Inspired by the recent adventures of Giggs and Scholes, I’ve embarked on a regime designed to transform this balding fatty into a ripped ol’ motherfucker: P90X, elliptical, running, yoga, you name it. Might even get a bike to ride to work. Who knows, maybe I’ll be on the plane with the lads come June, you can call me a loon, but that shower of wank have been walking the plank (yeah Roon) as winter ends and fair weather friends come out to play, and scrap the sleigh, I’ll be hittin the road with a lightening load, see the blubber recede like I’m livin on speed, but I’m gettin very nervous now we’re headin for spring, an the ABU perverts gettin ready to sing, they all makin motions wid their arms just like wings and they prayin that we crash again an don’t win a thing, but it doesn’t really matter if we bring it or not, cos we gonna fill Old Trafford fer the n’th game on’t trot, an sneering down upon em we the haves they have-not, seen a ground jam-packed like this in a supposed boycott, they don’t get our mindset consequently stinkpots, aaand that’s enuff. I don’t even fucking live there, so who am I to write about “us” filling OT? What I’m trying to say is we come from a cuntoid nation and we’re the Coca Cola of the football league. All the patriots detest us ‘cos we’re so massive. Anyway, Scott Parker was made England kapitan and his boss Harry is soon to be Commander-in-Chief. How nice. Don’t the media get giddy when something “properly” English, i.e. southeast-based, seems imminently successful? The beautiful people at the Emirates make Stamford Bridge look like East Fife FC and that wispy sideburned twat Theo Ballcock hobnobbing with royalty, ‘cos he wrote some shit books. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve got nowt against Parker Bowles. Charlie made the right move there. You never forget the proper dirty bastards, Peoples’ Princess or fucking not. Ah, England. A nation in drunken paralysis with a mahoosive inferiority complex based partly in truth. A manic land where indulgent brains inflate with imaginary memories, then hit the jagged rocks of reality where they burst and flutter like condoms on a vile beach. The jagged rocks are, of course, international football tournaments. Our lads, raised on a strict diet of spuds, must face athletes whose mothers make a different tea every night, each meal boasting a 400-page history stretching beyond Moorish palaces and medieval pirates. Today’s noble Englisher is a bollocksed fusion of savage tribalism and pampered ignorance. He thinks M&S boxed dinners are a gourmet treat and well worth a tweet. Hybridised and bloated, one minute he’s in it to win it an the nexx he juss floated. Maybe he’s fighting bulls down in Spain or the official supplier of Googleplex cocaine, or he took a golden parachute off to the coast, where he spends his time thinking and burning his toast, or he’s a priest of soccernomics with prophesies rich, or taking brass rubbings down at Hanging Ditch, but most likely he’s just shrunk from shootin up junk, or suppin’ Belgian ale that was brewed by a monk. I’ve forgot what I was on about now. Was it JOLEoN, JOLEoN, JOLEoN, JOLEoN, I’m begging of you, please don’t be a cunt?…no, that wasn’t it…and cunt doesn’t rhyme with monk, anyway…hang on…oh yeah, I may have to come out of retirement and rescue this nation’s hopes on the international stage. I would, of course, require my own dressing room, mainly so I could hide my superabundant man jugs. But once out on the pitch motherfuckers better KNOW…they only one letter difference between “Vaseline” and “Baseline” an I got em all friekened o’ me diminishin waistline, they be runnin like bitches wid their arses drippin, knowin this fatty gonna give em a whippin, an the midfield’s shut tight like a membranous filter, so we got em willy-nilly as we disrupt they kilter, but I’m dreamin like a knobhead as I type this shit out, and I’ve gone over the deadline while dreamin this rout, smokin clip-assisted reefer as I head down the wing, droppin magic beans as I send in an in-swing, an Pea is on the end an it’s bulging the string an it’s FUCKIN YEAH!!!! Innit. Oh, ‘ang on, Pea plays for Mexico, not England. Stick it up yer arse, then, ‘Arry. Not interested.
In other news, the man who is possibly Quadrant Two’s most famous son, Openshaw Monkee Davy Jones, has died. Gorton’s John Thaw, and cricketer Roy Collins, born in Clayton, are also in the running, but I vote Diminutive Davy as the Q2 main man. Not bad, really. Very famous. A lad from the slums made it to the pinnacle of Lalaland Mountain. To what do we attribute this meteoric ascent? Ecolicious endocriminology? Noble DNA? Tip yer hat to psychology, it won’t go away. Davy was a red who apparently hated city, according to the dogma circulated by UWS letter-writer Ramon. But this is Manchester and we need the proof.
Tags: finding gold, ian hough, Manchester, Manchester United, perry boys, riffle in the sluicebox, Salford, sluicebox