Since our second goat kid was born I’ve lived in a smudge bubble of sleep deprivation, delectable cuddling and hysterical wailing. The new football season has given me some distractions in the form of our young stars exploding out of the traps with some irresistible movement and attitude. This flat screen TV we’ve got is proper top. Rubber dinghy rapids and gangster shit lookin 3-D cuz it’s HD. Threw out the old telly, ‘cos it was shite, got a 56-incher it was dynamite, but within a very quick fortnight, I’m takin’ it fer granted like the heat and light, become a spoilt cunt you want a bigger one, an’ stronger weed to watch it on, plus barrel loads of Holts’s bitter, an a million followers on Twitter, an yer own podcast tell it like it is, be the realest voice in this football biz, got a bomb out front an a pool out back, a Somali slave with a circumcised crack, don’t get me wrong it wasn’t me, I rescued her clit from a doctor or three, now she serves pure blunts packed with AK, an so much charles you’d need a sleigh, seems the reds are playin every day, this HD trip is the only way. Probably. But not necessarily. If I lived there I’d go all the time. Then again, this telly clapping lark is pretty good; no spending all me wages, no crowded pubs full of 30-year old geeks in Adidas reissues thinking they breathe the history of Casual, feel the pain of Munich and are all-round martial artists (despite never having thrown or received a punch outside their vapid video games), no queuing for plastic bottles of Bud, no tram/bus/taxi home pissed out of my swede, no missus waiting with the rolling pin, no – hang on, who am I kidding? It’d be bang on, boozing and bantering like bejasus wi’ the Cottonopolonians, surely. But the telly’s hitting the spot. The 8-2 over Arsenal was rampantly surreal, and Hurricane Irene didn’t knock out the signal. The young kids are bewildering; Smalling, Wellbeck, Jones, Young, Cleverley, Rooney, plus Chicharito, Valencia, Anderson and Nani, means we’ll be pushing the competition all the way again this season. The first six of those are all English, a startling statistic when compared to that fly-by-night magpie’s dosshouse across the city. When they did Tottenham 1-5 they cannot have known what awaited them later that day at OT. Anderson’s bizarre stare into Szczęsny’s eyes while Rooney struck home the fourth had echoes of his previous Agadoo stunt on Lehman in 2008 as Hargreaves put that free-kick in. Unfortunately, Hargo’s leg
came off as he hit the ball and has never been found. Football junkies have quested for it ever since. According to legend it is lodged high up in an old chain-pull cistern in a pub toilet outside Keighley. Rooney, on the other hand, is made of different stuff. His legs are pure man-meat slathered with liquidised tonsils from the throats of cheetahs. Not very sanitary as you can imagine. Hey, don’t shoot the messenger; I know people on the inside. They tell me things.
Fergie had his Holy Grail, an he grabbed it by the tail, back in A.D. ‘ninety-nine, washed Treble down wi’ finest wine, our first League Cup A.D. ‘ninety-two, another excuse to ‘ave a few, liquid diet in the Rainy City, where the grass is green an the girls are pretty, easy life with beer goggles on, shaggin ‘em with or without Avon, a chemist ‘ead or a hippy chick, they all feel the same when they on yo dick, don’t let her blow you if it’s Yom Kippur, smokin’ home grown an bein immature, cuz I’m in the States soakin up the sun, in two minds whether to buy a gun, off a Puerto Rican in a parking lot, to take right home an have a frot, the gun that is, not the lad, but you knew that, Tatlock, didn’t yoh?
I sincerely hope you’re on drugs while you’re reading this because I’m on drugs while I’m writing it, with “Krafty” blowing my ears out on the phones, phasing into Iggy Pop’s “I’m a Real Wild Child”. That’s correct; I’m an old cunt living the life of a teenager. Men now remain as kids forever, livin till their boats should be like shoe leather, but it’s metrosexual man-bag dreams, internet warriors an facial crèmes, reverse aging they got the power, inspired by skirts like Beckhambauer, an Ronny Naldo adoptin a kid, they got him on’t’ books at Real Madrid, but back to’t craic, not the circumcised knack, I’m talkin bollocks banter ‘n’ attack-attack-attack, Reds runnin down’t wings - speeds measured in Mach, Tony V’s hit the sound barrier – a capybara on his back, but he don’t give a shite, no he don’t give a cack, cuz Ashley’s on track is he gonna have a whack? No, pass it off to Roon with his bacterial plaque, he dummies an it rolls right back, to Wellbeck who does a mad switchback, and buries the fucker in the onion sack.