Commonwealth Story

DEEDS REQUIRE TIME
By Remi Olutimayin

"I always found that the true nature of things are most clearly
revealed in the dark. This is not to be confused with the factual
nature of things. The night often turns your mind against you. It
reveals fears hidden in your sub-conscious. Some fears you can do
something about, by simply turning on the lights or sleeping more
deeply. Other fears show you to be helpless & can rob you of your
peace of mind for weeks. I am one of them."
I woke up & looked about me. My wife slept in anger next to me. When
frustrated,she would snore loudly,but when angry,she would sleep
silently,as if masticating her plans of reprisal & it made me uneasy.
Be wary of the anger of a patient woman.
It was my third week of unemployment. I & 3,000 faceless colleagues.
The purge in the banking system started a tribe of angst-ridden
people. I felt our communal rage everytime I looked at the empty
liabilities that I had acquired over time. The cable tv subscription
was going to be out in 3 days. The car had to be sold but everyone
else wanted to stay liquid,so who would buy from me? I saw my books
from my university days that continued to mock me,"A chemical
engineer, now a redundant book-keeper."
The smart ones had started to cash in on investments in small business
like snail farming. Things had gotten ridiculous very quickly. There
were promises that had to be broken because there was no money to keep
them. These things kept feeding my frustrations with the affection of
a nursing mother. Everytime I would get a reprieve of sorts,they would
rise to challenge the threat of being forgotten. It was during times
like this that I would remember the cold warnings of the Jeremiah of
my branch. He was the one who plagued my dreams,who laughed to mock my
every attempt at resting & I didn't know who I could tell. It felt
like guilt for how the rest of the branch clique ganged up on him & I
stood by in silence. My forced apathy was a deeper consent to the
cruelties that were handed out to him. No one would willingly die for
a good man. I chewed these thoughts slowly like cud & I couldn't weep
for him because I had no tears even for myself.
"You are depressed!", my wife said,offering what seemed less an
opinion & more a disfigured epiphany.
That's what started her anger at me because I did what no man should
do to his wife. I pushed her away. Her suggestion seemed to be a
hurriedly assembled solution to a problem that started too long ago
for any immediate help. I think I deserve to be caged with these
demons & eaten alive. But I don't think anymore. I sit awaiting
judgment day. I cannot live off her because of pride & also because
she won't allow it. I feel stupid next to her. I once sat behind my
desk,thinking of her skin & I was aroused in unusual places. The
office got brighter & I could pick snatches of conversations from
corners of the room. Now when I think of her, it's her words & spirit
that is behind them, giving them a cruel quaility I will never believe
she has a natural capacity for. I haven't had cause to reply her
words. I just shut myself away & it's obvious she is not being
listened to. To spite her, I ignore her question,"Are you listening to
me?"
So, during my extended moment of madness, I offered my services to an
old client who wanted to sleep with me. I shuddered involuntarily
everytime I remembered the folds of her neck, the breasts that had
long ago conceded to gravity, her breath fouled by things too
frightening to contemplate. Suprisingly, she actually had a price,
place, period & preference ready. I was a 'shoe in'. I got myself a
lot of recreational drugs to dull the blade of my conscience &
self-respect. The money would tide me over for about 2 months. It
wasn't so bad. It felt like petting a bleached whale. Of course, when
she got tired of foreplay, she insisted on mounting 'me'. What can I
say? I made sure my diaphram was safe & let her ride. It was the idea
of the money that kept me up. It was over long before I could remember
my name or what I was doing there or why there was a huge woman next
to me with a penchant for farting in her sleep. I got an earful when I
got back home. Showering never felt better. I could literally feel the
memories being pulled away by the suds. Her tongue in my mouth (vomit
rose briefly), my head between her flip-flops (vomit visited again) &
that strange uninviting smell when she took off her panties (vomit
took its leave & I watched it dance down the drain).
I was worried that I'd have to go back again sometime soon & then I
got texts. I discovered that in any business, referrals are important.
My penis withered in depression. But it was for the money. One of them
wanted to get pregnant.
I found myself between a crime to self & a crime to marriage.
Marriage will survive. It's been here longer than me, hasn't it?
I no longer touch my wife. She's worried. Good. The dynamic works for
me...for now. Now off to get Viagra for my Erectile disinterest.

