lemon revolution

These days, it’s hard to remember the mixed-martial artist Conor McGregor before all the riches and fame. In recent years McGregor has established himself as one of the most famous men on the planet: a man who pervades the spectacle to such a degree that even people of no interest in mixed-martial arts are fully aware of what he looks like, how his voice sounds and what he does. At the root of McGregor’s fast rise to global fame has been his ability to attract the media cameras by boasting about both his fighting talent, and the obscene amounts of money his talent has afforded to him to earn. But at the start of his fighting career in 2013, calm, without swearing or raising his voice, McGregor can be seen informing the cameras of his fundamental beliefs: that he is open, drawing inspiration from anything he sees in life – just anyone chasing down any old dream… whether you’re a day one beginner or not whoever you are…I’m always tryin to take things, always tryin’ to learn…just wan

It has often been remarked that Leo Messi has succeeded in making the spectacular look so ordinary, such is the sheer number of incredible goals he scores. From 2009-2013 was Messi playing at a level few, if any players have ever reached. The ability to turn and dart past an entire defence on a whim, finishing it off with either a deft chip or a wrapped finish into the far corner. This Messi still exists - but today he tends to unleash it in shorter bursts, spending most of his time linking the play and freeing up teammates to run on goal. The Messi we saw under Guardiola played like a ferocious recurrent explosion. None of this is to deny how great Messi still is. To my mind he is still the greatest player in the world by some distance, but every time I've seen him play (nowhere near as much as I did 6/7 years ago...who at all watches any Spanish football these days?) of late, despite the flashes of brilliance, he seems to walk a lot more, wait rather than run for the ball a

World Cup's over then, but still the feeling nags away at me that France were unworthy winners of the thing. Of course they played well, fast efficient football and easily had the strongest team and probably the strongest squad. Mbappe too was the tournament's real star, eclipsing not only Neymar but Ronaldo and Messi too. Driving at teams with Griezmann ontop of an iron base of Matuidi and Kante, he ripped teams apart practically on his own. France swept aside every team that faced them without much difficulty. The final was the biggest disappointment: never in a million years is that a freekick for 1-0, and never in a million years is that a penalty for 2-1. Croatia were robbed, absolutely robbed of their best spell of the game. After that, Modric, Rakitic and crucially the goalkeeper Subosic were out of gas, unable to chase any longer after such an exhausting set of fixtures. I saw plenty of calls for a France win before the game, citing the recent fascism of Croatia

remember Bob no fear no envy no meanness

Lukaku, Hazard, De Bruyne. De Bruyne the thrust, dropping slightly deeper, picking passes, sliding passes, driving eating up the yards like a bullettrain. Hazard constantly dipping weaving clipping his heels round corners, an absolute slipstream, an absolute trace of a player. Like the fucking moon - you see him where he was half a second ago. Lukaku a whole other blade in himself. How much has this man improved from the lumbering, slow inflatable we saw at Old Trafford in August? Dominating centre halfs in the air, for speed, positioning. These three tore Brazil a new one in the first half hour. Belgium could have had three or four by half-time. I'm not Martinez' biggest fan, but he set the team up to allow these lads to flourish today, and for half an hour they cut Brazil, one of the strongest defensive sides in World Cup history to absolute shreds. Brazil - goes against any actual rationale, but I did kinda feel sorry for Neymar, slumped, dumped, almost in tears as he

You don't have to be great to win a World Cup. You gotta be smart, sure, but you don't need to win each game five-nil at a canter, playing the most superb football ever seen and leaving teams scratching dust as they chase you all over the pitch. Columbia and England showed signs of this theory earlier tonight. Columbia started the game in the garage, nevermind which gear, but slowly, surely worked themselves into something of a coherent team performance, enough to snatch a late equaliser and very nearly enough to win the game. Quintero, the man who's sublime Gascoigne-isms in the group games had even forced me into ordering a fucking Columbia shirt was way off key, short of both room and options on the ball, while Falcao spent the first 70 minutes battling 3 defenders on his own. England by contrast, started brightly but soon faded. Gone were the fluid attacks of the Tunisia game in a first half which eventually saw Harry Kane dropping into the number 5 position t

So fucking gutted. Again the team selection simply didn't make sense. What is Di Maria? What is this man who oscillates between pub football and world class every ten minutes? Where is he meant to play? What is he supposed to be doing on the pitch? Fuck'sake. Dybala? Where? Aguero? Nah? Mascherano? Sampaoli's attempt to gegenpress France was never going to work with the players he has at the back there. It's hard to tell - rumours are divided - as to whether it's him or Messi picking the team. What needs to happen though, is for a manager to be able to tell Messi where to go on the pitch himself - someone not afraid of picking Icardi or Dybala, people it's rumoured Messi has an issue with, not afraid of dropping the Messi-chums (Mascherano) from the squad, but then also willing to build up a team that attacks through Messi, without him being just another counter-attacking outlet upfront or on the wing. The most frustrating thing for me about watching Messi at W

Three of us sat at our desk at 4pm. Second half about to start. Occasional check of the score. Then Sweden get one. Start listening to the radio commentary. They're still through if it's a draw though right? Yeah? Yeah. 2 minutes pass. Shit I've just checked the table they're out if they draw and Sweden win! Actually out if they draw! What? Fucking out? Out! Out if they draw! 80 minutes on the clock. About seven of us huddled round someone else's desk watching it in full screen. First Korean goal. Seven of us jumping and screaming red cherry faced like fans in a stadium. In an office. Offside?! Shit. Offside. VAR? Yeah he's off. Off. Slightly off. No wait. Nah he's off. Ah well. Still time. No wait. No wait Kroos touched it! Kroos passed it can't be off! Can't be off! Can't be off! He's not off! Goal given. Hear the roar from us. The roar from the office next door through the brick wall. People I've never seen and will probably nev

Banega was the key man here. Like a wire-ripped beyblade toy, always turning: turning on the ball, swiveling away from tackles, half-turning to catch his shadows, roaming across the midfield areas like a general in the first half. Where against Croatia and Iceland, the Argentine centre backs and Mascherano had pondered and lumbered, taking an age between each touch, now Banega was there a few yards ahead, finding space and demanding the ball. If the space wasn't there he'd be barking and pointing, telling those less capable how and where to shift the ball, trying to rattle the cage of that Nigerian defensive block, working gaps in the rails for himself and Messi to work in. The first half hour was the best Argentina have played all tournament and they were unlucky not to be at least two-goals up by the break. Messi looked interested and free - finally relieved perhaps, to have some help out there, someone else on the pitch who understood how to work the ball forward in a

This album and the title track are considered emblematic of the '60s: its sense of social upheaval, of things getting better, of hippies and young and black people fighting in the streets for a better day. But this album is anything but an anthem to these things. Just listen to Dylan's voice as the soon as the opening lyrics arise: come gather round people wherever you roam . He sounds just as old as the mothers and fathers throughout the land- don't criticise what you can't understand . Young wise, old naive. Never did Dylan sound so weary, so fucking tired and battered by the circus of being a folk musician, by the circus of American society than in the Times They Are A-Changin album. The album, having opened with the claim that the tables are surely turning, then goes on to cough up the blood and infected guts of America, tales of forgotten Americans going mad in communities where the work has dried up, where the red iron pits ran a-plenty, but the cardboard-f

“The man could pick flowers in a minefield and never miss a bloom”