Gawd ‘elp us.
I was minding me own business berating one of the stewards on Saturday (he’d let some Japanese folk in…there’s no call for that) when Theo bleedin’ Wingnut decided to try and break the goal at the Clock End.
What a strike! We should sell him now while we can because he’s only going to go down hill from now. Knowing Monsignor Venga though, he’ll probably start him in the cup final ffs. We all know Theo can’t shoot straight – he’s just a speed merchant who’s got no end product. We should swap him for Charlie Adams, there’s a proper footballer.
Nice to see Ken popping his ‘ead out after me last post. That was luverley, finally being (almost well virtually) reunited after all these years with my long lost little knee biter. You are spot on about Øzîl mate; nicking a living isn’t the half of it. Anyone see him tackle back on Sunday? First time EVAH! And you’re right about his eyes, a bit too Marty Feldman if you ask me.
And he’s muslin int’ he? So he shouldn’t even be playing on Saturdays, he should be in the synagogue or whatever it’s called. With no shoes. Let alone boots. A disgrace. That’s what it is. A bloody disgrace.
Anyway, my main reason for writing today was to complain about a pub round the corner from the ground. I went there before the ground to see if I could get that Tony bloke to cough up me fee for the last h’article wot I wrote. He tried to avoid me by coming down mob handed with 6 mates (although a few of them were pretty short geezers and I could have taken them easy).
Finally I tracked him to the Ché Guevara. What kind of a handle for a pub is that? Apparently, according to Tony this Che bloke played for Cuba but was born in Bolivia. What’s all that about? Its like Ramsey playing for Wales when he was born in Cardiff…it ain’t right. If you’re born in Cardiff you is English and you bloody well play for England (you listening Aaron?)
Anyway, back to the pub (those god knows why ‘cos it was another poncy foreign place – all bottled beers and salsa music) where I found Tony dancing around the place drinking some fancy plonk.
Apparently I don’t get a fee for writing these posts. Flipping’ liberty. Apparently no one does (not even that ref). Well that’s as maybe, next time Tony when you see how many millions I bring to your site you might have to re – con – sider me old china. The pub is within a spud’s throw of the ground (the new, rubbishy shiny one) but there was hardly a local bloke inside. No Irish, no proper geezers (well, me I s’pose) and lots of wimmin… even some Baggy women (by which I mean women wot supported West Brum, not baggy in that sense).
What in the world coming to when you let women in a pub? They should only be serving in pubs, not drinking in them, not on match days anyway. In fact what are they doing at football in the first place? A woman’s place is at home, waiting for her bloke to come home from football and ready to get off the sofa when its time for match of the day. And to have my tea ready.
Which reminds me. The old lady’s due home soon and I have get the bloody dishes done.
Dial Square Dave
A suitable anniversary for Dave…