At The End Of The Day 195
Arthur Thacker
Well, that's the footy season all done and dusted. Now we can all look
forward to those many sporting treats that are in store for us during
the summer months. Oh, goody fucking goody. I can hardly wait.
THE OPEN GOLF CHAMPIONSHIP:
A load of fat overfed cunts aimlessly swinging sticks and trying to get
a ball down a hole that's far too fucking big by my reckoning. Have you
seen the size of a golf cup compared to the fucking ball? It's fucking
huge. No wonder they're always putting it in from the edge of the green.
I'm surprised they don't just give them the bastard Grand Canyon and
have done with it.
"...and here at the 14th hole, Colin Montfatarse is about to putt a pea
into Cheddar Gorge from two feet away...oh, dear, he's missed it. The
fat useless bucket of shite."
That's golf for you - about as exciting as taking an aspirin. It's
getting ridiculous now as well, so desperate that they're allowing coons
to fucking play it. That can't be right. Them bastard should carry the
fucking clubs like they used to do in the old days. I blame that Lee
Trevino. It's his fault that we have the likes of Tiger Woods and Veejay
Singh playing the game with white people. If that fat gutted Mexican
half-breed Indian fuck hadn't sauntered along thirty years ago, they'd
still be handing golfers a four-iron with their heads down going:
"Yassum, boss. Dat am de club to use, Massa."
Fucking right. I'd rather sandpaper my own fucking foreskin that sit and
watch a round of golf. The only thing sadder than the cunts who play it
are the fucking knobheads who watch it. These people are so sad that
they hire periscopes so they don't miss any of the action. Who do they
think they are, Captain fucking Nemo? The only interesting bit in golf
is where the balls goes in the bunker or lands in the fucking water. And
if I was watching golf when that happened, I'd go: "Hahahaha! What a
load of shite!" But then...that's why ignoble fuckers like me don't
watch golf.
WIMBLEDON:
Jesus! I don't think I can live without my yearly fortnight fix of
tennis. And tennis on grass? We tried that when we was kids. Come
on...own up. Who's done that when they was kids? It's alright playing on
that bit of concrete outside on the street, but every year when
Wimbledon comes round and you've dusted out your poxy tennis racket -
guaranteed to snap in two if you hit anything harder than a ping pong
ball - you're off to try it on that piece of grass between your block of
flats and the next one. That's when you discover that the council didn't
put the same grass down as the cunts at the All-England Lawn Tennis Club
did. And they don't fucking take care of it quite the same. While on the
telly they're getting a nice clean bounce from the turf every time, what
do you end up with? A fucking superball bounce as it hits a fucking
divot and pings up into your eye. Either that or it just stops dead in
one of them clumps of fucking grass.
Then there's the dog shit. There's none of that at Wimbledon, is there
(unless you mean the football team...hehe)? You don't see Pete Sampras
dive to volley a winner and stand up covered in the contents of a
labrador's arse. Rod Laver never crunched his knee into a powered mess
of that white golf ball type stuff, even though they had loads of it
back in his day. They should make them play tennis on the same sort of
grass we had to put up with as kids. That'd tell us who the best in the
world were. There'd be dog turds everywhere, potholes, little spares
bits like Paul Daniels's head, and that puddle that you always used to
get where there was a bit of a dip. The one you'd try your new wellies
out in.
Tennis. Load of arse.
CRICKET - THE TEST SERIES:
Hmmm...otherwise known as "Whose Turn Is It To Thrash England This
Year?" Beats me why they bother having a five-match series, when clearly
most teams only need three to teach England a lesson in this fine old
sport. And who's the greatest cricketer who ever lived? Answer:
W.G.Grace. And why was he the greatest cricketer who ever lived? because
he possessed all the skills that one needs to be the very best.
Er...don't think so. I'll tell you why W.G.Grace was the greatest
cricketer who ever lived - because he had a fucking bat three times the
size of everybody else's. have you seen the old pictures of him? That's
not a cricket bat he's wielding; it's a fucking fence panel strapped to
a bastard broom handle. No wonder he hit so many runs in his career. I'm
surprised they ever got the cunt out. All he had to do was hold his bat
in front of the wickets. I'm surprised he didn't have fucking bedsprings
fixed to it, then the ball could just bounce off to the boundary and he
wouldn't even have to swing it.
"What kind of bat do you use, Mr Grace? If you don't mind my asking? Do
you prefer willow or maple? Ash?"
"No. Just the 4'x 3' treated larch lap from Timberland. Strapped to a
fucking broom handle."
What a load of wank. I'm sorry, but the idea of a load of tossers
pratting about on a piece of grass dressed in white and running in every
time it rains does not send me into paroxysms of glorious apprehension.
Then there's all that pretentious cricketing terminology...
"I say. Good shot. The way he drove the googly through cover and silly
mid-on to make the boundary was absolutely splendid."
Which translates as:
"Fucking hell! You spawny bastard. The way he actually made contact with
the ball as he swished aimlessly about with his eyes closed and it
somehow evaded all those fat fucking fielders trying to run after
it...that was fucking great."
It's pot luck. That's what cricket is. They don't know what they're
doing when that ball comes hurtling towards them. How can you know what
you're doing when some ten-foot spear-chucker is trying to take your
fucking head off with a lump of cork and leather travelling at 100mph?
