadchester United in despair as his club were relegated after a 100-0 loss to the mighty Reds. And I got to look at Rafa's tactical masterplan blueprints every single day. It was f*cking ace until I woke up, and wept for the dream world I had lost. The aroma of paella had dissipated and I was on my jack once more. Later, I asked the head nurse if I'd been hallucinating because of the arse-trauma but 'no,' she said, Rafa really had been there - he'd come to ask if there were any jobs going in the hospital restaurant. I was so happy I signed myself out and skipped all the way home.
So ends my tale of resurrection. I only wish that my idol could rise like a phoenix, like other great bearded men of history - Fidel Castrol, Leonardo da Vince, Noel Edmonds, Jesus; then our rivals would quake with fear as, once again, Rafa ruled Europe with a metal fist!!!
Ps But I fully support King Kenny and I hope he has lots of years as our manager. Honest. No, really.
..........
By Krispin Rice, Chief Righter
Gerrard & Torres tell Roy Bloody Hodgson to piss off & bring back Rafa
Four simple words: RAFA. How is it that an unassuming señor from Spain captured the hearts of a million Scousers? And how did this love affair end so badly, with Rafa on the dole & me in bits after his final game? Let's go back in time, to ponder this mystery while I regale you, his disciples, with a personal anecdote about the great man...
As the rain lashed against my duffle coat and half-eaten pasty, it seemed that God was crying...or perhaps some journalists from Hell were pissing themselves. For you see, Liverpool had just been knocked out of the Corrupt FA Cup by Dynamo Prestatyn of the South Wales Senior League. Despite Mr Benitez's daring and revolutionary formation of ten men behind Pepe Reina, those jammy Welsh bastards had somehow scored six goals without reply, and now the frustrated Anfield masses were on Rafa's back: "Sacked in the morning," they warbled, the soulless gits. How ungrateful they are, I thought - have they forgotten how we beat the famous AC Milan, average age 87, to win our first European Cup since the Jurassic period? Did they not recall how Rafa would have won the League if it wasn't for the Mossad Illuminati? Did they f*ck - they were too busy demanding that Benitez 'Piss off back to Spain,' in a shameless display of xylophonephobia quite alien to the traditions of this great club. After everyone else had left the stadium, I sat alone, bobble-hatted head raised towards the heavens, and screamed at the chuffin' injustice of it all. As the chimes of midnight bonged uncaringly, I left...a man forlorn, with Doritos crumbs gradually filling his scarlet socks.
I trudged homewards with a black cloud of fizzy rage shadowing my lonely footsteps. My wife Ringo greeted me with the piercing observation that 'it's only a bloody game. Cheer up, soft lad - yer dinner's on the ironing board'. My fury ignited, I drop-kicked her precious poodle through the patio doors - "Only a f*cking game?!?!? There's a man back there," I pointed towards the microwave, "who's being crucified by twats!!" "'Oo? Jesus??" the be-pinnied moron squawked. By now I recognised that home is where the heart aches, so I took to wandering the rainswept Liverpool streets in the hope of redemption, enlightenment and a dropped scratchcard. In a nearby shop, I started to buy a newspaper before realising that I was boycotting all of them because of the crap they printed about Our Rafa...so I picked up a Ben 10 comic and, alas, the words on the cover read: 'Benitez turned down by Stockport. Ha ha'. "Will this racism never end?!?" I cried, as the dinghy-lipped coloured bloke who owned the shop stared and clutched his sweeping brush tightly.
I could have tumbled into a black hole of despair but instead I recalled the maestro's philosophical words during his legendary 'Rafa Rant': "At the end of a storm, there's a job at Sky", so I wrote to Natalie Sawyer to complain about the media's assassination of my hero, and gain some insight straight from the horse's mouth. "I don't know - I'm just a girl, tee hee" she replied. Christ, with brainboxes like her and that Sian Massey about, it's no wonder that the game's full of racism, sexism and cubism. More direct action was needed, so I marched straight to Rafa's humble 60-bedroom mansion on the very fringes of Merseyside.
I'd decided to serenade the boss back to Anfield and his destiny with a selection of hits by Liverpool bands. I was halfway through my version of Relax when Mrs Rafa set her alsatians on me. She must have thought I was a pervert, seeing as I was dressed-up as that bald bloke from Frankie Goes To Hollywood. Next thing I knew, I lay in a hospital bed, my arse in plaster.
