How about this one Bert?

It was an otherwise inauspicious cup game at the City Ground back in 1986 - Nottingham Forest playing some other bums, probably Queen's Park Rangers or somebody like that - and Forest manager Brian Clough, that notoious drunken big mouthed cunt, should have been a man full of celebration. His side had just won through to the next round to face Arsenal, his players were delighted and fans of this fine old club had spilled onto the pitch to join in the jubilant scenes.
At the time football hooliganism was still in its heyday, as much a part of the Beautiful Game as the throw-in, the free-
kick, two-footed winger and the unbribed ref who never gave The Scum a penalty in the last minute to allow them a cheap and scrappy win. They were happy times for the fans. Your average football supporter could do what he liked without fear of reproach. He could boo, jeer, hurl abuse, make monkey noises at niggers as they ran down the wing, stab a rival fan outside the ground after the match or throw a sharpened fifty-pence piece at the opposing goalkeeper. All in the sound knowledge that he was only doing what he had paid to do - enjoy himself as he followed his beloved team. So what happened to a pair of decent fooball fans that day came as something of a surprise, both to them and to the watching football world.

Lifelong Forest supporters Ken Frampton and his gay lover, Simon Bender, had run onto the pitch at the final whistle to
congratulate their players. But as they, along with thousands more like them, made their way over to the near touchline, Brian Clough was waiting for them. Clough, never a man to be backward at coming forward, and certainly a man to know a pair of queers when he saw them, charged at both fans and proceeded to slap them about the head, much in the manner of a schoolgirl of nine or ten.

"I couldn't believe it," recalls Ken. "One minute we were enjoying the scenes, the next Cloughie was twatting us. First he
slapped me, then Simon. Then he went to scratch Simon's face, but I stopped him and he pulled my hair. When he pinched me and told us he'd tell his mum, we both knew it was time to get out of there as fast as we could. It was a scary moment, and one I will never forget."

"Me neither," says Simon, dabbing his eyes.

The press had a field day. FOREST MANAGER TAKES ON THE THUGS, proclaimed 'The Times'. BRIAN CLOUGH IN FAN ASSAULT, boomed 'The Independent'. While 'The Sun' went with CLOUGHIE TWATS FANS and 'The Star' just had a picture of a woman showing her tits and the caption: COME AND SLAP THESE, CLOUGHIE. No-one had ever seen anything like it before - a manager belting a couple of his own supporters for doing nothing other than running onto the pitch at the end of an important game. But the red-faced pickled Forest manager was adamant. "I just lashed out," he wrote in his autobiography, the one that called Liverpool fans a bunch of mindless thugs who killed each other at cup semi-finals. "All I saw was a pair of bummers on our pitch. I wasn't having it so I twatted them. I didn't sell that faggot Justin Fashanu just so I could have bent bastards out there with my lads. No way. I showed them."

He did indeed. Some observers ventured that perhaps Mr Clough was in the wrong sport, that maybe he should try his hand at boxing. At which suggestion Clough, always ready for a fresh challenge, went into training and vowed to take on then British heavyweight champion Frank Bruno in a fifteen-round title bout. Sadly for sporting fans, Bruno was too busy punching fuck out of his wife to bother. The big black useless coon. Clough did toy with the idea of taking on Prince Naseem Hamed, but the idea was dismissed when people realised that Hamed was only 11 at the the time, and Clough retired from boxing without ever landing a blow.

The Forest manager refused to apologise to Ken and Simon for his attack, yet they did make peace in front of the cameras to show there was no lasting ill-feeling. Clough, who wasn't queer honest, gave both fans a big hug and kissed them on the mouth. Like he was always doing to everybody and like he probably did loads of times to former sidekick Peter Taylor (no relation). "It was great," said both fans. "The way he hugged us and kissed us like that, even though he's not queer honest. When he hugged and kissed me for the cameras that day, I got an hardon and come in my pants. Clough will always be a hero of mine, despite the way he twatted us that day, and the fact that he didn't drink loads to hide the fact that he bummed men and wanked them off. It was just nice having him make up with us like that. A fine man who wasn't queer honest."

