General Pizza Trophy 2021/22

[Marked Ox]

Our FL opponents are Cambridge and Stevenage.

 

[unification]

*Alan_Partridge_shrug.gif*

 

[Marked Ox]

*Alan_Partridge_shrug.gif*

I am struggling to contain my excitement. Can't wait for when we get Brighton B as well.

 

[Essexyellows]

Woop woop.

 

[Witneyoldfella]

and we are off !!!!!

 

[Marked Ox]

Spuds B for us. The draw is that rubbish it is actually amusing. Anton Ferdinand isn't even trying to muster enthusiasm. The West Ham B group, he was asked his thoughts and the best he could come up with that most of the games were local!

 

[Robie]

Could we play at the new spurs stadium?

 

[horseman]

Spuds B for us. The draw is that rubbish it is actually amusing. Anton Ferdinand isn't even trying to muster enthusiasm. The West Ham B group, he was asked his thoughts and the best he could come up with that most of the games were local

I can see the slogan now Free Spuds at The Kassam

 

[Marked Ox]

I can see the slogan now Free Spuds at The Kassam

Contact the club, you could get a job on the marketing team!

 

[Mad Dog]

couldn't give a monkey's toss

 

[Eaststanding]

Cue the derogatory names, ‘the Tin Pit trophy, the ‘Twatty Trophy’, the ‘Pizza Trophy’.
‘Oh look, we’ve got to Wembley’
’Yes mate, I’ll see you there....’

 

[Mad Dog]

Cue the derogatory names, ‘the Tin Pit trophy, the ‘Twatty Trophy’, the ‘Pizza Trophy’.
‘Oh look, we’ve got to Wembley’
’Yes mate, I’ll see you there....’

For OUFC fans, a day out at Wembley, is a day out at Wembley

 

[Wallop]

Cue the derogatory names, ‘the Tin Pit trophy, the ‘Twatty Trophy’, the ‘Pizza Trophy’.
‘Oh look, we’ve got to Wembley’
’Yes mate, I’ll see you there....’

I called it the Twatty trophy as that's how I see it and I didn't attend Wembley when we reached the final - so ya boo sucks.

 

[werthersoriginal]

Cue the derogatory names, ‘the Tin Pit trophy, the ‘Twatty Trophy’, the ‘Pizza Trophy’.
‘Oh look, we’ve got to Wembley’
’Yes mate, I’ll see you there....’

I’m a glory hunter, I sneer at it till the quarter finals then get all keen, ra ra Oxford. Can’t knock a trip to Wembley even though we’ve lost three in a row

 

[RyanioBirdio]

I didn't attend Wembley when we reached the final

Nor did I. I haven’t been to a single trophy game at any stage since the B Teams came in, having gone to every game home and away the season before they were introduced, when we got to the final against Barnsley. Yes, even Dagenham away. I was working in Whitechapel at the time, so it was an easy jaunt down the District Line. Means that I get to say I was there when Hoban scored in the first minute. Or simply when Hoban scored, as that was a rare enough event in itself.

On the day of the Coventry final, rather than going to the match, myself and a mate ate some fried chicken, although he didn’t tell me until afterwards that he ordered it from a place with a 0 health score rating, which I was furious about.

“What the f*ck is wrong with you?! How do you even score zero?! Have you seen what it takes just to score as low as a three?! Jesus Christ, they must have a horse in the kitchen that they wipe their hands on in lieu of a towel, why the hell have you done this to us?!”

Had a bit of a wrestle and farted on his shoulder as punishment, then opened up a couple of beers and put on Grand Theft Auto. Shot some rockets at a few lorries from on top of some scaffolding, then got into a sports car and drove to the nearest strip club.

Met a right sassy little lady - a real firecracker of a gal. Some of the best, most symmetrical jugs that this guy has ever seen. Couple of shots at the bar for starters, everything has gone a bit weird and wavy, but no time to worry as she wants to give me a private dance.

