The Wookiee
Back From The Dead
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 f***ing 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***ing 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 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. f***ing shin pads in them days was made out of library books and socks was like sackcloth. Same with jerseys. f***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*** 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 fuckers up his chuff.
f***ing 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 were 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 poof 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 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 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 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. It was 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 shithouse 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!"
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. f***ing shin pads in them days was made out of library books and socks was like sackcloth. Same with jerseys. f***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*** 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 fuckers up his chuff.
f***ing 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 were 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 poof 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 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 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 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. It was 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 shithouse 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!"