Clough, who retired from management because he couldn't win anything any more, went on to drink lots of whisky at his
Nottinghamshire mansion. He then drank some more, bought shares in Oddbins, Thresher and Shipstones Brewery before his liver also retired a few years later. After many years in retirement, during which he hit his grandchildren every day and could be seen hanging around groups of young men kicking a ball around, he finally snuffed it when his liver went fuck off and waved a white flag. In his will he left his arsehole to medical science, but no cunt wanted it.

Fair, Tone, fair - I find the name "Ken Frampton" hilarious and might have used him as Simon's foil rather than the other way around and I'd have got Neil Webb in there somewhere and that squeaky fucker of a wife of his who I am convinced was in fact a boy.

The Hamed line and his liver saying "fuck off" - excellent *dabs eyes*

I wish it were my work Bert, sadly it's not.
It's written by a mad cunt that I've known on the internet for 10 years.
He goes under the name Arthur Thacker. He used to write these things on a forum I ran.
He's not in your league but he's fucking good.....as can be seen from this peach:

CANTONA GOES CANTONESE

Life as a professional footballer is never an easy one, let no-one deny
that. With their multi-million-pound contracts, their flash cars, big
houses, private swimming pools, villas in the South of
France, big-titted women on each arm and as much booze and class A narcotics
as they can cram inside their bodies, theirs is a troubled and unhappy lot.
Compare this to the life of your
average football fan, whose life is free of strife and all the mayhem and
unpleasantries of the footballers they so blindly follow. A football fan has
it easy. His job is, more often than not, a menial
one requiring little in the way of real hard work. Whilst the footballer
must train for a couple of hours every morning, going home by twelve and
putting his feet up to relax, then playing once a
week if he's lucky, the bone idle layabout football fan does nothing other
than graft for forty hours a week, safe in the knowledge that his pitiful
salary is going straight into the deep pockets of his
footballing heroes.

One of the more arduous aspects of the professional footballer's lot is that
he must run around for an hour and a half on Saturday afternoons - sometimes
on a Wednesday night, too - and
suffer the tortuous barracking from football supporters. For the most part,
footballers get used to this and take it all in good heart. They might
occasionally spit at rival supporters, challenge them on the touchline or
act dead brave because they know that any conflict would be under the
supervision of dozens of police and stewards; in the main, however,
footballers are impeccably
behaved on the field of play when receiving insults from a baying mob of a
crowd.

But not always.

It was during an otherwise dull midweek match in 1995, between Crystal
Palace and Manchester United, that the ribald comments of a certain
supporter became too much for one highly-paid
and spoilt brat of a professional footballer by the name of Eric Cantona.
Cantona had been barracked throughout the game - throughout the season, come
to that. In fact, the cunt had been
barracked throughout his career in this country, mainly because he was
French. And them bastards want barracking just for running away in two World
Wars and letting the Krauts get my
grandad at Dunkirk. The cunts. As Cantona was loitering about on the left
side of the pitch, he astonished everyone by suddenly leaping into the crowd
to aim a wild kung-fu style kick at a
Crystal Palace supporter. Fortunately, being French, his kick missed and he
ended up flat on his arse, which elicited further barracking and abuse from
the crowd. Funny as fuck.

But it didn't end there. Cantona was sent off and, in the ensuing days,
received a six-month ban for "violent conduct and behaviour typical of the
cowardly French", was how the FA put it. The fan,
a certain Matthew Wanker of no fixed brain cells, received a life ban from
Crystal Palace, though many believed his punishment was far too severe. It
was sensational stuff, and very funny when
you think that it probably cost The Scum the League title and the FA Cup.

But what caused this otherwise calm, serene, affable, decent, honest and
charming Frenchman to go suddenly mental like he did? Well, the truth lies
in what the fan actually said to him on that
memorable night at Selhurst Park. "I never said nothing," insists Mr Wanker,
now 35 and living off dole and incapacity benefit. "Not a word. It seems
Cantona got angry because of something he
heard me say. But I didn't say anything to him. All I was doing was
practising for a French exam I had the following morning at college." But
Cantona's version was very different...

