I have no interest in the last minute wheeler-dealing that’ll see another ageing star looking for one last pay day at Harry’s Home For Retired Workhorses. In fact I don’t care about any of it. We’ve been there and done it too often before.
For forty years I cared about spoiled and pampered buffoons who, if not kicking a ball about were only able to offer the racist, misogynistic, homophobic, anti-disabled opinions that would have been old-fashioned in the 1970s.
Over that time working class traitors have milked the fans dry, while lapping up the ill-deserved adulation their mostly ineffective ball skills have attracted.
It is too late for us to talk about campaigns to limit seat prices at away games. Way too little, way too late. You’ll get no more of my money. I might watch football on TV if I’m bored – but there again if I’m bored enough I’ll watch a dog taking a shit – and not have to watch David James and Steve McManaman re-enacting it at half time.
There’s nothing left for me now. I won’t be chanting your names. You’re all cunts – and frankly so am I for not cutting you off sooner.