The Tim Stillman column : Internationals, run-in and Rocky

So, the blindfolds are whipped off and we emerge from the cellar of the interlull, parched, unshaven, our eyes squinting as the light of football that people actually give a shit about glints on the horizon. The shivering and sweating is decreasing with each passing day and I've begun to adopt a slightly more erect posture having spent ten days cowering in a corner with only a tartan blanket for company.

Read the full article at Arseblog.

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