"He was calling me names all through the game," said Cantona at the time.
"At first he is calling me 'little shit head', then he is saying things
like 'You are smelly woman's parts who is
masturbating over dead sheep'. That is really making me very angry. But when
he is starting to say things about my mother, I was how you say, losing it
big time."

But Mr Wanker still maintains that he said nothing offensive, and certainly
nothing directed at the volatile Frenchman. "He's talking a load of
bollocks, that Cantona. I was practising French
phrases and he just happened to hear a couple of them. Alright, so I was
shouting them at the top of my voice. That's just my way of memorising them.
I might have said something like 'Tu es
merde, Cuntona', 'Ta mere souffle les coques des elephants'...or even
something like 'Je crois que tu le prends par la derriere!' But they were
harmless French phrases. If he misunderstood
them or took offence in any way, that's his problem."

But why did Cantona opt for the kung-fu style attack that made him look so
downright ludicrous? Why didn't he use hif fists instead, and fight like a
man? The answer is, according to Cantona,
now retired and trying to launch a film career, that fighting just isn't in
his nature. "It isn't in my nature," he says. "I've never been one to stand
and fight. I'm French. Have you ever seen a French
boxer, or a French soldier, come to that? Fighting is not in the nature of
any Frenchman. This is why every time there is war we are running away,
hiding in cellars, up trees, in ditches. Anywhere
rather than stand up to any sort of confrontation. But when he called my
mother a whore I just went for him. I'd seen a Bruce Lee film the night
before and that inspired me to do the kung fu type
thing. It's a good job I hadn't been watching 'Prisoner Cell Block H',
otherwise I might have scratched him or pulled his hair instead. He was very
lucky."

While there were, inevitably, calls for Cantona to be more severely
punished, with some suggesting that he be deported or even thrown in jail,
the Manchester United fans, as you'd expect,
defended his action virtually to a man. The president of the Manchester
United Fan Club flew in immediately from Bangkok to offer his support,
whilst satellite link-ups with other Scum
supporters were set up to allow them to air their views from all over the
globe. Former Manchester United player and biased fuckwit, Paddy Crerand, was
perhaps the most vociferous in his
defence of Cantona's violent attack. "I was sitting right behind where it
happened at the time," he says, "and I saw nothing. Well, I saw what could
have been Eric Cantona leaping into the crowd
to kick a supporter up the arse, but it could have been a trick of the
light. And anyway, even if he did kick him, and it was Cantona, which it
wasn't, he would have been in order, because he plays
for Manchester United and as such isn't capable of ever doing anything wrong
either on or off the pitch. If you want my opinion."

No-one did, because Paddy Crerand is a cunt. Meanwhile, Sir Bobby Charlton
was equally supportive of the beleaguered French star. "As everyone knows, I
don't like anything like this on the
field of play. I played for England loads of times and never got booked in
my entire career. Never. Not once. Bobby Moore did. And Geoff Hurst. And
Pele, George Best, Maradona, Cruyff. They
all did, but not me. And I scored lots of goals as well, me. I was known for
being clean and honest, not like that dirty cunt our Jack. He was always a
bastard. Sorry, what were you saying? Oh
yes...about my goal against Portugal in 1966...well, I got the ball in my
own half blah blah blah..."

Cantona has no regrets about the incident, no more than he has about the
countless times he kicked opposition players when they lay on the ground,
stamped on them, punched, elbowed,
kneed and physically abused them in any way he saw fit. But it is fitting
that he will always be best remembered for assaulting a fan and getting away
with it just because he happened to play for
The Scum. As for the victim of Cantona's unprecedented assault, Matthew
Wanker, he now looks back on it and regards it as a defining moment in his
life. "It made me famous overnight. As TV
chef and avante-garde artist Antony Warhol-Thompson would have said, it made
me famous for twenty minutes. At first it was difficult, what with people
coming up and kicking me in the face,
but you get used to that being a Crystal Palace fan. I might now be on the
dole and a scrounging little Cockney fucking layabout, but I'll always be
remembered for the Cantona kung-fu style
kick."

Almost Pessoa-like. A bit rude of him to actually quote Paddy Crerand, though...

