I miss football in the old days (when all this was fields).

I used to like football.

Sort of.

I have realised now that my love of football in my twenties and thirties was more of an excuse to drink heavily than a true love of the game itself but still, it was a form of love.

This dual love did actually cause me a great deal of injuries and pain in my younger days, circa 1923, as I did play a lot of football while very, very drunk.

There’s nothing quite so funny as a bunch of grown men staggering around a football pitch on a Sunday afternoon, occasionally vomiting and attempting to play football while being so drunk that none of them have actually noticed that a dog stole the ball ten minutes ago.

I regularly played in defence and my favourite method to stop attacking players was to hurl my body at thier charging feet, usually genitals first. On occasion I would use my face.
I once had a black eye that swelled up so much it left me and started its own person.
I think he lives in Crewe now. To this day I still have a piece of loose bone floating around in my eye socket.
My plan was not a good one as every other player on the pitch was as pissed as I was. Co-ordination was not on show in those matches.
It was made more foolhardy when the guy from down the road, known simply as ‘The Skip’, turned up half cut to play on the wing. (He was massive and very orange – don’t ask me!)

The game was a bit brutal and footy studs back then were very sharp if I remember correctly, which I don’t.
Too many boots to the head I guess.
On a Monday morning the council would go on the field and collect all the body parts and hose away the blood.

Anyway, enough nostalgia, where was I?

Yeah. I used to like footy, now I can’t stand it.

It’s full of overgrown children crying and screaming and basically acting like a bunch of pussies.

I liked the honour, camaraderie and sportsmanship of football in the old days.
When people played for the love of the game and not for the fattest paycheque.

I can’t stand the spotlight chasing pricks that play football now.
They don’t care about loyalty.
They only care about the cash and will sell their own relatives for a better deal.

They will happily dress their Grandmother as a Japanese schoolgirl if that means they get an appearance bonus.

“Come on Granmama, you has to wear ze boots.”

“But my legs Christiano, I haz ze gout and ze shingles, theya won’ta fit in-a.”

“Get ze fucking boots on you old crone, I get an extra £600,000 a week for this!”

“Why-a you do this to your Granmama Christi?
You used to be such a lovely boy.
I remember when we firsta saw you when you were born.
No testicles at all!
And they never grew in did they Christi?
Is that why you sold your dear Papa?”

How do you retire from international football?
Seriously?
I would play for England if I had two broken legs, an arrow in my head and a swarm of angry bees down my pants.

That’s the dream right?
Representing your country?

But, there’s not a lot of money in it and you have to sometimes fly for seventeen hours to a backwater country and play against a bunch of farmers, with a cow in goal, for a World Cup Qualifier.

Nah, they can’t be bothered.
“I’ll retire from internationals.”

Guys getting substituted cos they have a few hairs out of place.

FA Cup match away against Yeovil on a windy, rainy Saturday afternoon:

“Ooo, boss, my injury’s playing up again, I don’t think I can play.” says the star striker while nervously poking a small pimple on his knee.

Two hours later, they are doing the lambada in a Soho nightclub with the equally vacuous and pointless cast of the Jersey Love Island Connection Dance while tweeting about how rich and fantastic they are.

I remember Gary Lineker literally shitting himself during a World Cup match.
He was very ill and couldn’t do anything about it.
What did he do?
Did he cry a little, ask the ref for his Mummy and demand substitution?
Nope.
He wiped his arse on the pitch like a dog with worms on your living room carpet and carried on playing.

I remember Terry Butcher turning his home kit into an away kit playing for England.
So much blood yet he carried on.
He even thought it was funny.

Can you see that slimy butthole Ronaldo doing that?

So, yeah. I have no time for football now. The money in the game has turned it sour.

And there used to be nothing but horses round ‘ere when I were a lad.
You used to break your leg and thank whoever did it then walk it off.
Your Mam would set the bones later with some jubilee clips and an old Pot Noodle container and you’d be back playing the next day and the food was nicer and the beer was cheaper and the streets were paved wi’ gold etc.