Muzzy: My Story also win a meet/book

[Guest]

Think extracts are huge spoilers and usually ruin reading books as they often contain the most interesting bits. Can't find anywhere that has the book in stock at present - shambles.

[Nod.E]

"Then there was Trevor Benjamin. Trev's eye-sight wasn't great."

[davieG]

 

Leicester City fans will get the chance to meet Muzzy Izzet this Sunday as the Club legend will be in the City Fanstore at King Power Stadium to promote his new book ‘Muzzy Izzet: My Story’.

- Leicester City legend Muzzy Izzet will be at the City Fanstore from 12.30pm until 2.30pm this Sunday 

- Members of the Blue Army will have the chance to get their hands on his new book ‘Muzzy Izzet: My Story’ 

- Fans will also get the opportunity to get their copy signed by the former Fox 

- Fanstore will be open from 12pm until 6pm 

 

Leicester City fans will get the chance to meet Muzzy Izzet this Sunday as the Club legend will be in the City Fanstore at King Power Stadium to promote his new book ‘Muzzy Izzet: My Story’. 

 

The former Fox will host a signing session from 12.30pm go 2.30pm ahead of City’s Barclays Premier League clash with Aston Villa (4pm kick-off). 

 

Amongst other things, Izzet shares his eight-year story at the Foxes in which he talks about his 300 plus appearances in a Leicester shirt and lifting two League Cups in one of the most successful periods the Club has ever had. 

 

Sharing everything from his youth days at Chelsea to playing for Turkey in the semi-finals of the 2002 World Cup against Brazil, Izzet gives us a full breakdown of a footballing career that will talked about by members of the Blue Army for many years to come. 

 

Additionally, the City Fanstore at King Power Stadium will be open from 12pm until 6pm on Sunday, and as Izzet’s new book isn’t yet available from www.lcfcdirect.com, it gives fans a chance to get their hands on a copy as soon as they hit the shelves. 

 

The book will be available to buy at the City Fanstore at King Power Stadium from 12pm until 6pm on Sunday 13 September and costs £16.99.

Read more at http://www.lcfc.com/news/article/muzzy-izzet-book-signing-this-sunday-2679576.aspx#kS0BJI3Bt4POFmHf.99

Let's hope they actually have some books available unlike when Davie Gibson was there to sign his, My son made a special trip down there to get me a signed copy despite not being able to go to the game and they didn't have any.

[act smiley]

"Then there was Trevor Benjamin. Trev's eye-sight wasn't great."

Somewhere out there is an alternate reality where someone bought him some contact lenses and he turned into a 20 goal a season striker...

[foxoffderby]

Lets hope its better than 50 shades of blue. I'm about half way through that and its not really well written.

[Izzy]

Think extracts are huge spoilers and usually ruin reading books as they often contain the most interesting bits.

This.

As a massive Muzzy fan I wanted to buy the book but feel I've already read most of it! Great read though - what a fantastic insight.

[MC Prussian]

Surprised to find out that Muzzy can't speak a word of Turkish.

[Izzy]

Surprised to find out that Muzzy can't speak a word of Turkish.

Me too. You can tell from the extract that he regrets not learning the lingo and therefore feeling a bit alienated from his team mates. Love the bit about him flopping his old chap out to prove he's a 'good old Turkish boy' though - quality

[The Horse's Mouth]

Think extracts are huge spoilers and usually ruin reading books as they often contain the most interesting bits. Can't find anywhere that has the book in stock at present - shambles.

I saw on his twitter, looks like waterstones down Highcross are. I usually dodge this sort of thing, but it does interest me. 

[davieG]

Muzzy Izzet: 'I thought I could drink before I joined Leicester City. I was wrong .'

By Leicester Mercury  |  Posted: September 11, 2015

• 

  Cheers: Muzzy Izzet gets 'em in at the bar. The players at Leicester liked a drink, he says.

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Baffone's. A modest Italian restaurant in Leicester, a nice enough place which suffered from the misfortune of being situated in what learned experts of this old Roman city have come to know as the roughest end of town.

As the civic leaders who ran Leicester spent millions of pounds beautifying the city, they decided, year after year, to ignore this corner, as if it was being punished for a former slight or misdemeanour.

A nice enough restaurant – but not the smartest neighbourhood.

So who, exactly, would drink in a place like this? The players of Leicester City Football Club – most of them, anyway, every Saturday night.

