Genuine letter 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 in the old days, when footy players kicked a f.ucking 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 rigours of the game because they
were called things like Albert, Arthur, Bert, Harry, Bill, Eddie,
Bob, Jack and Tommy.
F.ucking tough names for tough men, them was. And what do we have
now? Gareth, Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie, Simon, Nairn,
Grant, Craig, Richard.
F.ucking ta-rts' names, they are. Great big f.ucking poofs. No
wonder the ball's like a f.ucking balloon and shin pads are like
slices of bread. In the old days you never saw a Len Shackleton or
a BillyWright with a poofy little Sondico piece of paper down his
little thin socks. F.ucking shin-pads in them days was made out of
library books, and socks was like sackcloth. Same with the jerseys.
F.ucking shirts with holes in 'em now so they can breathe. Yes, so
that little Jody's hairless chest can breathe and he doesn't get a
chill. F.uck off. Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's
finest wearing a f.ucking tent and shorts cobbled together from the
jacket of his de-mob suit.
Aye, he f.ucking did.
No wonder players fall over all the time whenever an opponent comes
anywhere 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.uckers
up his b.astard chuff.
F.ucking therapy for stress my arse! Stan Collymore slaps his
missus about and he takes three seasons off with stress
counselling. What the f.uck is that all about? In the old days it
was expected for footballers to belt the old sow about a bit,
specially 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 months. Soft twat. Archie
McShIte 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 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 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 like 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...and that was all you got. That and a w.ank in the
showers afterwards. But it was a proper w.ank all man stuff. None
of these poofy w.anks between blokes that you get nowadays with
players like Graeme Le Saux and Stephen Gerrard. Allegedly. In them
days, there was nowt wrong with it cos it didn't mean nowt. They
used to say there was a "gay atmosphere" in the dressing room after
the match. But it didn't mean owt mucky. Just a bit of harmless
spanking the plank among healthy young sportsmen.
Aye. I know. Me dad told me.
Sixty grand a f.ucking 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. F.ucking is.
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 Old
Trafford ****house cleaner. He had to go off during one game
because some c.unt had built a log cabin and blocked the U-bend.
And that Eddie Hapgood 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 poofy names and shite names like
what people call their kids these days. Otherwise what we gonna get
in twenty years' time?
The England team full of players called Keanu, Ronan, Ashley and
f.ucking Chesney. F.uck that!
Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred and Wilf. And let's
get the poofs out of the game once and for all !!!