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We go live to Central Syria:

I'm glad Oguz Aydin made a full recovery from whatever illness/injury was preventing him from starting those 18 games. Love little success stories like that, me.

if we play like we did against liverpool, we win. if we play like we did against palace, we lose.

The sad fact is it IS better than louise taylors latest piece.

With all due respect CT, I fucking despise this. AI doesn't generate or create anything. It skims art made by actual people and amalgamates it into a facade of creative output. It is theft, the art you're putting on your mugs was made by people and you are then profiting off it and not paying them for it. A point will come where there is an AI crash, either because it eats itself as several LLMs have tried to do already without manual intervention or because it is eventually regulated because the amount of energy required for them to work is horrifically bad for the environment OR because one of the many lawsuits around stealing content from people will come to a head and make AI models unprofitable because they can no longer be "trained" for free off other peoples actual work.

Sorry like, but any list without even a mention of Pancrete is complete bullshit.

He asked to move to LB for his own safety…

I liked Gordon’s celebration on Wednesday where he pretended to be a crab

✅ Radio 2

Dunno. Anyway.... ✅ Jack Whitehall.

### The Fragments of Christmas Tree Christmas Tree wasn’t his real name, of course. His parents named him Christopher, but everyone in town called him Christmas Tree because he ran a seasonal shop that sold trinkets, ornaments, and festive junk all year round. It hadn’t always been this way. He used to dream of being an artist, but life had ground those dreams into dust, leaving him to peddle cheap nostalgia in the form of glitter-coated baubles. Then he discovered AI-generated art. It started innocently enough—a friend had shown him an app that could conjure beautiful, intricate images with just a few words. Landscapes, animals, surreal dreamscapes—it could do it all. Christmas Tree saw an opportunity. His trinket shop was failing, and he needed a way to stay afloat. Why not print this AI art onto cups and mugs? People loved unique, artistic designs, and no one had to know they weren’t his own creations. The business took off. He sold more mugs in six months than he had in six years. Customers loved the designs: serene woodland scenes, abstract splashes of color, melancholy portraits that seemed to speak to the soul. Christmas told everyone the work was “AI-assisted,” but deep down, he knew it wasn’t true. He hadn’t made anything. The AI had done it all—or so he thought. One evening, as he was loading another batch of mugs into his online store, he received a message. The email was blunt: **“Your AI is stealing. The designs you’re using are mine.”** Attached were links to a gallery. Christmas clicked them, and his stomach churned. The artwork was identical to the images he’d been printing. The same swirling skies, the same delicate brushstrokes. The artist explained that the AI didn’t “create” anything—it scraped data from existing works, breaking them apart and recombining them. His bestsellers were stolen fragments of someone else’s soul. For the first time in years, guilt hit Christmas Tree like a freight train. He had spent months profiting from stolen creativity. He had built his success on lies and exploitation. Worse, he realized, he had never even *cared* about the art. It had just been a means to an end, another way to make money. He couldn’t live with himself. Christmas stumbled into his workshop that night, his breath ragged, his mind a storm of shame. The mugs and cups were stacked high on shelves, their glossy surfaces gleaming in the pale light of the single bulb overhead. Each one felt like a testament to his failure—not just as an artist, but as a human being. He grabbed a mug off the shelf and hurled it against the wall. The shattering sound was satisfying, cathartic, so he grabbed another, and another. He smashed them against the walls, the floor, the workbench. The workshop became a symphony of destruction, shards of ceramic flying in all directions. In his frenzy, he didn’t notice a sharp fragment of a mug flying toward him until it was too late. The jagged edge sliced clean through the tip of his right pinky finger. Christmas screamed, clutching his hand as blood poured onto the floor. He sank to his knees, the pain sharp and unrelenting, the guilt swelling even larger in his chest. There he sat, surrounded by the wreckage of his business and his body, blood pooling beneath him as he cried out to the empty room. “This is what I deserve,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “This is what I deserve for being a fraud, a coward…” The workshop door creaked open. His wife, Clara, stood there in her robe, her face pale with worry. “Chris, what the hell is going on?” she gasped, rushing to his side. He looked up at her, tears streaming down his face, his hand trembling as he tried to stop the bleeding. “I’ve ruined everything,” he said. “I lied… I stole… I’m no better than a parasite.” “Chris, you’re hurt! Stop talking like that. Let me get something for the bleeding—” “No, Clara. You don’t understand,” he interrupted, his voice trembling. “It’s not just the mugs. It’s my whole life. I’ve been lying to myself… to you. All this time, I’ve been hiding who I am. I don’t even know if I ever loved you the way you deserved.” Her eyes widened. “What are you saying?” He lowered his head, unable to meet her gaze. “I’ve always been gay,” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to say it. I thought… I thought marrying you would fix me, or make it go away. But it didn’t. And now… now I’ve hurt you too. Just like I hurt those artists.” Clara knelt beside him, silent for a moment. She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Chris,” she said softly, “you’re bleeding out. Let’s deal with that first.” Her practicality jolted him back to reality. She grabbed a clean rag from the workbench and wrapped it around his hand, applying pressure to stem the bleeding. As she worked, he stared at her, bewildered by her calmness. “You’re not… angry?” he asked. She gave him a small, sad smile. “I think I’ve known for a while. Maybe not consciously, but… I’ve felt it. I just didn’t know how to bring it up. Or if I should.” Christmas Tree let out a shuddering breath, the weight of decades pressing down on him. He felt stripped bare, as if the last mask he’d been wearing had finally crumbled. “Clara,” he said, “I’m so sorry. For everything.” She nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We’ll figure it out,” she said. “But first, let’s get you to a hospital before you bleed to death, okay?” He laughed bitterly, the sound choked and raw. “A fitting end, don’t you think? Dying in the middle of my own mess.” “No,” she said firmly, helping him to his feet. “This isn’t the end. It’s just… a new beginning. A painful one, sure, but maybe it’s the one you’ve needed all along.” As they left the workshop, the shards of broken mugs glittered in the dim light, a fractured mosaic of everything Christmas Tree had been—and everything he might yet become.

