It is another Saturday morning in the shed, where the B.O is studying a spreadsheet on the World Cup. “ How do I get into this league?” he muses quietly to himself, “the hotel opportunities are immense.” Just then, there’s a knock and Mrs. B.O enters with his coffee and little ameretto biscuit, followed by a group of people. “There’s some more political party folk here to see you.” She says, putting his coffee down next to a box of rivets. “ Oh.” says The B.O, looking round at the small group. “So...which party are you from?” “ The We Really Hate You A Lot Party.” says one man. “Oh, I see.” says The B.O. “ Actually,” says a woman, “ I’m from The We Really Fucking Hate You A Lot Party. ” “ I see.” replies The B.O. looking at her. “ We’re a bit more to the left.” She explains. The B.O. nods. Another man puts his hand up. “I’m from The Sell Up You Utter Tosser Muppet Party.” He says. “But we’re affiliated to the other two.” “ As am I.” says another, “ I’m from The You Unbelievable Cock, Why Don’t You Fuck Off Party.” “ We’re the same as that last one, but with caps lock.” says another. “ I see.” says The B.O. He looks at a child who is standing there. “ What about you?” “I’m the new manager. I’ll be 10 next month.” She says. The B.O looks round at them all. “ I see......but what do any of you actually WANT??!!” He says, irritably. There is a bit of an undignified scuffle at this point, which we had best leave, as it involves a selection of rivets, duck tape and an amaretto biscuit, and we’ll depart with the B.O’s cry of “ TELL ME WHY I CAN’T FUCKING BUY SPAIN,YOU BASTARDS, THE HOTEL OPPORTUNITIES ARE IMMENSE!!” Have a good weekend. It’s all a dream. He’s still here. Oh fuck.
Oh fixtures out already and we haven't got a team and the statement didn't really help much but it was nice of them to do it will it all end before my head rotates and explodes time for my medication fuck
Day 1530. He’s still here. Is he going to remain as some sort of duck taping Rigsby? If that’s the case that’s not forward, that’s more like a slow meander to oblivion imo. Oh depressing Friday fuck...
It is yet another Saturday morning and the B.O is in his shed, staring at a box on his bench. Mrs B.O enters with his coffee and a mallet. It has not been a good week, and she’s ready to administer The Mallet Of Almighty Righteous Justice as it may be required. And besides, it was much more fun than giving him a fucking little amaretto biscuit. The B.O. turns to look at her. “ Ah my dear!” He says brightly, “ You have come just at a most opportune moment! For you can observe me at my most fucking visionaryness! I have here my gift to science! You have heard, of course, of Schrodinger’s Cat. Well, I have here..... Schrodinger’s Kloob!” Mrs. B.O felt her grip tighten on the Mallet of Almighty Righteous Justice. “ Oh God.” she mutters under her breath. “ YES!” cries The B.O suddenly making her jump. “ De kloob is both dead and alive inside the box! In a state of quantum flux, both sold and not sold until I decide to take the fucking lid off!” The B.O stands up at this point and has a faraway look. It is in a state of superposition!” He proclaims. Mrs. B.O lets out a snort. “No, it’s not, it’s dropped a fucking league, you muppet, and it currently is being run by the tea lady. More like, it is in a state of Super Fucked. Why don’t you just walk away from it!” “ My dear woman—” begins the B.O, but he stops, as the box moves a little on the bench. Mrs. B.O turns and eyes it suspiciously, then looks over to the B.O. “ Have you put the cat in that box?” She says, with a slight hint of menace. The B.O shuffles awkwardly, and stares at her with a strange look on his face. “ Er, no, I....have....no...idea...where little Ducktape is...” He starts looking around the floor and calling. “ Ducktape?....Ducktape?.....Where are you?” he coos. Mrs. B.O lets out a long sigh. “Let Ducktape out of the fucking box.” She says evenly. “ But he’s not in there!” cries the B.O defensively At this point the box moves again on the bench. Oh dear. It is probably best that we leave the scene here, to let the matter be resolved by The Mallet Of Almighty Righteous Justice (and let’s hope little Ducktape gets a nice saucer of milk). He’s still here. Or not. Oh fuck...
Don't worry, @blackpool72 . I bet @3blokes already has contingency plans, replacing the shed with a bench under the shade of a coolibah tree next to a billabong if the long anticipated take-over turns out to be more of what we have suffered under the current B.O.
I like your opening bid of a Rigsby but will raise you a Rachman.
We already have a heating system with no boiler, and recently reported dodgy electrics at The Valley, not to mention the previous attempt at driving out older fans with his noisy neighbour technique in the shape of the house DJ, and bully-boy antics from the anonymous security men!
Having RD as our owner for another season would be bad, and in my opinion likely to result in a relegation scrap, but having him as our landlord could be far worse for the long term future of the club.
I want to assure 3blokes that he will be mentioned in dispatches, for his sterling work and dedication, and I hope you see this through to the bitter end.
Comments
Perhaps the Belgian fuckwits imminent departure will pull him back from the abyss?
Day 1521.
He’s still here.
Oh hurry up and do it fuck
He’s still here.
Ohfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck..
And so it drags on.
He’s still here.
Going to need a bigger thread.
Oh fuck...
It is another Saturday morning in the shed, where the B.O is studying a spreadsheet on the World Cup.
