The Truth About English Football

[thedude]

Got this off another forum but i thought this might entertain some readers here...

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%cking 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%cking 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&cking ta-rts' names, they are. Great big f^cking poofs. No wonder the ball's like a f&cking 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^cking shin-pads in them days was made out of library books, and socks was like sackcloth. Same with the jerseys. F*cking 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. <deleted> off. Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a f*cking tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob suit.

Aye, he f*cking did.

No wonder players fall over all the time whenever an opponent comes anywhere near them. And they never used to show their <deleted> 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*ckers up his b^stard chuff.

F*cking therapy for stress my arse! Stan Collymore slaps his missus about and he takes three seasons off with stress counselling. What the <deleted> 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 <deleted>. Archie

McShi** 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 <deleted>!

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@nk in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper w@nk all man stuff. None of these poofy w@nks 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*cking 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*cking 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*nt 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 ****e 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*cking Chesney. <deleted> 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 !!!

[stevehaigh]

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN:

Aye, very passable, that, very passable bit of risotto.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN:

Nothing like a good glass of Château de Chasselas, eh, Josiah?

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN:

You're right there, Obadiah.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN:

Who'd have thought thirty year ago we'd all be sittin' here drinking Château de Chasselas, eh?

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN:

In them days we was glad to have the price of a cup o' tea.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN:

A cup o' cold tea.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN:

Without milk or sugar.

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN:

Or tea.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN:

In a cracked cup, an' all.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN:

Oh, we never had a cup. We used to have to drink out of a rolled up newspaper.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN:

The best we could manage was to suck on a piece of damp cloth.

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN:

But you know, we were happy in those days, though we were poor.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN:

Because we were poor. My old Dad used to say to me, "Money doesn't buy you happiness, son".

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN:

Aye, 'e was right.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN:

Aye, 'e was.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN:

I was happier then and I had nothin'. We used to live in this tiny old house with great big holes in the roof.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN:

House! You were lucky to live in a house! We used to live in one room, all twenty-six of us, no furniture, 'alf the floor was missing, and we were all 'uddled together in one corner for fear of falling.

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN:

Eh, you were lucky to have a room! We used to have to live in t' corridor!

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN:

Oh, we used to dream of livin' in a corridor! Would ha' been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank on a rubbish tip. We got woke up every morning by having a load of rotting fish dumped all over us! House? Huh.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN:

Well, when I say 'house' it was only a hole in the ground covered by a sheet of tarpaulin, but it was a house to us.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN:

We were evicted from our 'ole in the ground; we 'ad to go and live in a lake.

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN:

You were lucky to have a lake! There were a hundred and fifty of us living in t' shoebox in t' middle o' road.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN:

Cardboard box?

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN:

Aye.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN:

You were lucky. We lived for three months in a paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six in the morning, clean the paper bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down t' mill, fourteen hours a day, week-in week-out, for sixpence a week, and when we got home our Dad would thrash us to sleep wi' his belt.

SECOND YORKSHIREMAN:

Luxury. We used to have to get out of the lake at six o'clock in the morning, clean the lake, eat a handful of 'ot gravel, work twenty hour day at mill for tuppence a month, come home, and Dad would thrash us to sleep with a broken bottle, if we were lucky!

THIRD YORKSHIREMAN:

Well, of course, we had it tough. We used to 'ave to get up out of shoebox at twelve o'clock at night and lick road clean wit' tongue. We had two bits of cold gravel, worked twenty-four hours a day at mill for sixpence every four years, and when we got home our Dad would slice us in two wit' bread knife.

FOURTH YORKSHIREMAN:

Right. I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night half an hour before I went to bed, drink a cup of sulphuric acid, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill, and pay mill owner for permission to come to work, and when we got home, our Dad and our mother would kill us and dance about on our graves singing Hallelujah.

FIRST YORKSHIREMAN:

And you try and tell the young people of today that ..... they won't believe you.

ALL:

They won't!