Don T Get Me Started On Football
Don’t get me started on.... Football.
I hate football. I loathe it. I detest it and I despise it. It represents everything I hate in the world. It is a children’s game played by grown men, followed by millions and treated as a religion by all. It is a Sunday afternoon kick about in the park, high jacked by television and forced down the throats of everyone for 10 months of the year. People even call it ‘the beautiful game’. Beautiful? Art is beautiful. Music is beautiful. Football is 22 muppets, a round ball and a muddy pitch. It’s £45 quid a game and a 0-0 draw. It’s millions watching grown men being paid a gazillion pounds a second to kick a sphere around. It’s a pointless waste of time. The rise of football represents the end of civilization, the end of all that is good and holy and pure. There is only one cure: shoot football supporters.
One of the things that I hate about football is that, as a man, I am meant to like everything about it. I’m meant to have a team. I’m meant to care about how well that team does. If they win, I should rejoice; lose and I should despair. Worse, should my team, Over Paid Morons United, loose to the hated enemy, More Money the God City, I should lock myself in a room, cry tears of sorrow and beat myself about the head and neck because ‘we’ didn’t win. We.... We..... What kind of idiot says ‘we’ didn’t win? Did you play the game? Were you running around the pitch? Did you even touch the ball? No, you did not. You sat at home in front of the tele; reclining on the sofa like a beached whale, stuffing yourself with crisps. Or, you forked out hard earned money to watch over paid, over perfumed muppets prance about the pitch like demented chickens. Football supporters are not the team; they did not play the match. They are fools who follow a dream. The dream is that your football team matter and that the team cares about you. They don’t and your support means nothing to them. The closest you are ever
I hate football. I loathe it. I detest it and I despise it. It represents everything I hate in the world. It is a children’s game played by grown men, followed by millions and treated as a religion by all. It is a Sunday afternoon kick about in the park, high jacked by television and forced down the throats of everyone for 10 months of the year. People even call it ‘the beautiful game’. Beautiful? Art is beautiful. Music is beautiful. Football is 22 muppets, a round ball and a muddy pitch. It’s £45 quid a game and a 0-0 draw. It’s millions watching grown men being paid a gazillion pounds a second to kick a sphere around. It’s a pointless waste of time. The rise of football represents the end of civilization, the end of all that is good and holy and pure. There is only one cure: shoot football supporters.
One of the things that I hate about football is that, as a man, I am meant to like everything about it. I’m meant to have a team. I’m meant to care about how well that team does. If they win, I should rejoice; lose and I should despair. Worse, should my team, Over Paid Morons United, loose to the hated enemy, More Money the God City, I should lock myself in a room, cry tears of sorrow and beat myself about the head and neck because ‘we’ didn’t win. We.... We..... What kind of idiot says ‘we’ didn’t win? Did you play the game? Were you running around the pitch? Did you even touch the ball? No, you did not. You sat at home in front of the tele; reclining on the sofa like a beached whale, stuffing yourself with crisps. Or, you forked out hard earned money to watch over paid, over perfumed muppets prance about the pitch like demented chickens. Football supporters are not the team; they did not play the match. They are fools who follow a dream. The dream is that your football team matter and that the team cares about you. They don’t and your support means nothing to them. The closest you are ever