Renton

They're literally waking themselves silly. Imagine living your life vicariously so you celebrate a Man United win over Southampton. Sad Mackem Bastards.

Mackems equalised I see.

Okay, Keith, the story. Keith’s Last Stand Keith Fuckwit sat in his dimly lit bungalow on the outskirts of Sunderland, nursing a lukewarm cup of instant coffee in his prized possession: a battered mug emblazoned with the Sunderland crest and the words 1973 FA Cup Winners. It was his daily reminder of a simpler, better time when men were men, footballers didn’t dive, and Sunderland reigned supreme—for one glorious afternoon at Wembley. Keith was 54 but retired. His official reason? "The bloody EU ruined everything!" Despite Brexit being nearly a decade behind him, Keith still blamed Brussels for his early exit from work as a forklift operator. "It’s all the immigrants and the regulations," he'd mutter to anyone who'd listen, which was mostly the crowd on the SMB (Sunderland Message Board), where he served as an overzealous moderator. The Glory of SMB On the SMB, Keith was king. From behind his keyboard, he enforced forum rules with an iron fist, banning “wronguns” and Newcastle fans with glee. He spent hours typing up rants about how "the Geordies are ruining football" and "Nigel Farage is a bloody genius." When he wasn’t banning users, he was making bold predictions about Sunderland’s future: "Promotion is nailed on this season, lads!" or "Newcastle’s bubble is about to burst, mark my words!" Unfortunately, Keith’s words were rarely worth marking. Every prediction he made fell flat. Sunderland had languished in League One longer than he cared to admit, while Newcastle soared, backed by their controversial Saudi owners. But Keith didn’t care for facts. "It’s all fake news," he declared. "Sportswashing, that’s what it is. They’ll implode." The Breaking Point It was February 2025 when Keith’s world came crashing down. He had reluctantly tuned in to the League Cup Final, muttering about how Newcastle would “bottle it” as they faced Liverpool. Deep down, he feared the worst but kept his ritual of bitter hope alive. And then it happened. Newcastle won. A thunderous 2-1 victory at Wembley, complete with a last-minute screamer from their star midfielder. The black-and-white stripes lifted the trophy, their fans erupted in celebration, and Keith… well, Keith erupted too. He stared at the TV in stunned silence, his face flushed with fury. His trembling hands gripped his 1973 mug. "Traitors! Cheats! Bloody Geordie-loving media!" he roared. Then, with a primal scream, he hurled the mug against the wall. It shattered into a hundred pieces, just like Keith’s dreams. The Final Shutdown Keith turned to the SMB for solace, but the board was ablaze with trolls and rival fans mocking Sunderland’s plight. He read a particularly cutting post from a Newcastle fan: "Cheers for your predictions, Keith. You’ve been wrong for 10 years straight! How’s the Chamionship treating you?" That was it. Keith snapped. Fueled by rage and his inability to cope with reality, he announced in a now-infamous post: "Due to new data protection regulations, the SMB is shutting down indefinitely. Blame Brussels!" It was a lie, of course. Keith simply couldn’t bear to face the ridicule any longer. He clicked the button to deactivate the board, his finger shaking with the weight of his delusions. Aftermath With the SMB gone, Keith retreated further into his bubble. He spent his days ranting at the TV, muttering about how the world had gone to the dogs. His only solace was his Brexit mug—a replacement for the one he’d shattered (bought from a man from Etsy based in Boldon) —bearing the slogan "We Got Our Country Back." But even Keith couldn’t fully escape reality. Sunderland were relegated to League One, Newcastle thrived, and his neighbors—former SMB members—whispered about his meltdown. In the end, Keith was a man defeated not by the world but by his own inability to change. For Keith, the 1973 mug wasn’t just a relic of Sunderland’s glory—it was a symbol of a life spent clinging to the past. And once it shattered, so did Keith’s delusions. Keith’s story is one of stubborn pride, self-inflicted isolation, and a deep hatred of change. Somewhere, Terry Fuckwit would surely nod in approval.