A particularly chunky nurse - or so I thought - approached my prostrate and prone body and I cried aloud: "End my torment! Pull the plug!!" But this mysterious figure in white had a strange, homemade beard...I was just about to blame the Tories for giving local jobs to bloody foreigners when the man/woman came closer - it was RAFA(!), eating my bananas and asking if I had any Jaffa Cakes. I thought he had a halo but it was just the strip-light reflecting off his bald patch.
As usual, the maverick genius from the land of castanets did the unexpected - instead of dishing out bland shite like 'Get well soon, mush' he began to speak of Istanbul, net spend, Gareth Barry...I soon felt drowsy. A vision came to me - Rafa was back at Liverpool and I was his right-hand man; oil-rich Scousers had bought the club and were signing Xabi Alonso, Iniesta and that ponce Ronaldo while bloody Torres begged to come back, even as a tea lady, but to no avail. We even turned down Messi because we had Jonjo Shelvey. Sir Alex Baconface had quit Sadchester United in despair as his club were relegated after a 100-0 loss to the mighty Reds. And I got to look at Rafa's tactical masterplan blueprints every single day. It was f*cking ace until I woke up, and wept for the dream world I had lost. The aroma of paella had dissipated and I was on my jack once more. Later, I asked the head nurse if I'd been hallucinating because of the arse-trauma but 'no,' she said, Rafa really had been there - he'd come to ask if there were any jobs going in the hospital restaurant. I was so happy I signed myself out and skipped all the way home.
So ends my tale of resurrection. I only wish that my idol could rise like a phoenix, like other great bearded men of history - Fidel Castrol, Leonardo da Vince, Noel Edmonds, Jesus; then our rivals would quake with fear as, once again, Rafa ruled Europe with a metal fist!!!
Ps But I fully support King Kenny and I hope he has lots of years as our manager. Honest. No, really.
..........
The dynamic Gareth Barry
x 10.000!Some nice trolling from A@A too (I know most of you don't like him, but to me he's a more than decent troll. Absolutely incredible stamina, if nothing else. Starting to break the 4th wall too much, though. ('AND You can cut n' paste this...') But people are still biting.
A@A said:
Suarez and the Media - A Blog
You really can't make the shit up towards Rafa 'and this isn't directed at Steve's parody'. They all wanted him out in 09/10. Thread after thread of rafa out, and now suddenly, he's god again. feck, Imagine if he hadn't won in Turkey. They'd be still calling for Houllier!
Rafa is actually one word consisting of four letters, not four words.
Well spotted. It was the poodle being called Jesus that confused me...
It's a parody of a recent Liverpool blog post, folks, so even the 'mistakes' are deliberate.
So what.. sack dalgish sign rafa now?
That would be just like us. Hell, we won half our games last season through getting our opponent disqualified.
It's Evra's fault for being black, if you wanna know the truth.
Good shit, Stevo!
If only Rafa had had money to spend. Who knows what would've happened?
If you're going to write a long-winded hagiography at least get your opening line right.
If you're going to write a long-winded hagiography at least get your opening line right.
Ah tits, just saw Steve's post.
Gawd, I'm in the unusual position of defending deliberately-crap English. The post was a satirical piece based on the typically longwinded and bombastic RAWK/LFC blog style. It shows how bloody crap my so-called comedy is when people don't realise the 'four words' error was a terrible, weak piss-take of the writer's style.
Ps Sorry, DS - it's my fault for being rubbish at satire.
The post was a satirical piece based on the typically longwinded and bombastic RAWK/LFC blog style. It shows how bloody crap my so-called comedy is when people don't realise the 'four words' error was a terrible, weak piss-take of the writer's style. Ps Sorry, DS - it's my fault for being rubbish at satire.
Gawd, I'm in the unusual position of defending deliberately-crap English.
It was my mistake. I just read the first sentence and thought 'another shitty paean to that fat dope' so I didn't bother reading on.
But I've gone back and read it now. It was good! Funny stuff.
De Selby, you've been Rawked!
What the hell is going on? They don't seem to have a matchday thread for me to laugh at! They had one but it got locked before the game