Ever since I was five years old I’ve loved football. I was the only one in my school to complete the 1987-1988 Panini sticker album and I prided myself on watching every single live game of the 1990 World Cup, despite the fact a lot of the games were on past my bed time and most of them, on reflection, were actually shite. I'm just about old enough to remember when it was acceptable to be lifted over the turn-styles for fifty pence and when witnessing grown men piss down each others legs or throw bananas at black players was commonplace.
Also from a young age it was universally apparent that I was shit at football, totally shit, and it took me longer than most other people to figure this out. But as I continued to not get a game for every junior club I joined (despite them always keeping my 50p subs money) the penny eventually dropped that professional football would not be my vocation. I did cling on to the vain hope that I might be a “late bloomer” and that I could still make it. I’d heard a story that Ian Wright was still playing Sunday league football in his early twenties before he was spotted by Crystal Palace, which is probably horseshit, but it's nice to believe it's true. However, deep down I knew that I just didn’t have what it took, but why?
As I stood there on touchline after touchline, freezing my prepubescent nuts off, kitted up and hoping that some kid would shatter his knee just so I could get on the pitch for five minutes, I was filled with jealously. Looking on at the guys who it all came so easily too, they didn’t appreciate the talent they had and that arrogance only seemed to make them even better players. Why was it always that the biggest pricks were the best at football?
I guess if I’m being honest I never felt I truly fitted into the dressing room mentality. Whilst giving your team mate a “T-Bagging”, a “Roman Shower” or a “Zorro” (be careful if you google these terms) in the name of team bonding does sound like fun, I adopted more of a Graham Le Saux type of attitude towards that type of behaviour. I’m not gay you understand, I just like reading the Guardian, going to art galleries and occasionally wanking off other guys.
Looking on at the guys who it all came so easily too, they didn’t appreciate the talent they had and that arrogance only seemed to make them even better players. Why was it always that the biggest pricks were the best at football?
As I was growing up in the mid- nineties, Sky TV and The Premier League got busy revolutionising football. I mean, who’d have thought Swindon versus Wimbledon, live on a Monday night, was even possible. That side of it was brilliant, but having to watch “wanker man” Richard Keys every time you tuned in for a match was a definite down-side.
As we all know money flowed into the game as freely as semen in an Ashley Cole spit roast, and players who were just regular cunts, became rich cunts, almost overnight. A new breed of super-cunt footballer was born. These guys who were arrogant pricks at school were now multi-millionaires who could drive around in stupid fucking flash cars, wearing stupid fucking jewellery and shagging stupid fucking page three models. At least back in the day if Bobby Moore wanted a gold bracelet he had to get out there and steal it himself.
I know this all sounds like bitter jealousy because I’m shit at football, and whilst that is indeed true. I still resent the fact that I love watching football, but I fucking hate footballers. I mean, who am I kidding, if I was a footballer I’d probably be hanging out with Rio Ferdinand and spit roasting Daniele Lloyd in my Range Rover with a mobile phone stuck up my arse, but the problem is there’s no way around this dilemma.
The Rooneys, Ferdinands, Terrys and Coles of the game will continue to roll off the cunt footballer conveyer belt and, what's worse, we’ll continue to fund their wages if we pay to watch them, which we will, because watching football is brilliant.
Life's just not fair I guess, and I know I’m sure as hell not going to change anything. I’m just going to bitch about it on the internet like everybody else does. Anyway what could I do, and what would the point be anyway? It’s not as if I’m Martin Luther King or Gandhi... or Trevor Brooking.
I only wish I could go back in time and tell that little guy standing on the sidelines to not bother collecting those Panini stickers and to learn about computers or maths or something instead. Maybe I could have had more realistic dreams of being an IT billionaire or a banker instead of a footballer... on second thoughts don’t get me started on bankers, maybe footballer’s aren’t that bad after all.
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