--
Sent from my mobile device

A prayer for a child

A prayer for a child. It's a psalm inspired by the events of 26/04/10

May life never deceive
You about what to receive
May men never kill
What is yours in God's will
May love be given to you
As God would want it to
May your enemies have to fear
Your God who remains ever near
May men respect who you are
Before they compare you to who you were
May beautiful things come
When you're strong enough not to run
May fear be far from you
In everything God wants you to do
May women admire
As wisdom preserves you from fire
May you remain meek and wise
As fools bet their lives on lies
May you grow closer to Christ
As you become a man in our eyes
May honour stand firm with you
As you do what you have to
May cowards and parasites flee
Before they do anything dastardly
May your parents have joy in your life
As well as your uncles, aunts, friends & wife
May you always know our love
Is small compared to what God has from above
May failure come and go
In time for your successes to grow
May you fight better than others
Remember even enemies are brothers
Let your advice be tempered with wisdom
So you won't be far from God's kingdom
May the love of Christ be found in you
And show in all that you do
Remember the first words I said to you
When you were more than an hour or two

when you get older
when you get older
you will be stronger
Just like a waving flag!

--
Sent from my mobile device

It takes a village

It takes a village to raise a child- W.E.B. Du Bois. I've recently
come to dislike him for his early direct work on this continent, but
I'm the forgiving kind. I want to point out where he & I agree.
In terms of culture, we human beings are ahead of every other
multi-cellular creature we know of. (I have be with Nietzsche on this
one. He said we are too arrogant, insisting to understand the world as
if the rest of creation were aspiring to be manlike. Why would a moth
want to be a man? Why would we think it any less because it wants to
be a moth? That's for another day. Remind me, sweetie!)
We enculturate children who will spend their entire lives learning
what it means to be an acceptable human being. An important lesson
that no one else can teach them, they must catch it for themselves.
They must accept themselves. So it turns out that my friend calls me
this evening to tell me that his wife just delivered their first
child. I dropped everything & relocated my ass through traffic (Okada,
we hail thee) to where they were. The way I smiled, you'd think I had
triplets & a lavish expense account (babies are expensive). I saw him,
I carried him & I realised that this was a new person. I am one of
many responsible to God by being responsible for him. I gladly take
it. He's worth every drop of sweat and concern from me. My only
problem right now, as I punch this out in the maternity ward, is his
bevy of Aunties. Don't get me wrong. They are...lovely women. But I'm
feeling a little odd around them. I mention colostrum &they look at me
like...(I'm not paranoid!) I am the odd thing in a 'spot what's wrong
with this picture' game. Maybe. But their sudden pauses make me feel
uncomfortable. So I'm being really quiet right now as I write this
down. If it's considered to be women only, I dare them to out talk me
on this matter. I'm a ready made husband (thank you reading habit and
Everywoman), I won't lose my head when my time comes, I most certainly
will not take kindly to assertions that I am not fit to contribute to
the conversations. None of them has had a baby. True, neither have I,
but still this discrimination is terribly unfair.
I want to post this before he is 12 hours old. Why?
The Fire Next Time was an essay written to a nephew and delivered to
him when he was 16 years old. I'm starting to work on his. I think
I'll call it These Are Deep Times. Or not. I figure I've got 16 to
work it out.
I love him without reserve. Just like I love his father. And I would
do anything for either of them. Anything. At all.

