Friday, October 29
We Do Not Talk About SundayWell, apart from right now. Other than that, Sunday did not happen. At all. Ever. The cunts.
Oh, and this post will be littered with the "c" word, so if you get offended by it, don't read on. Don't say you haven't been warned.
We all know what Sunday was about. Sunday was the most important game of football in recent years. Arsenal's attempt to remain 50 (50!) games unbeaten was to take place at Old Trafford, home of the most hated team in the Premiership (I refuse to reference any sponsors of English football leagues, especially The Championship. This, and the move of Wimbledon to Milton Keynes, is everything that is wrong with football today. Rant over).
It was a big game. The media had built it up for days, if not weeks and months. Apparently Sky had been billing it as "50:50" for a good week or so. I can't get my head round that one, to be honest. Why 50:50? Surely just "50"? What relevance did 50 have to M*n "cunts" *td?
And, of course, having looked forward to it for weeks and weeks, and having planned my entire Sunday around the game, I overslept and missed the kick-off.
Yes, I know that the kick-off was at 4pm. Yes, I know that means it started at 5pm over here. Did you not read the post about Saturday night? I was absolutely twatted, and didn't get to bed until fuck knows when. This is the first time, however, that I've slept in that late. Honest!
The worst thing was that I'd woken up a good hour or two earlier, but felt so hungover and ill that I'd deduced the time to be somewhere around 11am or midday. There was no way I could wake up any later and still feel that bad. Usually I sleep through the worst of any potential hangover, and only get the lingering after-effects (aching legs, thirst, slight headache).
Upon waking on Sunday, I had a proper hangover, and felt terrible. No worries, I thought, I won't get up, but will just lay in bed for ages and possibly go back to sleep. I then had 2 hours of tossing and turning, but not once did I dare get out of bed and check the time. It would have hurt my head too much to force the blood flow to go 12 inches higher to my brain.
The first swear word of the day (if we discount those said before bed that morning) was uttered at approximately 5.18pm. That would be when I got up and looked at my clock. I like saying "Fuck" out loud when there's no-one else around, although this time it was more of a self-admonishing type of "oh fuuuuuck!"
I had an ultra-quick wash, threw on some jeans and my Arsenal shirt, grabbed a jacket and legged it out of the door. I didn't trust a bus to turn up on time (they're shit on Sundays), so I almost ran to O'Reilly's, the pub where the game was on. I live about 15-20 minutes away by foot at a normal pace, but I managed it in less than 10 minutes. As a bonus, I found an unopened chocolate bar in my jacket pocket, which gave me the energy to make it all the way. Mmm, instant glucose energy boost.
As I got near the pub, I started imagining worse-case scenarios, such as us being 3-0 down already, or someone having been sent off. Imagine my relief as I rushed into the pub to find the score still 0-0. Not that that lasted, the cunts.
I ordered a lemonade and a beer from the waitress girl (yes, even in an "Irish" pub they insist on having the German waitress service), downed the latter in one and set about the important task of drinking on an empty stomach. Always a good idea, don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
A few of my friends were there, including the girl who is a Gooner too. She even had a season ticket for last season, the bitch. I hate her and I love her for that. I got a few questions about the night before (remember that I didn't spend the night with them, but with another group of friends), but I was engrossed in the football.
I don't think I've ever sworn so much and so vocally during a football match before. I absolutely fucking hate Man Utd (it pains me even to type that name), possibly more than I love Arsenal. I hate every single player who wears that shirt, I hate that fucking cunt of a manager, I hate their cunting fans, I hate the media for loving them, I fucking hate Man Utd. You get the point.
The only player I was possibly going to make an exception for was Rooney. I loved him during Euro 2004, and he really is the future of English football. Unfortunately he now wears that fucking cunting Utd shirt, which makes me hate him at least a bit. He was however one of the players that I didn't swear at too much.
Until the fat fucking cheating cunt went over in the box, that is. The fat cheating fucking cunting cunt.
The language that came out of my mouth at that point would have offended even a builder. I was so unbelievably angry, incredibly so. I just kept on swearing, and loudly too. I didn't give a shit if the bar was full of Utd or Arsenal fans, I was going to swear, and I was going to make sure everyone heard me.
The phrase "fat fucking cheating cunt" must have passed my lips around 23,564,729 times in the space of 20 minutes, as well as swearing at all of the other Utd players.
ESPECIALLY Gary "cunt" Neville.
If there is one person on this planet that I wish would die in the next 5 seconds, it'd be Gary Neville. I hate him more than the rest of the Utd cunts put together. There is no rational reason for this. OK, so there is. He's a cheating, fouling, dirty cunt of a player who also tried to get the England players to strike over Rio's ban. He wears a Utd shirt, which is bad enough, but is also just a huge cunt of a player. Watch him play sometime. He commits loads of horrific fouls, never gets booked, and is always in the ref's face whenever another Utd player falls over anywhere near an opponent. I fucking hate the cunt.
Have I made this sufficiently clear? I absolutely, totally and utterly HATE Gary Neville. I couldn't care less if he scored the winner for England in the World Cup Final, I'd still pray for his death in the changing rooms immediately after. I fucking hate him!
You don't know just how angry I'm getting thinking about him whilst typing him. If it weren't late at night and my neighbour wasn't already in bed, I'd probably make some neanderthal screams to vent my anger. The keyboard simply cannot express my hatred for this cunt.
Every time he got near the ball on Sunday, I'd be begging someone to break his legs or kick him in the face. He received almost as much of my vitriol as Roo-cunt-ney did after his 6.0 dive in the area. The fat fucking cheating cunt. I still can't get over a penalty being awarded. Campbell didn't get anywhere near the fat fucking cheating cunt, let alone give him a touch.
I've been a witness to some iffy penalty decisions, courtesy of being an Arsenal fan, but this one really takes the biscuit. This is worse than Jeffers against Liverpool (he was shoved, but milked it in his fall) and Pires against Portsmouth (where he was actually tripped, no matter what non-Gooners tell you). This was just a dive by a fat fucking cheating cunt in the biggest game of the year.
And it wasn't as if Mike "cunt" Riley was going to refuse the Stretford End's cries of murder. 8 penalties for Utd in 8 games at Old Trafford? That's not coincidence by any stretch of the imagination. Why doesn't he just produce Fer-cunt-guson's brown envelope with a was of cash? The cunt.
I was absolutely seething by the end of the game, more angry than I've been in a very long time. I couldn't stop swearing and venting my anger at the screen, nor could I actually believe that we'd been cheated out of the game by a fat fucking cheating cunt and a spineless cunt in black.
I was sooooo angry.
I had to calm myself down a little, since I then went to dinner with a few female friends, but on the inside I was a pool of rage. I can feel it welling up inside of me again, just writing about it all.
The absolute fucking cheating bastard cunting cunts. Now I hate them even more.
And I especially hate that fat fuck.
Oh and cuntface Neville. If someone could kill him, that'd be great. Preferably in a slow and painful manner. And with a video camera recording the events, so I can watch it again and again. That'd be great, thanks.
Sorry for the foul language and unabashed rage, but this needed to get out in the open. This blog is my life, and this kind of thing makes me very angry. Very angry indeed.