Pansy Boys

I picked it up on the eL board some time ago... It's gas and it would be a shame to forget it...

This was actually posted on the Sheffield Wednesday Website.

"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 ****ing 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. Fu*king tough
names for tough men, them was. And what do we have now?
Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie. Fu*king tarts'
names, they are. Great big fu*king puffs. No wonder the
ball's like a f*cking 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. Fu*king shinpads in them days was made
out of library books, and socks was like sackcloth.

Same with the jerseys. Fu*king 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. Fu*k off. Stanley
Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a
fu*king tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of
his de-mob suit. Aye,he fu*king 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
fu*kers up his ba*tard chuff.

Fu*king therapy for stress my arse! Stan Collymore slaps his
missus about and he takes three seasons off with stress
counselling. What the fu*k 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 month. Soft ****. Archie
Mc****t 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 ********!

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
wa*k in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper
wa*k...all man stuff. None of these puffy w*nks 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 fu*king 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.Fu*king 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 cu*t 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
sh*te 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
fu*king Chesney. Fu*k 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.