--
Sent from my mobile device

Experiencial marketing

If you move around in Lagos during the day, especially through areas
prone to heavy traffic, you come across a very common battle in terms
of marketing. The only things of note are
1) The bizarre nature of the approach and
2) The weapons used.
There's an old saying that goes, 'In war, the better dressed army
loses.' This suggests that money is often thrown at challenges with
the assumption that it is the all round solution. Here is the
scenario.
The vendors who carry their wares on their person in traffic are one
side in the war. Make no mistake, they do not earn for the same
pocket. They have a variety of goods to sell. From handkerchiefs to
drinks to books to board games to rat poison to biscuits to pirated
DVDs. They have the high-end players who sell to the passengers of
high-end vehicles (Mercedes, BMW, et al) which is generally light
entertainment e.g. DVDs, books e.t.c.
I think you can divine the other tiers on your own. Now for the other side.
They are the bearers of new brands. They are on 'awareness campaigns'.
They wear branded clothes, dance to popular music, distribute flyers
that are meant to have an informative design. They're usually backed
by strategists with 'plans' and 'concepts' for concepts. Humorous
really, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
The spoils mean different things to them, thus their motivations vary,
like the tendrils of an unkempt set of dreadlocks. If the poorer
equipt army go out, it is for their daily bread. It's risk all or gain
nothing. Any one reading this hasn't the stamina to stand under the
morning, afternoon and early evening sun in Lagos. Not to mention
running, haggling, spotting, dodging speeding vehicles (yes, an okada
is a vehicle), all the while bearing weights varying from that of a
small child to young adult. And if you don't sell, you don't eat. They
put in their chips with the informal analysis of the streets and how
their pockets can reach. No charts, no war music (I suspect Da Grin
will be the anthem of the streets for a long time to come) and
certainly no one asking them about the demographic of their successful
transactions.
The other army, though, are a different kettle of fish (I just said
kettle of fish. Someone please shoot me! Ex-girlfriends are not
included! Thank you!). These guys get a tan/sunburn (depending on how
hardy they are), have a noisy vehicle with a reluctant Dj, music to
'ginger' themselves, bosses to report to, and no idea of what sort of
reception awaits them. I feel for them. Standing in clothes that are
made ridiculous by their efforts, marketing things no one really cares
about enough to experiment with, people who make purchase decisions
based on the familiar without giving an extra thought to it. And
they're expected to sell. And they do sell. But not like the guerilla
Super Yogo guy, or the handkerchief guy...not like the men who are
exposed to more vagaries than the idiotic white guy braving the
mangroove forests of the Niger Delta.
I realise it may seem like I'm against this approach. I'm not against
it as an approach. I'm against how it is handled. Why should people be
force fed new brands when all they want is to quench their thirst,
pacify their hunger, wipe sweat off their faces, buy a magazine
they're fond of, and then when you interrupt their bubble with that
stuff you're pushing on them, you're suprised at the rejection rate?
Respect the customer. Respect the audience. Respect yourself. Respect
your brand. Respect marketing and sales.
And in conclusion, I'm awaiting the day someone sells vibrators on the
streets of Lagos. It might be me. Testing the threshold of Lagosians
patience for new things. Perhaps even their capacity to buy such
exotica covertly in as open a space as the clogged highways. I'm not
saying I will. I'm just saying maybe...

--
Sent from my mobile device

We live, we learn. We die, it's all over on this end.

We live, we learn. We die, it's all over on this end.
Da Grin died on thursday. I remember what I ate for breakfast. I
remember what was foremost on my mind when I woke up. I remember
answering the call I got at 7:30. I don't recall thinking about my
mortality. I remember seeing my friends, getting a call from an ex,
chatting online with 3 friends at the same time. But I don't remember
thinking what I've done with my life that will stand after my demise.
In secondary school, when I was learning probability (I still like
math...sorta), they measured probabilities in terms of fractions of
x/1. With impossibility at 0, half-chance at 0.5, and certainty at 1.
Impossibility had examples,like me drinking the entire water at the
beach. Half-chance was flipping a coin to see who would take off their
own shirt first (me or my girlfriend). Now certainty had only one
example: death. Certainty of certainties on this mortal plane. If you
are reading this, you are alive and you will die. When is not the
point of secondary school probability, if is the factor. What
'conditions' favor the event in mind...or work against it. Death as we
know it as men in the flesh is certain. There's no weaving it, no
dodging it, no inevitable postponing of it. And when you're dead, you
can't hold on to anything in this world. You met it here, you will
leave it behind.
Ironically, there was a rumor of a 'get-well' party for Da Grin that
same evening. Sadly, I'm certain they'll party on and weep when
they're sober in the morning. Human love is as fickle as a leaf in the
most violent monsoon storms. Don't be angry at them. They couldn't
have known. Sad. Very sad.
Now his producer can cash in on a shit-load of Da Grin's debut
album...which is also his only album so far.
When you read up to this point, I want you to realise something.
You've been brushing aside the thought that this might be nothing more
than another man's tragedy. You forget that death hasn't decided that
you will play your own part in you pre-dirge ceremony of dying...yet.
Please, sober up. Forgive people who have offended you, give yourself
to anyone who's in need of something that bears your unique quality by
association.
May he rest in peace, but do you sleep in peace? Do you wrestle with
empty doubts about you after-life? I do. I still do. I'm determined to
change. Not to be morbid, but more appreciative of what opportunities
to be more like Christ and touch people's lives await me.
What do you think you could change about yourself that will help deal
with the reality of your inevitable 'passing on'?

