A Call To Brains, To Imagination, To Arms…

I is exasperated. Look at my painstricken half-roar:

According to Henry Winters, Mick “Not Even Fucking Irish” McCarthy has “damaged the integrity of the Premier League”. I’m shocked. What integrity?!?! If I rape someone 500 times the 501st will have by then lost a certain je ne sais qua… Normalative & conservative football journalists (i.e. all of them…) can fuck off and suckle upon their much-treasured teat of wholly imagined golden years.

I won’t even waste my time crucifying proles like Martin Samual. Let’s go for the “intelligent” ones… David Conn, “Inside Sport“?! He’s barely stuck a finger up it. Sport needs a throbbing, pulsating 6ft cock to Fuck It senseless/sensible.

ASK THE PROFOUND QUESTIONS! Why? Why?! Why do we watch this? Why do we Love it? Why do we pick sides? Why do we seek authenticity of emotion? Fuck Ryan Giggs’ hamstring for its own sake. What does Ryan Giggs’ hamstring say about the human condition?! Yes. I’m well aware my destiny is to be accused of pretention by cultural-lumpenproletarians. I except my destiny. I Love my destiny. It makes my cerebal penis weep with pre-cum.

I shall unleash my dogs of war! I don’t actually have any, of course. But that is the very nature of the problem. I’m Absolutely Right. But I’m alone. So very alone. In the vacuuous space of sport’s mass consumption no-one can hear you scream. I have such desperate screaming to do, but even my own guilt conspires against me, sewing up my lips with the diarrhoea-yellow thread of apologetic defeatism.

Every football fan is born with the raison d’être of discovery/euphoria, begging for manipulation, but in too many it is castrated.

Take for example, the old chestnut that one should not use the single word “United” to donate Manchester United, lest we upset Newcastle, Sheffield etc. (and gods forbid we upset the long defunct – possibly never-existant – motherfucking Plymouth United!!!!)

The truth, the terrible thrilling dynamic truth, is that there is only one United. The others are wandering, aimless, undead. They’ve been fucked. And we stood back and watched it happen. Though I dare say it was so wrapped up with wider socio-economic transformations that the only way to save these (non-existant) golden years was a vigorous anti-capitalism over the entire post-war period. Too late. Absolutely too late.

Alas. My bleding heart of no-neck-muscles liberalism bleeds indeed indeed indeed. It bleeds. It gushes. It pumps goresplatter all over the shop. But… Now? We may as well learn to Love the controversy and corruption. I for one want Berlusconi to buy Accrington Stanley. GOODBYE!!