Some of you could well have seen this before, but think it worth another read given the number of twisted hairbands, unmanageable perms and laddered socks in the World Cup This was genuinely posted on the Sheffield United website by a fan (allegedly....!)
"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 fucking 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. 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 Len Shackleton or 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 jerseys. Fucking 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. Fuck off. Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a fucking 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 fuckers right up his chuff.
Fucking therapy for stress my arse! Stan Colleymore slaps his tart about and he takes three seasons off with stress counseling. 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 McShite 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 bastards. 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 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 wank in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper wank...proper men's stuff. None of these poofy wanks 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 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. 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 shithouse 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 fuck's sake, call your kids Bert, Len, Fred, Stan and Wilf and let's get the poofs out of the game once and for all ! "
Yours Albert Shufflebottom
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