All turn to Kopites 26, 1-40 by Plech

Man I wish this is the only thing the aliens find after the human race has become extinct.
 
Eriku said:
Because lurking's not the same as posting?
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Didn't realise he wasn't posting. This short story has such geniousity its quite possible that he might be Stephen Hawking and we all know he has had a busy couple of years! Another thing could be that his system is malfunctioning so he can only move the mouse and click without being able to type. A good explanation as you'll likely to get. Hey @Plechazunga give us a wave.
 
BarstoolProphet said:
That and his Berbatov 'article' is the best things posted in RedCafe's history. His skills are way too good for a football forum.
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It was a short one, but I think his pidgen-German chant for Hargreaves was amongst his best work too:

Owen Hargreaves über alles
Er ist unser Ankermann
Obergeneral in dem Enginraum
Aber bocks-zu-bocks gehen kann

Komme endlich der neu Keano
Kaiser unsere midveld?
Oder fur das bissenschnelleresdarrenfletcherschaft
Gaben wir scheissloads von geld?


It lampooned what everyone was hoping for from him so well.
 
There was even talk about having these verses printed on T-shirts or something. Just imagine walking down Liverpool wearing one of them
 
Haven't seen that before - genius :) although will have to pick my sandwich out of my keyboard now............
 
Ronnie O'Sullivan said:
Kopites 27? Slippy G and throwing away the title?
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I made something similar last season, I'm in no way trying to out-do Plech here, I can't get anywhere near the level of genius in the original.

Kopites *Appendix 1

"...and before his long-feared departure, Gerrard of Liverpool shall go forth to fight the enemies of the Kop, not only devil from Manchester, but the blue lion of oil wealth, and he shall do so in the light of all the nation's scholars and newsmen. He shall be spurred to win for he is old and wishes one last victory in battle. But even under the feeble Moyes of Alba, the devil of Manchester hath no anxious spirit about the coming of Gerrard and his army, for his army is weak and is commanded by Brenton of Antrim. There will be much anticipation, and the Kopites will pour scorn over the devil of Manchester and predict with glee a glorious victory for their eldest warrior"

"...but upon the day of judgement, Gerrard shall slip, and the wrath of the devil of Manchester will punish him and laugh at his failure, and his army shall dwindle. And the Kopites will seek solace in the bias of the FA and conspiracy theories shall reign over the land. And Gerrard will exile himself to far away lands, where he will fight weaker opponents and try to capture the mythical MLS. And the Kopites will suffer another 40 days and 40 nights without winning a trophy, and in the land of Kop, there will be wailling, and gnashing of teeth".
 
The thing that makes what Plech did so good is that grammatically it reads just like an Old Testament narrative. I would know.... I was a seminarian. Lol!
 
Comfortably the best post ever.

The 2nd best is also from Plech when we were pursuing Berba....

Plechazunga said:
Bulgarian press says Berbatov's a done deal


From Pozvanete Novini, translated by Babelfish

Waiting exhausted itself this morning in continuing fable of promotion from Tottenham Hotspur, a collective at London, to again Manchester of his first asset, Dimitar Berbatov. Since two years, he went in same direction the North-traveling man Carrick, and even this empty season has extracted Robbie Keane, Irish son of that once of Manchester Keane now inspecting his saddle at Sunderland. Yet necessary rapid articulation of signatory przilsky has been circumcised by anger at Manchester from Daniel Levy, president of the Tottenham collective, which was smiling sporadically in the 1960’s.

All Bulgaria, including Manchester, lusts for prompt Berbatovian resettlement, for three causes. First, in Manchester are superior comrades, by example Ronald the Christian, who again is Annual Global Footballer, Wayne Rooney, the River Ferdinand, and Nemanja Vidic, metallic Serbian rapist. At most least, Dimitar will certainly cheer a lack of Michael Dawson.

Second, there is shame in heroic genius screaming pointlessly for the League of Champions. If Jermaine Pennant is running at Milan and Madrid, while Dimi at home eats squashed potato without pork, this is stupid.

Thirdly, in Manchester he can win suitcase over suitcase of pound sterling. In negotiations, an exact price of labour has not yet made it so that both sides hold each the other man’s hand and, smiling, jiggle. However, because Micha’s agent, Emil Dantchev, is friend of my uncle Lyubomir, who shoots horses with his father, I sometimes loosely push him with my telephone’s mouth. Emil poured onto the ground for me some approximate prices of labour of £75-85,000 per week. Queen Elizabeth will steal some of this from tax, but, Emil insists me, not much, because officially his client lives in the sea. And above money, Manchester will treat Michko with mercy: he is able to go away back in Bulgaria in summer, he will build a castle with garden on an island called Cheshire, and he is permitted to breed.

