Wolves and Sex

“Boxing helped me develop as a sportsman. Skipping and sparring made me more agile. I also acquired a certain confidence when confronted by physical aggression. I was still very small for my age and the techniques and disciplines learned in the boxing ring provided me with a psychological edge: I could look after myself even though I was small and shy.”

Roy Keane (ex-Ireland captain).

On Saturday, Wolves host Arsenal. Wolves are a physical side. Tough in the tackle, organized, very fit, and aggressive in the air. To stop Arsenal from winning, they will try and stop Arsenal and Fabregas from playing: cut off the flanks, pressurize early, test their keeper with high crosses, don’t give them time on the ball.

In games like this, players like Gallas, Song and Vermaelen are key. It will be a physical battle. Soldiers are required. The artists will perform in the last 15 minutes.

Wolves have no artists, just foot soldiers.

Remember Wolves only want a point. Arsenal want a win.

In a game like this, attitude is key: Take the field with the wrong attitude and no matter how much ability you possess, you will lose.

It’s like sex.

Men are like Wolves, women are like Arsenal. A man does not need foreplay. A woman does. She needs slick one touch, two touch moves. Stroking the ball around like a feather gently stroking her breast. She needs candles that smell of spice and lavender, gentle but progressive music, good wine, gourmet cushions on the bed, silk, romance, two hour haircuts in her favorite salon and massages of love.

Men, like Wolves, need a long ball down the middle, a big man to win it in the air and scrambled goal to help them avoid the drop. Once it’s in, who cares about the aftermath – it’s all about the three points, another notch on the bedpost and staying up for the next EPL season. After all, a goal is a goal and a hole is hole.

Making love has never been an Englishman’s past time. They leave that for foreigners. Wolves are not love makers when it comes to football. They, like Stoke, don’t claim to be. They leave that to the Arsenal’s of this world.

A side note. I went to climb a mountain with the missus the other day. We got very high up. She got vertigo, I got annoyed and we climbed back down the mountain before we made the top. As we climbed back down, I watched her ass and decided I wanted to screw. I pulled her into some bushes. She asked what I was doing. I told her I was feeling frisky. She told me that she couldn’t just pull down her pants and let me “go for it.” Other hikers could be around, we could get arrested, where were the candles of lavender, the soft music, the romance? By this stage my moss, algae, H1N1 covered fingers tried to unzip her jeans and put a long ball into the box. She gave me the red card.

Wolves and Stoke she was not. But at that moment, I had descended into Rory Delap of Stoke: the throw-in King. All I wanted was the ball thrown into the box and a scrambled effort for a goal. Style didn’t come into it, not when you are in the bushes. It’s all about getting it up, getting it in, and getting the three points.

Female orgasms are for the Arsenal’s of this world. Not the Wolves.

Keep it Arsenal

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