Post by steerser on Jan 19, 2005 14:41:22 GMT
I'm feeling all angry about these modern day footballers, and 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 f*cking 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.
F%cking tough names for tough men, them was. And what do we have now?
Gareth, Richard, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Andrew, Robbie, Simon, Matt, Huw,Jeremy,Paul.
F&cking ta-rts' names, they are. Great big f^cking p0ofs.
No wonder the ball's like a f&cking balloon and shin pads are like
slices of bread. In the old days you never saw a Len Shackleton or a Billy
Wright
with a p0ofy little Sondico piece of paper down his little thin socks.
F^cking shin-pads in them days was made out of library books,and
socks was like sackcloth. Same with the jerseys. F*cking shirts with holes
in 'em
now so they can breathe. Yes, so that little Jody's hairless chest can
breathe
and he doesn't get a chill. F*ck off.
Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a f*cking
tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob suit.
Aye, he f*cking did.
No wonder players fall over all the time whenever an opponent comes
anywhere near them. And they never used to show their @rses 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-13 hobnail f*ckers up his b^stard chuff.
F*cking therapy for stress my @rse! Stan Collymore slaps his missus
about and he takes three seasons off with stress counselling. What the f*ck
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 months. Soft tw*t.
Archie McShi** 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 boll0cks!
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 w@nk in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper w@nk...all
man stuff.
None of these poofy w@nks between blokes that you get nowadays with
players like Graeme 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 f*cking week! Ha! I wouldn't pay 'em tuppence. Two bob
is what 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. F*cking 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
sh!thouse
cleaner. He had to go off during one game because some c*nt 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 po0fy names and sh!te 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
f*cking
Chesney. F*ck that!
Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred and Wilf. And let's get this country great again, you know it makes sense...
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 f*cking 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.
F%cking tough names for tough men, them was. And what do we have now?
Gareth, Richard, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Andrew, Robbie, Simon, Matt, Huw,Jeremy,Paul.
F&cking ta-rts' names, they are. Great big f^cking p0ofs.
No wonder the ball's like a f&cking balloon and shin pads are like
slices of bread. In the old days you never saw a Len Shackleton or a Billy
Wright
with a p0ofy little Sondico piece of paper down his little thin socks.
F^cking shin-pads in them days was made out of library books,and
socks was like sackcloth. Same with the jerseys. F*cking shirts with holes
in 'em
now so they can breathe. Yes, so that little Jody's hairless chest can
breathe
and he doesn't get a chill. F*ck off.
Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a f*cking
tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob suit.
Aye, he f*cking did.
No wonder players fall over all the time whenever an opponent comes
anywhere near them. And they never used to show their @rses 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-13 hobnail f*ckers up his b^stard chuff.
F*cking therapy for stress my @rse! Stan Collymore slaps his missus
about and he takes three seasons off with stress counselling. What the f*ck
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 months. Soft tw*t.
Archie McShi** 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 boll0cks!
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 w@nk in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper w@nk...all
man stuff.
None of these poofy w@nks between blokes that you get nowadays with
players like Graeme 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 f*cking week! Ha! I wouldn't pay 'em tuppence. Two bob
is what 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. F*cking 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
sh!thouse
cleaner. He had to go off during one game because some c*nt 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 po0fy names and sh!te 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
f*cking
Chesney. F*ck that!
Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred and Wilf. And let's get this country great again, you know it makes sense...
