Tuesday, May 04, 2010

This is how it feels

The universal misery of being a football fan.

I picked this up from Hibs.net - no links back on there so I'm afraid I don't know where this first appeared online.

Grimsby's fate is not yet decided - if both results go their way they could stay up at the expense of Barnet:
Now I’m as optimistic as anyone when it comes to this twát of a football club, but after this afternoon’s latest capitulation it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee – we’re f***ed. Down. Goners. Non-league. To be honest I didn’t know how it would affect me, it’s not like it hasn’t been coming, but tonight I just feel absolutely deflated. Absolutely f***ing devastated.

I can’t get away from these emotions, I just want the whole world to just f*** off and leave me alone. To help me come to terms with this whole mess, I’ve decided to compile a list of everyone and everything I want to f*** off most of all.

For starters, work can f*** off. If they think I’m going to be there on Monday morning they’ve got another thing coming. No way am I going in to spend time dealing with c***s that I can barely stand being with when I’m in a good mood, let alone this crushing feeling of anger, frustration and outright metaphorical-kicked-in-the-bóllocks-ness.

Plastic Premier League fans can f*** off. I just spoke to my Manchester United supporting neighbour (who incidentally, has been to Old Trafford before – twice) about Town’s predicament. You know what he said? “I know how you feel; it’s like when we failed to win a trophy in ‘95”. NO IT F***ING WELL IS NOT!

He no longer has a face.

The girlfriend can definitely f*** off. Her best attempt at consolation – “I don’t know why you’re bothered; you knew they were s*** anyway”. Yes love, but they’re MY s*** team. They’ve been MINE for pretty much as long as I’ve been able to wipe my own árse, and they’ll be MINE for as long as I’m alive (or at least, until I’m no longer able to wipe my own árse). Truth is, watching my team win does things for me that no woman can. If push comes to shove and I’m horny, I can always have a w***.

Barrow can f*** off. I’ve been all over the country and beyond to watch my team, but frankly I just don’t have the stomach to visit any town which makes Scunthorpe look like f***ing St. Tropez.

Dad, you can f*** off. This is your fault. Your idea. You introduced me to this shower of s***. “Come with me to Blundell Park”, you said, “Come and support the boys”. What could I do? I was f***ing four, what choice did I have? Why not get me hooked on Heroin whilst you were at it? I could have gone with mum shopping for bras and knickers at British Home Stores, but no, you knew best.

Granted, I’d have probably grown up a homosexual but surely even being simultaneously búggered two guys named Seth and Quentin couldn’t hurt like this.

Seeing as we’re on the subject of homosexuality, Gok Wan can f*** off. No particular reason, I just plain don’t like the annoying, goggle-eyed mealy mouthed buffon.

The F.A. can f*** off. Not for supplying us, week-in, week- out, with inept referee after inept referee, but for imposing sensible financial rules on all clubs in League Two. How many clubs in this division have been into administration this season? Not one. How many points deducted? Not one. How the f*** else are we supposed to avoid relegation – footballing merit? We didn’t have to last season, so why spoil the fun now?

The World Cup can f*** off – I don’t care anymore.

My local pizza shop can f*** off. I ordered a 12” Pepperoni over an hour ago, and where the **** is it? Are they trying to f***ing fly it to me or something?

Sky Sports can f*** off. Nothing personal, but there’ll be little need for me next season with no Town to be found anywhere. Ooh, Bolton versus Wolves, LIVE. I think I’ll pass...

The radio can f*** off. On my way home from the match, whilst driving down the M180, I caught three completely separate stations playing ‘Down’ by Jay Sean at the exact same f***ing time. The song’s the best part of a year old, how the f*** does that happen by coincidence!?

My nan’s old lucky Buddha that used to sit in her front room can f*** off. When I was a kid I held it in my hands and wished for Town to be in the Premier League. I meant the proper one you fat mealy mouthed buffon, not the one occupied by Histon, Eastbourne and for f***’s sake, Ebbsfleet, wherever that is.

Tonight can f*** off. I’ve had enough of trying to cope with my emotions; the time has come for oblivion. I haven’t kept any booze in the house since an occasion known only as ‘That Night’ by myself and the missus, but suffice to say that the toilet duck and luminous blue mouthwash are looking like stronger propositions by the minute.

Most of all though, the last 10 years can f*** off. In that time I’ve watched my team fall from the top of the Championship into non-league nothingness. We’ve gone from one great big f*** up to the next without even coming up for air, and today is just the big, f*** off cherry on top.

One thing I’m sure of though is that we WILL be back. When it comes down to it, a football club is basically just a set of supporters, and frankly what I’ve learned in the last few years is that this one has some of the best. We’ve had to put up with some s***, haven’t we boys, but in spite of all of that the future is still bright – it’s f***ing black and white.

Grimsby ‘til I die...

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