--
Sent from my mobile device

A brief reminder. Always smile. It doesn't have to feel real to do
good. Though for those with questionable facial contours, a half-smile
is less threatening than a full one. And for those who need to be in
the dark to be considered romantically plausible, well... (I consider
myself to be like you. My face does more damage to my personality than
my voice. Really! Ask my friends!!) just a brief nod, given
approvingly should do the trick.
Speaking of which, does anyone still have a piece of my heart and feel
guilty about it? Well, I think it's yours to keep. Just do not abuse
it. There are far-reaching consequences for such acts of cruelty. It
was captured quite succinctly in Gnarlz Barkley's 'Who's gonna save my
soul?' in that the sudden loss of feeling towards abusers is a murder
of a strange, if not spiritual, nature.
I found out that the love that I feel to all my exes, my enemies, my
friends, my acquaintances, total strangers...is the neighbourly love
that Jesus insisted on. It isn't love as a feeling, rather it is love
as a duty. It is expected of you to measure wrongs done to you against
the work done at CALVARY. My debt of vengeance is paltry when compared
to my debt of forgiveness. Think about it. I. Kant came up with it. I
for Immanuel. Sorry. Was feeling clever.

--
Sent from my mobile device

[Writings from the leftist side of the brain.] The relief and the gory

Traffic in Lagos is horrible. I have not bought a car for reasons of
maintaining my youthful looks. I age in traffic. The Lagos set-up is
perfect for people like me. Call me 'NAIJA ON DE RUN'. If the traffic
gets too crowded, I take off on an okada (ask a nigerian. He/she'll
explain. If he/she can't, then he/she is as nigerian as Mutallab.)
Anyway, the few terrors of being in traffic in Lagos are scary. Some
you can run away from (i.e. Armed robbers), some you can try to run
away from (e.g. LASTMA, the police) and some that stick to you closer
than a brother (i.e. Challenges of an impatient biological nature).
My evening was coloured by a hotline call from Mother Nature. Believe
me, she insisted that I take the call. I can't remember all the small
details as is expected of a writer, but I was in shock and morbid
terror. I was assaulted with images of yielding to the barbarian in
me, who was knocking at my gate. Hard!
Well, I remember changing buses twice. That was after not finding one
going my way and exercising my sphincter muscles to hold back the
hordes that were crying out for release. I hopped, with decorum, from
foot to foot. I was wearing a 2 piece suit after all. When I got into
the bus taking me to my 'general' direction (at a time like this, I
wished I was still dating someone who lived on the way. But on second
thoughts, it played out well. I wasn't in any condition to cross an
express way, walk for 20 minutes and then knock on her door. The rest
will explain later.)
The traffic wasn't flowing slowly. I know day old babies who crawl
faster than that. (Day old babies? They don't crawl? My point
exactly.) I summoned every mantra I learned for the past 27 years of
my life so far, using the power of thought to keep the horrible images
at bay. What horrible images you might ask. I can't tell you. I can
hint...just imagine you have given up, totally given up, on keeping a
civilized public image. Reverting to a beast, you simply succumb to
the basic urge of suddenly squating right where you stand/sit for the
sake of a more relaxed state of mind and body. I battled bravely
against these thoughts. Maximus Decimus Meridius would have been proud
of how I held the line.
When we were within sight of the first friendly landmark, I knew I
wasn't going to make it with the bus. Tears were coming to the corners
of my eyes and the gentleman sitting to my right kept glancing at me.
I was edgy, too still one moment, suddenly a flurry of movement the
next. Seriously, it happened in moments. So, after braving the
situation to near the breaking point, I quit.
The bus, I mean. I got down, called an okada, agreed to twice the fare
to a friend's house, called my friend as we sped there, he answered, I
asked if he was home, he said yes, I said no more. I was in Terminator
mode. I could feel no pain, no remorse. I got to his house, paid and
dismissed the okada summarily, found friend's door open, flung my
jacket on his sofa, walked into the toilet and...well, it was like
being given a chance to live again. I remember being too weak from
relief to sit up straight when I was done.
That was not bowel movement. It was...an Opus. A Magnus Opus.
How would I rate this experience? 13 out of 10. Why? I was really
going to simply squat in some gutter in broad daylight and scream as I
was to be defeated. God remembered my parents and chose to protect
their reputation rather than have it soiled by the rumours of having a
son struck by madness. And you never live that 'shit' down. Never!

