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« på: November 23, 2006, 05:41:34 »
Alt var mye bedre i gamle dager...
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This was genuinely posted on the Sheffield United website by a fan.
"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 fuc ** ng 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 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? Gareth,
Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie. F***ing tarts names they are. Great big fuc ** ng p**fs.
No wonder the ball's like a fu**ing balloon and shin pads are like slices of bread. In the old days you never saw a Len Shackleton or Billy Wright
with a poofy little Sondico piece of paper down his little thin socks. Fuc ** ng shin pads in them days was made out of library books and socks
was like sackcloth. Same with jerseys. Fu ** ing shirts with holes in 'em now so they can breathe. Yes and so Jamie'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 fuc ** ng tent and shorts cobbled together from
the jacket of his demob suit. Aye he bloody did.
No wonder players fall over whenever an opponent comes near them. And they never used to show their a**es 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 f**ers up his chuff.
Fuc ** ng therapy for stress my arse! Stan Colleymore slaps his missus about and he takes three seasons off with stress counselling. What 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 old women used to
expect it and so they should have, they was lucky to be married to footballers.
Ernie McShi** of Port Vale got run over with a horse and cart one Friday night and still he turned out against Bradford the next day. And he
scored two goals. That's cos he didn't have a p**f name. Good old Ernie. It is said he broke his hip, both 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 bo**ocks!
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 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 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 all you got.
That and a wa*k in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper wa*k....all man stuff. None of these poofy wa*ks between blokes that you get
nowadays with players like Graeme Le Saux and Stephen Gerrard. Allegedly. It was just a harmless bit of spanking the plank among healthy young sportsmen.
Sixty grand a fuc ** ng 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. Its 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 sh**house cleaner. He had to go off during one game because a log jam had built up and blocked the "U" bend. And that Eddie Hapgood, he 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 a p**fy 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 and fu ** ing
Chesney. F**k that, call your kids Herbert, Len, Fred and Wilf and lets get the p**fs out of the game once and for all!"
MARCHING ON TOGETHER!
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