Woman Impregnated By Overhead Kick
WAYNE Rooney's right foot is being studied by theologians after his overhead kick impregnated a 58 year-old woman from Guildford.

The poorly-constructed Manchester United striker has been hailed as a saint by thousands of people from Surrey after directing a ball in an unusual fashion as part of his job.

Meanwhile a previously-barren post-menopausal woman became instantly pregnant and then gave birth to triplets within moments of the ball hitting the net. Local sources said all the infants have faces like an elbow sucking a lemon.

Scientists having studied slow motion replays of the goal have confirmed that the mentally deficient jug-eared granny banger who hasn't scored a proper goal in open play since 2009 actually missed kicking the ball as he intended by over a foot but due to his uncoordinated ridiculous leg waving backflip being in the air at the same time as the ball appeared, the ugly cunt got ridiculously lucky and the ball bounced off his mid-shin and flew into the net.

Everybody is being nice to the wanker though and not pointing this out and as the average scumchester fan is about as intelligent as the prawn sandwiches they eat in the stadium of silence, everything is pretended to be back to normal.

Indeed, Abdul - the entire article in full

WAYNE Rooney's right foot is being studied by theologians after his overhead kick impregnated a 58 year-old woman from Guildford.

The poorly-constructed Manchester United striker has been hailed as a saint by thousands of people from Surrey after directing a ball in an unusual fashion as part of his job.

Meanwhile a previously-barren post-menopausal woman became instantly pregnant and then gave birth to triplets within moments of the ball hitting the net.

Local sources said all the infants have faces like an elbow sucking a lemon-flavoured dick.

Denys Finch Hatton, professer of divinity at Reading Univeristy, said: "It may be that Rooney accidentally stepped in a puddle of holy water which has imbued his right leg with the righteous power of the almighty or it could be that he's recently bought the flipflop of an apostle at a jumble sale.


This is the best that Jesus could do

"Or it could be that it was just 13 stone of remedial chimp flinging himself at a pig's bladder."

But Monsignor Wayne Hayes, head of Holy Sporting Incidents at the Vatican, believes that Rooney's screaming 78th minute volley could see his appendage become the first sportsman's body part to be beatified since 'Gentleman' Jim Corbett's left fist punched its way to sainthood in 1892.

He added: "So, the next time Wayne cuts his toenails, we need him to send the clippings to us so we can analyse them for traces of Jesus DNA."

If the Vatican approves the sainthood of Rooney's right foot, tackling the striker or any of his friends will become a recognised form of blasphemy with the offending player facing excommunication and death, in accordance with the Epistles of Ferguson


I recognised the "lemon-flavoured cock" line as one of my own...

or it could be that he's recently bought the flipflop of an apostle at a jumble sale

GAZZA THE BIG SOFT SHITE

Professional football is a hard game. A hard game for hard men, and there is no place in it for big soft shites and puffs, women and people who cry just because they've been booked in an important World Cup semi-final. Yet when Paul Gascoigne, the fat little Spurs player of the nineties, burst into tears at one such time, he was incongruously feted the world over as a hero to the cause. Indeed, even given his considerable playing skill and prowess, it was this one act of sheer soft bastardness that won him the accolade of BBC Sports Personality Of The Year.

The World Cup semi-final of Italia 90 was no place for soft bastards - England facing the old enemy Germany (then known as West Germany because the Munich Wall hadn't come down yet) and a place in the final against the other old enemy Argentina (then known as Them Cunts Who Burned Simon Weston's Face) awaiting the eventual winners. It was a night of high drama, high tension and high anxiety. Though no High Chaparral because that was on the other side being watched by the few people who didn't like football. Personally I preferred Alias Smith & Jones, but never mind.

England took the lead through everyone's favourite little goody-goody nice boy crisp-munching love-cheat, Gary "I'm not half caste" Lineker - a splendid goal that foxed the German defence and was rifled powerfully into the net from almost two yards out. It looked as though England would win through and get to appear in their first final since 1966. Germany rallied and, spurred on by their influential midfield supremo Luther Matthauauaes, took control of the game. Commentators were unbiased, never once calling England "we" or "us", or referring to the Germans as "them", "they" or simply "them fucking Krauts again". This was before the days of Jonathan Pearce.

