Day 1310 and 1311. The momentous day has finally arrived. After a refreshing summer in his crypt, The B.O. has finally awoken from his slumber, and is sitting contentedly in his shed with a nice cup of coffee and a little amaretto biscuit. Around him, standing quietly, are his motley gang. The atmosphere is calm, but there is a perceptible tension in the air. For no one has told him yet. Meanwhile, The B.O looks round the shed, taking in the welcome sight of a box of 50mm screws here, a container of assorted butterfly nuts there and a box of reconditioned rawlplugs in the corner. He sighs. It is good to be back once again amongst the the old crap he loves. He looks now at the people round him with a contented nod. He had hand picked every one of them. Yes, they might be a bunch of bloodsucking arseholes, but by God, they were HIS bloodsucking bunch of arseholes. He gives a small smile. Now, finally, for the IMPORTANT news. " So," he says, " How much did we get then?" There is an awkward shuffling of feet all round, and everyone mumbles and looks down at their hands. The B.O looks at them in surprise. "Well?" he says " Did we get the £70 million ok?" There is a bit of coughing. The B.O looks round in surprise. "Don't tell me we only got £60 million from those Aussie wankers!" There is a pause. Then one individual steps forward. " Your Excellency......I'm afraid the Man from Down Under, he say.....no." The B.O looks at him aghast. " You mean to say..." he says in a small strange voice, " I still own... de....fooking....cloob...?" The individual gives a nod. " Yes, oh most noble Presidente, Holder of the Order of the Fandango Star." "AAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!" screams The B.O, picking up his coffee cup and throwing at the wall, and flinging his amaretto biscuit to the floor and jumping up and down on it repeatedly. " I'M STILL HERE!!! OHHHHHH FUCKKKK!" Well, let's leave the B.O welcoming the start of the season in his own inimitable style, amid the cries of " SELL A PLAYER FFS!" and " MY BISCUIT!" and let's hope we all have the sort of season we want.
Day 1310 and 1311. The momentous day has finally arrived. After a refreshing summer in his crypt, The B.O. has finally awoken from his slumber, and is sitting contentedly in his shed with a nice cup of coffee and a little amaretto biscuit. Around him, standing quietly, are his motley gang. The atmosphere is calm, but there is a perceptible tension in the air. For no one has told him yet. Meanwhile, The B.O looks round the shed, taking in the welcome sight of a box of 50mm screws here, a container of assorted butterfly nuts there and a box of reconditioned rawlplugs in the corner. He sighs. It is good to be back once again amongst the the old crap he loves. He looks now at the people round him with a contented nod. He had hand picked every one of them. Yes, they might be a bunch of bloodsucking arseholes, but by God, they were HIS bloodsucking bunch of arseholes. He gives a small smile. Now, finally, for the IMPORTANT news. " So," he says, " How much did we get then?" There is an awkward shuffling of feet all round, and everyone mumbles and looks down at their hands. The B.O looks at them in surprise. "Well?" he says " Did we get the £70 million ok?" There is a bit of coughing. The B.O looks round in surprise. "Don't tell me we only got £60 million from those Aussie wankers!" There is a pause. Then one individual steps forward. " Your Excellency......I'm afraid the Man from Down Under, he say.....no." The B.O looks at him aghast. " You mean to say..." he says in a small strange voice, " I still own... de....fooking....cloob...?" The individual gives a nod. " Yes, oh most noble Presidente, Holder of the Order of the Fandango Star." "AAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!" screams The B.O, picking up his coffee cup and throwing at the wall, and flinging his amaretto biscuit to the floor and jumping up and down on it repeatedly. " I'M STILL HERE!!! OHHHHHH FUCKKKK!" Well, let's leave the B.O welcoming the start of the season in his own inimitable style, amid the cries of " SELL A PLAYER FFS!" and " MY BISCUIT!" and let's hope we all have the sort of season we want.