•  

They'd perhaps start somewhere a bit more salubrious; a nice pub or bar in the city but, come 11pm, when the pubs were kicking out and all the cool guys and pretty young things were heading to the clubs, the players of Leicester City Football Club would make their way to a little Italian restaurant in Humberstone Gate called Baffone's.

And then it would start.

There might be some food; some pasta, maybe, some grilled chicken and bread. But it was never about the food at Baffone's, as nice as it may have been.

It was about the incognito drinking.

And the players of Leicester City Football Club could drink...

I was a late starter when it came to boozing. I had an occasional sip of Carlsberg at family parties – it always seemed to be Carlsberg, too, for some reason; I have this vivid memory of tables covered in mountains of green cans - but I didn't really like it.

I was small as a 16 and 17-year-old. I had mates who regularly went to pubs.

Not me. I was this skinny kid, eight stone wet through, with big teeth that stuck out like broken piano keys.

I still wore a brace. I don't think I'd started shaving.

They went to pubs and I'd be left outside, like an East End urchin, looking in through the window wishing I was bigger.

Eventually, they smuggled me into the Army & Navy pub in Canning Town.

They must have known I was underage. Back then, it didn't seem a big deal. "He's with some older lads," they must have thought. "He'll be all right."

On my first drunken night out, at the age of 17, I downed five pints of lager. At the end of the evening, they had to carry me home.

I didn't like it. I didn't really like the taste. I am nothing if not determined, however. I persevered. I practised. It's like anything, boozing. The more you practise, the better you get. I got pretty good at it.

I thought I could drink before I joined Leicester City. But I couldn't. At Leicester, under the tutelage of some of the finest beer drinkers and hell-raisers British football has ever produced, I learned to drink.

It wasn't until the 95/96 season was nearly over, Huddersfield at home (a 2-1 win which put us in the top six), that I went out. We all went out. Lenny, Scott Taylor, Steve Walsh, Julian Watts, Simon Grayson, all the Leicester-based lads went out, apart from Big Emile. He didn't come out much.

Drink affected us all in different ways. It helped me relax. I felt less shy. I was more talkative.

I felt intimidated at Leicester, at first. I was the new boy. A kid, really. I'd done nothing in the game – but I was playing in midfield with Garry Parker, for God's sake.

Drinking took my inhibitions away. The booze provided a level playing field.

Lenny was the one with the hollow boots. Lenny could just drink and drink and drink, until someone carried him home.

Then you'd see him the next day in training and he'd be as fresh as a daisy.

Scotty Taylor was the loud one. The prankster, always playing tricks. Sometimes, it was funny. Sometimes, it wasn't.

Graham Fenton was a good lad to go out with; a mad Geordie who loved a pint.

Matty Elliott was a good laugh. Taggs was great. Guppy liked a drink.

Frank Sinclair, too. Frank went out a lot in London. He knew all the bars and places to go. Frank would go out in London in midweek until 4am or 5am, then get a cab, drive up the M1 to Leicester, have two hours' kip in the back and then roll out for training – and still be the best player on the pitch. Unbelievable.

As I said earlier, it would be easier to tell you who didn't come out than list the ones that did.

We liked each other off the pitch and we took that with us on to the pitch. Genuine camaraderie.

We played hard, we drank hard, we trained hard. We'd do a hard session in the morning, have lunch – and then we'd go to the club gym in the afternoon and have a session in there.

And being the blokes that we were, it was always competitive. No slacking. A full day – 10am 'til 4.30pm/5pm – training.

I thought all senior clubs had that. Then I moved and realised that they didn't. We took it – I certainly took it – for granted in those days.

On a Saturday night, come 11pm/midnight, as everyone else started heading off to a fancy club, we'd all head off to Baffone's.

It's hard to recall one specific night. They all seem to merge into one.

Getting in, being greeted like returning members of a long-lost family, closing the curtains and locking the door, pint after pint lined up on the bar, the karaoke coming out – usually at Walshy's insistence – and one after another, getting up to make fools of ourselves singing. I can't sing. I'm tone deaf. Neither could Lenny. But every time the karaoke came out we'd get up and do Wonderwall or Don't Look Back in Anger.

I'd sing with Macca, Paul McAndrew, our kit man.

Occasionally, I'd do Sweet Caroline, by Neil Diamond. Was it any good? I'd like to pretend it was but I'm sure it wasn't.

I could console myself with the fact that as bad as I was, as bad as we all were, we weren't as bad as Walshy. He really was woeful.

Wal was one of those blokes who thought he could sing, who fancied himself as a bit of a crooner, but he couldn't hold a note.

