The Beautiful Game

above: a pair of football type arseholes.

I don’t like football. Not only do I not like the game itself, I don’t particularly like the twats who play it. Many years ago, I got kicked out of a nightclub because I didn’t recognise some prick footballer. I was desperately trying to get to the bar to get drinks and found myself in a queue. It turned out that the queue was to meet, and get and autograph from, a particular football player.
Upon being discovered to be a common or garden drinker and, worse still a common or garden drinker who didn’t recognise this demi-god, I was rudely slung out of the place.
Many years later, I had the pleasure of throwing this has-been [and his abused and badly operated upon wife] from my own nightclub.
Remind me again, Lee Chapman, who are you?
This wasn’t my last dealings with football players, and players for Leeds Utd at that [and another “Lee”].
Lee Bowyer, arch racist [allegedly] and all round bad-boy, trashed a pub in which I was the relief manager. Himself and his mate went on to trash the local McDonalds [no bad thing] but they managed to get away with both crimes. Revenge came for Mr Bowyer when, in the same nightclub from which Mr Chapman had been removed, he encountered my “Head Doorman” [which should read Headcase Doorman] Adrian taught Mr Bowyer that he himself could kick balls better than any footballer and in his demonstration, with any luck, spoiled any chance Mr Bowyer had of ever having children!
Most of the above, I hope, goes to prove that stardom is relative. Football stars are only stars to those whom follow football.
As I don’t follow the game, I don’t see them as being anything other than yobs who think they have a license to be yobs.
Should he ever read this, this is a little coded warning to a certain non-league, semi-pro player. Mind your balls, I’m apt to give them a bit of a kick.