I’m imagining what would be my worst ever day out at a sporting event and it would probably be this:
Uncle (south-west Londoner, uncle by marriage) has a spare ticket to the ‘Chels’ and I’m in London, so I think “fuck it, I may as well go and watch”. Show up and there is some long-necked cunt in the seat directly in front of me wittering on to his disinterested on-off girlfriend. Trying to show her how knowledgeable about the game he is: “Cucurella? Legs have gone. Get rid.” The type of cunt who gets up and disturbs everyone ten minutes before half-time so he can go and get his half-time snacks and use the pisser because he has a woman’s bladder. 42 minutes: Chelsea score, cunt has missed it.
Fighting his way back through the half-time traffic in the wrong direction with two cups of hot choc, he spills them both, one scalding some auld cunt on the leg, the other one all down his own Billionaire Boys Club-emblazoned front. “Never mind,” he says, “Up the Chels! Wa-hey! ZIGGER ZAGGER ZIGGER ZAGGER OI OI OI!” No-one responds. A Chelsea headhunter refrains from lamping him, fearing another ban from the ground. Long-necked cunt carries on relentlessly throughout the second half.