A bit too nice, but still. Thing is if I had time I would just make some manual edits, as it is, this is ChatGPT's work. Keith, the Legend of the SMB There’s a man named Keith, with a Sunderland scarf, He’s middle-aged, retired—though it makes people laugh. How he earned it, no one’s quite sure, But Keith swears his wisdom is always mature. He moderates the SMB, a forum so grand, Clicking and typing with sausage-like hands. An enemy of Newcastle, he spits at their name, Declaring them doomed to eternal shame. “Oh, Isak’s a waste, just look at the fee! He’s slower than me, and I’m fifty-three!” “Gordon’s a flop, he’s all hair, no skill, And Bruno’s just hype, not worth the bill.” “Joelinton’s a joke, can’t hit a barn door!” Keith said it all with a confident roar. But the Magpies soared, their stars shining bright, While Keith sat fuming on SMB each night. His predictions are bold, his opinions are loud, He’ll preach to the masses, drawing a crowd. “Trust me,” he says, with a confident grin, But his forecasts? They never quite win. Unintelligent, sure, but earnest and proud, Keith's still adored by his Sunderland crowd. He’s a Terry Fuckwit, a fool with a heart, A comedic misstep in football’s grand art. So here’s to Keith, the SMB knight, Wrong about everything, yet still a delight. For what would we do without his bold claim, And his endless devotion to Sunderland’s name?

FFS, I was just looking for a bulk SMS provider based in Hyperabad, thought my luck had changed when a kind poster pointed me one out, and now some over zelous mod has deleted it. Does anyone else know of any bulk SMS providers based in India I can use?

Am gaan and my physical attendance record is unreal. With young Dazzler starting the threads....

Fucking VAR man. Ruled onside but what a fucking joke.

He's just jealous he doesn't have one. Here you go @Monkeys Fist In the quiet town of Forest Hall, Lived a man known to one and all. They called him Monkey’s Fist, you see, For his climbing feats in the old pine trees. An alpine climber in days of yore, Scaling peaks where eagles soar. But naughty deeds left a shadowy trail, A trickster’s charm, a legend frail. From icy cliffs to panes of glass, He cleaned the windows high and fast. Even the stands at St. James’ Park, Shone bright and clean from dawn till dark. But fate would twist like ropes once tight, His life took turns beneath the night. An articulated truck he now did drive, Through winding roads, his spirit alive. Yet whispers grew, a chilling tone, Of secrets buried near his home. Beneath the patio, stories hide, Of bodies laid where shadows bide. Monkey’s Fist, a legend grim, A life of peaks now dark and dim. From climbing heights to depths untold, A tale of mischief, strange and bold. So tread with care in Forest Hall, Where Monkey’s Fist still casts his thrall. A man of lore, both light and shade, A curious tale that time has made.

@thebrokendoll

I (well ChatGPT) wrote my own song with the reference in: Renton’s Song (A Toontastic Tale) [Verse 1] Oh, Renton, the man with a flair, On Toontastic’s boards, he pulls up a chair. One of the old guard, from days of yore, With Alex, Dr. Gloom, and the Fish at the fore. A poster of legend, with stories untold, His stained glass window, his heart of gold. It shimmered with colors, reds, blues, and greens, A portal to beauty, the stuff of dreams. [Chorus] Oh, Renton, Renton, the world’s in your hands, Battling the seagulls, across the sands. Squabbling with Gemmill, your wit on display, Toontastic’s hero in your own special way. [Verse 2] Seagulls above, screeching their tune, Their feathers falling beneath the moon. But Renton stands tall, with a fist in the air, “Get out of my sight, I’ve no time to spare!” And then there’s Gemmill, with banter so sharp, A duel of the words, like a fiddle and harp. They spar and they quip, like a storm in the sky, Yet everyone knows they’re both on the sly. [Chorus] Oh, Renton, Renton, your stained glass is gone, But your spirit’s a light that keeps shining on. Fighting the seagulls and Gemmill’s retorts, Toontastic’s stage is your court of all sorts. [Bridge] Through the chatter and chaos, the laughter and tears, Renton holds steady through all of the years. With wisdom and humor, he takes on the fray, A legend of Toontastic, come what may. [Chorus] Oh, Renton, Renton, the world’s in your hands, Battling the seagulls, across the sands. Squabbling with Gemmill, your wit on display, Toontastic’s hero in your own special way. [Outro] So here’s to Renton, a poster so true, With Alex, Dr. Gloom, and the Fish in his crew. The seagulls may screech, and Gemmill may jest, But Renton on Toontastic? He’s simply the best.

