"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 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 shin pads in them days was made out of library books, and
sock's 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 Nat Lofthouse during a City-Bolton Wanderers game? He'd have got
one of
them size 10 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, especially 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 co's 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 now't wrong with it cos it didn't
mean now't. 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, it fucking is. Players had to work in 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 shit 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.
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