He'd do 'Your Song' by Elton John and he'd really go for it, too – closing his eyes, pulling all the faces – and he'd murder it.

We'd all be shouting and booing and yet he seriously thought he was brilliant. We couldn't get him off.

It was often 5am or 6am when the party came to a halt. Sometimes, a few of the lads would stay over. I remember seeing a player who, a few hours earlier, had brought the house down at Filbert Street, asleep on a row of chairs, absolutely out of it.

We went to the Cheltenham Festival every year. We hired a bus and we'd drink on the way down, and drink all day.

I don't think I even saw a horse for the first four years. It wasn't about the horses. It was about the drinking.

A few years later, under Micky Adams, we went to Cheltenham and on the way back we got Jordan Stewart's clothes – he was very particular about his clobber – and burned them all. He went home naked.

We went to Portmarnock in Dublin a few times, usually during an international break. Portmarnock is renowned for its golf courses.

We stayed in a nice hotel near the golf course, with a lovely little bar. We met in there one morning, which was a silly idea. It was 9am.

The plan was we'd have one pint and then we'd go golfing. But it was a good bar. We liked it there, so we stayed all day.

We sat, in our golfing gear, our golfing bags by the bar. and we drank all morning, all afternoon and all night.

We didn't play a round of golf.

During one night out in Portmarnock, we came back late. The curfew was 1am but, somehow, we missed it.

We were coming back in a taxi – there was me, Walshy, Lenny and Garry Parker – and as we pulled up to the team hotel we spotted John Robertson and Steve Walford waiting in the front room.

"Don't stop here," Walshy told the cabbie. "Take us round the back."

We tried every door and every window of the hotel round the back. They were all locked. One of the porters found us.

"Look, we need to get to our rooms," I told him, "but we can't go in past the reception. The boss is there. He'll be furious."

He nodded. "Follow me," he said, "but you'll need to get on your hands and knees when we go through the reception."

So we came in through the back door, through the kitchen and down on all fours under the bar, pass the reception, to the stairs, up to our rooms.

I can still see it now, a drunken train of us – this young Irish lad, then Walshy, me, Lenny and Garry Parker bringing up the rear – crawling through the reception area of this hotel at 2am.

Just as we neared the lobby, where Wal and Robbo were sitting, the young Irish lad turned round and put his finger to his lips. "Shhhhhh," he said. Walshy – the club captain, this 6ft 4ins leader of men, on his hands and knees in an Irish hotel.

Walshy turned to me and did the same thing. "Shhhhhhhh," he said, his finger to his lips, his backside in my face.

I was laughing so hard I thought they'd hear me, but I turned round to Lenny and did the same. "Shhhhhh." And then Lenny turned to Parks and he shhhush-ed him, too.

It was ludicrous. I'm amazed that Robbo and Wal didn't hear us; four inebriated blokes, on their hands and knees, crawling through an Irish hotel in the early hours, all shushing each other.

But we made it. They didn't see us.

Did Martin O'Neill know about the drinking? He couldn't have not known. He might not have known it was as bad as it was, but he knew.

We all talked and laughed and joked about what we did or what we could remember from the night before, in the way young lads do after a good night out.

He perhaps didn't know all of it but he knew we liked a drink. I suspect he knew that some of us, perhaps, drank a little bit too much than was good for us. But he never said anything.

Even when we went on a pre-season tour – even when we went to La Manga – we'd be at the airport for 8am and we'd start.

Someone would get a round in, then another, then we'd have some on the plane. It was like a stag weekend. Martin would have seen that.

He must have smelled the stale beer at the training ground. It was the signature scent of Belvoir Drive.

But he didn't stop us. He watched us train. He knew how we played. He could see how we were, as a bunch of lads.

He must have figured that the nights out brought us together. And it did, it really did.

We wouldn't get away with it now. But we did then.

It made us who we were.

Read more: http://www.leicestermercury.co.uk/Muzzy-Izzet-thought-drink-joined-Leicester-City/story-27778945-detail/story.html#ixzz3lQHHgl48 
Follow us: @Leicester_Merc on Twitter | leicestermercury on Facebook

[Durnerz]

Finished the book the other day as I'd bought it on Kindle. Its a decent read, interesting to hear the thoughts on Peter Taylor, nice bloke but out of his depth seemed a fair assessment, was surprised to hear that his England commitments weren't a factor.