Then, in the second half, Germany equalised. A half-hearted punt from left-back Andy "How Did A German Get A Name Like Andy" Brehme was bobbling towards the goal, several England defenders there to surely clear it. But not to be. The ball whipped up and somehow beat Peter "Shagging In The Back Of An Escort" Shilton to creep inexplicably over the goal line. 1-1 and the tension mounted even higher. England stayed firm, but one man who couldn't take the strain was young Paul Gascoigne. Gascoigne, known as "Gazza" because of his on-the-field antics like having his balls squeezed by Wimbledon players, had been booked in an earlier round. Another booking would see him suspended for the final and thereby missing out on the greatest moment ever in any footballer's career. Yet in the seventy-fifth minute, with a foreign referee who wasn't at all biased towards the Germans, fate stepped in and changed the face of football history forever.

Gascoigne made an innocuous challenge on German Jurgen Klinsmann. The challenge, no more than a two-footed affair at knee-height, from behind and with fists and elbows flying, would have made little impression on any other player. But Klinsmann, that diving cheating two-faced German cunt, went down as though someone had caught him in the balls with a scud missile. Gascoigne was apologetic, distraught as he pleaded with the referee to let him off with a few sage words; but the referee was having none of it. He reached for his pocket and pulled out a yellow card, which probably should have been red, let's be honest. Gascoigne was booked, which now meant that he would miss out on the final against Argentina and a chance to avenge the Falklands War and get them back for what they did to Simon Weston. The bastards.

The words of the song go: "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" and Gazza, that lovable fat twat who was everyone's favourite footballing clown, could hold back the tears no longer. The thought of not being able to play against the Argies, whose sudden declaration of war eight years earlier had caused him to flunk his GCSE's, was too much for the amiable Geordie wife-beater and drunk. Tears streamed down his piggy little face as his lachrymal glands went into overdrive...boo hoo hoo! And a nation wept with him. He was immediately substituted by England manager Sir Graham Taylor and that was the end of Gazza's World Cup dream.

Gazza later said that this was the turning point of his career. "It was terrible," he said. "Crying like that made me realise what a big soft shite I was. I vowed never again to cry during a football match...except in that Cup Final the following year when I nearly broke that bloke's leg. And when I was dropped by Glenn Hoddle for the World Cup in France. Oh, and when my wife left me and pissed off with the kids. And when I went on telly and admitted what a drunken twat I am. Then there was the time I lost my car keys...and when my mate Raoul Moat shot that copper in the face and I tried persuading him to give himself up with a fishing rod, can of lager, a dressing gown and a chicken sandwich..."

Indeed, it was a turning point. Had Gazza not got booked and cried like a big soft kid, England might well have gone on and won the World Cup of Italia 90. In the final we would of beat Argentina and probably won it again in four years' time. If only we hadn't lost on penalties and then not had to qualify for USA '94. And it's all the fault of Paul Gascoigne for being a big soft shite.
03

Nobby Cheese wrote:The ball whipped up and somehow beat Peter "Shagging In The Back Of An Escort" Shilton to creep inexplicably over the goal line.

This has been explained elsewhere, but how oh how did my report miss "Tina Tina Tina"?

BRUCE GIVES THEM THE WOBBLES

The European Cup Final of 1984 was one of the greatest, most triumphant moments ever in the history of the game. Liverpool FC, at the height of their European-conquering prowess, were appearing in their fourth final, whilst Manchester United, who were still fucking shit, hadn't won fuck-all for ages. And while Scum fans languished at home doing fuck all, hoping that their wank team might scrape through to the UEFA Cup the following season, Liverpool were preparing to take on the cream of the continent in the final of European's showcase finale.
(Funny how things change, isn't it?)