This is ridiculous. Another 30 second effort aimed @Christmas Tree (think Gemmill and him are the easiest targets). The creative industries are fucked. The Ballad of Christmas Tree Once a man they called Christmas Tree, A curious figure, wild and free. In DFS halls, he spent his days, Selling sofas in countless ways. With a hearty laugh and a cheeky grin, He'd beckon shoppers to wander in. "Recline in style! Go on, take a seat!" But life had plans beyond that beat. He left the sofas and DFS lore, Trading the sales floor for a cabbie's door. Through city streets, he'd steer his ride, With tales and tunes to fill the ride. But that wasn't all for Christmas Tree, For he found his craft in an Etsy spree. A sweatshop humming with his designs, A mix of madness and genius entwined. He’d crack a Blue Moon or Erdinger lager, And toss a Dr. Oetker on for flavor. Late-night parties, a bong in hand, Groovy tunes, a merry band. Once dismissed on the Toontastic page, His jokes too sharp, his words a stage. But time, it mellows, and hearts do sway, Now he's the toast of the forum’s play. Christmas Tree, a man of lore, Sofas, taxis, crafts, and more. A life eclectic, a tale unique, Of sofas sold and bong clouds sleek. Raise your pint to this curious gent, A life well-lived, a path well-bent. For in his world of lagers and cheer, Christmas Tree's legend grows year by year.

So, we are being forced into using ChatGPT at work so I'm now signed up for it. Naturally, I first used it to make a poem about Gemmill. Took 30 seconds. Not a bad effort. The Ballad of Gemmill In a modest house on a quiet lane, Lives Gemmill, bound by the mundane. An accountant by trade, with columns and sums, His life ticks by to the drumming of thumbs. His wife, aloof, with a scornful glance, Dreams of escape, of a wilder dance. She scoffs at Gemmill’s every try, While he avoids her critical eye. But there’s one friend who ne’er complains, Who hums and spins without refrains. His Roomba, loyal, a partner in dust, A bond of circuits, trust, and rust. When day gives way to the quiet of night, Gemmill competes with spreadsheet might. In Excel duels, he sharpens his art, A master of formulas—but not of the heart. With pivot tables, he vies for glory, Yet his errors rewrite the story. Despite his skill, the truth is grim, He’s always bested, Excel beats him. In Toontastic’s halls, he seeks renown, But his jokes fall flat, and his posts bring frowns. A Newcastle fan with misplaced glee, Predicting Everton’s demise annually. “Surely this year!” he cries in vain, Yet Everton escapes the drop again. His confidence fades, but not his cheer, For Gemmill will try again next year. And though his world may seem askew, To Gemmill, each day brings something new. A quiet man with quirks and flaws, Living his life by unwritten laws. So raise a glass to this peculiar knight, Who battles in spreadsheets deep into the night. For even in the oddest, humblest game, There’s dignity in chasing fame.

Only one of those is happening. Still though.

Ffs we'll smash it tomorrow. Dazzler started the thread already?

God is Geordie. Dazzler is a deity. Rayvin is a seer. We're gonna win the league.

1 1. Good, we need to overtake Forest.

Shall we start vicariously supporting Notts Forest because of Elliot Anderson (and Woods for that matter). Sad Geordie Bastards. Man City just dropped points.

If another East Midlands team flukes the Premier league within the space of a decade am going fucking postal.

Bang average. Rightio. Bruno, Gordon, Joelinton, Tonali, Botman, Hall, Tino are elite international class. We have a whole tier beneath them who are currently lower international class, some of whom are young with masses of potential. On our day, we can compete with anyone in the premier league. I include Liverpool in that, who I genuinely feel we have been unlucky against.

100% this. I firmly believe that even winning the leagure cup would unlock the gateway to the league and beyond. It's a mental thing with us as much as anything. And I dunno, I feel it in my bones its happening this year. Edit: I also believe a cup win would keep PIF motivated.

WHY WAS I BORN IN THIS STUPID UNIVERSE?????

Many cosmologists believe the Universe is infinite. Or that we live in a multiverse of infinite universes. In this scenario we have not only already won the title, infinite times, but my wife, Margot Robbie, is currently giving me a champagne enema as I type.

Finished 7th in the league twice in my lifetime. We finished 7th last year and were disappointed. Hell, we finished 7th under Glen fucking Roeder and 5th under Pardew. Four appearances in Europe against two teams. Wigan have played six games. Massive.

Sunderland always had a bigger issue with racism than us, and still does. Newcastle, especially now, is much less insular and more cosmopolitan. Like has been said, just last year they were singing songs about the size of Diallo's penis. Darren Bent. July riots. Tommy Robinson always found it fertile land. Brexit. I was at the SoL for the England match against Turkey where it resembled a brown shirt ralley. Fucking horrible racist place Sunderland is. How this prick has the nerve is beyond me. Also I'm not clear how dressing as an arab (which I have never personally witnessed) is racist but apparently calling them camel humpers, murderers and generally considering then subhuman isn't? "Article" on Andy Cole. Beardsley getting fired, you what?