On 4/21/10, AURIA <Remi.Olutimayin@gmail.com> wrote:
> True Beauty is Ugliness as we know it, is the truth as we don't. If
> pressed to the wall on the issue, one will find that the perception of
> beauty is not an independent impression, but rather a meeting point of
> the approval and disapproval of those we looked up to in our
> developing years.
> What? I mean, someone told you their opinion of beauty and you burned
> it into your mental template. You are a slave to the way of thinking
> of the past generation. They told you DD cup breasts were it, then
> they told you assimus maximus was it and as a young boy, you had a
> boner before you knew what to do with it. So, now you're dulling for a
> hot-'looking' chick with the comparative personality of a wet pirhana
> (all they think about is eating. If you see a picture of one, you'll
> better appreciate my mental image of them).
> Beauty of course is not limited to women. It also occurs in men as
> well. But before I go there, I need to indict our parents' generation
> for an evil that continues to perpetrate itself. They said beauty
> isn't skin-deep. They put it in a song and fed that shit to us. Why do
> I call it shit? Simple. BEAUTY IS NOT A THING OF THE BODY!
> The clues are all around us. Ambience is one of the vehicles of that
> abstract concept. Aura. Attitude.
> Before I ramble you guys into disinterest, I will get back on track
> here.
> Whatever strikes you on the inside, forces you to face things you'd
> rather have remained ignorant of, challenges your natural affinity
> towards settling for what is instead of who you could be, what makes
> your weaknesses stand out to be addressed...it is these things that
> are beautiful.
> I remember once I saw something very ugly. It was a shooting. A series
> of shootings. For the fact that I was still alive, life tasted more
> beautiful. The ugliness of the moment hit me, but I could mourn for
> the victims. Still I wouldn't want to take their place. I wouldn't
> want to die for them.
> I'm confronted with my cowardice and it is ugly. But it is there. And
> I recognise that the time I spend wondering about nothing could be
> better spent recognising where else my cowardice reveals itself. It is
> humbling to realise that every time you confront your ugliness, you
> have two options:condemn yourself for having it or dealing with it by
> dealing with where it comes from.
> Let me separate issues here. Some people are ugly to look at. I'm one
> of them. My uglification stems from my inability to separate myself
> from my shortcomings. If I fail to understand something immediately, I
> take it as an affront. If I fail at a task, I take it personally. And
> none of these reactions makes me attractive, pleasant or charming. If
> anything at all, I come of as an extra-disgruntled Wolverine without
> the claws and all the promise of violence.
> But recognising this gives me a reason to be beautiful by means of
> changing my nature for the better. The change comes over time. The
> change brings rewarding results for victories and punitive results for
> defeats. All in all, we are all ugly by our own hand and beautiful for
> our change in handling ourselves.
> I ramble. I should be kept in a zoo for wandering entities. But even
> now, I'm sleepy. Thinking about ways of how I can change myself
> doesn't appeal to me much right now. But it will be rewarding. Very
> rewarding.
> --
> Sent from my mobile device
>
> --
> Posted By AURIA to Writings from the leftist side of the brain. at
> 4/21/2010 10:31:00 AM

--
Sent from my mobile device

The beauty of ugliness.

