It's Saturday morning, the B.O is in his shed reflecting on the last 9 months. Finally, he can hold the emotion in no longer. " AAAARGGHHH! I'm still here!! OH FUCK!!!" In a rage, he kicks a box of rivets, and shakes his fist in frustration at a tin of 3" nails. He has tried his best to sell de kloob, but as he so eloquently now screams: " NO ONE WANTS TO FUCKING BUY IT OFF ME!!!" Just then Mrs B.O. enters with his morning coffee and little amaretto biscuit, and hears this cry of anguish. " Now...that's not quite true, is it, dear ..." she says wearily. " WHY DOES EVERYONE NOT UNDERSTAND ANYTHING?? WHY WON'T SOME MUG TAKE THIS SHITTY SHIT CLUB OFF MY BLOODY HANDS!!??" "Well, darling, it's because you are asking a LOT of money for it, and you want to keep the training ground, the stadium, the merchandising, control of team selection, the catering franchise, the TV money and you want Daisy Donut to still be in charge. Basically, you want someone to pay 40 million quid to you for a match ball!" The B.O stares at her in amazement. " Fuck off! Who said anything about throwing in a match ball!!??" he says indignantly. His wife gives a big sigh. " Face facts, dear. You've fucked it. Everyone hates you. You haven't got a clue about football. You won't get your money back, unless you can somehow find gold bullion buried under the bogs in the West stand. And while we're at it, you really are fucking rubbish at dancing." she says. " What do I do?" says the B.O. "Well, there's only one thing for it. Sell de kloob at a realistic asking price and stop being such a selfish, egotistical knob about something you really know nothing about. Otherwise, you'll be here for another year." The B.O stares at her aghast. "What, here for ANOTHER year??!!" He gasps, kicking out furiously at the lawnmower. "OHHHHH FUCK!!!" And for once, maybe we all are in tune with the thinking of this car crash of an owner. But it's a fleeting moment of accord with the effing Visionary, because for all the wrong reasons he is STILL here. Oh fuck indeed.....
It is Saturday morning and the B.O is having one last final coffee and little amaretto biscuit before it is time to head down to the crypt for the summer. Thank God for a bit of relief! he thinks to himself, for he's feeling pretty weary after another long season of working feverishly to obtain a no ambition mid table finish and piss everybody off in the process. It hasn't been a simple task, but somehow he has made it look easy. But now, at last he could get a bit of kip and dream about building flats and hotels in foreign lands, and finally he could take a breather from doing those tiresome little tasks like pretending he was watching a live stream every week. Yes, it was great that the season was finally over and there was nothing to be done for a couple of months until, come September, he could wake up refreshed and sack someone. Luckily, of course, his crypt is heavily fortified and he is confident there is little chance those bastards from CARD, (whatever that is), will find its location and wake him up from his well deserved slumber. Well I don't think that CARD ( whatever that is ) will be rushing to do that anyway. But whatever, howsoever, and notwithstanding and forthwith, let us leave this glorious B.O to his own dim, shadowy retreat for now, and let's hope that the summer somehow brings back some sunshine once more to the place of OUR dreams. He's still here. Oh fuck.....
Day 1221. (This is an automatic answering service, your B.O. is currently resting. Please leave your message after the tone....) He's still here. Oh fuck...
Comments
He's still here.
Oh fuck...
He's still here.
Oh fuckety fuck....
Still here.
Fuck....
Keep up the good work.
He's still here.
Ohhhhhhhhhh fuck.....
Well, it's Friday and the season is nearly done, so how about a song?
Here's a ditty about a friend of ours -
And now the end is near
And I must face we'd lose to Burton
No fans, the stands are clear
Just one more time Holmes puts the shirt on
I've been a bloody fool
I've travelled on light Docklands railway
Top six? Don't make me laugh
I like it midway.
Rejects
We've played a few
A player farm
Was my intention
I've played at being coach
With all my constant intervention
I've made the club a joke
I'd rather dance than watch the team play
And worse much worse than this
We're fucking midway.
