EPL Fans United

🗣️ Andoni Iraola tells it was a “fairytale moment” for Antoine Semenyo who scored an injury time winner against Spurs on his 26th birthday in his last game for Bournemouth.

Iraola adds only “formalities” are needed ahead of Semenyo’s move to Manchester City.

🗣️ “I am very happy for him. He deserves it. It was a fairy tale moment and one he will never forget. He’s an incredible player. Not a lot of players would have done what he did [keep playing for Bournemouth after an agreement with Manchester City].”

Semenyo medical on Thursday.🩺

🗣️ Jonjo Shelvey: "When I went to Turkey, I lived alone for 18 months. It was the hardest period of my life. I became addicted to sleeping pills. I’d come home from training and time just wouldn’t pass.

The city was predominantly Muslim, with only three restaurants. There were basically three things you could do: Starbucks, McDonald’s, Domino’s. I’d come home, stare at the four walls, and to kill time I’d take three or four sleeping pills and pass out. The next morning, straight back to training — just to make time pass.

Then it turned into an addiction. I moved to Istanbul and it was livelier. You could go out, but I was still on my own. I’m not the type to go out alone — I hate loneliness.

I said to myself, “If this keeps up, I’ll either turn to booze or the pills.” Booze isn’t good for a footballer, so instead of drinking I stuck with the pills. *“At least I won’t gain weight,”* I thought.

I’d turn up to training around 1pm. I’d eat at 3pm and that would be my last meal. Then I’d take three or four pills. I’d wake up around midnight, take three or four more — then go to morning training.

Honestly, it ruined my relationship with my kids. I was mentally absent. I think this is the first time I’ve ever spoken about it.

I was lucky — my wife is a really good woman. She basically shook me out of it. It was really tough. I was so lonely. That’s why I was taking the pills — just to pass the time." 🇹🇷💊

The rain fell softly over Carrington, blurring the endless green. Training had ended an hour ago, but Rio Ferdinand remained. Not in the gym, not in the tapes room, but perfectly still in the centre circle, letting the drizzle soak his training jacket.

A young academy defender, nerves frayed after a rough session, spotted him from the shelter of the tunnel. What’s he doing? he wondered. This was the £30 million man, the titan who’d silenced Europe’s best strikers.

Summoning courage, the youth stepped out. “Rio? Everything alright?”

Ferdinand didn’t turn immediately. His gaze was fixed on the empty eighteen-yard box. “Watch the space,” he finally said, voice calm. “Not the man in it now. Watch where it was. See the ghost.”

The boy squinted, seeing only wet grass. “Ghost?”

“The run that just finished. The pass that wasn’t made. The fear a striker leaves behind when he checks his shoulder.” Rio finally looked at him, a sharp intelligence in his eyes. “I wasn’t just marking men. I was memorising emptiness. Learning what should be there, so I knew the instant something was wrong.”

He tapped his temple lightly. “The game happens here first. Clean sheets aren’t just won with tackles. They’re won by reading the story the pitch tells you before the striker even writes it.”

With that, he offered a brief nod and walked off, leaving the youngster staring at the rain-swept box, now seeing it not as empty, but full of echoes, possibilities, and ghost stories only a true defender could read.

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