Nice to confirm that most of thoughts at the time were correct ('In the comfort zone 2003-2005', team spirit and management style under O'Neill, Large contracts under Taylor)  Muzzy seems a lovely bloke and good luck to him.

 

[Bayfox]

All this is making me feel nostalgic.

 

Maybe not on the same level, but I have the same feeling about the current bunch of players, Kasper must be Heskey tho. never goes out

[filbertstreet]

. 

[gazagac]

Met Muzzy when my lad did one of his training camps last summer - seemed to genuinely see Leicester as his club and love his time here.

 

Heard a lot more stories from an ex LCFC member of staff regards the drinking. Lenny delayed the victory parade from the playoffs victory as he was not the most conscious shall we say - and on a slightly different point, I heard a 'rumour' regarding another figure from the O'Neill era, Barry Pierpoint, and something that Filbert the Fox might have viewed and then got sacked for...daren't say what on here, but please say or wink if you know, as was never convinced if it was true

[Donut]

In all honesty, i dont really know what would be worth reading about in this book.

 

I want a remarkable career, not stories about being drunk.

 

EDIT: And dont all come on here and talk about how i disrespected his career. He was a great servant and top player for Leicester, but to have an autobiography, at least have done something meaningful in your career that would be recognised by football fans everywhere

[Wymsey]

Does he still live in Markfield?

[gazagac]

Fleckney

[davieG]

'We were 11 dead men walking': The dismal day Leicester City threw it all away at Wolves

By Leicester Mercury  |  Posted: September 12, 2015

 

 

 

 

Muzzy in the new City shirt in May 2003

 

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When the celebrations had died down, the open-top bus tour had ended and the promotion specials had been read and binned, Leicester City prepared to take their position in England's top flight in the 2003/04 season.

The promotion was Micky Adams' third as manager and he was rewarded with an improved, new three-year-contract.

Adams, an honest, hard-working manager, popular with players and fans despite his occasionally bemusing fondness for referring to himself in interviews in the third person was bullish.

"We're in the Premiership, I feel terrific about myself, I feel terrific about my club and I'm confident," he told When Saturday Comes fanzine in the close season.

 

•  

He was looking forward to a significant investment in the playing side so his team would be able to compete in the Premier league.

He didn't get it. Micky's best-laid plans were just that, it turned out. A dozen new players arrived at the Walkers Stadium in the close season.

In total, they cost £370,000: £120,000 for Derby's Lee Morris, £250,000 for Peter Canero from Kilmarnock and 10 free transfers.

Unsurprisingly, perhaps, it wasn't enough.

City won six games that season, losing 17 and drawing 15, and finished 18th, relegated with 33 points.

It was the start of a decade out of the top flight.

 

 

Picture the scene. It's 3.50pm, Saturday, October 25, 2003. The away changing rooms at Molineux, Waterloo Road, Wolverhampton, WV1 4QR.

Eleven men in blue and white walk through the tunnel to greet their triumphant manager, who is standing by the door of the away dressing rooms, smiling, trying not to look too chuffed, but failing.

He can't hide it – neither can the players.

They are smiling, too. Beaming, in fact. Everyone is beaming. Magniff. It is a good place to be.

Leicester City are away at Wolves – and 3-0 up, away from home, an East/West Midlands derby in front of 29,000 fans and the talk is: how many can we get? Can we get five? Seven? Ten maybe?

Ha, ha, ha. What a laugh. What a game. What a hoot.

And why not? Wolves are woeful. The first 45 minutes are the worst I've seen from any team in the Premiership, ever, I think.

They were that bad. Everything we did in that first half came off. They did nothing.

Maybe we didn't allow them to do anything but, frankly, I'm not sure if that's right.

Three months and 10 games into the season, we had won just once – 4-0, a night game in front of the Sky cameras against a Leeds United side that were relegated that season, a Lilian Nalis 35-yarder that people still talk about today.

We hadn't been playing badly. We'd been unlucky. Losing by an odd goal here and there, drawing against sides we should have seen off.

As 2003 turned to 2004 and points went begging virtually every week, it became the story of our season.

The Wolves game came on the back of four straight league defeats – to Liverpool, Man United, Fulham and Spurs – and we were determined to stop the rot.

We could do that. We could do that against Wolves.

That first 45 minutes, moving the ball quickly from defence to attack, pressing, pressing, harrying, pressing, busy, creative, quick feet, quick passes, clinical in front of goal, strong from set pieces – everything we worked at in training, it all paid off. It finally paid off.

