Archive | April, 2012

Man pulled alive from the ruins of John Terry.

16 Apr

A human being appears to have survived in the wreckage of John Terry, after a voice inside him was heard admitting the ball “probably didn’t go over the line” for Chelsea’s second goal against Spurs at the weekend.

Hopes had faded of finding any sentient life in the catastrophic shit-scape that is the former England captain and shaggist, following the sudden and total collapse of every aspect of his life two years. A spokesman said “We’d thought that no-one could survive the sheer scale of the destruction brought about by his inability to keep his Old Monk in the Monastery. Then you have all the racist allegations – but miracle of miracles – it appears some tiny part of his decency has survived. He must have kept himself alive all this time by sucking the moisture out of a fat wad of tenners”.

“Either that or the big man upstairs has been keeping an eye out for him”, he said, pointing to Roman Abrahamovich’s office.

A weak squeaky voice was heard emanating from within the wreckage of John Terry after the game yesterday, and reporters rushed to the scene. 

“We heard this pathetic weedy voice coming up from the ruins” said Stevie Foster of the Daily Whatever. “Someone shouted “Shit, he’s swallowed David Beckham! But then someone went “my god – some of his respectability appears to be alive!”. We immediately went to check our wives and girlfriends were nowhere in the vicinity, then literally walked back several hours later to dig him out”

At first the voice emanating from John Terry appeared to be asking for water, said Steve, “but then we realised he was asking for a £500k Nike endorsement and that if we said anything to the press his mum would come round and steal our washing machines”.

However, eventually it became clear that the man in John Terry was making a genuinely fair point about the legitimacy of Chelsea’s second goal. He was rushed to a nearby lawyers who attempted to save his image as football’s number one bell-end with a massive injunction, sorry – injection.

Simon Cowell’s plans to put out a charity single to raise funds to support the ruined footballer are now on hold. Artists such as Sting, Neneh Cherry and some of Sting’s friends were to release a specially recorded version of “Everybody Hurts (when John gets his cock out)”.


The Refs in Black

11 Apr

It’s the R.I.Bs, uh, here come the R.I.Bs

Here come the Refs in Black (Refs in Black)
Booking non-offenders
Na na na

We’re the bastards in the black – remember that
Just in case two players make contact
The whistle held by me – referee
Means what you think you saw, you did not see
So don’t moan because it’s not fair
I’ve got no hair but a black suit with the crap earpiece in
Run like a girl, no football sense
Punish fair tackle, miss violence
No we ain’t on Fergie’s Christmas Card list
Wrongly dismissed, take names, lino wont assist
The decision’s strange, but don’t talk back
Cause you never quite know if the referee’s a prat
Uh ah

Here come the Refs in Black (Refs in Black)
They won’t book misbehavers (woh woh oh)
Here come the Refs in Black (Refs in Black)
Going to Specsavers (Going to Specsavers)

Let me see ya just bounce-up with me, bounce-up with me

Bounce-up with me c’mon

Let me see ya just slide tackle, just slide tackle etc

Ad lib to fade

Frankly, Mr Shankly

10 Apr

Cut to a hospital ward. Liverpool FC legend Bill Shankly is lying in bed. A doctor walks in, looks at Shankly’s chart, then tuts ominously.

Doctor: “Sorry Mr Shankly, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for you”

Shankly: “Eh? What do you mean? I’ve only got an ingrowing toe-nail!”

Doctor: “Well, the thing is, you know what you said about football being more important than life and death?

Shankly: “Yes?”

Doctor: “Well, we agreed…  so we sold all the operating equipment to buy new goalposts for the hospital football pitch”

Shankly: “You did what?”

Doctor: “Yes, and I’m afraid the under-11’s are using the Operating Theatre for keepy-uppy practise”

Cut to shot of kids playing footy in the operating theatre, knocking over drips, smashing equipment etc.

Shankly: “My God! How long have I got?”

The Doctor switches on an ECG screen. He tunes it to Match Of The Day.

Doctor: “3 minutes of injury time”

Shankly: “Well, have you no drugs? No painkillers?”

Doctor: “Let’s have a look in the old kitbag, shall we?”

He picks up a manky Adidas kitbag and starts rummaging through it. He pulls out a bike pump with no adaptor, a single shinpad, a flat football.

Doctor: “Well, we’ve got some Deep Heat. Not much good on an ingrowing toenail though. Oh, look! We’ve got a magic sponge! That works on everything, even if it’s only a piece of basic marine life dipped in water…”

Doctor starts to work on Shankly’s toe with the Magic Sponge then suddenly looks at his watch.

Doctor: “Oh goodness, is that the time?”

Shankly: “What is it?”

Doctor: “We’re playing St Thomas’s at three !”

He pulls off his white coat revealing full football kit, boots etc. He runs out.

Shankly: “Oh god. I’m going to die!”

Shankly looks to his right and sees the Grim Reaper leaning over his bed.

Shankly: “Who… who are you?”

Grim Reaper: “Don’t you know? I’m the bastard in the black!”

Shankly: “Oh, ha-bloody-ha”

Grim Reaper chuckles.


The Wood

10 Apr

I found my childhood heaven in the wood

Where, by day, I’d wander, drawn to explore

Every hedge and stream and clump of trees

By a sense beyond curiosity.

In silent sunlight I’d lay in the grass

Staring spellbound, as the god of the wood

Carved up clouds with light-sabre vapour trails,

And scrambled squadrons of buzzing spitfires

To strafe silver-wet spider-web targets,

And sent his brave dandelion-seed spies

On perilous secret missions, dropping

Deep behind enemy lines.

At night, I’d lay in bed beyond midnight

In fearsome silence, the forest awake

And at my window. Undead armies lurked

Like shadows among the towering trees,

Their zombie-eyed, vampire-fanged faces glimpsed

In grimaces of maniacal rage.

Above, the swastika’d wings of dragons

Swished and circled in storms of tracer fire,

And massively, upon a throne of skulls,

There sat The Demon King; his shredded wrists

Spitting with exposed robotic circuits,

His flesh oozing acid, awash with worms,

And his laser-eyes scouring and piercing

Every fibre of my childhood being

From beneath his crown of thorns.