Tuesday, 29 June 2010
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
I am at a loss to explain my incredulous rage. I love the World Cup me. I fucking love it. I make no apologies for it, deal with it, I'm hopelessly involved. I'm in over my head. I am drowning in facts. And i FUCKING LOVE IT!
Now i need to be clear. I hate adverts at the best of times. Opportunistic ads that cash in on the prevailing social phenomenon of the time, can suck my fetid bellend. To this end, the cunts at Carlsberg have overstepped that mark by a HUGE chalk.
Their "If Carlsberg did teamtalks" advert has pushed my brain to the very corner of aneurysm. For starters lets list the helmets cavalcade of cunts they've talked into appearing shall we!
Steve Davis. (Past it pub sportsman, essentially an irrelevence)
Steve Redgrave (There is nothing this man won't do to avoid spending time with his wife, leave the closet you boat faced shitehawk, and for fuck's sake, all you did was sit down and move your arms. If you want to impress me, wank off a golden eagle, for kicks!)
Trevor Brooking (Scored with his head once)
Psycho (get a grip man)
Ellen FUCKING MacArthur (I had to look this up, as i thought it was a small boy, and my ire at her is far too great for a bit in parentheses i can tell you! FUCKING SHREW FACED TEAR SYPHON).
Kelly Holmes.(She won two gold medals you know, that's what she's good at, running. This would be a good memory if she didn't keep fucking turning up on every half baked celebrity does a sport show, stiltedly reading lines and pretending to understand what the fuck is going on. Imbecile)
Carl Fogarty. (Bike riding young old Steptoe. The bike did the work, you just sat on it and pretended it was a 100 mile per hour penis)
Clive Woodward. (Southampton fans must love this bit. You look like an even less in touch version of William Hague. This makes you some form of ubercunt. Get your egg chasing fingers out of football you weeping priapism)
Ranulph Fiennes. (Well done posh bloke, you can wander off into dangerous places and leave your family wondering if you'll ever come back alive, or with requisite fingers and toes. Tell you what, stay at home and stop being such a personality devoid seeker of danger at the expense of those who invariably rescue you or end up having to cope with you when you get home. Going to the poles and losing fingers doesn't make you a hero, it makes you a fucking tool, a fucking tool with fucked up semi stump hands. CUNT)
Jeff Stelling. (This saddens me, i love Jeff)
Kasabian. (I can't start on this one, i won't ever stop)
Soccer AM's Tubes. (WTF?)
Soccer AM's Rocket. (see above)
Ian Botham. (Oh FFS!)
and then, the worst part...."FOR SIR BOBBY!"
*blood asplodes with boil*
The reason for my anger?
THEY'RE A FUCKING DANISH BEER COMPANY!
WHAT IN SHITFIDDLING PISSWIZARDRY HAVE THEY GOT TO DO WITH ENGLAND?
WHY ARE ALL THESE BLITHERING TWATSWORDS APPEARING IN THIS?
DO THEY NOT THINK I, SPECIFICALLY ME, HATED THEM ALL ENOUGH ALREADY?
TAYLOR, I THOUGHT I COULDN'T LOATHE YOU ANY MORE, BUT YOU HAVE SURPASSED YOURSELF YOU SWEATY TRIPE FACED GLAND GRENADE.
Seriously, i'm fuming.
I would gladly piss into the eyes of everyone involved, then scoop their eyes out with cervical smear devices, fill the cavities with the minced offal of their offspring, and set the lobsters onto them. THE FIRE LOBSTERS!
I need to lay dowm.
And laugh at the French making an epic aching ball of it all.
as you fucking were.
Here it is by the way....cuntsberg