Well, I don’t mind if I do. My mate will be fine for a few minutes - he’s gone and nicked a moped and is doing doughnuts around the tables. Everyone is screaming, a few prostitutes are running about and some security men are trying to shoot him. If anything, this feels like a good time to lay low for a while.

Couple of minutes later, it’s goodnight sweetheart and I’m out of there. And it isn’t just my wallet that feels lighter, if you know what I mean.

Just to clarify - my balls have fizzed like a glass of Fanta on a summer’s day.

I stroll out into the afternoon sun, the streets of Los Santos feeling a million miles away from the famous arch that lingers high above Wembley Stadium, and proceed to get picked up by my friend. He says that he’s been to the hospital as a result of his aforementioned gunfight, but he’s feeling much better now.

“That’s excellent news,” I reply, “but how the f*ck did you get this tank?”

A short while later, after an altercation with a helicopter and some very angry triads, we stop for petrol. Before I can even help myself to a cheeky glance at 60 Up from the top shelf of the mini-mart, my friend has produced a “piece” and is frantically screaming at an increasingly panicked clerk. I soon realise that this is not a mere filler-upper, but a bonafide stick up. I quickly help myself to a selection of chocolate bars, fizzy pop, and yes, that copy of 60 Up.

My friend has no honour, so after the clerk hands him a bag of money, he shoots him in the face. As we jog across the forecourt to make our escape, he tosses what I assume to be a few cans of Pringles towards the people filling up their cars, like some sort of immensely complex, Robin Hood-meets-The Joker idiot savant. It soon becomes apparent, however, that these were not Pringles cans, but hand grenades.

After phoning a man, my deranged associate informs me that he’s got us a blimp, which we proceed to fly at incredibly slow speeds across the city. I try to engage him in conversation about blimp travel in the post-war era, via a quick stop at the old Hindenburg disaster, but he’s not listening. Just keeps muttering something about “crashing this helium-filled Titanic of a b*stard into the f*cking ferris wheel.”

Blimp destroyed, tears of children shed, we finish up our jaunt by taking a jet ski out onto the waves. I secure a life jacket to my torso, but my friend, who I now realise is a complete sociopath, doesn’t bother. Next thing I know, we’re on somebody’s yacht and he is wearing nothing but boxer shorts while frantically thrusting at absolutely nobody.

Having seen enough of his bullshit for one day, I decide to take him out for the good of society, and end his life with a few, quick bullets to the crotch.

After a quick dip in the yacht’s hot tub to contemplate my recent choice, I take the easy way out and place a gun against the side of my head, ending it all in front of a sea of terrified onlookers. They don’t know it, but I’ve saved the life of each and every one of them today.

A few seconds later, I defy science by appearing outside of a medical centre back on shore. I open my mobile phone, so that I can call my family and tell them I love them. Before I can even dial, I see a text message:

“Coventry 2, Oxford 1. It’s happened again.”

And that’s why I don’t go to the EFL Trophy games anymore.

 

[Mad Dog]

Nor did I. I haven’t been to a single trophy game at any stage since the B Teams came in, having gone to every game home and away the season before they were introduced, when we got to the final against Barnsley. Yes, even Dagenham away. I was working in Whitechapel at the time, so it was an easy jaunt down the District Line. Means that I get to say I was there when Hoban scored in the first minute. Or simply when Hoban scored, as that was a rare enough event in itself.

On the day of the Coventry final, rather than going to the match, myself and a mate ate some fried chicken, although he didn’t tell me until afterwards that he ordered it from a place with a 0 health score rating, which I was furious about.

“What the f*ck is wrong with you?! How do you even score zero?! Have you seen what it takes just to score as low as a three?! Jesus Christ, they must have a horse in the kitchen that they wipe their hands on in lieu of a towel, why the hell have you done this to us?!”

Had a bit of a wrestle and farted on his shoulder as punishment, then opened up a couple of beers and put on Grand Theft Auto. Shot some rockets at a few lorries from on top of some scaffolding, then got into a sports car and drove to the nearest strip club.

