Those of you who want to fight, please remain seated
If the pond-life element of the football supporters’ world wants to fight, let ‘em. Anybody who prefers not to can go and enjoy a pint or ride public transport in the reassurance that the knuckle-dragging monosyllabic tossers are knocking each other even more senseless in a controlled environment.
You don’t even have to support football, you can just tour the stadiums up and down the country braying like electrocuted bullocks and pointing at nothing until the real fans leave to enjoy themselves in peace while you exorcise your frustrations at having no redeeming features, if only for a few days. Maybe sponsorship from a cheap lager brand and 20p to spend on chips and sweets for every tooth you hand in at the end. After all, we don’t want ‘our’ players out for four weeks with ‘a molar in the arse-cheek’, do we?
Seriously. Let’s do it. It makes sense. Just like city centres should be moved out to the suburban shopping centres and fenced in at weekends – if you don’t want a fight, be out by midnight. After that it’s a free-for-all and a bin lorry will arrive in the morning to take the broken glass, bloody Ben Sherman shirts and hundreds of dismembered, strangely quiet morons to a nearby landfill.
I mean, what’s the point in picking a fight with someone who’s not into fighting anyway? It’s like beating up old ladies, or kicking sheep. How does that make anyone feel better? What does it prove, exactly, beyond cowardice? At least pick on someone who wants a similar homoerotic channel of temporary release – whose wife also probably doesn’t care if he never comes home. Okay, gobshites – time to have a proper fight, to the death. It’d be a great way to cull a few, eh? Evolution and all that?
I couldn’t care less how the isolated Birmingham incident might affect our World Cup bid. Couldn’t give a hoot. Some tits broke some stuff that didn’t belong to them, threw bits of it in the air and pushed other blokes around for a bit because their lives are rubbish. They’re not ‘passionate’ or even that dangerous – just depressingly thick and boring, and bent on ruining it for people who prefer to avoid tense situations. And anyway, I think it’s fair to say: as a whole, we may be the ugliest, fattest and most bitter bunch of national supporters around, but our penchant for chinning one another and being ignorant, frightened little racists is like our football – once famous, now a bit tiresome – and no way as impressive as at least ten others’. You know who you are.
I’d like a World Cup in my country, but I’ll live if we don’t, and I probably won’t attack people who look like they might come from the country that does get 2018 just because my girlfriend retches every time I take my shirt off. We get it – hooray. We don’t – let’s move on, and all grow up a bit.
I’m not saying we should go all sensible and speccy twat bald middle-class broadsheet chin-scratchin ‘n’ that. A rocking stadium and a bit of group gesticulation is part of the game. Knowing that a huge chorus of support can turn a game is just beautiful, man. Loving your team so much it can reduce you to tears of joy or despair can be a uniting experience and a transcendental one.
Why does it have to come in the same package as unprovoked childish violence in public places? Because on the whole, people are horrid useless scum, that’s why, and there’s nowt politically correct or ethical we can do about it. So shall we just do our best to ignore and avoid it, and get on with our lives? Eh?
What are you starin’ at?
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