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(#tbomf each and every month)

A one year of Covid Fuck Off special!

CASTROL GTX Alexa, sum up a sham of a football club in one picture please.

Let's pack it in everybody, it's all lost, and fucked... Pep's placenta of a jacket. Designed by, well, Mr Byrite it seems. Column closed, forever. It's all such utter bellenderous bullshit.

And yes, Jose Mourinho still wears a personalised ‘JM’ snood whilst he moans about the modern day footballer.

Like Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, Boris Johnson should have realised you can have one sequel too many, and ‘Lockdown 3, The Even Shitter One’ stunk the place out. It got so bad I stared into an abyss, switching between Nicola Sturgeon's daily press conferences, the most depressing Krankies tribute act booking I've ever seen, and This Morning where they ‘giggled’ at Chris Whitty memorabilia being sold online. The fact that this was the highlight of my day, showed that without alcohol and United's quite decent form, I'd have been series linking old episodes of Mrs. Brown's Boys if things continued. We know that we're in the era of total bullshit, football just caught in the reflective glare, a society that celebrates vacuous and dull identities so morons occupy our channels, be it tv or youtube, our seats in Parliament, and, of course, our football fields. Those who shout the loudest, now get heard and listened to the most, fodder, and, as is quite clear, all this is not necessarily a good thing. Left and right so far gone down the route of outrage they call each other out without actually listening, and those caught in the middle, just want to have a fucking pint in a pub, remember those? Noise abounds, nuances lost, and ex-coppers with false names lead the way with Dickie Arnold's Global Army, oh, and please can you drink our official tomato juice or buy a club tractor? This is the reaped landscape of white noise that Utd sowed for decades, and match goers feel isolated and disregarded, as Oleout hashtags spread like fire as online personalities without actually having one, ask us to ‘contact their management’ for bookings. For where? Purgatory?


So if it wasn't bad enough that most footballers act like they've the brains of floating to the top fish, we now have the quite ridiculous sight of them lying down like a salmon to ‘protect’ a free-kick. Not since Utd's infamous drinking clique of the late 80s have we seen players fall to the floor so readily. The fact that not one free-kick has actually hit these prone plankton is either testament that most footballers have the shooting accuracy of Fred, how many going under a wall can you actually remember to hit the target - in your lifetime - or it's a fad that will soon get forgotten, like snoods, Alice bands (yes, you Oli Holt), Kinesio nose tape and Shinji Kagawa. Players get a slight challenge but scream as if they are in a snuff movie, and the cries like a scene out of Casualty have me switching to the shittiest thing on SKY since Richard Keys left - fake crowd noise. Granted, there is finally an atmosphere for city home games. The greed of UEFA and its clubs shown by trying to play Europa League fixtures anywhere but in their own countries - this wasn't about preserving ‘integrity’, merely bank balances. We celebrated the return of ABUism, and whilst life has moved on 20 years, the collective div. membership of the ABU front haven't, with the humour of a five year old Michael McIntyre Penchester United andallthat,

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