A Man's Game

by ManCityMan Wed Dec 07, 2011 3:47 pm

PROPER FOOTBALL FOR MEN

"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 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 was!

And what do we have now? Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie. Fucking tarts' names, they are, great big fucking Jessies. 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 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 wit’ 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 canvas 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 now, fucking over paid lady boys

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 counseling. 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, the 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 counseling"? 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 or missing half the fucking season for taking yer old lady's 'Night Nurse' by accident.

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