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is this a wind up?

zamora's been looking in decent form pre-season

Zamora probably won't do anything but might pick up his game as he's now got a point to prove given Roy wanted to let him go for £5million..

I watch him every other week and he's hopeless. I reckon Vela is a better bet for the money, he won't get as much playing time but will score more.

joined. May make some changes to this though..

yep. Sacking off Zamora would probably be a good idea.

The Digglers are in.

http://www.rapha.cc/tape-reward

Here you go... good luck

I am upset that fulham are not represented so i might come along if thats ok...

oh, Newcastle are 6 -1 down to Orient apparently..

Also came back yesterday. Its 10 euros and you get it when you buy the ticket. There are bike hooks in one of the compartments. Not sure if all of the TGV's have this option but from Bordueax to Lille the definately do. Have fun..

where is the best place to keep up with the coverage and whos covering it?

Eurosport 2:30.... do it

Somebody training on fixed in Richmond Park with me.. green deep-v's, chrome frame. I had my bright orange 'Iban Mayo' cap on which gave me extra power up the cheeky climbs. Great ride.

done

i like it.

massive day of football today... all i want is to see this:

Terry you gormless twat your mum should have taught you that 'boy's don't cry', how to be a decent human being with dignity and not how to shoplift.

come on fulham.. stick your blue flag up your arse.

A morning with Marco:

Guy on white fg/ss frame with bullhorns who dropped his glove on Ken Road, que me stopping picking it up and riding like the wind to catch him up... riding fast with a purpose is fun.

That pub near waterloo bridge: Spotted a locked up baby blue frame with pink deep v's, drops and saddle. Looks like somebody tried to copy that harry major's bike. God knows why. :)

Just slowly wandering back to the office along drury lane spotted some lad trying to cycle with a white Tifosi pista frame on his shoulder.

Thats all.

Dignity...
and
East London (repost?)

Fulhams hungerland has been a great signing and..

Good shout, however:
Fulham's Brede Hangerland has been a great signing.
Chelsea's Frank Hungerpard steals food from his children.

bugger.. just heard the news. I really like riding my bike aswell... nevermind.

hold on. whats going to happen to this forum?
'london fat-girls-seeking-sex'? ....winner (i originally typed fit)

nice one.. well worth the wait

pics?

80mm or 90mm

Has anybody got a Quill Stem (1") with a 26.0 Bar Clamp that they would like to sell to me?

A nitto dynamic would be great.

Cheers

Marco

Sorry about the ammount of text but if you have read the Dammed United, this is brilliant.

Sam Wallace:
A damned difficult day out – how Philip Brown suffered at the hands of Arsène
Monday, 23 March 2009

