The Greatest Generation: Chain-smoking saints of the free world

The Greatest Generation: Chain-Smoking Saints of the Free World. Image by Knelstrom Media By Martin Foskett | Chronicles | Knelstrom Media Published Updated They never asked for applause. They weren’t the “Greatest Generation” because of branding or bravado, but because history kicked their teeth in, and they kept getting up, lighting another cigarette, and saying,

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My BOY’S a Gooner, and I’M Back with the Irons: Mud, Blood, and the Resurrection of a West Ham Man

​It started in the mud. Thick Essex mud. The sort that clings to your boots like a drunk mate at closing time and dares you to stay standing while your nose runs like a leaky tap. Cold air, Sunday breath, and a coffee so bitter it could file for divorce. And there’s my boy, all flailing limbs and mad ambition, chasing the ball as it owed him money. Seven years old. Fierce. Oblivious. Glorious.

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