You’re Shreking the mickey!
Now, I like the beautiful game as much as any man, (apart form my brother Geoff who traded a testicle for Euro 2008 tickets) but 200 grand a week for Shrek? Leave it out! 200 grand for doing keep ups and looking like a badly-shaved man-baby!!! Now, in all seriousness, I understand that football is a unique and beautiful gift – passed down from the heavens – and that not everyone can live in a 16 bed Barratt house with a bowling alley. But it’s not on! Most of these Ferrari crashing thumb heads don’t know what to do with it.
For a start, real men don’t live in a semi on steroids in Cheshire. Or drive cars that look like motorised slippers. As anyone with more brain cells than Rolexes knows, they drive Capris – preferably 2.8 Brooklands – with 15 in alloys and black leather. Or a monster truck. End of Story.
And another thing, footballers who complain of being tired. Turn it in! You don’t know the meaning of tired. I’ll show you tired. How tired can you get walking up and down for 45 minutes? Your job is a hobby! It’s not as if you’re digging a road up in between games, or putting up scaffolding, or filling pork pies. Because those are jobs for real men – you toilet!
And if one more of these spoilt, supermodel-fondling millionaires falls over and starts sobbing when someone brushes against his ankle, I swear, the telly is going in the garden again. Yes, if you break your leg in three places, (like I did when I tried to put up that dodgy Sky Dish) it’s ok to have the afternoon off work. But that doesn’t mean you can roll round like you’re covered in bees, you whining, nightclub wrecking excuse for manhood.