Modern Football
This
was actually posted on the Sheffield Wednesday 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 foot players kicked a
f**king 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**king tough names for tough men, them was. And what do we have now?
Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie! F**king tarts’ names, they are. Great
big f**king puffs. No wonder the ball's like a f**king 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.
F**king shin-pads in them days was made out of library books, and socks was like
sackcloth.
Same
with the jerseys. F**king 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.
F**k off. Stanley Matthews
used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a f**king tent and shorts cobbled
together from the jacket of his de-mob suit. Aye, he f**king 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 f**kers up his b*st**d chuff.
F**king
therapy for stress my arse! Stan Collymore slaps his missus about and he takes
three seasons off with stress counselling. What the f**k 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 f**king 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. F**king
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's
shit-house 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 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 f**king Chesney.
F**k that! Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred Wilf and Harry.
And let's get the puffs out of the game once and for all."
Thank
you
Mr
Frank
"sheet
metal" Worker of from Tyneside!!