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Akbon
Do You Have 700naira ? Start This Business And Earn Money With These Basic Steps.
~3.8 mins read

In this article, I'll be telling you how to make your chin chin with just 700 naira, where to sell it, and how much gain you can get. let's get started

INGREDIENTS.

I'll list out the ingredients and put their price tags also. ( The price tags is the normal price in Abuja market)

- ½ mudu of flour ( 150 Naira).

- dangote sugar (50 Naira for the smallest pack).

- Nutmeg ( 20 Naira for a Small Nut).

- Butter (50 Naira for the measured one, you can get it in shops where they sell pastries and confectioneries things).

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Dantech
The History Of The Premier League In Red Cards
~10.2 mins read

The Premier League has come a long way since 1992, as can be seen by the evolution of its sendings off

By for

 

 

Six red cards that tell a story. Composite: Getty, Sportsphoto, Empics, Tom Jenkins

Brian McAllister, Tottenham v Wimbledon, 1993

 

In the Premier League’s inaugural season, the whiff of glamour was still very, very distant. The games were televised, and Gazza’s tears had given the “slum sport” of the 80s a new voguishness, but the football itself left a bit to be desired. While the terraces were now largely free of bloodthirsty oafs inflicting head wounds on each other, the same could not said of the pitch.

 

 

No team better illustrated the Premier League’s early years than Wimbledon, the small south London club who kept their head above water with a potent combination of grit, guts and route-one punts. The Premier League would eventually wave goodbye to Wimbledon as it morphed into a place of wealth and flair, but in its first season the Crazy Gang finished comfortably in mid-table, their bullish presence a sign of the sport’s cheery unreconstructedness.

 

In more immediate need of reconstruction, however, was the forehead of Spurs midfielder Paul Allen after deciding to contest a 50/50 challenge with Wimbledon’s Glaswegian defender Brian McAllister in an otherwise unremarkable 1-1 draw in May 1993. When an aimless clearance led to a game of head-tennis in midfield, McAllister leapt elbow-first towards a high ball, leaving his flattened opponent in need of six stitches.

It was a brutal elbow, Thatcheresque in intent, and yet it sparked almost nothing in the way of drama. The referee issued the red immediately and McAllister left the field without complaint, closely followed by a dazed Allen, blood flowing from his brow. The other 20 players on the pitch took minimal interest in the incident, restarting play as soon as they could with no fuss or fallout. Such was the way in the Premier League’s earliest incarnation.

Fabrizio Ravanelli, Middlesbrough v Sheffield Wednesday, 1997

That no-frills Britishness would not last long. The Premier League had hints of internationalism from the start – Peter Schmeichel, Eric Cantona and Andrei Kanchelskis were all there when the curtains came up – but it took five years for the foreign influx to begin in earnest. The summer of 96 saw English football, hot off the back of hosting the Euros, welcome a sudden and glittering array of overseas talent to its shores. Bright young things such as Patrick Berger and Karel Poborsky arrived alongside established superstars such as Gianluca Vialli. Players jetted in from Cagliari and Costa Rica.

 

Assimilation was not always seamless. Shortly after swapping Strasbourg forChelsea, Frank Leboeuf pronounced: “In all my life I have never seen such horrible training conditions.” West Ham’s record signing, Florin Raducioiu, was accused by Harry Redknapp of shopping at Harvey Nichols when he should have been playing an FA Cup tie at Stockport.

Messy as it was, the Premier League melting pot had been fired up and few signings spoke to this new cosmopolitanism more than Middlesbrough’s acquisition of Fabrizio Ravanelli, scorer in the Champions League final for Juventus only weeks before. His arrival on Teesside was a moment of thrilling grandeur, with all optimism confirmed by a dramatic hat-trick against Liverpool on the season’s opening day. His wife soon hotfooted it back to Rome with their son, citing the air pollution as unliveable, while Ravanelli remained in the village of Hutton Rudby, becoming a noted darts player in the Queen’s Head pub.

But darts skills aside, Ravanelli was about as far from English as you could get. He was handsome, flaky and wildly talented. Most of all he was comically emotional, starting a fistfight with Neil Cox on the eve of the FA Cup final after his teammate left him out of a preferred XI in a newspaper interview.

