Be kind, you c***s

MAIDSTONE UNITED 1 HAMPTON & RICHMOND 2

Match Report by BLUE PASSPORT CUNT

Shortly after the Cummingsesque conclusion to this match. A heftily-built Hampton official barrelled up the stairs in a state of outrage and told a senior Maidstone counterpart: “There’s no excuse for that!”

“For what?” came the reply.

“He called one of players a See You Next Tuesday!” said Mr Outrage, pointing at another Maidstone official.

“Who did he call that?” the SMO replied.

“Our number seven!”

“Oh he is,” said the SMO, delivering the last word like Leslie Phillips on acid. It didn’t exactly calm the situation, but it was a lot more entertaining to watch than the last ten minutes of the match had been. It was also weird how genuinely cunted off Mr Outrage was, as if the c-bomb generated fury had robbed him of the pleasure of victory.

He should have been dry-cumming nearly as enthusiastically as the cunt from Radio Senile, but no. Someone had used the c-word and no greater outrage hath ever been witnessed in an English football ground.

Let’s digress here for a moment ladies and gentlemen. Sometime before Christmas I embarked on a futile argument with a Trump supporter, on a social media platform which has a track record for cunting up humanity. A friend was feeling a bit depressed, so I waded in with the consoling thought that within ten years there’s an excellent chance the orange cunt will not only be dead, but condemned to exist in some realm of the afterlife where he’s eating out Ann Widdecombe’s lovetrench while simultaneously taking it up the arse from Kim Jong Il.

Said friend laughed, but one of their in-laws was outraged by this remark and claimed there was “no excuse” for the lack of civility, which was apparently a greater crime that ramming your tiny hand into an unconsenting minge.

The reply interested me less than the tone, which was precisely echoed Mr Outrage today. Is there really “no excuse” for calling someone a cunt? Cunting is fine between consenting adults (see Ian McShane in Sexy Beast). Walker and Hume won us successive promotions using language that would have stripped the paint from the inside of Widdecombe’s chastity belt. And what about Rolf Harris? Michael Gove? Miers Porgan? Where are you supposed to go? “Ooooh, what a bounder. What a cad.”

Fuck off. Grow up and take your cunting like a man.

Cunting is also fine when people deserve it. The FA panel who rejected our appeals? CUNTS. Pig fuckers. Dog rapists. Three minutes of shitcuntagistic officating cost us a point and possibly three at Chippenham. The dog rapists’ refusal to admit they cunted up probably chalked off another point or three today.

(While we’re on hypotheticals, a day after it was revealed that Farage-rimming shitcunts AFC Fylde had spaffed £1.4 million down the Junior Hoillett and on a day when 750k-to-get-relegated FC were buttfucked 4–0 by Chesterfield, it’s also worth asking would results have been different if McClure hadn’t been nonced up by Gloucester.)

If you want a reasoned opinion of this game, ask one of the FWACs. (Fans Who Aren’t Cunts). I spoke to three or four FWACs after the game and once the initial rage had died down we agreed that while it wasn’t great and that while they probably deserved to nick it, it wasn’t that bad.

We nearly scored after a couple of minutes when Watto was thwarted by DCH. We did score after six when Ammo did his thing, the thing where the angle becomes so absurd you think he can’t score and then he does. And then we let them equalise, backing off The Cunt and allowing Some Other Cunt to turn in a rebound. Andre limped off after half an hour but Corne looked ok and two minutes into the second half we looked like we’d regained the lead when Watto finished after Akka’s knock-down, only for the cunting linesman to raise his cunting flag.

It all got a bit pissy. The Cunt fouled Ammo and went down clutching his face and the ref fell for it with all the naivety of a Daily Star reader who thinks he isn’t a racist because he once had a dangerwank while thinking about Priti Patel. Ammo and Iffy were, according to our mole on the far side, both “lucky” not to get a red for retaliating, although the concept of “Luck” here is fluid, especially if you belong to the school of thought that believes when some cunt gets wide that cunt deserves whatever’s fucking coming to him.

Ammo and Johnson glanced headers wide. Akka looped one over. We were denied what looked like a Peter Tatchell for a handball. Then the luck turned, as Wishart got away with what looked like barge when he was the last man. He cleared one off the line that looked like it might have gone over, and in stoppage time made another goal line clearance that might have earned us a point if we’d had George to Row Z the cunt. Instead they recycled the ball and fucking scored.

This went down as well as you might imagine, but we’re ninth and people think the club’s fucked. That’s their opinion and people are entitled to it, just like I’m entitled to hold this opinion:

I, like a number of the FWACs, am sick and fucking tired of you whingeing fucking Saunders Out Cunts thinking the fucking solution to fucking every fucking thing is to fucking sack some cunt, every fucking time we concede a cunting goal! The fucking owners listened to you fucking cunts when they fucking got rid of fucking JS1 and now where the fucking hell are we? You wanted it, you got it, fuck you!

“Oooh, well there’s no excuse for…”

FUCK YOU! You want George Fucking Borg as your manager? You want Mister Fucking Nice Guy? You want Mister Fucking Arse-the-Size-of-Belgium Backhander? There is literally no cunt we can employ who will satisfy your need be fucked off by the events taking place on a football field while simultaneously delivering us Champions League Football on a National South budget.

“Oooh, well I’m not going to renew my season ticket …”

Great! Don’t let the Piggott gates hit your Aldi-enhanced buttocks on the way out. Sit at home weeping into a tub of fucking peanut-butter ice cream and scooping the sand out of your vagina while watching Ant and Cunting Dec’s Saturday Cunting Night Cunting Takeway.

Cheers, see you next week.

And remember. Be kind.