Posted onto the Sheff Utd Website:-
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
fucking 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.
Fucking tough names for tough men, them was. And what do we have now?
Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie. Fucking tarts' names, they are.
Great big fucking puffs.
No wonder the ball's like a fucking 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.
Fucking shinpads in them days was made out of library books, and socks was
like sackcloth. Same with the jerseys. Fucking 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.
Fuck off. Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a
fucking tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob
suit. Aye, he fucking 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 Mat
Lofthouse during a City-Bolton Wanderers game? He'd have got one of them
size-13 hobnail fuckers up his bastard chuff.
Fucking therapy for stress my arse! Stan Collymore slaps his missus about
and he takes three seasons off with stress counselling. What the fuck 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 wank in the showers afterwards. But it
was a proper wank...all man stuff.
None of these puffy wanks 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 fucking 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.
Fucking 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 cunt 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 fucking
Chesney. Fuck 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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