This Is Just A Tribute

An excellent review of Colplay’s new album appeared on Quietus today.  I recommend everyone read it.  The following is an homage to that review.  I have replaced names related to coldplay with names related to Newcastle United.  
It was a remarkably close fit.
Several years in the making, Premier League club Newcastle’s current squad, essentially a concept piece about Mike Ashley’s break-up with Joe Kinnear, has certainly garnered a number of extremely favourable reviews for finishing top half. In today’s harsh critical climate when major clubs can expect to be torn to pieces by a fearless football press regardless of the consequences, that’s remarkable indeed. It’s all the more remarkable given that all things considered, Newcastle’s United is from its arse to its f***ing elbow, one, long stagnant f***ing pool of premium grade f***ing cockwash! I would rather chew off my f***ing scrotum than ever watch again this boneless f***ing melange of morose f***ing piss-shit! I would rather eat an entire f***ing yurt, washed down with f***ing beige paint recently shat out of an incontinent yak’s anus! Put it this way; so remorselessly insubstantial is this team that if it were submitted to the f***ing British Homeopathic Association as a f***ing potential remedy, they’d f***ing knock it back, saying: “No good, mate. You’ve over-diluted it, you silly twat!”
Never in human f***ing history, since fish first slithered onto the f***ing land and sprouted limbs has there been a more nondescript f***ing season than f***ing 2013/14 and never has there been a more nondescript f***ing club than those gelatinous c***lords Newcastle! They made Dido sound like Bessie f***ing Smith.  Pardew’s knack for trudging up and down the line like a middle aged man in f***ing jacket and jumper strolling to the f***ing corner shop to buy the f***ing Daily Express then headbutting players like he’d just been kneed in the f***ing bollocks caught the zeitgeist of the dullest, do-nothing, think-wishfully pundits of all f***ing time! In the Football hall of fame Newcastle sit near the f***ing exit like a f***ing birch veneer occasional f***ing table! Getting excited about f***ing Newcastle is like getting excited about the f***ing Liberal Democrat Spring conference!
Anyway, Ashley hired f***ing Alan Pardew, that ghastly, gulping, puff-lipped, sick-making adulterer of goal-averse goop, they created their own f***ing hole in the f***ing club throwing cup games with Ashley warbling about how concerned they were about the f***ing finances, spawned a relegation battle and saddled the club with £130m of debt,  promoted every f***ing vapid strain of bullsh*t, anti-ambition, soul sapping nonsense while raking in the f***ing ackers like whorehounds and then finally said “keep going, you’re doing a damn fine job”, though it’s a f***ing wonder either of them could stay f***ing conscious in each other’s company at all, given that they’re the two most testicle-achingly f***ing tedious people on earth! And now the fans are sad. We feel like shit. And the club perfectly conveyed that unremittingly f***ing excremental condition last f***ing season!
So, problem one, Dan Gosling sets the f***ing dolorous tone. No goals and no assists from Yohan Cabay’e replacement, while f***ing Ben Arfa, Marveaux and Bigirimana or whoever the f*** try not to fall asleep on the f***ing bench. Next up, Magic Mbiwa. No, sorry, it’s not about actual magic. Tommy f***ing Cooper retrieving the f***ing ace of spades from a pack using a f***ing blindfolded wooden duck, not that. Nothing remotely entertaining. No, as f***ing ever, Alan Pardew’s here to suck all the f***ing joy out of the room like a giant f***ing Happiness Hoover! The captain of a league winning club in France gets nowhere near a game, playing second f***ing fiddle to Steven f***ing Taylor and Mike f***ing Williamson.  Still Ashley wants f***ing Pardew to remain.
At which point you have to say: For f***’s sake, why, man? Alan Pardew no longer being in your life would be like having a 14 inch long celery stick that’s been stuck up your arse for years surgically removed! You would be f***ing delirious! This team would turn in a series of f***ing honky-tonk piano-driven upbeat bangers with titles like ‘Wahoo!’ and ‘Thank F*** Almighty, Free At Last!’ and ‘I Don’t Have To stay back for corners No More!’, all accompanied to the sound of six-shooters fired into the f***ing ceiling with both hands! All your f***ing customers hate him, you are aware of that! But no, Mike is happy, so on we f***ing crawl through the cesspool of f***ing self-flagellation. I’d suggest you drown your f***ing sorrows, Mike, but it’d probably be best all round if you f***ing drowned yourself!
Next up; left backs, the parade of them is akin to watered down elephant smegma slowly dripping into a f***ing plastic bucket. 65 minutes on the board?  Switch the left backs.  Won a corner down the right wing?  Have the left back take it.  Conceded a goal on a resulting counter attack?  Blame the Left back for beiong out of position and replace him again. Concede again and cut to a fan’s face – like a dying kitten mewing for help, then remembering that this is a world with f***ing Newcastle in it and deciding not to f***ing bother.
After Mort, Wise, Llambias and Kinnear Mike is alone, alone. I’m not f***ing surprised. Any evening out with him’s gonna be a f***ing brief one, with mates making their excuses and back home in time for f***ing Channel 4 News!
Next ‘Obertan’. Seriously, just f*** off, you insufferable f***ing streak of twatrot! ‘
And so the team wends on – imagine Christ, instead of having to carry the f***ing cross to f***ing Calvary having to carry a giant, ten foot long flaccid penis instead – that’s how watching to this f***ing team feels by this stage!
Finally, the f***ing owner himself. “I hope that the fans get what they want and that the next owner is someone who can lavish the amount of money on the club that the fans want.” He said.  Tell you what, Ashley, you woeful f***ing waste of a snail’s time, here’s one way of f***ing finding out – why not run into that f***ing brick wall head first? Twenty times, just to be f***ing sure?
There’s only one f***ing substance on this earth more colourless and full of f***ing nothing than Newcastle united in 2014 and that’s f***ing Alan Pardew’s piss!

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