“ How do I get into this league?” he muses quietly to himself, “the hotel opportunities are immense.”
Just then, there’s a knock and Mrs. B.O enters with his coffee and little ameretto biscuit, followed by a group of people.
“There’s some more political party folk here to see you.” She says, putting his coffee down next to a box of rivets.
“ Oh.” says The B.O, looking round at the small group. “So...which party are you from?”
“ The We Really Hate You A Lot Party.” says one man.
“Oh, I see.” says The B.O.
“ Actually,” says a woman, “ I’m from The We Really Fucking Hate You A Lot Party. ”
“ I see.” replies The B.O. looking at her.
“ We’re a bit more to the left.” She explains.
The B.O. nods.
Another man puts his hand up.
“I’m from The Sell Up You Utter Tosser Muppet Party.” He says. “But we’re affiliated to the other two.”
“ As am I.” says another, “ I’m from The You Unbelievable Cock, Why Don’t You Fuck Off Party.”
“ We’re the same as that last one, but with caps lock.” says another.
“ I see.” says The B.O. He looks at a child who is standing there. “ What about you?”
“I’m the new manager. I’ll be 10 next month.” She says.
The B.O looks round at them all.
“ I see......but what do any of you actually WANT??!!” He says, irritably.
There is a bit of an undignified scuffle at this point, which we had best leave, as it involves a selection of rivets, duck tape and an amaretto biscuit, and we’ll depart with the B.O’s cry of “ TELL ME WHY I CAN’T FUCKING BUY SPAIN,YOU BASTARDS, THE HOTEL OPPORTUNITIES ARE IMMENSE!!”
Have a good weekend. It’s all a dream.
He’s still here.
Oh fuck.
He’s still here.
Oh come on England fuck..
He’s still here.
Oh last minute winner fuck..
He’s still here. It’s not big and it’s not clever.
Oh statement due fuck..
He’s still here.
Oh bin fuck...
A joint statement fuck,
He’s still here. Is he going to remain as some sort of duck taping Rigsby? If that’s the case that’s not forward, that’s more like a slow meander to oblivion imo.
Oh depressing Friday fuck...
It is yet another Saturday morning and the B.O is in his shed, staring at a box on his bench.
Mrs B.O enters with his coffee and a mallet. It has not been a good week, and she’s ready to administer The Mallet Of Almighty Righteous Justice as it may be required.
And besides, it was much more fun than giving him a fucking little amaretto biscuit.
The B.O. turns to look at her.
“ Ah my dear!” He says brightly, “ You have come just at a most opportune moment! For you can observe me at my most fucking visionaryness! I have here my gift to science! You have heard, of course, of Schrodinger’s Cat. Well, I have here..... Schrodinger’s Kloob!”
Mrs. B.O felt her grip tighten on the Mallet of Almighty Righteous Justice.
“ Oh God.” she mutters under her breath.
“ YES!” cries The B.O suddenly making her jump. “ De kloob is both dead and alive inside the box! In a state of quantum flux, both sold and not sold until I decide to take the fucking lid off!”
The B.O stands up at this point and has a faraway look.
It is in a state of superposition!” He proclaims.
Mrs. B.O lets out a snort.
“No, it’s not, it’s dropped a fucking league, you muppet, and it currently is being run by the tea lady. More like, it is in a state of Super Fucked. Why don’t you just walk away from it!”
“ My dear woman—” begins the B.O, but he stops, as the box moves a little on the bench.
Mrs. B.O turns and eyes it suspiciously, then looks over to the B.O.
“ Have you put the cat in that box?” She says, with a slight hint of menace.
The B.O shuffles awkwardly, and stares at her with a strange look on his face.
“ Er, no, I....have....no...idea...where little Ducktape is...”
He starts looking around the floor and calling.
“ Ducktape?....Ducktape?.....Where are you?” he coos.
Mrs. B.O lets out a long sigh.
“Let Ducktape out of the fucking box.” She says evenly.
“ But he’s not in there!” cries the B.O defensively
At this point the box moves again on the bench.
Oh dear.
It is probably best that we leave the scene here, to let the matter be resolved by The Mallet Of Almighty Righteous Justice (and let’s hope little Ducktape gets a nice saucer of milk).
He’s still here. Or not.
Oh fuck...
I bet @3blokes already has contingency plans, replacing the shed with a bench under the shade of a coolibah tree next to a billabong if the long anticipated take-over turns out to be more of what we have suffered under the current B.O.
Counting the days since Roland sold the club.
Day 1 he's gone thank fuck.
Well, he’s still here. Who’d have thought it.
Oh fuck..
Summer and Autumn, oh fuck.
The Belgian Rigsby’s still here.
Oh fuck..
We already have a heating system with no boiler, and recently reported dodgy electrics at The Valley, not to mention the previous attempt at driving out older fans with his noisy neighbour technique in the shape of the house DJ, and bully-boy antics from the anonymous security men!
Having RD as our owner for another season would be bad, and in my opinion likely to result in a relegation scrap, but having him as our landlord could be far worse for the long term future of the club.
Oh my days fuck.
He’s still here, what a huge great waste of everything.
Oh Dick Dastardly fuck....
He’s still here.
Oh fuck...
The old breakfast snatcher is still here.
Oh corn flake fuck...