Originally posted by stek
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Got this off a Grimsby Town footyfan site, bear in mind Grimsby Town are about to fall off the bottom of the Football Coupon....
Now I’m as optimistic as anyone when it comes to this twát of a
football club, but after this afternoon’s latest capitulation it’s
time to wake up and smell the coffee – we’re fúcked. Down. Goners.
Non-league. To be honest I didn’t know how it would affect me, it’s
not like it hasn’t been coming, but tonight I just feel absolutely
deflated. Absolutely fúcking devastated.
I can’t get away from these emotions, I just want the whole world to
just fúck off and leave me alone. To help me come to terms with this
whole mess, I’ve decided to compile a list of everyone and everything
I want to fúck off most of all.
For starters, work can fúck off. If they think I’m going to be there
on Monday morning they’ve got another thing coming. No way am I going
in to spend time dealing with cúnts that I can barely stand being with
when I’m in a good mood, let alone this crushing feeling of anger,
frustration and outright metaphorical-kicked-in-the-bóllocks-ness.
Plastic Premier League fans can fúck off. I just spoke to my
Manchester United supporting neighbour (who incidentally, has been to
Old Trafford before – twice) about Town’s predicament. You know what
he said? “I know how you feel; it’s like when we failed to win a
trophy in ‘95”. NO IT FÚCKING WELL IS NOT!
He no longer has a face.
The girlfriend can definitely fúck off. Her best attempt at
consolation – “I don’t know why you’re bothered; you knew they were
shít anyway”. Yes love, but they’re MY shít team. They’ve been MINE
for pretty much as long as I’ve been able to wipe my own árse, and
they’ll be MINE for as long as I’m alive (or at least, until I’m no
longer able to wipe my own árse). Truth is, watching my team win does
things for me that no woman can. If push comes to shove and I’m horny,
I can always have a wánk.
Barrow can fúck off. I’ve been all over the country and beyond to
watch my team, but frankly I just don’t have the stomach to visit any
town which makes Scunthorpe look like fúcking St. Tropez.
Dad, you can fúck off. This is your fault. Your idea. You introduced
me to this shower of shít. “Come with me to Blundell Park”, you said,
“Come and support the boys”. What could I do? I was fúcking four, what
choice did I have? Why not get me hooked on Heroin whilst you were at
it? I could have gone with mum shopping for bras and knickers at
British Home Stores, but no, you knew best.
Granted, I’d have probably grown up a homosexual but surely even being
simultaneously búggered two guys named Seth and Quentin couldn’t hurt
like this.
Seeing as we’re on the subject of homosexuality, Gok Wan can fúck off.
No particular reason, I just plain don’t like the annoying,
goggle-eyed cúnt.
The F.A. can fúck off. Not for supplying us, week-in, week- out, with
inept referee after inept referee, but for imposing sensible financial
rules on all clubs in League Two. How many clubs in this division have
been into administration this season? Not one. How many points
deducted? Not one. How the fúck else are we supposed to avoid
relegation – footballing merit? We didn’t have to last season, so why
spoil the fun now?
The World Cup can fúck off – I don’t care anymore.
My local pizza shop can fúck off. I ordered a 12” Pepperoni over an
hour ago, and where the fúck is it? Are they trying to fúcking fly it
to me or something?
Sky Sports can fúck off. Nothing personal, but there’ll be little need
for me next season with no Town to be found anywhere. Ooh, Bolton
versus Wolves, LIVE. I think I’ll pass...
The radio can fúck off. On my way home from the match, whilst driving
down the M180, I caught three completely separate stations playing
‘Down’ by Jay Sean at the exact same fúcking time. The song’s the best
part of a year old, how the fúck does that happen by coincidence!?
My nan’s old lucky Buddha that used to sit in her front room can fúck
off. When I was a kid I held it in my hands and wished for Town to be
in the Premier League. I meant the proper one you fat cúnt, not the
one occupied by Histon, Eastbourne and for fúck’s sake, Ebbsfleet,
wherever that is.
Tonight can fúck off. I’ve had enough of trying to cope with my
emotions; the time has come for oblivion. I haven’t kept any booze in
the house since an occasion known only as ‘That Night’ by myself and
the missus, but suffice to say that the toilet duck and luminous blue
mouthwash are looking like stronger propositions by the minute.
Most of all though, the last 10 years can fúck off. In that time I’ve
watched my team fall from the top of the Championship into non-league
nothingness. We’ve gone from one great big fúck up to the next without
even coming up for air, and today is just the big, fúck off cherry on
top.
One thing I’m sure of though is that we WILL be back. When it comes
down to it, a football club is basically just a set of supporters, and
frankly what I’ve learned in the last few years is that this one has
some of the best. We’ve had to put up with some shít, haven’t we boys,
but in spite of all of that the future is still bright – it’s fúcking
black and white.
