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THE
TROUBLE WITH FOOTBALL TODAY
I’m
feeling all angry about these modern day footballers, I know why they have gone
all soft - It’s because of poncy names. That’s what it is.
Remember in the old days, when footy players kicked a ****ing ball made out of
ten pound of clay stitched inside a steel-reinforced leather shell with laces
made out of piano wire? Well, in them days players could only survive the
rigours of the game because they were called things like Albert, Arthur, Bert,
Harry, Bill, Eddie, Bob, Jack and Tommy. ****ing tough names for tough men, them
was.
And what do we have now? Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie. ****ing
tarts’ names, they are. Great big ****ing puffs. No wonder the ball’s like a
****ing balloon and shin pads is like slices of bread. In the old days you never
saw a Len Shackleton or a Billy Wright with a puffy little Sondico piece of
paper down his little thin socks. ****ing shin pads in them days was made out of
library books, and socks was like sackcloth. Same with the jerseys. ****ing
shirts with holes in now so they can breathe.
Yes, so that little Jody’s hairless chest can breathe and he doesn’t get a
chill. **** off. Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe’s finest
wearing a ****ing tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob
suit. Aye, he ****ing did. No wonder players fall over all the time whenever an
opponent comes anywhere near them. And they never used to show their arses at
one another either. Can you imagine what might have happened if Don Revie had
flashed his ring at Nat Lofthouse during a City-Bolton Wanderers game? He’d
have got one of them size 10 hobnail ****ers up his bastard chuff. ****ing
therapy for stress my arse! Stan Collymore slaps his missus about and he takes
three seasons off with stress counselling. What the **** is that all about? In
the old days it was expected for footballers to belt the old sow about a bit,
specially after a bad defeat. And the women used to expect it, and so they
should have. They was lucky to be married to footballers.
Ha!
Trevor Morley got a kitchen knife in his back off his wife and was out of action
for three month. Soft twat. Archie McShitt of Port Vale got run over with horse
and cart one Friday night and he still turned out against Bradford the following
day. And he scored two goals. That’s cos his name wasn’t "Trevor".
Good old Archie. Broke his hip, both his legs, murdered his wife and buried her
under the patio and still made the England team for the Home Internationals. Did
he have any "stress counselling"? Did he bollocks!
And drugs?
There was none of that in
the old days. Oh, no. In them days it was a quick shot of morphine before
kick-off and you was lucky if you got that. By half-time it had all but wore off
so they pumped you full of laudanum. None of this cocaine sniffing and shooting
up class A narcotics.
Goal celebrations?
Don’t talk to me about
goal celebrations. Crawling on the floor and thrusting their hips at the crowd.
Huh! I’d like to have seen Cliff Bastin do that after a run down the left
flank and crossing for Alex James to fire home a winner.
Handshakes...and that was
all you got. That and a **** in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper
****...all man stuff. None of these puffy ****s between blokes that you get
nowadays with players like Greame Le Saux and Stephen Gerrard. Allegedly. In
them days, there was nowt wrong with it cos it didn’t mean nowt. They used to
say there was a "gay atmosphere" in the dressing room after the match.
But it didn’t mean owt mucky. Just a bit of harmless spanking the plank among
healthy young sportsmen. Aye. I know. Me dad told me.
Sixty grand a ****ing week! Ha! I wouldn’t pay ‘em tuppence. Two bob Tommy
Lawton used to get...a month! And Tom Finney still worked as a plumber four days
a week when he was playing for England. It’s true, you know. ****ing is.
Players had to work them days just to make up their money. Not like today. Stan
Pearson had to clean sewers and doubled up as Old Trafford shithouse cleaner. He
had to go off during one game because some **** had built a log cabin and
blocked the U-bend. And that Eddie Hapgood was a male model...though he never
liked to talk about it.
So I say we start calling kids real male names again. If you’re having a kid,
don’t even consider puffy names and shite names like what people call their
kids these days. Otherwise what we gonna get in twenty years’ time? The
England team full of players called Keanu, Ronan, Ashley and ****ing Chesney.
**** that! Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred and Wilf. And let’s
get the puffs out of the game once and for all.
I thank you.
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