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Obidiah Treadmore


garcon
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(with a nod to Michael Palin's Ripping Yarns for the title ... and somone who posted this on a Sheff Utd board and may have written it ... or may have nicked it from somewhere else... :wink: )

 

I'm feeling all angry about these modern day footballers and I know why, they've gone all soft. It's cos of poncy names. That's what it is. Remember th' owd days when footy players kicked a ball med 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 names like Albert, Arthur, Bert, Harry, Bill, Eddie, Bob, Jack and Tommy. F***ing tough names for tough men them was. And what do we have now? Gareth, Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie. Tarts names they are. Great big f***ing poofs. No wonder the ball's like a f***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. Shin pads in them days was made out of library books and socks were like sackcloth. Same with jerseys. Shirts with holes in 'em so they can breathe? Aye and so Jamie's hairless chest can breathe and he doesn't get a chill. F*** off.

 

Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a f***ing 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 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 f***ers up his chuff.

 

Therapy for stress my arse! Stan Collymore 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 Arkthwaite of Port Vale got run over wi' 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 poof name. Good old Ernie. It's 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 boll***s!

 

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 w**k in the showers afterwards. But it were a proper w**k ... all man stuff. None of these poofy w**ks between blokes that you get nowadays with players like Graeme Le Saux and Stephen Gerrard. Allegedly. It were just a harmless bit of spanking the plank among healthy young sportsmen.

 

Sixty grand a f***ing 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*thouse 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 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 and f***ing

Chesney.

 

F*** that, call your kids Herbert, Len, Fred and Wilf and lets get the poofs out of the game once and for all!

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