He's still here.
Ohhhh fuck...
Or midway through his tenure? :-(
It's Saturday morning, the B.O is in his shed reflecting on the last 9 months.
Finally, he can hold the emotion in no longer.
" AAAARGGHHH! I'm still here!! OH FUCK!!!"
In a rage, he kicks a box of rivets, and shakes his fist in frustration at a tin of 3" nails.
He has tried his best to sell de kloob, but as he so eloquently now screams:
" NO ONE WANTS TO FUCKING BUY IT OFF ME!!!"
Just then Mrs B.O. enters with his morning coffee and little amaretto biscuit, and hears this cry of anguish.
" Now...that's not quite true, is it, dear ..." she says wearily.
" WHY DOES EVERYONE NOT UNDERSTAND ANYTHING?? WHY WON'T SOME MUG TAKE THIS SHITTY SHIT CLUB OFF MY BLOODY HANDS!!??"
"Well, darling, it's because you are asking a LOT of money for it, and you want to keep the training ground, the stadium, the merchandising, control of team selection, the catering franchise, the TV money and you want Daisy Donut to still be in charge. Basically, you want someone to pay 40 million quid to you for a match ball!"
The B.O stares at her in amazement.
" Fuck off! Who said anything about throwing in a match ball!!??" he says indignantly.
His wife gives a big sigh.
" Face facts, dear. You've fucked it. Everyone hates you. You haven't got a clue about football. You won't get your money back, unless you can somehow find gold bullion buried under the bogs in the West stand. And while we're at it, you really are fucking rubbish at dancing." she says.
" What do I do?" says the B.O.
"Well, there's only one thing for it. Sell de kloob at a realistic asking price and stop being such a selfish, egotistical knob about something you really know nothing about. Otherwise, you'll be here for another year."
The B.O stares at her aghast.
"What, here for ANOTHER year??!!" He gasps, kicking out furiously at the lawnmower. "OHHHHH FUCK!!!"
And for once, maybe we all are in tune with the thinking of this car crash of an owner.
But it's a fleeting moment of accord with the effing Visionary, because for all the wrong reasons he is STILL here.
Oh fuck indeed.....
Never in attendance but still carelessly destroying a community from afar, he must be so proud.
He's still here.
Oh fuck...
Perhaps we need a Magna Charlton.
Anyway he's still here.
Oh fuck....
He's still here.
Oh fuck....
FUCK OFF, FUCK RIGHT OFF
I feel better now.
He's still here.
Oh fuck....
He's still here.
Oh fuck....
It is Saturday morning and the B.O is having one last final coffee and little amaretto biscuit before it is time to head down to the crypt for the summer.
Thank God for a bit of relief! he thinks to himself, for he's feeling pretty weary after another long season of working feverishly to obtain a no ambition mid table finish and piss everybody off in the process. It hasn't been a simple task, but somehow he has made it look easy.
But now, at last he could get a bit of kip and dream about building flats and hotels in foreign lands, and finally he could take a breather from doing those tiresome little tasks like pretending he was watching a live stream every week.
Yes, it was great that the season was finally over and there was nothing to be done for a couple of months until, come September, he could wake up refreshed and sack someone.
Luckily, of course, his crypt is heavily fortified and he is confident there is little chance those bastards from CARD, (whatever that is), will find its location and wake him up from his well deserved slumber.
Well I don't think that CARD ( whatever that is ) will be rushing to do that anyway. But whatever, howsoever, and notwithstanding and forthwith, let us leave this glorious B.O to his own dim, shadowy retreat for now, and let's hope that the summer somehow brings back some sunshine once more to the place of OUR dreams.
He's still here.
Oh fuck.....
(This is an automatic answering service, your B.O. is currently resting. Please leave your message after the tone....)
He's still here.
Oh fuck...
He's still here.
Oh fuck..
He's still here, like the moon. A cold lump of rock.
Oh fuck....