Liverpool had won through to the final, hammering every opposition placed in front of them - the big guns of Spain, Germany, France, Belgium, Holland and Iceland. In the final, staged in Rome's glorious Olympic Stadium (where Liverpool had thrashed Moenchoenchoengladbach of Denmark seven years earlier), Liverpool would be the away team, paired as they were with AS Roma who were playing on the ground where they played their home games every week. The Roma line-up was studded with stars of the game: Poland's Ziggy Boniek, Brazil's Falcao, complete with flowing blond half-bred hair and that famous wide-mouthed goal celebration, Carbonara, Zucchini, Lasagne, and of course, a defensive partnership that featured two Italians whose names I can't remember. But they were good.

The game itself was to be a dull affair. Very dull. Dull in the extreme. It was so dull that Joe Fagan, Liverpool's makeshift manager, spent most of the first half on his iPhone updating his Twitter account to tell a watching world just how boring and dull it all was. Eventually, following two whole minutes of unrelentingless pressure, Liverpool took the lead through defender fucking Phil Neal, who thus became the only English player ever to score in two different European Cup Finals. But then the sweaty Dago bastard Italians equalised and the game looked to be going towards extra-time. But Reds manager Joe Fagan, always a shrewd man and a long-time admirer of the penalty shoot-out method of settling big games, had already had words with his players. "I had already had words with my players," he said in his autobiography, 'The Man Behind Shanks, Paisley and Dalglish Come To That'. "I thought what a good advert it would be for a big high profile game like this to be settled on penalties, so I told my lads to play for a draw and hope the Eye-Ties didn't score another. I desperately wanted the game to go to penalties because I had shares in a company called Penalty Kicks Ltd, which sponsored the spot-kick at the time."

Fagan's plan worked like a charm, though back then he never admitted what reasoning was behind his methods. The game finished 1-1, and a barren extra-time period followed. It was so crap that ITV, who were televising the match live that year, didn't bother and showed an old episode of 'Emmerdale Farm' as a filler (the one where the barn caught fire and that bloke with the sideys pulled the wrong pint). Still goalless after extra-time, the game then went to penalties. Co-commentator Brian Clough said that, in his opinion, penalties was a shit way to decide such a major footballing event. Brian Moore told him to shut the fuck up because it meant that ITV could show more dead expensive adverts in the intervals. But no matter...

First up from twelve yards was young Steve Nicol, who blasted his shot high and wide over the bar. "I did that on purpose," said Nicol in an interview years later, "to give them a chance. The gaffer told me to just belt it into the crowd because he knew we'd win anyway. So I did." Roma's skipper, Guacomole Tagliatelli, scored and the home team were a goal up. Then Phil Neal scored and one of the Italians missed.

Now it was up to Liverpool 'keeper Bruce Grobbelaar to do his stuff. Grobbelaar who, contrary to popular belief, didn't have a large wad riding on Roma, had a special tactic up his sleeve. Well, more in his socks, actually. "I'd thought of loads of ways I could put the Itailans off," he said after the game, "and the best I could think of was to wobble my legs. I'd wobbled my legs in a few first team games earlier in the season, but it hadn't put anybody off. Not really. So what I did before the Roma final was go into hospital a week before and have all the bones removed from both legs - tibias, fibulas, kneecaps, femurs, lemurs and primulas. The whole lot went. It was hard walking at first, and for a few days I kept pissing all over myself at the urinals; but I soon got used to it. Come the final I was ready to do my stuff."

Indeed he was. Grobbelaar (which in Afrikaans means "the goalkeeper who doesn't throw matches honest") faced the lethal Graziano Graziani who, in a fifteen-year career, had taken 234 penalties and scored every one. Bruce's legs went to work. They wobbled this way, that way, the other way and back again. It was hilarious as the Liverpool joker did an excellent impression of George Best on his way home from Bargain Booze in Fallowfield. Graziani, unable to control his laughter, shot and skied the ball high into the banked terraces of Italian fans, who promptly ran away and fell over a wall. Oh, no...that was the following year. Moments later Alan Kennedy stepped up to spazz the winning penalty past Roma 'keeper Lambretta Tortellini, and Liverpool were Champions of Europe once again.

Liverpool were victorious, proving yet again that, even allowing foreign opposition to get to a penalty shoot-out, English football was still the best in Europe. If not the world. It always was, and it always will be.