strategic numbers shouted
and its a touchdown
you draw on the pitch
stick figures in motion, bare
iron legs strike one nil
So, me an’ Mickey are reminiscing about the football, like ‘ow it ain’t what it used to be, back in the day, in the 70s an’ 80’s an’ that. “S’all about fuckin’ money these days.” I say.
“Used to be different.” ‘e agrees.
“Used to be about skill and passion and hatred.” I point out an’ ‘e nods sadly into ‘is lager.
Me an’ Mickey never missed a fuckin’ game an’ never failed to get stuck in. They used to search you at the turnstiles back then, for weapons, an’ that. They never took no notice though, if all you ‘ad was a pocket full of loose change, an’ you can do a lot of damage wiv a 10p coin, if you chuck it right, know what I mean? “You remember that silly cunt ‘oo let me in wiv me darts?” Mickey grins suddenly, an’ we both ‘ave a chuckle.
“Yeah,” I grin, “and that cunt what shouted ‘One ‘undred and fuckin’ eighty!’ when you ‘it that Gooner in the eyeball wiv one” an’ we both ‘ave a right laugh.
“Shame they never ‘ad camera phones back then,” ‘e says, “one to show the grandchildren, that would ‘ave been.”
“Yeah, that was fuckin’ ‘ilarious!” I agree. Neither of us can remember the score that day but we remember the look on that cunt’s face. Coins was the best though, ’cause no cunt could stop you takin’ change into the ground. Mickey come up wiv the idea of sharpenin’ the edges. ‘E was always a clever cunt, even at school.
‘Course now they got CC fuckin’ TV cameras everywhere, and you don’t get to ‘ave no fun at all. We don’t even bovver goin’ these days. All that money’s fuckin’ ruined football, know what I mean?
I watched Didier Drogba win the Champoins League final last night. The man is amazing, a real charm for Chelsea. To really appreciate him, you have to be at a match, the TV doesn’t show you what a master he is off the ball, the way he draws players away, his positioning, his relationship with the fans. I saw him a couple of years ago run rings round QPR.
Funny thing though, about football; as much as I admire Drogba, I hope he’s bloody injured the next time Chelsea play my team.
My mate Karl is an ass. He’s sexist and racist and a homophobe. He is, in fact, an all round bigot. He works in what he refers to as ‘security’: what he means is that he throws drunks out of clubs for a living.
He refuses, point blank to go down on a woman, he says its disgusting. Wait though, it get’s worse, because although he won’t perform cunnilingus, he’s quite happy to recieve a blow job. Sometimes I want to slap him, but he is three times my size. And, it gets worse still; if a woman has sucked his dick, he won’t kiss her afterwards.
We get high together, a lot, and we play video games. We play Tekken and he has beaten me 823 times. I have beaten him 12 times, but I have enjoyed every one of those victories more than he has his, and he refuses to play me at chess, ever again, checkers and tic-tac-toe too.
I was a bit worried about posting about him and using his real name, but then I remembered, he thinks reading is gay.
Why am I his friend? Because we’ve lived round the corner from each other for 20 years, I guess, and we support the same football team. Mostly though, because he is always happy to see me and always greets me with the biggest, most genuine smile that you could ever wish to get.
I’m not a City fan,
But damn that was fun,
Watching Manchester United
Thinking they’d won.
So suck on that hard
And taste City cum,
Let me savour the pain
On your face Ferguson.
Five minutes to go
And one goal down,
But Manchester City
Stole your fucking crown.
Forty four years
Those buggers have waited,
The look on Rooney’s face,
Oh I could have masturbated.
I have a new hero
And I think you know who,
The man of the hour,
The pub was a shit-hole, the carpet was sticky with years of spilled beer and guts, the dark brown walls had not seen a lick of paint since the war, and the windows were thick with the residue of a million roll-ups. Most of the time time there would be just these three or four old men in there, trying to pour their own cheap lager from cans in bags under the table into their glasses without being spotted by the bar staff. Sometimes people would go there to buy cheap frozen meat from the local junkies, who would steal it from the Iceland store on the corner. It was a real shit-hole
The only time it was any different was on match days. Then, for two or three hours before and after a game, the place was heaving with raucous singing, jumping red shirts and flying beer. We would meet there early and make up chants to piss the away fans off. Deano was unofficially in charge. He was a top London chef and had a scar on his cheek the exact same shape and size as the lip of a broken pint glass.
The barmaid, Caz, had the most fantastic tits you ever saw, they were like two giant blimps bouncing against each other in the skies above the stadium. Her top was always covered in stains, she never seemed to brush her teeth, and she had a laugh that sounded like a dog being strangled. She lived halfway between the pub and the stadium; we were together for about a year. Her apartment was even more of a dump than the pub, and her six kids were a nightmare, in and out of juvie like a Spurs fan in his boyfriends ass. She used to make this thing she called ‘breakfast’, which involved sticking eggs, bacon, beans and a slice of bread on a plate and bunging it in the microwave for ten minutes. I never once saw her brush her teeth, but she had fantastic tits and lived halfway between the pub and the stadium.
When she caught me shagging her sister by the dumpster behind the pub, she burnt all the pictures of my little boy, who had died five years previously, smashed my guitar and had her brother put a price on my head. Two years later, the team moved to a new stadium, and the pub lost all its business and had to close down. Its an apartment building now. It was a good thing really, that pub was a shit-hole.