It is another Saturday morning and The B.O is looking rather glum in his shed as Mrs B.O brings him his morning coffee and amaretto. Not even a special delivery of a box of galvanised rivets has been able to lift his mood. She does not really want to know, but Mrs B.O feels obliged to ask what's wrong. The B.O gives a disgruntled shrug. "Running football clubs is really boring." he says with a frown. "I mean, what's in it for me? I only get to sell players every now and then. I have to keep paying for this shit and that shit, the customers are all a bunch of stupid arseholes who don't seem to understand that I bought the club for my own benefit not theirs. Jesus, how dim are they? Here I am trying to build a dystopian nightmare at a football club and all I get is a load of fucking grief! How unfair is that?" He takes a small bite of his amaretto biscuit and continues: "And people are moaning about some of the innovative ways I've been trying to make money at these cash black holes! I mean, recently people, probably all members of CARD,( whatever that is) were carping on during a game about how I had a team drilling for oil out the back of the stands! And how they went on! It was "spoiling them watching the footbal" or some shit! How fucking selfish! If ANYONE should have been complaining it should have been me! All we got was 200 gallons of old piss, and half a ton of fag ends!" At this point, a little bit of amaretto biscuit goes down the wrong way, and his rant is cut short, as he tries to cough it back up. Well let's leave the B.O gasping for a bit of air, as Mrs B.O whacks him helpfully on the back with an old cricket bat. He's still here. Oh fuck....
Day 1319. Well, yesterday I discovered on a visit to Hatchlands Park that Charles II looks a bit like a latter day Ritchie Blackmore ( or vice verce depending how you look at it). But despite that amazing historical discovery, regrettably the main news is that he is still here ( and I don't mean Charles or Ritchie) Oh Smoke On The Water fuck.....
It is yet another Saturday morning and The B.O is sitting in his shed with yet another cup of coffee, and Mrs B.O standing next to him yet again. But today in exasperation he finally cries: " Darling, the little bit of amaretto biscuit got stuck last week! It's all been sorted! Do you REALLY have to still keep on hitting me on the back with the cricket bat??!!" " Yes I do, my sweet, better safe than sorry." she replies, giving him another massive whack with the bat. " Ow!" yells the B.O. " Oh no, has it come back?" she says hopefully, raising the bat even higher. " No, it's fine, look!" he says hastily and opens his mouth wide. Mrs B.O tells a step back and shudders. It was like looking at a 200 year old piano. " Anyway, " says the B.O, moving on hurriedly, "I am just about to take a conference call with people from de kloob, and I want you here to listen in to hear my latest stroke of genius!" He presses a button underneath the bench and a big computer screen appears majestically from within a large box of 6" rivets. Onscreen are the faces of several people linked by the conference call. " So, " The B.O says brightly to them, " as you all know, I am an amazing fucking visionary, and part of my skill set is the ability to keep up with current events, modern trends, and have my finger firmly on the pulse of what's happening NOW." He pauses. " Wasn't it awful about that Titanic?" He says with a small shake of his head. Mrs. B.O raises her eyes to the ceiling wearily. " Anyway," continues The B.O, " one of our key problems is getting OUR message across, and it is largely because of one thing." He looks at every face for a moment. " Fake Fans." he says simply. " And I have been watching in the news about someone with a similar sort of problem." He continues. " So we are going to bypass CARD ( whatever that is) and their Fake Views and I have decided I am going to get my message across to the fans by tweeting directly to them." " Oh dear God." mutters Mrs. B.O. raising the cricket bat slowly. " In fact, you are about to witness my first tweets to the real fans!" cries The B.O. He lifts up his phone triumphantly and presses a button. And everyone sees his first tweet appear on the screen: "You wankers! BAD!" There is an awful silence. But the B.O is already typing out his next tweet: " We won't let the Fake Fans tear down the statue of Sam Batarang, our legendary goal keeper! MUST STOP!" A few people look at each other in bewilderment. " No one wants to tear down Sam's statue, do they?" whispers one to another who shrugs. Another tweet appears: " Following the massive popularity of my dancing, I am pleased to announce a huge new dancing venue to replace the hospitality suites ! The Fantango-Dango!" At this point, Mrs B.O has had enough and she leans across and whacks him firmly with the bat. He disappears under the bench. She leans forward and addresses everyone on the screen. " Sorry everyone, I'm afraid we're going to have to stop there, he's got that little bit of amaretto biscuit stuck again." And with that she presses a button and the computer screen slips back seamlessly into the box of rivets. Oh dear, what a shame about that bit of biscuit. Well let's just hope he can get back on message soon. He's still here. Oh fuck...