It's not possible. The only time they manage to hit the fucking ball is
by chance. Then there's that other one:
"This bowler can really make the ball travel through the air."
Er...yes. That's the idea, you daft cunt. He throws the ball and it
travels from him to the batsman. It's called "travelling". It's how
things get from one place to another, otherwise no cunt ever gets
anywhere. You fucking dopey bag of shite.
THE BADMINTON HORSE TRIALS:
Well, here's one we can all enjoy. Aye, like fuck. All that jumping over
deliberately-placed fences and ditches and puddles and they have the
nerve to call it sport. The way I see it, unless it's something you can
do for yourself, then it ain't fucking sport. Get a horse, car,
motorbike, sledge or whatever to do it for you, and you're a cheating
bastard. I asked someone once why they went jumping round these places
like Badminton and these other three-day event things, and they said:
"It's to keep it as realistic as possible - just as though they were
riding through the open countryside."
Right. Fair enough. But I live in the countryside, and you can't go
fucking anywhere without having to slow down or stop while some chinless
fuckers come and leap over hedges and run across the road on horseback.
So what I suggest is this: to keep things as realistic as possible, they
should get people in Ford Fiestas to drive arounf the eventing course at
random, causing all manner of mayhem and havoc. That way it'd be just
like real life. Throw a few hunt saboteurs in as well for good measure,
and Bob's your uncle!
The only people who go watching these things...well, they fall into two
categories, actually. There are those fucking inbred upper class types
who go along in their Range Rovers with their Fortnum & Mason hampers
packed with caviar and Pimms; and there's the sad fucking twats who
watch the Horse of the Year Show from their scummy suburban shitholes
and aspire to win the lottery one day so that they can join in all the
horsey good fun. And, of course, the Royal Family. But they don't really
qualify as people.
The only thing worth watching in the summer is the athletics. Oh, yes.
And why? Because the women wear all those skimpy revealing outfits now,
and there's always some runner from Africa whose tits come bouncing out
of her vest during the 10,000 metres. All those lithe Nigerian sprinters
and German high jumpers, and the super slo-mo replays of women in the
long jump pit as they fish their gussets from the cracks of their arses.
Fucking wonderful. Fuck the rest, let's skip to the Olympics and have
done with it. As well as the athletics there's always the women's
gymnastics.
Wayy-heyy!! Gary Glitter...we know how you feel.
--
Arthur Thacker
http://forum.onecenter.com/athacker
http://www.millersfield.demon.co.uk/archives.htm
Gez
--
Gez
Because half a dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the fields ring with
their importunate chink ... do not imagine that those who make the noise are
the only inhabitants of the field.
(Edmund Burke, Reflections on the Revolution in France.)
"Arthur Thacker" <Art...@millersfield.demon.co.uk> wrote in message
news:kE6Y+1BL...@millersfield.demon.co.uk...
RedKopŽ
Now played in the summer on puffty green grass instead of hard nosed mud?
Where's the Southern softies games for summer?
--
ԿԬ
Del
-----
RedKop
ICQ:37699431
Red...@bigfoot.com
--------------------------------------
"Gez" <gpl...@NOSPAMyahoo.com> wrote in message
news:OD_T4.668$S21....@news.iol.ie...
mrsth...@cuntsville.co.uk
.demon.co.uk>, Arthur Thacker <Art...@millersfield.demon.co.uk> writes
Art.
You're always at your best when in pain, eh? I watch ya yell in your
kip, you crip, and I sit here laughing my fucking head off as you do?
You cunt.
--
mrsthacker
Vladikavkaz
RedKopŽ <Red...@bigfoot.com> wrote in message
news:8fq3ru$dng$1...@newsg1.svr.pol.co.uk...
> Aw come on - there's that great Northern sport - Rugby League?
>
> Now played in the summer on puffty green grass instead of hard nosed mud?
>
> Where's the Southern softies games for summer?
>
>
Awfully good fun, what!
Red Devil
Vladikavkaz <vladi...@fuckyou.co.uk> wrote in message
news:958475078.12161.0...@news.demon.co.uk...
Anyone fancy a quick round of the old fox hunting followed by cream cakes on
the green?
--
Red Devil
<<<<< ICQ UIN 19291256 >>>>>
<<{{(( Replace the .com with .co.uk to email me ))}}>>
<<{{(( Make sure you type RedDevi1 not RedDevil ))}}>>
Paul Graham
Peter L <ne...@abc.co.uk> spouted this shite
>On Mon, 15 May 2000 22:50:03 +0100, Arthur Thacker
><Art...@millersfield.demon.co.uk> wrote:
>
>> All those lithe Nigerian sprinters
>>and German high jumpers, and the super slo-mo replays of women in the
>>long jump pit as they fish their gussets from the cracks of their arses.
>>Fucking wonderful.
>>
>>
>jump the long jump is virtually obsolete. That hop, skip and jump
>action ensures that whatever they're wearing ends up wedged firmly
>betwen their cheeks by the time they land in the pit. Not that I've
>really noticed ;-)
And of course...women triple jumpers have white husbands who pretend to
be racially attacked and sned their wives hate mail as a way of getting
cheap publicity.
--
Paul Graham
Anfield - home of the most successful club in English history.