We will find after this season what flavour of honour our Mitichevsky inhales. In Manchester already they are anticipating parties. On the internet, slow people repeat the phrase “Time for removal of my penis!” This signifies that they are happy. But still supporters of Tottenham collective roar into a deaf night. Levy writes a poem from his wounds for FA, English football politburo. But by a proverb this is only throwing salt between steeples to make watery slujka. By now, Dmitichichka’s promotion is a gutted fish.

Berbatov is beautiful, with sly eyes like demon.
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Hoof The Ball said:
The thing that makes what Plech did so good is that grammatically it reads just like an Old Testament narrative. I would know.... I was a seminarian. Lol!
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Yeah it sort of really captures the awkward bits where in order to translate the ablatives from the Latin into English they've have to add loads of subordinate clauses
 
"And so it came to pass in the twilight of the Kloppian era, in the land of Anfield, that the faithful did gather, clad in garments made of shells, their hearts heavy with both dread and hope.

Verily, the winds of change did blow, and the once mighty Reds, now a bit more pinkish, found themselves adrift, no longer the fearsome force that conquered Europe and beyond. Klopp, the bearded sage from the Black Forest, stood upon the touchline, his countenance a mix of fury and bewilderment.

"O mighty Jurgen," cried the Kopites, "why hath the victories forsaken us? Where are the trophies that glittered like gold in seasons past?"

And Klopp, with a weary smile, spake unto them: "Behold, the season is long, and the path fraught with peril. Yet, do not despair, for in adversity we find our true strength. Also, it might help if we stopped injuring ourselves in training. And remember, never skim an Erdinger!"

But the omens were grim. The defense, once a fortress, now lay in ruins, as if smitten by a vengeful deity. The midfield, a once harmonious symphony, now played a discordant tune, reminiscent of trumpets signaling a great trial upon the land. The attack, the spearhead of the Anfield phalanx, blunted by misfortune and mishap, with Darwin Nunez, whose shots often strayed like lost sheep in the wilderness, and the absence of Diaz, whose father had been taken captive, with many shekels demanded for his return.


In the temple of Anfield, there arose murmurs and whispers, tales of Klopp's departure, and the uncertain dawn that awaited. "Will he stay?" they asked, "Or shall he depart, leaving us to wander the wilderness once more?"


Amongst these concerns was the fate of Salah, the prince of Egypt, whose future seemed as uncertain as the shifting sands of the desert. The allure of millions and millions of Shekels from the house of the Saud tempted him, and his loyal subjects wondered if he would remain to lead them or sail away to distant shores, laden with gold


The elders of the Kop, clad in their sacred garments made of shells, pondered these questions deeply. And they spoke of the days of glory, of Champions League nights that shimmered with magic, and the Premier League crown that finally adorned their beloved crest. They also spoke of the season when hope was high, and they dreamed of a quadruple, only to end with but the League Cup in their hands, as the devil worshippers from Manchester laughed as their dreams were snatched away.

"Fear not," said one wise Kopite, "for even in the darkest hour, we shall sing and remember the deeds of our beloved sage. His laughter, his passion, his bond with the people – these shall not fade. Unless we switch to Instagram, then it might."

As the season drew to its tumultuous close, Klopp addressed his flock one final time: "Though the journey has been arduous, it has also been glorious. The fields of Anfield will forever echo with our victories and our songs. Remember, we are Liverpool, and we shall rise again. And please, for the love of Shankly, let's avoid buying more players from Southampton."

With these words, their Lord, whose teeth glittered still like the morning star above, ascended to the heavens above, a legend whose tale would be told for generations. And the Kopites, with a mixture of sorrow and pride, sang his name into the night, knowing that their love for him would endure, no matter the seasons to come. And as they raised their glasses of Erdinger, they vowed never to skim it, for such is the wisdom imparted by their cherished sage

As the dawn of a new era approached, word spread of Arne Slot, the new leader from the land of Nether. "Fear not," proclaimed a Kopite prophet, "for Slot shall lead us with wisdom and strength. He comes from a land where tulips bloom and footballers are forged. With him at the helm, we shall be fuchen sorted la, and Anfield shall once again resound with the glory of our triumphs, as foretold in the sacred scripts of the transfer market."
 
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