AIMING BELOW
THE BELT
Wayne Rooney is
a potato-headed
granny-shagger.
My second spell at Villa ended
in the summer of 1987 with the
arrival of Graham Taylor. You
could say it resulted from a clash of
personalities. I had one and he didn’t.
You should only say good
things when somebody leaves.
Robert has gone. Good.
Who would have guessed that
behind that arrogant Scots
bastard image there lay an
arrogant Scots bastard?
I call it The Satanic Verses.
Gordon Strachan’s
tongue can kill a
man at ten paces.
I have never met Lee Bowyer,
but everyone I have spoken to
about him says he is a toerag.
Kenny Dalglish suffers from
constipation of the emotions.
I went to watch you once and
thought you were a fat, lazy bastard.
When Frank Stapleton wakes up in
the morning he rushes to the mirror
and smiles, just to get it over with.
Carlton Palmer covers every blade
of grass on the pitch – mainly
because his first touch is crap.
If Osvaldo Ardilles had gone
to Arsenal, they’d have had him
marking the opposing keeper.
Eric Cantona couldn’t
tackle a fish supper.
He can’t run, can’t tackle and
can’t head a ball. The only time he
goes forward is to toss the coin.
Beckham can’t kick with his left
foot. He doesn’t score many goals.
He can’t head a ball and he can’t
tackle. Apart from that he’s all right.