Posted on the Sheffield United Website by a fan:
Quote:
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 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? Gareth, Jason,
Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie. Fucking tarts' names, they are. Great
big fucking poofs.
No wonder the ball's like a fucking 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 poofy 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
'em 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-13 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, 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 twat.
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 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 poofy 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 "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
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. Fucking 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
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 poofy 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 poofs out of the game once and for all !!!
I thank you for your time ...... Unquote