The internet was rife with news of Heath Pearce to NYRB, Juan Agudelo to Chivas transfer talk, yet there was no mention of this hottie’s horse riding tendencies.
Perhaps we missed the news piece detailing who, what, where, when, why and how exactly manskirts are the new trousers? It may have something to do with the fact that the football season is 900 weeks long and there are very few staffers sober enough at any given moment to keep up with the joneses, but ‘tis strange indeed.
Do Adam Johnson and Djibril Cisse still look like ladies in their skirts to you, Kickettes? Or are these guys onto something strangely good with their female-inspired fashions?
Whilst watching videos of Juventus celebrating their Scudetto win over the weekend, we couldn’t help but make the following observations about the wide-range of physical talent on offer from a few of their players:
Giorgio Chiellini: McDonald’s Playland bouncy ball pit hot (0.00 – 0.03).
Mirko Vucinic: will lecture you on your life choices hot.
Leonardo Bonucci: sexy, seemingly “slow” at times hot (0.07 – 0.11)
Marco Borriello: hates his Phantom of the Opera mustache too, but blows kisses anyway hot (o.15 – o.20).
We’ve yet to get on Pinterest because we’re lazy. But if this is how the social network was intended to be used – with football clubs creating virtual walls of mancandy that rots our retinas – then we’ll be scouring for an invite to join shortly.
One debate currently sitting very well with us is a question Liverpool’s official Pinterest page put to it’s female (and male; we know it’s true. Your man card won’t be revoked for admitting it) fans and followers: who are the best looking players to have never walked alone?
According to Paul Rogers, Head of Content in Liverpool’s Digital Media department, it’s not who you may think.
We would never ask you to do something we’re not prepared to do ourselves. And while this is an obvious opportunity for all of us to waffle on about what we would do if presented with not one, but two, cute boys and a large bucket of peanut butter, it’s not compulsory to sign up to our
pervy peculiar brand of eccentricity.