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"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 the old days when footy players kicked a ****ing ball made out
of ten pounds of pudding, 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, Arthur, Bert, Harry, Bill, Ted, Bob, Jack and Tommy.
****ing tough names for tough men them was. And what do we have now?
Gareth, Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie, ****ing tarts names
they are. Great big ****ing poofs.
No wonder the ball's like a ****ing balloon and shin pads are like
slices of bread. In the old days you never saw Len Shackleton or Billy
Wright with a poofy 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 jerseys. ****ing shirts with holes
in 'em now so they can breathe. Yes and so Beck'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 his missus's old clouts. Aye he bloody did.
No wonder players today fall over whenever an opponent comes near them.
And they never used to show their arses to one another either. Can you
imagine what might have happened if Stan Mortenson had flashed his ring
at Nat Lofthouse during a Blackpool - Bolton game? He'd have got one
of them size 13 hobnail ****ers right up his chuff.
****ing therapy for stress my arse! Stan Colleymore slaps his tart about
and he takes three seasons off with stress counselling. What is that
all about? In the old days, it was expected for footballers to belt the
old cow about a bit, especially if you'd lost. And the old women used
to expect it and so they should have, they was lucky to be married to
footballers.
Ernie Mc****e of Port Vale once got run over by a horse and cart on
Friday night and still he turned out against Bradford P A the next day,
and he scored two goals. That's cos he didn't have a poof name. Good old
Ernie. It is said he broke his hip, both legs, murdered his wife and
buried her in't back yard and still made the England team against the
Scots *******s. 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 the 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 Brandy. 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 bloody hips at the crowd. Huh, I'd have
liked 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, that was
what you got, if you were lucky. That and a **** in the showers
afterwards. But it was a proper ****...proper men's stuff. None of these
poofy ****s between blokes that you get nowadays with players like
Graeme Le Saux and Jamie Redknap. It was just a harmless bit of
'first or farthest' spunking amongst healthy young sportsmen.
Sixty grand a ****ing 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. Its true
you know. 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 the Old
Trafford ****house cleaner. He had to go off during one game because a
log jam had built up and blocked the "U" bend. And that Dave Wood, he
made films, 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 a poofy name like what people call their kids
these days. Otherwise, what are we gonna get in twenty years time?
The England team full of players called Ronan, Keanu, Ashley, Rodger and
bloody Chesney.
For ****'s sake, call your kids Bert, Len, Fred, Stan and Wilf and lets get the poofs out of the game once and for all! "
yours Albert Shufflebottom
"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 the old days when footy players kicked a ****ing ball made out
of ten pounds of pudding, 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, Arthur, Bert, Harry, Bill, Ted, Bob, Jack and Tommy.
****ing tough names for tough men them was. And what do we have now?
Gareth, Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie, ****ing tarts names
they are. Great big ****ing poofs.
No wonder the ball's like a ****ing balloon and shin pads are like
slices of bread. In the old days you never saw Len Shackleton or Billy
Wright with a poofy 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 jerseys. ****ing shirts with holes
in 'em now so they can breathe. Yes and so Beck'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 his missus's old clouts. Aye he bloody did.
No wonder players today fall over whenever an opponent comes near them.
And they never used to show their arses to one another either. Can you
imagine what might have happened if Stan Mortenson had flashed his ring
at Nat Lofthouse during a Blackpool - Bolton game? He'd have got one
of them size 13 hobnail ****ers right up his chuff.
****ing therapy for stress my arse! Stan Colleymore slaps his tart about
and he takes three seasons off with stress counselling. What is that
all about? In the old days, it was expected for footballers to belt the
old cow about a bit, especially if you'd lost. And the old women used
to expect it and so they should have, they was lucky to be married to
footballers.
Ernie Mc****e of Port Vale once got run over by a horse and cart on
Friday night and still he turned out against Bradford P A the next day,
and he scored two goals. That's cos he didn't have a poof name. Good old
Ernie. It is said he broke his hip, both legs, murdered his wife and
buried her in't back yard and still made the England team against the
Scots *******s. 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 the 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 Brandy. 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 bloody hips at the crowd. Huh, I'd have
liked 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, that was
what you got, if you were lucky. That and a **** in the showers
afterwards. But it was a proper ****...proper men's stuff. None of these
poofy ****s between blokes that you get nowadays with players like
Graeme Le Saux and Jamie Redknap. It was just a harmless bit of
'first or farthest' spunking amongst healthy young sportsmen.
Sixty grand a ****ing 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. Its true
you know. 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 the Old
Trafford ****house cleaner. He had to go off during one game because a
log jam had built up and blocked the "U" bend. And that Dave Wood, he
made films, 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 a poofy name like what people call their kids
these days. Otherwise, what are we gonna get in twenty years time?
The England team full of players called Ronan, Keanu, Ashley, Rodger and
bloody Chesney.
For ****'s sake, call your kids Bert, Len, Fred, Stan and Wilf and lets get the poofs out of the game once and for all! "
yours Albert Shufflebottom