Big Les Ferdinand, 17 England caps and by then 37 years of age but still quality, still deadly, still a good player, scored twice. Ricky Scimeca bagged the other. 3-0.

Game over.

Check us out.

We're back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So there we sat in the dressing room, reliving this pass and that goal, barely listening to the gaffer Micky Adams, who is urging caution, stressing that we need to keep it tight in the first 10-15 minutes, not give anything away, not do anything stupid.

It struck me – and it must have struck a few others – that Wolves could not possibly be as bad in the second half as they were in the first.

Micky continued to urge caution. Be careful. Concentrate. Don't do anything daft.

It was all perfectly reasonable advice. None of it went in.

Micky didn't know what else to say. He was not accustomed to this; his team, his rampant team, three-up at half-time, laughing in the changing room, delighted with the way we had played.

Our season hadn't been like that.

That game, the half-time team talk, the aftermath, has stayed with me more than any other during my time at Leicester.

I don't blame Micky for our defeat. We threw it away. It was our fault.

I wonder, sometimes, though, if he might have been a bit cuter there; perhaps if he'd have done something unexpected, created some kind of diversion, something which would have punctured our egos, it might have kept our feet on the floor.

Maybe he should have picked a player and torn a strip off him. It didn't matter who it was or what it was for. He needed to do something that would stop our premature jubilation and make us sit up and think: hang on, what the hell was that about?

Instead, we didn't listen to Micky as he urged us to be cautious.

We ran out for the second half. And they ran out. They looked angry. They were shouting at each other. Pumped fists. Determination etched on their faces. And sure enough, they played like a different team.

1-3.

Then 2-3.

And then the panic started to creep in. 'They can't do this, surely? We can't throw this away. Can we?'

Substitutions. Leicester City substitutions. Three of them. Strikers off. Midfielders on. Subconsciously, a message is picked up by the team. The boss is worried. We're hanging on.

3-3.

Aw man.

Five minutes left and I could smell it. I could smell the looming disaster in the air. Defeat. Ignominy. Humiliation. And fear.

I looked at my colleagues. They could smell it, too. They were choking on it. "COME ON," I shouted. "COME ON. DON'T DO THIS."

But they couldn't hear me. They couldn't hear me for the crowd and an overwhelming, sickening sense that we were about to screw it up.

It was too late. I knew it was too late. We were 11 dead men walking. Mortified. Riddled with doubt and fear. We could no longer string a pass together.

The crowd sensed it, too.

The Wolves fans, who'd been virtually mute in the first half, found their voice.

The noise was deafening. It became the wind in the players' sails.

Wolves boss David Jones stood on the touchline, wafting his players forward.

"Go on," he kept saying. "Go on," like he was urging on a boxer, a boxer who was nearly home, a round from the end. A horse in the National in the final furlong.

And on they went, again and again, attack after attack. Relentless.

The 86th minute: 4-3. The record books tell me it was Henri Camara, their Senegalese forward.

 

 

 

 

 

I can't remember the goal. I only remember the embarrassment.

The last five minutes limped by. I looked at Peter Walton, the referee. Just blow, ref. Just blow.

Finally, he put the whistle to his lips. Full time. The final whistle. Pandemonium. A celebration in gold and black. In a far corner of the ground, the blue corner, 3,000 travelling City fans sat in stunned silence.

It was the worst I have felt after a football game. Worse than losing at Wembley. Worse than being knocked out of a cup competition in the semi-final.

Saturday afternoon, October 25, 2003, 4.55pm, Molineux Stadium, Waterloo Road, Wolverhampton, WV1 4QR. Wolverhampton Wanderers 4, Leicester City 3.

Empty. Destroyed. Mugged. Mugs.

We trudged off in silence. There were mistakes, players who could have done better.

No-one said anything. There was no point. They knew. They felt it.

 

 

 

 

I knew what was coming next, too. I was dreading it. Micky will be furious, I thought to myself as I walked off.

We all knew it. And what was worse, he had every right to be furious because we had just thrown away a 3-0 lead.

We entered the tunnel, one by one, in silence, listening to the cheers and laughter and hearty back-slapping of the Wolves players. It was gut-wrenching.

I was about to enter the dressing room when a man tapped me on my shoulder.

He stopped me and Jamie Scowcroft.

"Drugs test, lads. Sorry about this. We'll be as quick as possible," he said.

Usually, this is the last thing you want after a game. This time I remember feeling relieved.

He ushered us towards a small room. I remember sitting there, a plastic cup in my hand, looking at Scowy. He looked broken.