True Beauty is Ugliness as we know it, is the truth as we don't. If
pressed to the wall on the issue, one will find that the perception of
beauty is not an independent impression, but rather a meeting point of
the approval and disapproval of those we looked up to in our
developing years.
What? I mean, someone told you their opinion of beauty and you burned
it into your mental template. You are a slave to the way of thinking
of the past generation. They told you DD cup breasts were it, then
they told you assimus maximus was it and as a young boy, you had a
boner before you knew what to do with it. So, now you're dulling for a
hot-'looking' chick with the comparative personality of a wet pirhana
(all they think about is eating. If you see a picture of one, you'll
better appreciate my mental image of them).
Beauty of course is not limited to women. It also occurs in men as
well. But before I go there, I need to indict our parents' generation
for an evil that continues to perpetrate itself. They said beauty
isn't skin-deep. They put it in a song and fed that shit to us. Why do
I call it shit? Simple. BEAUTY IS NOT A THING OF THE BODY!
The clues are all around us. Ambience is one of the vehicles of that
abstract concept. Aura. Attitude.
Before I ramble you guys into disinterest, I will get back on track here.
Whatever strikes you on the inside, forces you to face things you'd
rather have remained ignorant of, challenges your natural affinity
towards settling for what is instead of who you could be, what makes
your weaknesses stand out to be addressed...it is these things that
are beautiful.
I remember once I saw something very ugly. It was a shooting. A series
of shootings. For the fact that I was still alive, life tasted more
beautiful. The ugliness of the moment hit me, but I could mourn for
the victims. Still I wouldn't want to take their place. I wouldn't
want to die for them.
I'm confronted with my cowardice and it is ugly. But it is there. And
I recognise that the time I spend wondering about nothing could be
better spent recognising where else my cowardice reveals itself. It is
humbling to realise that every time you confront your ugliness, you
have two options:condemn yourself for having it or dealing with it by
dealing with where it comes from.
Let me separate issues here. Some people are ugly to look at. I'm one
of them. My uglification stems from my inability to separate myself
from my shortcomings. If I fail to understand something immediately, I
take it as an affront. If I fail at a task, I take it personally. And
none of these reactions makes me attractive, pleasant or charming. If
anything at all, I come of as an extra-disgruntled Wolverine without
the claws and all the promise of violence.
But recognising this gives me a reason to be beautiful by means of
changing my nature for the better. The change comes over time. The
change brings rewarding results for victories and punitive results for
defeats. All in all, we are all ugly by our own hand and beautiful for
our change in handling ourselves.
I ramble. I should be kept in a zoo for wandering entities. But even
now, I'm sleepy. Thinking about ways of how I can change myself
doesn't appeal to me much right now. But it will be rewarding. Very
rewarding.

--
Sent from my mobile device

Why football is the modern war.

Competition is a congenital condition in mankind. It occurs in nature
for natural reasons. Mating! You can't fault them. It's what they're
programmed to do. But with men? That's a different thing.
We met competition in our nature. And corrupted it. We make reasons
and excuses to compete. All sports are born from an innate desire to
destroy one another. It's basically a pride thing. But with football,
I don't shy away from the drive. Look at it from my perspective. I
don't follow teams. I follow individuals. I follow on the humanity of
the players, studying their temperment, their distress, their change
in behaviour due to pressure and their insane reaction to small
victories, understanding that with enough of them, the complete
victory is within reach. It is a path and like every other path in
life, if you are good to it, it might be good to you.
The persons I feel most connected to are the managers/coaches. They
bear the players in losses, are infuriated by them when they under
perform, are estatic when they shine and treat them on an individual
basis. They are fathers, coaches, leaders, and generals of armies. And
they are heads of families at least 100,000 strong. The most
successful have families beyond borders political, geographical and
social.
My favorite of them is a man called Jose Mourinho. He has a swagger
that is only his. He believes in what he does. He has patiently built
himself up for over 12 years. He has respect for his opponents and
they have the same for him (more often than not, it is given
grudgingly). He literally became my idol and as a practicing christian
(practicing means you haven't gotten it right yet), I couldn not have
the idea of him competing with Christ in my life.
Tonight, when he orchestrated a resounding victory over the reigning
champions of UEFA (who are also the most feared team this season, and
with good reason too), one has to admire him. But I follow him and his
life because, if I had my way, I would be to my field what he is to
football. A guy you either love or hate, but you have to respect him.
I value respect a lot. Especially from self. He is an excellent
pseudo-psychologist, a tactician with insight, a leader with
confidence in himself and his team... and most importantly, he is
protective of his boys. Very protective. He would rather court with
scandal than have any of his boys have to deal with it. He protected
John Terry, but the poor guy couldn't protect himself and successfully
fractured his national team and lost his captaincy because of an
indiscretion. It wouldn't have happened if Jose was on board.
Why talk about the man when I'm expected to compare it to modern
warfare? Well, you can't talk about the roman empire without talking
about Germanicus, Julius, Scipio. You can't talk about the napoleonic
wars with talking about Napoleon. WWII without Hitler, Rommel,
Eisenhower, Montgomery.
Mourinho has a record of never losing a match at home stretching from
his days in Porto. Nobody does that. Usually, you slip up. He is proud
of it and keeps it.
It's the small victories that add to your complete victory.

--
Sent from my mobile device

Testing, testing.

I apologise for this. Please delete. Thanks

--
Sent from my mobile device