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End of Series 1 party at the Samrat! Back row: Jude the Cat, Bruce Crouch, Tom Fordyce, Chris Stark. Front row: ?, Mrs Chang, Andres Iniesta, Dev From Corrie AKA Jimmi Harkishin, Peter Crouch, Dion Dublin, Cutthroat Pete, Jayne Crouch (?) End of Series 1 party at the Samrat! Back row: Jude the Cat, Bruce Crouch, Tom Fordyce, Chris Stark. Front row: ?, Mrs Chang, Andres Iniesta, Dev From Corrie AKA Jimmi Harkishin, Peter Crouch, Dion Dublin, Cutthroat Pete, Jayne Crouch (?)
r/crouchy - End of Series 1 party at the Samrat! Back row: Jude the Cat, Bruce Crouch, Tom Fordyce, Chris Stark. Front row: ?, Mrs Chang, Andres Iniesta, Dev From Corrie AKA Jimmi Harkishin, Peter Crouch, Dion Dublin, Cutthroat Pete, Jayne Crouch (?)

Peter Crouch: I found it easier playing against internationally acclaimed centre-backs than English centre-backs. Nesta won CL and World Cup, yet playing against him in the San Siro was almost fun. Peter Crouch: I found it easier playing against internationally acclaimed centre-backs than English centre-backs. Nesta won CL and World Cup, yet playing against him in the San Siro was almost fun.

Quote from his book Peter Crouch: How To Be a Footballer: "It may sound counter-intuitive, but I actually found it easier playing against ball-playing international centre-backs in the Champions League than I did those less acclaimed, lumpy English defenders. They showed me more respect. I didn’t get kicked as much. You could jump all over them. Alessandro Nesta was a fabulous player. He won two Champions Leagues and the World Cup. Yet playing against him in the San Siro for Spurs was almost fun. It was like pulling on to Ricardo Carvalho at Chelsea. When they signed Gary Cahill it was like having Terry on both sides. Much less enjoyable.

The Premier League makes you tough. One look at Nemanja Vidić told you he wasn’t going to ask you if you were okay after clattering you. Sami Hyypiä you could imagine in the Finnish Army in the Second World War, marching through the frozen sub-Arctic wastes without a word of complaint, collar of his greatcoat turned up, showing minimal fear in the face of the Russian advance. Even when you played on the same team as him his chat was monotone. He spoke like the Terminator. We would go on pre-match walks as a team and he would keep his headphones on. Autograph hunters would come over, smile, and ask for his signature. He’d look at them expressionless and reply with the same total absence of emotion. No. I am not signing that. And walk on.

Martin Škrtel. Look at the shape of his head. Look into his eyes. It’s not normal. Playing against him for England against Slovakia, a few days after sharing pleasantries in training for Liverpool, he would challenge for the same aerial ball as you but do so by jumping off your thigh. The referee would never spot it; his attention would be on the ball. You’d look down to see red stud-marks all over your leg. You’d say, ‘Oi, Martin, what the hell you doing?’ He’d say, ‘Oh, it’s Crouchie, sorry, sorry.’ And then the next ball would come in and he’d do it again. I was his team-mate. You can imagine what he was like with someone he didn’t know. "

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