The hot-blooded Italian’s defining display came in January 1997 at Hillsborough. Having already won and converted a penalty in an eventual 4-2 victory, Ravanelli was flagged offside as he tapped home in the 70th minute and reacted by sprinting over to the linesman, hopping on the spot as he screamed in the assistant’s face. Booking. Two minutes later, the same official’s flag went up again and Ravanelli responded in much the same way, this time with added hand gestures. And that was the end of his day’s work: one goal, two yellow cards, one sending off, three points and countless giddy spectators. English football could rest assured that its future was bright: the entertainers had arrived.

The brilliant and combustible Fabrizio Ravanelli. Photograph: Getty Images

Nicky Butt, Arsenal v Manchester United, September 1998

The defining rivalry of the Premier League’s formative years was already heating up before Alex Ferguson’s side travelled to Highbury in what would become their treble season. Ian Wright and Peter Schmeichel had clashed violently in February the previous year and a wonderfully bitter war of words between Ferguson and Arsène Wenger had been simmering since – the Frenchman proving that he could walk the walk, too, as his side reeled in United en route to the double.

The Arsenal-United enmity would become a delicious spectacle, with the hatred and respect genuine on either side, and the highlights split evenly over the years between displays of great football and displays of great violence. Seven red cards were shown in matches from February 1997 to February 2005, including to Patrick Vieira for booting Ruud van Nistelrooy, Roy Keane for booting Marc Overmars, Frannie Jeffers for booting Phil Neville and even Wenger himself, for booting a pitch-side water bottle before his iconic Christ the Redeemer act at Old Trafford.

In that pantheon, then, Nicky Butt’s sending off (his second in five days) in this 3-0 defeat was a rather low-key affair: a harsh decision by Graham Barber, albeit to punish a needless hack. But the red card set the tone for what was to come, hinting at the combination of brutality and pettiness that would come to define the Premier League’s greatest rivalry.

Geremi, Chelsea v Leicester, August 2003

The single-minded genius of Ferguson and Wenger ensured that the title was a two-horse affair for nearly a decade. But no dynasty lasts forever, and in this case it was to be broken by the arrival of unprecedented wealth. In the summer of 2003, Roman Abramovich transformed English football, kickstarting a wave of takeovers by billionaire ego-trippers and asset-strippers; 17 years on, almost every club in the division has a new owner, most of them billionaires and many of them based in another country entirely.

Although Abramovich signalled his intent from the start – no club had ever spent as much in a single window – the first iteration of Abramovich-era Chelsea was something of a mess, the summer’s scattergun transfer policy having left a mish-mash squad of heavyweight castoffs, exciting youngsters and expensive let-downs-in-waiting.

That sense of unplanned chaos would eventually spell the end of Chelsea’s season, with a wretched capitulation at home to Monaco, and the end of Claudio Ranieri’s employment. Little time was wasted between the Italian’s departure and the hiring of José Mourinho, who brought focus, hunger and – most importantly – an absolute willingness to break every rule in the pursuit of victory. The mindset has endured; major silverware has since followed at a rate of just over one a year.

The Chelsea team that lined up for the first home game of the Abramovich era, featuring Adrian Mutu, Juan Verón and Mario Melchiot, was a far cry from the trophy-machine Mourinho would build. But Geremi’s red card – for a take-no-prisoners tackle in the centre circle as his moneyed club swatted aside a lesser competitor – contained all the ingredients that would come to characterise the Premier League’s nouveau riche.

Mark Viduka, Bolton v Leeds, May 2004

As Abramovich’s Chelsea embarked on their rapid rise, they were passed on the downslope by a club that was in many ways their mirror image, one who spent lavishly to break into the elite … and hurtled off the edge of a cliff. Leeds had been flailing for some time when their relegation became a reality in spring 2004, but it was confirmed in fittingly slapstick style as they turned a 1-0 lead against Bolton into a clanging 4-1 defeat. Their best player, Mark Viduka, slotted home a penalty to give his side the lead – and then collected two bookings before half-time, first kicking Emerson Thome, then flinging an arm in Bruno N’Gotty’s face. Once the Australian was given his marching orders his side quickly self-immolated, conceding four goals in half an hour to condemn themselves to the gallows.

“Doing a Leeds” has since entered the lexicon as shorthand for reckless overspending, the club’s fall from grace going down in lore as the ultimate example of Big Football’s promethean potential, a moral fable about money’s capacity to breed idiocy. Perhaps it’s no surprise that this has become a story football likes to tell itself. In a sport in which all evidence suggests that you can buy your way to the top, Leeds’ demise exists as a reassuring demonstration of the opposite: that money isn’t everything, and that the decadent and irresponsible will get their comeuppance.