Met a right sassy little lady - a real firecracker of a gal. Some of the best, most symmetrical jugs that this guy has ever seen. Couple of shots at the bar for starters, everything has gone a bit weird and wavy, but no time to worry as she wants to give me a private dance.

Well, I don’t mind if I do. My mate will be fine for a few minutes - he’s gone and nicked a moped and is doing doughnuts around the tables. Everyone is screaming, a few prostitutes are running about and some security men are trying to shoot him. If anything, this feels like a good time to lay low for a while.

Couple of minutes later, it’s goodnight sweetheart and I’m out of there. And it isn’t just my wallet that feels lighter, if you know what I mean.

Just to clarify - my balls have fizzed like a glass of Fanta on a summer’s day.

I stroll out into the afternoon sun, the streets of Los Santos feeling a million miles away from the famous arch that lingers high above Wembley Stadium, and proceed to get picked up by my friend. He says that he’s been to the hospital as a result of his aforementioned gunfight, but he’s feeling much better now.

“That’s excellent news,” I reply, “but how the f*ck did you get this tank?”

A short while later, after an altercation with a helicopter and some very angry triads, we stop for petrol. Before I can even help myself to a cheeky glance at 60 Up from the top shelf of the mini-mart, my friend has produced a “piece” and is frantically screaming at an increasingly panicked clerk. I soon realise that this is not a mere filler-upper, but a bonafide stick up. I quickly help myself to a selection of chocolate bars, fizzy pop, and yes, that copy of 60 Up.

My friend has no honour, so after the clerk hands him a bag of money, he shoots him in the face. As we jog across the forecourt to make our escape, he tosses what I assume to be a few cans of Pringles towards the people filling up their cars, like some sort of immensely complex, Robin Hood-meets-The Joker idiot savant. It soon becomes apparent, however, that these were not Pringles cans, but hand grenades.

After phoning a man, my deranged associate informs me that he’s got us a blimp, which we proceed to fly at incredibly slow speeds across the city. I try to engage him in conversation about blimp travel in the post-war era, via a quick stop at the old Hindenburg disaster, but he’s not listening. Just keeps muttering something about “crashing this helium-filled Titanic of a b*stard into the f*cking ferris wheel.”

Blimp destroyed, tears of children shed, we finish up our jaunt by taking a jet ski out onto the waves. I secure a life jacket to my torso, but my friend, who I now realise is a complete sociopath, doesn’t bother. Next thing I know, we’re on somebody’s yacht and he is wearing nothing but boxer shorts while frantically thrusting at absolutely nobody.

Having seen enough of his bullshit for one day, I decide to take him out for the good of society, and end his life with a few, quick bullets to the crotch.

After a quick dip in the yacht’s hot tub to contemplate my recent choice, I take the easy way out and place a gun against the side of my head, ending it all in front of a sea of terrified onlookers. They don’t know it, but I’ve saved the life of each and every one of them today.

A few seconds later, I defy science by appearing outside of a medical centre back on shore. I open my mobile phone, so that I can call my family and tell them I love them. Before I can even dial, I see a text message:

“Coventry 2, Oxford 1. It’s happened again.”

And that’s why I don’t go to the EFL Trophy games anymore.

There's your movie, right there

 

[SteMerritt]

Nor did I. I haven’t been to a single trophy game at any stage since the B Teams came in, having gone to every game home and away the season before they were introduced, when we got to the final against Barnsley. Yes, even Dagenham away. I was working in Whitechapel at the time, so it was an easy jaunt down the District Line. Means that I get to say I was there when Hoban scored in the first minute. Or simply when Hoban scored, as that was a rare enough event in itself.

On the day of the Coventry final, rather than going to the match, myself and a mate ate some fried chicken, although he didn’t tell me until afterwards that he ordered it from a place with a 0 health score rating, which I was furious about.

“What the f*ck is wrong with you?! How do you even score zero?! Have you seen what it takes just to score as low as a three?! Jesus Christ, they must have a horse in the kitchen that they wipe their hands on in lieu of a towel, why the hell have you done this to us?!”