Next door was our dressing room. All I could hear was shouting. A man bellowing.

I didn't know who it was, his voice wasn't clear, but I could guess.

He was incandescent with rage.

Scowcroft filled his plastic cup with urine and turned to leave.

"Not yet, son," I said. "Let's not go back yet." A penny dropped. Scowcroft nodded and returned to his seat.

And we sat there, in silence, me and Scowy, his cup full of wee, me holding mine, saying nothing, looking straight ahead, the sound of a man at the very end of his tether leaking in from next door.

And still we sat, the man doing the drugs test standing by the door, wondering why it was taking so long.

"I think I'm dehydrated," I told him. It was a feeble lie. The dressing down carried on.

Finally, it limped to a close. We headed for the door. The dressing room looked like a morgue.

If you're looking for one match to summarise that season, there it is, right there. Three-nil up. Lost 4-3.

They say "Foxes Never Quit". It's the occasionally over-used motto at Leicester City. They did that day, and that season.

We lost our resolve.

Read more: http://www.leicestermercury.co.uk/11-dead-men-walking-day-Leicester-City-threw-away/story-27780400-detail/story.html#ixzz3lVQpS4nP 

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[car1os]

Apparently Kante has bought that very same house.

Will he even reach the door handle?

[aussie-fox]

Lets hope its better than 50 shades of blue. I'm about half way through that and its not really well written.

 

Im about 3 chapters in and its so much better written, walshies book was shocking to read. good stories but the amount of times he referred to himself in the 3 person was cringe worthy! 

[Matt]

Gonna get this I think.

 

One my favourite Leicester players, now, can I be bothered going into the shop today and getting it signed?

 

Plans were to get on the beers but i'm hungover and not sure I can face too many but i'd imagine the shop is gonna be rammed.

[davieG]

Meet former Leicester City star Muzzy Izzet

By Barry_Cooper1  |  Posted: September 25, 2015

 

Former City star Muzzy Izzet

 

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Foxes fans: remember the glory days? Here's hoping they're verging on a return – but for those around during the O'Neill era, this is a prize you won't want to miss.

We've got hold of signed copies of Muzzy Izzet's new book, co-written by Mercury feature writer Lee Marlow, to give away to competition winners. One lucky winner will also win a special meet and greet with Muzzy himself.

Our overall winner will receive the new book and the chance to meet Muzzy who will sign it with your own personalised message. You'll get to meet Muzzy in the Mercury offices, take pictures and chat. Ten runners-up will also get a signed copy of the Muzzy book.

For nearly a decade, Muzzy Izzet was a regular in Leicester City's midfield – a key figure in a team which defied critics and made history.

•  

The heartbeat of this famous Foxes side, here was a talented and versatile player who could also score goals. One, a spectacular bicycle kick at Grimsby Town in 2002 is still rated as Leicester City's greatest-ever goal.

A half-English/half-Turkish kid from London's East End, Izzet learned his trade the hard way. When it looked like he had to give up, enter Martin O'Neill and Leicester City…

Muzzy flourished in a side of big characters who worked hard and played hard. Upon arrival he was part of a formidable unit alongside established names like Steve Walsh and Garry Parker, with new faces such as Neil Lennon, Robbie Savage and Emile Heskey.

The rest, as they say... is history.

To be in with a chance of winning this fabulous prize, click here

Terms and conditions:

Standard Local World rules apply; visit the House Rules section on PLUS for details. One first-prize winner will be selected at random from all correct entries received by closing date of Sunday October 11, 2015; each will receive a signed copy of Muzzy Izzet: My Story and a meet & greet with Muzzy Izzet. Ten runners up will be selected at random, each will receive a signed copy of Muzzy Izzet: My Story. Prize(s) are as stated, have no cash value and no alternative will be offered. Winners will be contacted within seven days of the competition closing date and required to claim/collect their prize from the Leicester Mercury offices, identification may be required to claim. Promoter: Local World.

Read more: http://www.leicestermercury.co.uk/Meet-Leicester-City-star-Muzzy-Izzet/story-27862374-detail/story.html#ixzz3mjtcayfi 

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[steveherbe]

Hey Muzzy, here's your chance to meet the guy with the Turkish delight flag tomorrow, just pop into sk1 at half time, we may even let you sign it!

[Fox92]

I still believe we would have won promotion straight away if he would have stayed. Evens Adams said we were an average side without Izzet but with him we were good. I know we lost Dickov too but we had a good replacement in Connolly.