Either way, Viduka’s 33 minutes on the pitch at the Reebok Stadium neatly encapsulated that pivotal half-decade in his club’s history: a rapid early rise that took them tantalisingly close to the holy grail, followed by self-inflicted fall from which they never recovered.

Mark Viduka in action for Leeds. Photograph: Tom Hevezi/PA

Rafael da Silva, Chelsea v Manchester United, May 2013

Taking place as it does in front of a crowd of buoyant spectators who cheer and jeer the events before them, football has always contained a strong element of pantomime. But that component has grown dramatically in accordance with the Premier League’s popularity. As English football has been beamed around the world by broadcasters willing to pay through the nose for the privilege, so the Premier League has become less a pure sporting event and more a made-for-TV soap opera replete with heroes, villains, long-running storylines and moments of combustible drama.

Bombast has been the order of the day, and the stars of the show have responded accordingly: the average Premier League player’s skill set now includes theatrically feigned injuries, wildly embellished goal celebrations and a note-perfect expression of earnest innocence, best deployed after the most blatant instances of rule-breaking. This is showbiz, after all.

No red card captured the sport’s newfound theatricality better than the one produced when David Luiz – the truest embodiment of this new unseriousness – lured Rafael da Silva into a rash lunge in a late-season trip to Old Trafford. Gently kicked, Luiz collapsed in the pantomime manner before lifting his head to deliver a covert and maniacal grin to nearby home fans, then quickly resumed his fallen-soldier act, glancing up once more to see his victim traipsing off the field.

“There may have been more outrageous cases of one professional conspiring in the dismissal of another from their workplace, but they were not so easy to recall,” wrote the Independent’s James Lawton. “From now on it will be impossible to forget that Luiz can make the stomach crawl. This is football, a game increasingly bedevilled by full-blown fakery.” His words were a reminder that the Premier League’s Punch-and-Judy era has alienated as many as it has excited – and that it’s not just the players who are guilty of absurd exaggeration.

This article appeared first in The Squall, a new digital magazine from The Blizzard. Pay what you can to read this issue and support the freelance community.Subscribe to The Blizzard from £20 a year for more long reads.

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Benbruce
Hospital Evacuated As Tremor Hits During Partial Coronavirus Lockdown
~0.4 mins read
earthwake hits croatia..... details shortly













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Ideal
Mr.
~0.1 mins read
Which one did you meet?
If you met more than (3) and still single
Please come forward for deliverance and pls while coming, come wit ur tithe and offering.
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Timimaryz
Unusual Hunger For The Bread Of Life Is Stirred In Ur Spirit Now In Jesus Name - Apostle Chris Omashola
~0.5 mins read
Apostle Chris Omashola has dropped a prayer for today being Saturday 19th of September 2020. 
 
Pray the prayer and also share with others for blessing to follow you in everything you do.
"There is so much in God's word for a believer, the breath of life to transform your world lies in God's Word, I pray in the name of Jesus an unusual hunger for the bread of life is stirred in ur spirit now in Jesus Name"

How a Handicapped Man Blocks Police Van, Demands Release Of Arrested Protesters ( Video)

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Pantinana61
My First Time Traveling In A Tanker Trailer
~1.4 mins read
I have never dreamt of myself in a tanker before,  but I rode in one even without the dream. I always admired people who rode in them from afar. 
On this faithful day I was to travel back to my place of residence from my hometown. On getting to the carpark the transport fare has increased more than twice the usual amount and I was like,  what? Has the distance increased? I am not going that far, just to hear petroleum price has hiked like wise transport fare too. 
On hearing this I said to myself ‘ I can get a car by the roadside I don't have to go with what these park car drivers are saying’. 
I left the park, walked same feet away and stood sticking my thumb out to any car that passes. Having spent close to an hour standing by the roadside, I almost gave up when inspiration just came an I was like ‘hey trailers are cars too and the could be faster from the stories I've heard why not try stopping one' and lo and behold a few minutes later one of them stopped when I hailed it and I boarded. 
Ladies and gentlemen there began one of the most stressful journeys of my life. Don't get me wrong the interior was very neat and comfortable. But the road was really really bad. A journey that is supposed to be for about 3-4hours with the bad road by car took more than 6hours with the extra bad road by a trailer, not that it was slow but with a ll the bouncing around in port holes, holdups caused by trailers that had tipped over or sank into muds it was a little bit fun actually. 
But after it all, it was still an experience worth remembering and the fare was way cheaper than the usual amount.
Who else has an experience worth remembering. 
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