Had a bit of a wrestle and farted on his shoulder as punishment, then opened up a couple of beers and put on Grand Theft Auto. Shot some rockets at a few lorries from on top of some scaffolding, then got into a sports car and drove to the nearest strip club.

Met a right sassy little lady - a real firecracker of a gal. Some of the best, most symmetrical jugs that this guy has ever seen. Couple of shots at the bar for starters, everything has gone a bit weird and wavy, but no time to worry as she wants to give me a private dance.

Well, I don’t mind if I do. My mate will be fine for a few minutes - he’s gone and nicked a moped and is doing doughnuts around the tables. Everyone is screaming, a few prostitutes are running about and some security men are trying to shoot him. If anything, this feels like a good time to lay low for a while.

Couple of minutes later, it’s goodnight sweetheart and I’m out of there. And it isn’t just my wallet that feels lighter, if you know what I mean.

Just to clarify - my balls have fizzed like a glass of Fanta on a summer’s day.

I stroll out into the afternoon sun, the streets of Los Santos feeling a million miles away from the famous arch that lingers high above Wembley Stadium, and proceed to get picked up by my friend. He says that he’s been to the hospital as a result of his aforementioned gunfight, but he’s feeling much better now.

“That’s excellent news,” I reply, “but how the f*ck did you get this tank?”

A short while later, after an altercation with a helicopter and some very angry triads, we stop for petrol. Before I can even help myself to a cheeky glance at 60 Up from the top shelf of the mini-mart, my friend has produced a “piece” and is frantically screaming at an increasingly panicked clerk. I soon realise that this is not a mere filler-upper, but a bonafide stick up. I quickly help myself to a selection of chocolate bars, fizzy pop, and yes, that copy of 60 Up.

My friend has no honour, so after the clerk hands him a bag of money, he shoots him in the face. As we jog across the forecourt to make our escape, he tosses what I assume to be a few cans of Pringles towards the people filling up their cars, like some sort of immensely complex, Robin Hood-meets-The Joker idiot savant. It soon becomes apparent, however, that these were not Pringles cans, but hand grenades.

After phoning a man, my deranged associate informs me that he’s got us a blimp, which we proceed to fly at incredibly slow speeds across the city. I try to engage him in conversation about blimp travel in the post-war era, via a quick stop at the old Hindenburg disaster, but he’s not listening. Just keeps muttering something about “crashing this helium-filled Titanic of a b*stard into the f*cking ferris wheel.”

Blimp destroyed, tears of children shed, we finish up our jaunt by taking a jet ski out onto the waves. I secure a life jacket to my torso, but my friend, who I now realise is a complete sociopath, doesn’t bother. Next thing I know, we’re on somebody’s yacht and he is wearing nothing but boxer shorts while frantically thrusting at absolutely nobody.

Having seen enough of his bullshit for one day, I decide to take him out for the good of society, and end his life with a few, quick bullets to the crotch.

After a quick dip in the yacht’s hot tub to contemplate my recent choice, I take the easy way out and place a gun against the side of my head, ending it all in front of a sea of terrified onlookers. They don’t know it, but I’ve saved the life of each and every one of them today.

A few seconds later, I defy science by appearing outside of a medical centre back on shore. I open my mobile phone, so that I can call my family and tell them I love them. Before I can even dial, I see a text message:

“Coventry 2, Oxford 1. It’s happened again.”

And that’s why I don’t go to the EFL Trophy games anymore.

TL;DR

 

[RyanioBirdio]

TL;DR

You should be sacked.

 

[Wallop]

I didn't attend Wembley when we reached the final.

Nor did I. I haven’t been to a single trophy game at any stage since the B Teams came in, having gone to every game home and away the season before they were introduced, when we got to the final against Barnsley. Yes, even Dagenham away. I was working in Whitechapel at the time, so it was an easy jaunt down the District Line. Means that I get to say I was there when Hoban scored in the first minute. Or simply when Hoban scored, as that was a rare enough event in itself.