Grimsby ‘til I die...
Now I’m as optimistic as anyone when it comes to this twát of a
football club, but after this afternoon’s latest capitulation it’s
time to wake up and smell the coffee – we’re fúcked. Down. Goners.
Non-league. To be honest I didn’t know how it would affect me, it’s
not like it hasn’t been coming, but tonight I just feel absolutely
deflated. Absolutely fúcking devastated.
I can’t get away from these emotions, I just want the whole world to
just fúck off and leave me alone. To help me come to terms with this
whole mess, I’ve decided to compile a list of everyone and everything
I want to fúck off most of all.
For starters, work can fúck off. If they think I’m going to be there
on Monday morning they’ve got another thing coming. No way am I going
in to spend time dealing with cúnts that I can barely stand being with
when I’m in a good mood, let alone this crushing feeling of anger,
frustration and outright metaphorical-kicked-in-the-bóllocks-ness.
Plastic Premier League fans can fúck off. I just spoke to my
Manchester United supporting neighbour (who incidentally, has been to
Old Trafford before – twice) about Town’s predicament. You know what
he said? “I know how you feel; it’s like when we failed to win a
trophy in ‘95”. NO IT FÚCKING WELL IS NOT!
He no longer has a face.
The girlfriend can definitely fúck off. Her best attempt at
consolation – “I don’t know why you’re bothered; you knew they were
shít anyway”. Yes love, but they’re MY shít team. They’ve been MINE
for pretty much as long as I’ve been able to wipe my own árse, and
they’ll be MINE for as long as I’m alive (or at least, until I’m no
longer able to wipe my own árse). Truth is, watching my team win does
things for me that no woman can. If push comes to shove and I’m horny,
I can always have a wánk.
Barrow can fúck off. I’ve been all over the country and beyond to
watch my team, but frankly I just don’t have the stomach to visit any
town which makes Scunthorpe look like fúcking St. Tropez.
Dad, you can fúck off. This is your fault. Your idea. You introduced
me to this shower of shít. “Come with me to Blundell Park”, you said,
“Come and support the boys”. What could I do? I was fúcking four, what
choice did I have? Why not get me hooked on Heroin whilst you were at
it? I could have gone with mum shopping for bras and knickers at
British Home Stores, but no, you knew best.
Granted, I’d have probably grown up a homosexual but surely even being
simultaneously búggered two guys named Seth and Quentin couldn’t hurt
like this.
Seeing as we’re on the subject of homosexuality, Gok Wan can fúck off.
No particular reason, I just plain don’t like the annoying,
goggle-eyed cúnt.
The F.A. can fúck off. Not for supplying us, week-in, week- out, with
inept referee after inept referee, but for imposing sensible financial
rules on all clubs in League Two. How many clubs in this division have
been into administration this season? Not one. How many points
deducted? Not one. How the fúck else are we supposed to avoid
relegation – footballing merit? We didn’t have to last season, so why
spoil the fun now?
The World Cup can fúck off – I don’t care anymore.
My local pizza shop can fúck off. I ordered a 12” Pepperoni over an
hour ago, and where the fúck is it? Are they trying to fúcking fly it
to me or something?
Sky Sports can fúck off. Nothing personal, but there’ll be little need
for me next season with no Town to be found anywhere. Ooh, Bolton
versus Wolves, LIVE. I think I’ll pass...
The radio can fúck off. On my way home from the match, whilst driving
down the M180, I caught three completely separate stations playing
‘Down’ by Jay Sean at the exact same fúcking time. The song’s the best
part of a year old, how the fúck does that happen by coincidence!?
My nan’s old lucky Buddha that used to sit in her front room can fúck
off. When I was a kid I held it in my hands and wished for Town to be
in the Premier League. I meant the proper one you fat cúnt, not the
one occupied by Histon, Eastbourne and for fúck’s sake, Ebbsfleet,
wherever that is.
Tonight can fúck off. I’ve had enough of trying to cope with my
emotions; the time has come for oblivion. I haven’t kept any booze in
the house since an occasion known only as ‘That Night’ by myself and
the missus, but suffice to say that the toilet duck and luminous blue
mouthwash are looking like stronger propositions by the minute.
Most of all though, the last 10 years can fúck off. In that time I’ve
watched my team fall from the top of the Championship into non-league
nothingness. We’ve gone from one great big fúck up to the next without
even coming up for air, and today is just the big, fúck off cherry on
top.
One thing I’m sure of though is that we WILL be back. When it comes
down to it, a football club is basically just a set of supporters, and
frankly what I’ve learned in the last few years is that this one has
some of the best. We’ve had to put up with some shít, haven’t we boys,
but in spite of all of that the future is still bright – it’s fúcking
black and white.
Grimsby ‘til I die...
It is quality though.
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