Our game v Bromley is Sun 12th 3pm live on iPlayer Full list is on FA Website

Fuck me. It's like the evolution of man t shirt but just someone getting older.

And for those who were too young/can’t remember/not born yet THERE WAS A WORLD CUP THAT SUMMER! 😀 There was so much to watch and listen to… the music from Grease and SNF seemed to be everywhere, my sister played the arse off both soundtracks to the extent I still know every lyric by heart to every song from Grease ☺️ No one at school had seen a World Cup before, and no one had seen posters like this popping up all over the place, we just lost our fuckin shit completely what a time to be alive…

How old was your son?

Where's your Christmas film recommendation, you cheerful cunt. We're not watching Threads, before you start.

Cuban cigars, lovingly rolled on the thighs of dusky maidens. CT’s mugs, lovingly stacked on his bog.

'How many starts has ASM had in Turkey, mate?' 'Two seconds, I'll just check it out.' 'You googling it?' 'No, I'm just giving LTA a bell.'

It was only a good interview because Howe allowed himself to be asked difficult questions. There's not a cat in hells chance Klopp, Arteta et al would open themselves up to that level of scrutiny

There was a long-standing and utterly false rumour that she was a trans woman, which never once put me off That Trading Places scene

Eddie oot and non stop chook? You seem to be on the wrong board hen

It's not unusual 🙂

A new years film, Trading Places. Jamie Lee 🍆 One of the greatest scenes ever

I bet he's done some absolutely vile Denise Welch fan art.

For the record, the brief had it slicing off the tip of his penis, but the AI WOKERATI wouldn't have it.

I don't actually think that's right. Need to be careful billing that as a guide.

Well now I feel a bit shit

I knew her sister Esther

I knew a lass called Polly.

Yes to all of that. It's called match day emotions you bunch of Murphy noncing fannies.

oh that is beautiful.

I reckon I’d disappoint Ruth Wilson much better than Holden would.

And, as I’ve just discovered, joint 29th goal-scorer and joint 31st in terms of assists in the Turkish league this season

I almost don't want us to go back in for Guehi in January after this armband nonsense. It would also be funny, after the way he behaved in the summer, if Diet Simon Jordan had to see him leave on a free in a year or so.

I’m usually happy to take one for the team and look up any vile and disgusting subject you lads with a more sensitive search history won’t- but even I have my limits.

Spurs smashed Man City 4-0 then followed it up with a draw v Fulham and a defeat by Bournemouth. Classic Spurs. They are even more inconsistent than us. However I do think the league is more competitive than it has been for years. I don’t think there is much in between teams from 5-12. They can all beat each other on their day.

My Mam named me that.

Not sure that ‘scoop’ was worth bumping the thread for

I'm not saying that video was the reason that fucker tried to declare martial law, but I bet it was.

This is strange behaviour for a middle aged fella. Even for a middle aged fella pretending to be a young lass on the internet.

Have had my Mrs’ cooking too, like?

I can kind of see their frustration with Aussie Ardiles but they play lovely football. When they have a couple of injuries (namely Van de Ven) then they don’t have the quality to play how he wants them but still stubbornly doesn’t change his tactics. If he could buy the players he wanted then I think they’d be a force but he has levy as a chairman so it’ll probably never work out.

I'd possibly even argue that a freelance assassin has more freedom to be morally superior than someone in the military tbh. A hitman says no to a job because it's against his own ethical code then the job goes to someone else - no biggie. A marine sniper refuses to take a shot his career could (and most likely is) ruined. Both still kill people for money, but the "bad" one has much less pressure to accept a job that doesn't sit right with him than the "good" one. So in that case which one is truly bad here? Both is probably the answer, but still.....

Can't help but feel it was a bit light on detail about the two car parks.