We will never know if Cesc Fabregas spat at the feet of Brian Horton, the assistant manager of Hull City, last Tuesday night. So, in the spirit of The Damned United film released on Friday – telling the story of Brian Clough's 44 days at Leeds United – let us fill in the historical gaps. David Peace's novel The Damned Utd is a gripping thriller written in his distinctive, quick-fire prose style. Dark and beguiling, it is much better than the film.
For the avoidance of doubt, and lawsuits, all the following is completely imagined. With apologies to Peace, here is a new (completely fictional) version of the story. This is Phil Brown's Damned Utd. It is Tuesday 17 March at the Emirates Stadium.
Hateful place, spiteful place. The stadium and the fans. The concrete and the glass. The mezzanine level podium and the Emirates gourmet burgers. No place for a team from east Yorkshire to come and win. No place for my Hull City to come and win an FA Cup tie.
That's what Big Sam told me.
But Big Sam's not here tonight, just me and Brian. Loyal Brian. Brian likes me. Brian believes in me. Brian helped me after Derby sacked me.
Down the Holloway Road in our luxury coach, nothing but the best for my lads. Through the gates, inside the stadium, into the belly of the beast. Arsenal officials everywhere. Parking the coach, unloading the kit, holding doors open. His officials, his stadium, his doors, his eyes everywhere.
Dirty Arsenal, hateful Arsenal.
Off the coach, down the corridor, round the corner, past the office. His office. Arsène's office, Arsène's desk, Arsène's chair. Arsène's dossiers on all the best young players from the Ivory Coast. Arsène's scouting reports. Arsène's sports nutrition recipe book.
He never bloody shakes hands. That's what Big Sam told me. Lucky if you get a bloody glass of wine after a game at this place.
"Gaffer, your microphone earpiece is ready to be fitted," says Brian. "And I've laid out your best jacket from Harvey Nichols in Leeds. We'll show these London buggers we've got a bit of style."
In the ear. Round my chin. In front of my mouth. The earpiece is in place. Sat next to the chairman in the stand. The cameras on me.
Not Sky Sports. Oh no, not bloody good enough for Sky Sports this game. Bloody Setanta for Hull City.
Arsène doesn't see you. Arsène stays away from the boardroom, away from the tunnel. Doesn't even acknowledge you, Philip Brown, born in South Shields, year of our Lord 1959. Doesn't acknowledge you exist.
Thirteen minutes gone. One-nil. Nicholas Jonathan Barmby. Brilliant little bloody Barmby. Brilliant bloody goal. Chairman going crazy next to me. Thinks we're going to Wembley now. This is it. This is it.
"Gaffer," says Brian's voice crackling in the earpiece, "Wenger's moaning at the referee. Won't bloody leave it alone. Says we're time-wasting. What should I do?"
What should he do? What should you do? Your destiny reaching out to you, Wembley calling. They don't teach this on the managers' course at Warwick University. Your decision, your call, no Big Sam here to help. You press the "speak" button on your two-way radio.
"Retaliate, Brian," you say, "retaliate."
Out the directors' box, down the stairs, through the tunnel. Into the dugout. Your dugout. Brian shouting at Arsène. You shouting at Geovanni. Never bloody tracks back. Down the tunnel at half-time. Stewards pushing, stewards shouting.
You tell your lads that they are 45 minutes away from Wembley, 45 minutes away from the biggest bloody game of their lives. Ricketts, Dawson, Ashbee, Barmby, Fagan, Gardner. Good lads, English lads, not like their mob. "Gaffer," says Brian. "Setanta want a word with you."
Not now, Brian. Not now, Setanta. History awaits.

---

Lost it 2-1. Lost it to Riley, lost it to Gallas, lost it to him. Him with his fists clenched, him hugging Pat Rice, him disappearing without a handshake. Back into the tunnel, players waiting, your players waiting, waiting for a fight. Their lot shouting in French, your lot answering in Yorkshire. French and Yorkshire. Yorkshire and French.
Then something said in Spanish from a kid in jeans and a hoodie. Except he's not just a kid. He's their kid. The kid. Their bloody captain dressed like a yob and shouting at Brian.
"Don't give me any of your Spanish nonsense," says Brian. "I've been there on holiday. Bloody average. Give me Cleethorpes any day. What did your lot do in the war, anyway? Hopeless. No bloody use to anyone. You were lucky to win Euro 2008. Penelope Cruz can't act neither. Salvador Dali? Don't make me laugh."
Splat. Someone has spat. Someone has spat at Brian's feet.
All hell has broken loose in the Emirates Stadium, Tuesday 17 March, year of our Lord 2009. There is shoving and pushing. Pushing and shoving. But not Phil Brown. Phil Brown is not there. Phil Brown is with the man from Setanta. Phil Brown is looking at the replays on the big flatscreen television. Phil Brown is telling the world. Phil Brown is telling Setanta's estimated one million subscribers.
He is telling them what he knows about Arsenal, about him, about Arsène. The words tumbling out. The earpiece still crackling in his pocket where he has left it. "Gaffer? Gaffer?" says Brian's tinny voice. "I've got Fabregas in a headlock. What should I do now?"

first one by miles.. its got a nice mid 50's 'singing in the rain' feel to it..

that ed guy and his lady-friend near waterloo.. I was sans bicycle (camouflaged in normal clothes rendering me virtually un-spottable) coming back from 5-a-side feetball .

Maybe you could get Joey (axe murder) Barton to go back home.....................

Prison?

the owner of the last few bikes has quite a lovely collection. not that i'm jealous or anything.

noah hords bikes!!

what a twat.