Sain tämän jutun mailiini. En tiedä mistä on alunperin lähtöisin, mutta varsin tehokasta avautumista ;D
"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 footballers kicked a fucking ball
made out of ten pounds 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 rigors 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
were. 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 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 players 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 cow about a bit, specially after a bad defeat. And the women used to expect it, and so they should have. They were 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 twat.
Archie McShitt of Port Vale got run over by a 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 were 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 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 "g*y 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 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 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."
