The Problem With Modern Day Footballers

I recieved this in an email and its fucking hilarious.


"I'm feeling all angry about these modern day footballers, 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 foot players kicked a fucking 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 rigors of the game because they were called things like Albert, Arthur, Bert, Harry, Bill, Eddie, Bob, Jack and Tommy. Fucking tough names for tough men, them were. And what do we have now? Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie. Fucking tarts' names, they are.

Great big fucking puffs. No wonder the ball's like a fucking balloon and shin pads is like slices of bread. In the old days you never saw a Len Shackleton or a Billy Wright with a puffy little Sondico piece of paper down his little thin socks. Fucking shin pads in them days was made out of library books, and socks was like sackcloth.Same with the jerseys. Fucking shirts with holes in now so they can breathe. Yes, so that little Jody's hairless chest can breathe and he doesn't get a chill. Fuck off. Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a fucking tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob suit. Aye, he fucking 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 10 hobnail fuckers up his bastard chuff.Fucking therapy for stress my arse! Stan Collymore slaps his missus about and he takes three seasons off with stress counseling. What the fuck 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 were 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 month. Soft twat. Archie McShitt 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 were 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 wank in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper wank,all man stuff. None of these puffy wanks between blokes that you get nowadays with players like Greame 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 fucking week! Ha! I wouldn't pay 'em tuppence. Two bob 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.Fucking 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 shithouse cleaner. He had to go off during one game because some cunt 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 puffy 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 fucking Chesney. Fuck that! Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred and Wilf. And let's get the puffs out of the game once and for all !

Memories Of The Hospital...

Plz Dont Try This At Home Or In Your School Grounds....

Umm Well,It all started when we had this 11th vs 12th match in our school the other day.The match was scheduled after school,12th were really strong but we wernt bad.

The match started and predictably 12th had the upper hand.We preferred to play on the counter-attack like fucking Manchester City and i had to play in a very familiar role of a lone striker and our strategy was to play on the break and long balls where my strength and aeriel ability could be employed to set up quick counter attacks ,However we really were unable to get a foothold into the game my in my desperation i remember tackling the opposition defender (quite a few times).Few words were exchanged and nothing more.We couldnt have much poccession simply because we wernt good enough and needless to say, 12th were dominating.I did my share of running and tackling and chances were few and far and the game was congested in midfield as we put lots of bodies behind the ball.We did have a break-on once or twice but nothing really materialised,we were getting desperate because we knew that it was a matter of time before they score and after that it would a question of how many.

I hoped a tackle or a run by anyone would spur the team on,but i could see shoulders drooping and then came a chance.Utkarsh played a glorious 1-2 with Vignesh and the ball was passed to Sagnik who crossed the ball to the near post.I gave the ball back to him and continued my run and he crossed again.The cross was deflected and it came wierdly at me.I tried an overhead bicycle kick but the space was limited because there was a defender very near me which gave me very less space to fee my legs hence i had to fold my left leg in mid-air.I landed on my ankle which had twisted and i heard a sickening crack like a dry twig getting snapped.
Everything was a blur from then on.

I wont talk bout the physical pain cause thats all too obvious,the physical pain was undoubtedly unbearable but people often underestimate the mental trauma associated with the injury like this .You feel empty with a feeling of hopelessness sorrounding you.There was uncertainity over if i would ever walk or play football again and the thought of the impending operation scared the shit out of me and all you do to kill time is look at the fan going round and round, till the end of time.

There is a feeling of guilt for doin the stupid stupid bicycle thing and feeling of the reality which shrieked out that even a single mistake and your life can be fucked beyond repair.Feelings of insecurity and helplessness were pretty evident and you feel distanced from the so called "normal" people.You also live that horrible moment again and again and and hear the sound of your bone snapping into two.

That day is saw Eduardo suffer an identical injury as me.My heart goes all out for him, and hope you recover soon !

My First Post....

This is my first post.....