"In an early game, away at Manchester United, Rio Ferdinand kicked me with all his power the first time the ball got close. I flew one metre high, and when I landed, he muttered, 'Welcome to the Premiership'. In midfield it's like a wrestling match. It is very different from football in Spain. The refs allow much more physical contact, there are not so many cards, although sometimes defenders get away with murder."

- Luis Garcia shows that when you do nasty things to people they do remember.


"Who says all the Spanish teams are out of the Champions League? Liverpool's still in it."

- Anonymous reporter. The French teams are not doing badly too, if you discount Arsenal.


"It feels like secondary school all over again.

Eyes wander, akin to that of a little boy in a candy shop with nary a care in the world, with total freedom to lay his eyes on anything he desires.

Yet there isn’t total freedom when that little boy sees something so beautiful that it perversely intimidates him. True beauty intimidates, such that one may end up fearing what is seen to be excessively beautiful. Then one becomes reduced to mere admiration, admiration of that refinement and symmetry, without daring to delve deeper to explore the other qualities within. That fear of being rebuffed, of finding that refinement is unattainable and ultimately exclusive.

It then takes huge consecutive strokes of luck to overcome that fear. It turns out that we have common friends, and common modules, so it doesn’t take too much effort to get to that stage of smiling hi’s and bye’s to each other. Then sitting near one another with all the others that make up the group.

That sheer beauty still intimidates nevertheless. And this time round, beauty isn’t just in the eye of the beholder, especially not when W and M join in the admiration, sharing gawks at her and commenting to one another about how refined her beauty is, and how that beauty comes about. “Is it her eyes? Her sculptured nose? Or her hair?” “It’s just the overall looks right?” Yet that’s beauty at skin level, and thus the crush remains superficial. Thankfully W’s happily attached.

Today one of those huge strokes of luck dropped by. Casually asking our common friend what reading was due for tomorrow’s class, the four of us – don’t ask who – ended up heading for the canteen together, and without anything else to do (or not wanting to do any more reading), ended up having some food and drinks together. Therein lies that fascination that brings one back to those innocent secondary school days: getting to know one another better, cracking silly jokes, gossiping about other people around us. Glad to say, she isn’t restricted to skin-deep beauty, being probably the entire package, as much as I don’t know her well. Yet in tribute to W’s high standards, she’s sufficient for him to claim that she’s probably the first girl he’s met to make him reconsider what he told his girlfriend: that even if they weren’t together, he still hasn’t seen anyone else in his three years to stir any interest in him.

Should I heed W’s encouragement to go for it? I only know her skin-deep, and yes, her beauty still intimidates me. I know, though, that we’re comfortable enough to sit down for a drink and chat. It’s good to know there’s possibilities, and good also to know that these possibilities may not materialise, after which I need not suffer any excruciating pains since I never had high hopes to begin with.

The dawn of a new tomorrow."

- The once-suicidal dejectium thinks he is ready for another swig of the good old vicious cycle. It's a bit like Paul Gascoigne and booze. We wish him the best of luck.