The Writing`s On The Wall
by 
Mac
|
Posted: Thursday, July 8, 2004 Word Count: 299 Summary: Not for the challenge and NOT for the easily offended. This might be in a book that's coming out in a couple of months about what it's like to be a Leeds fan. |
The Writing’s On The Wall
I hate glory-chasers. Full stop.
I’m going to say that again.
I hate glory-chasers.
Saturday morning overtime but it’s alright ‘cos we’ll be done in time to get washed and still have a gallon before kick-off and nearly half of us here are going. Me, Biz, Andy, Jimmy and another 40,000 of us are in my team so you’re never going to beat us. Well, are you?
But there’s a couple in here who aren’t in the team ‘cept they’re not that slack to wear the wrong shirt on match day.
And ‘cos I’ll never learn I’m in the bog shitting out last night’s curry and beer and reading the graffiti and I’ve read it all before and written half of it anyway when I see a new bit scrawled in puny biro.
“Billy Bremner Was A Queer.”
I get up and wipe my arse red raw with anger as if I’m scrubbing the bastard wall clean. I’m not having that.
Back out into the warehouse and I’m looking round to see if any of the Man U fans are working this morning. I pass Andy, one of the supervisors, who’s carrying a clipboard and marker pen. We’ll be the same rank in the stands this afternoon.
“My guts are rotten,” he says.
“Don’t breathe in. I’ve just been in there.”
“Smelly git.”
I spend the rest of the morning thinking about the match and about the beer beforehand that I need to sort my guts out. I’m watching the clock. Finishing at eleven. Five to, and I decide to have another shit before clocking off. Back into the same cubicle.
And there, written beneath the anorexic biro, in bold marker pen is some new graffiti.
SAY IT TO MY FACE, SOFT CUNT.
One-nil.
I hate glory-chasers. Full stop.
I’m going to say that again.
I hate glory-chasers.
Saturday morning overtime but it’s alright ‘cos we’ll be done in time to get washed and still have a gallon before kick-off and nearly half of us here are going. Me, Biz, Andy, Jimmy and another 40,000 of us are in my team so you’re never going to beat us. Well, are you?
But there’s a couple in here who aren’t in the team ‘cept they’re not that slack to wear the wrong shirt on match day.
And ‘cos I’ll never learn I’m in the bog shitting out last night’s curry and beer and reading the graffiti and I’ve read it all before and written half of it anyway when I see a new bit scrawled in puny biro.
“Billy Bremner Was A Queer.”
I get up and wipe my arse red raw with anger as if I’m scrubbing the bastard wall clean. I’m not having that.
Back out into the warehouse and I’m looking round to see if any of the Man U fans are working this morning. I pass Andy, one of the supervisors, who’s carrying a clipboard and marker pen. We’ll be the same rank in the stands this afternoon.
“My guts are rotten,” he says.
“Don’t breathe in. I’ve just been in there.”
“Smelly git.”
I spend the rest of the morning thinking about the match and about the beer beforehand that I need to sort my guts out. I’m watching the clock. Finishing at eleven. Five to, and I decide to have another shit before clocking off. Back into the same cubicle.
And there, written beneath the anorexic biro, in bold marker pen is some new graffiti.
SAY IT TO MY FACE, SOFT CUNT.
One-nil.