On the day of the Coventry final, rather than going to the match, myself and a mate ate some fried chicken, although he didn’t tell me until afterwards that he ordered it from a place with a 0 health score rating, which I was furious about.

“What the f*ck is wrong with you?! How do you even score zero?! Have you seen what it takes just to score as low as a three?! Jesus Christ, they must have a horse in the kitchen that they wipe their hands on in lieu of a towel, why the hell have you done this to us?!”

Had a bit of a wrestle and farted on his shoulder as punishment, then opened up a couple of beers and put on Grand Theft Auto. Shot some rockets at a few lorries from on top of some scaffolding, then got into a sports car and drove to the nearest strip club.

Met a right sassy little lady - a real firecracker of a gal. Some of the best, most symmetrical jugs that this guy has ever seen. Couple of shots at the bar for starters, everything has gone a bit weird and wavy, but no time to worry as she wants to give me a private dance.

Well, I don’t mind if I do. My mate will be fine for a few minutes - he’s gone and nicked a moped and is doing doughnuts around the tables. Everyone is screaming, a few prostitutes are running about and some security men are trying to shoot him. If anything, this feels like a good time to lay low for a while.

Couple of minutes later, it’s goodnight sweetheart and I’m out of there. And it isn’t just my wallet that feels lighter, if you know what I mean.

Just to clarify - my balls have fizzed like a glass of Fanta on a summer’s day.

I stroll out into the afternoon sun, the streets of Los Santos feeling a million miles away from the famous arch that lingers high above Wembley Stadium, and proceed to get picked up by my friend. He says that he’s been to the hospital as a result of his aforementioned gunfight, but he’s feeling much better now.

“That’s excellent news,” I reply, “but how the f*ck did you get this tank?”

A short while later, after an altercation with a helicopter and some very angry triads, we stop for petrol. Before I can even help myself to a cheeky glance at 60 Up from the top shelf of the mini-mart, my friend has produced a “piece” and is frantically screaming at an increasingly panicked clerk. I soon realise that this is not a mere filler-upper, but a bonafide stick up. I quickly help myself to a selection of chocolate bars, fizzy pop, and yes, that copy of 60 Up.

My friend has no honour, so after the clerk hands him a bag of money, he shoots him in the face. As we jog across the forecourt to make our escape, he tosses what I assume to be a few cans of Pringles towards the people filling up their cars, like some sort of immensely complex, Robin Hood-meets-The Joker idiot savant. It soon becomes apparent, however, that these were not Pringles cans, but hand grenades.

After phoning a man, my deranged associate informs me that he’s got us a blimp, which we proceed to fly at incredibly slow speeds across the city. I try to engage him in conversation about blimp travel in the post-war era, via a quick stop at the old Hindenburg disaster, but he’s not listening. Just keeps muttering something about “crashing this helium-filled Titanic of a b*stard into the f*cking ferris wheel.”

Blimp destroyed, tears of children shed, we finish up our jaunt by taking a jet ski out onto the waves. I secure a life jacket to my torso, but my friend, who I now realise is a complete sociopath, doesn’t bother. Next thing I know, we’re on somebody’s yacht and he is wearing nothing but boxer shorts while frantically thrusting at absolutely nobody.

Having seen enough of his bullshit for one day, I decide to take him out for the good of society, and end his life with a few, quick bullets to the crotch.

After a quick dip in the yacht’s hot tub to contemplate my recent choice, I take the easy way out and place a gun against the side of my head, ending it all in front of a sea of terrified onlookers. They don’t know it, but I’ve saved the life of each and every one of them today.

A few seconds later, I defy science by appearing outside of a medical centre back on shore. I open my mobile phone, so that I can call my family and tell them I love them. Before I can even dial, I see a text message:

“Coventry 2, Oxford 1. It’s happened again.”

And that’s why I don’t go to the EFL Trophy games anymore.

Goodness - I just played golf.

 

[SteMerritt]

You should be sacked.

If it makes it any better, the post did look nicely formatted as I scrolled past.