Comments
Oh fuck!
He's still here.
Oh fook di fook...
He's still here.
Oh momentous fuck....
He's still here.
Oh humongous fuck....
He's still here.
Oh whopping great fuck...
The momentous day has finally arrived.
After a refreshing summer in his crypt, The B.O. has finally awoken from his slumber, and is sitting contentedly in his shed with a nice cup of coffee and a little amaretto biscuit.
Around him, standing quietly, are his motley gang.
The atmosphere is calm, but there is a perceptible tension in the air.
For no one has told him yet.
Meanwhile, The B.O looks round the shed, taking in the welcome sight of a box of 50mm screws here, a container of assorted butterfly nuts there and a box of reconditioned rawlplugs in the corner.
He sighs.
It is good to be back once again amongst the the old crap he loves.
He looks now at the people round him with a contented nod.
He had hand picked every one of them.
Yes, they might be a bunch of bloodsucking arseholes, but by God, they were HIS bloodsucking bunch of arseholes.
He gives a small smile.
Now, finally, for the IMPORTANT news.
" So," he says, " How much did we get then?"
There is an awkward shuffling of feet all round, and everyone mumbles and looks down at their hands.
The B.O looks at them in surprise.
"Well?" he says " Did we get the £70 million ok?"
There is a bit of coughing.
The B.O looks round in surprise.
"Don't tell me we only got £60 million from those Aussie wankers!"
There is a pause.
Then one individual steps forward.
" Your Excellency......I'm afraid the Man from Down Under, he say.....no."
The B.O looks at him aghast.
" You mean to say..." he says in a small strange voice, " I still own... de....fooking....cloob...?"
The individual gives a nod.
" Yes, oh most noble Presidente, Holder of the Order of the Fandango Star."
"AAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!" screams The B.O, picking up his coffee cup and throwing at the wall, and flinging his amaretto biscuit to the floor and jumping up and down on it repeatedly.
" I'M STILL HERE!!! OHHHHHH FUCKKKK!"
Well, let's leave the B.O welcoming the start of the season in his own inimitable style, amid the cries of " SELL A PLAYER FFS!" and " MY BISCUIT!" and let's hope we all have the sort of season we want.
Good result Saturday.
But he's still here.
Oh fuck....
Double unlucky for us.
He's still here.
Oh double fuck...
A moment of literary genius.
He's still here.
Oh holy fuck, Batman...
He's still here.
Oh fuck...
Still here.
Oh fuck....
It is another Saturday morning and The B.O is looking rather glum in his shed as Mrs B.O brings him his morning coffee and amaretto.
Not even a special delivery of a box of galvanised rivets has been able to lift his mood.
She does not really want to know, but Mrs B.O feels obliged to ask what's wrong.
The B.O gives a disgruntled shrug.
"Running football clubs is really boring." he says with a frown. "I mean, what's in it for me? I only get to sell players every now and then. I have to keep paying for this shit and that shit, the customers are all a bunch of stupid arseholes who don't seem to understand that I bought the club for my own benefit not theirs. Jesus, how dim are they? Here I am trying to build a dystopian nightmare at a football club and all I get is a load of fucking grief! How unfair is that?"
He takes a small bite of his amaretto biscuit and continues:
"And people are moaning about some of the innovative ways I've been trying to make money at these cash black holes! I mean, recently people, probably all members of CARD,( whatever that is) were carping on during a game about how I had a team drilling for oil out the back of the stands! And how they went on! It was "spoiling them watching the footbal" or some shit! How fucking selfish! If ANYONE should have been complaining it should have been me! All we got was 200 gallons of old piss, and half a ton of fag ends!"
