The scientists have all got it wrong. There is no super massive black hole at the centre of our galaxy. It’s taken years of observation but I have now come to the conclusion that we have a ginormous shiny football sitting there instead.
I would imagine it to be surrounded by coach loads of aggressive, England shirted fuck wits, shouting half formed lager fuelled opinions at each other on topics as diverse as race relations and tits, all the while celebrating their own inherent manliness by mind-wanking about England’s 1966 World Cup win against Germany, with England played by eleven Sophie Andertons in wet vests.
Football is quite possibly the least entertaining sport on Earth (or in the Universe I should imagine). I’d rather spend an hour and a half locked under water in a steel cage with a shark that’s being relentlessly poked with sticks than go to a football match. If I could get rid of three things, wipe them out as if they had never existed, they would be football, religion and Derek Acorah.
The most worrying type of football fans are the feeble minded, crass, racist, homophobic know nothing pricks who, if I had the chance, I’d brick up in Wembley before pumping it full of raw sewage. From Poland. Which would probably anger them even further. A furious tirade of abuse directed at mythical, immigrant job thieves would constitute their last words as they slowly drowned, the warm effluent burbling into their stupid, shouty lungs.
If you want to make football interesting to me you’d have to arm the goalies. I reckon that would make it pretty bloody entertaining. Each goalie would have a high powered sniper rifle and five rounds of ammunition, the only rule would be that you couldn’t snipe the other goalie. Let’s see how many ‘blistering runs at goal’ the over paid thickos that play the game would make then.
It truly is a game for the weak minded, played by the weak minded.
Only this morning Sol Campbell was on the radio demanding that ‘the fans’ stopped hurling nasty abuse at him. You see, from what I could glean, Sol has been involved in some pathetic on-off transfer deal with Tottenham United and Arsenal Rangers or something, and this has upset the psychopaths from both sides.
I can only imagine it to be a bit like going on to a gaming forum and admitting to owning a PlayStation 3 and an Xbox 360 and thinking that they’re both rather good, which on the interwebs would lead to nothing more than much badly spelt abuse by teenagers with mono-mania.
In the world of the football though, this sort of thing leads to you being castrated with a pen knife in an east end boozer. Short of that, and luckily for Campbell, all this cardinal sin has lead to is ‘the fans’ subjecting him to some horrid, horrid verbal abuse.
Please. You’re playing a game that can make millionaires out of men who would have difficulty writing a shopping list, expect a few hazards son. They’re called fans, which is an abbreviated form of fanatic, which if dictionary.com is to be believed means:
noun. A person marked or motivated by an extreme, unreasoning enthusiasm, as for a cause.
I’d be thankful they’re only shouting abuse and not leaping on to the pitch and stabbing you in the face with screwdrivers.
Then again he earns £96,000 a week, yes that’s right folks £96,000 a week, more money than a policeman earns in three years. He should be slightly less whiny I feel, I’d bet my brain that a policeman has to put up with more shit in a day than he does.
So what if you occasionally have to hear some pissed-up, educationally subnormal, fatty call you a talentless twat? You know that once the game’s over you can trot back to your twelve million pound Gloucestershire pad, safe in the knowledge that should you wish – and let’s face it you most probably do – you can get sucked off by an eighteen year old with the IQ of a satsuma, in your jacuzzi, that night.
Look at it with open eyes Campbell, if it wasn’t for the people lining the sides of the football court you’d be a salesman in Phones4U. Every day would be spent desperately trying to sell single mums Pay As You Go handsets on Orange, creeping back to your bedsit to eat a tin of beans and then shuffling off to bed to wank yourself to sleep through a haze of tears, before having to get up and do the same thing again, six days a week.
They’re your boss, they quite literally pay your exorbitant wages. You should be rejoicing in your luck and privilege, not cluttering up my radio with your badly articulated musings on your poor little life.