At this point, a little bit of amaretto biscuit goes down the wrong way, and his rant is cut short, as he tries to cough it back up.
Well let's leave the B.O gasping for a bit of air, as Mrs B.O whacks him helpfully on the back with an old cricket bat.
He's still here.
Oh fuck....
Well, yesterday I discovered on a visit to Hatchlands Park that Charles II looks a bit like a latter day Ritchie Blackmore ( or vice verce depending how you look at it).
But despite that amazing historical discovery, regrettably the main news is that he is still here ( and I don't mean Charles or Ritchie)
Oh Smoke On The Water fuck.....
He's still here.
Oh fuck....
He's still here.
Oh midweek fuck....
"Strictly C*&t Dancing"
Any road, has the yellow toothed old coffin dodger bothered an undertakers this week?
No?
Oh bollocks!!!
That day is not today...
Oh.... FUCK!!!!!
Thursday. Bins out day.
If only it was as easy putting out some of the other rubbish things in life.....
He's still here.
Oh fuck...
For more than one reason this morning -
Oh fuck...
He's still here though
Oh Fuck
It is yet another Saturday morning and The B.O is sitting in his shed with yet another cup of coffee, and Mrs B.O standing next to him yet again.
But today in exasperation he finally cries:
" Darling, the little bit of amaretto biscuit got stuck last week! It's all been sorted! Do you REALLY have to still keep on hitting me on the back with the cricket bat??!!"
" Yes I do, my sweet, better safe than sorry." she replies, giving him another massive whack with the bat.
" Ow!" yells the B.O.
" Oh no, has it come back?" she says hopefully, raising the bat even higher.
" No, it's fine, look!" he says hastily and opens his mouth wide.
Mrs B.O tells a step back and shudders. It was like looking at a 200 year old piano.
" Anyway, " says the B.O, moving on hurriedly, "I am just about to take a conference call with people from de kloob, and I want you here to listen in to hear my latest stroke of genius!"
He presses a button underneath the bench and a big computer screen appears majestically from within a large box of 6" rivets.
Onscreen are the faces of several people linked by the conference call.
" So, " The B.O says brightly to them, " as you all know, I am an amazing fucking visionary, and part of my skill set is the ability to keep up with current events, modern trends, and have my finger firmly on the pulse of what's happening NOW."
He pauses.
" Wasn't it awful about that Titanic?" He says with a small shake of his head.
Mrs. B.O raises her eyes to the ceiling wearily.
" Anyway," continues The B.O, " one of our key problems is getting OUR message across, and it is largely because of one thing."
He looks at every face for a moment.
" Fake Fans." he says simply.
" And I have been watching in the news about someone with a similar sort of problem." He continues. " So we are going to bypass CARD ( whatever that is) and their Fake Views and I have decided I am going to get my message across to the fans by tweeting directly to them."
" Oh dear God." mutters Mrs. B.O. raising the cricket bat slowly.
" In fact, you are about to witness my first tweets to the real fans!" cries The B.O.
He lifts up his phone triumphantly and presses a button. And everyone sees his first tweet appear on the screen:
"You wankers! BAD!"
There is an awful silence. But the B.O is already typing out his next tweet:
" We won't let the Fake Fans tear down the statue of Sam Batarang, our legendary goal keeper! MUST STOP!"
A few people look at each other in bewilderment.
" No one wants to tear down Sam's statue, do they?" whispers one to another who shrugs.
Another tweet appears:
" Following the massive popularity of my dancing, I am pleased to announce a huge new dancing venue to replace the hospitality suites ! The Fantango-Dango!"
At this point, Mrs B.O has had enough and she leans across and whacks him firmly with the bat. He disappears under the bench.
She leans forward and addresses everyone on the screen.
" Sorry everyone, I'm afraid we're going to have to stop there, he's got that little bit of amaretto biscuit stuck again."
And with that she presses a button and the computer screen slips back seamlessly into the box of rivets.
Oh dear, what a shame about that bit of biscuit. Well let's just hope he can get back on message soon.
He's still here.
Oh fuck...
He's still here.
Oh long time fuck...
He's still here.
Oh fuck...