Friday Feyt Neet Special ...

Good evening Ladies & Gentlemen … and welcome to a one off Friday Feyt Neet Special.
Almost 12 months since the last event – we see a “return to the ring” for BFC Chairman Gord Shepherder. After his recent spat in the press with Manager, Andy Richtea – we thought it only fair to get the issue settled once and for all … on the battle ground that is Friday Feyt Neet.
So – with no further Freddy Adu … let’s get out there to tonight’s referee none other than BBS favourite Johnny Couchman.

In the blue corner, weighing in at 13 stone of hairless love muscle … wearing the baggy white shorts he wore for his league debut in 1842 … the players’ best mate … the kojak with the bad back … the play off king … Anderson “the monotone” Richtea!!!!

Over in the red corner, weighing in at 19 stone of albino sloth juice … wearing shorts fashioned from numerous writs & a list of people’s Mum’s addresses … he’s the Chairman with white hair, man … put your hands together for red & white jag-hag – Gord “Santa” Shepherder!!!!

Thank you for joining us this evening at the Caneston Once Gash Rash Arena for what promises to be a real grudge match. These two keep claiming they get on … but the only thing they want to “get on” is the canvas. It seems Gord is unhappy with the recent form of the Super Red Tykes, while Richtea seems to think, for some reason, that any information about acquiring players should be kept between the Manager & the board! What planet is he from, eh?

With no further delay Johnny Couchman gets the fighters together – tells them what they’ve been doing wrong, has a bacon butty & tells them to touch gloves. Gord looks all confused and states that he’s forgotten his gloves – so is wearing Sooty on one hand & Sweep on the other. The Blah Bar faithful hear the word sooty & soon perk up.

Ding, ding – seconds out – Round One.
Away we go then.

Gord gets the proceedings underway.
He’s changed his clothing, like at a Kylie concert … he’s now wearing a lovely pair of grey Farrah shorts.
The little orange tab is quite distinctive, and the white headed warrior gloats:
“Av teld thee Andy – tha can stick thi contract weer sun dunt shine. It’s like buying a plane ticket to Majorca to fly in nine months – but fitting a life jacket narr … then popping to duty free and getting an oversized toblerone that no-one can possibly eyt”

Richtea isn’t phased. He’s stood against the ropes, arms folded – just like he does every Saturday for 90 minutes. “Shut up Gord” he replies “Asking you about football is like asking Jay what it’s like to work for a living … you simply don’t understand what football is about. You think you do, but you don’t”.

The taunt forces Gord into action.
He picks up a cooker door that he handily stashed by the side of the ring & smashes it against Richtea’s head.
Unfortunately for Gord – his eyes, now 287 years old, have failed him & he’s just knocked Rib Noodles clean through the Arena window & under the 226 Thurscoe bus.
The crowd approve and start to cheer for Gord – apart from Omen & Dirk, who are on tip toes on the seats trying to see what’s going on.

It seems Richtea has talked himself to sleep … so Gord continues his rampage:
“I’m going to punch your head off Andy. I’m going to knock it off so hard it’ll be heading for Blackpool Tower. 3 fighter jets will have to be scrambled to shoot your head down. ‘Cos we don’t want to damage Blackpool Tower – it might cost us therteh six pence if we break it”
Richtea responds swiftly – he takes one of Rick Holden’s comedy shoes & sticks it straight up Gord’s harris.
He then says “I’ve got faith in these boys Gord. It won’t be long before Reid is playing in the Champions League & Richards gets his well deserved England call up”.
The crowd almost drown out the bell to signal the end of the round with their laughter.
Both fighters head back to their corners. Darren Hayes tries to get the shoe from Gord’s marmite funnel, but it’s well & truly stuck ... Darren’s about as much use a True Red Bond.

In the break Johnny Couchman has been conducting his very own Opta Index analysis of the first round. He’s gutted he didn’t see any head tennis & wonders why the pro fighters haven’t been trained like amateurs. All confused he curls up in the corner, wearing only Spartacus’ leather jacket & Revvie P’s Christmas present – a barbed wire thong.

The second round begins with Richtea on the attack.
He’s confused Gord even more: “We need experience, I’ll sign youth, there’s no-one available, players keep moving, we’ve got no budget, we now have cash … let’s bring some in, I’ll stick with what we’ve got”.
Gord is staggering around. The modern world seems to be passing him by in a haze of ralgex & horlicks.
He again tries to cheat by getting his son, Lonely Shepherder, to send Richtea a nasty letter – the crowd start to boo him – he’s not happy about it and says:
“You fans are rubbish – yer don’t know what yer want. If I said we were appointing an Airedale Terrier, called Rex, as Manager – you’d say no – we want a Border Collie. And you wouldn’t be wrong. An Airedale is tenacious, but a Collie is loyal. Has anyone seen my cooker? It’s worth therteh six pence”

“What the **** are you on about now, Gord” Andy roars “You need to back, sack or crack me (Grr to Airey) … oh, no you don’t – I’m as bald as one of TT’s pseudo DVD bints”

Richtea takes advantage of Gord’s confusion and starts to stick clubshop trinkets into every spare orifice the red faced mumbler has.
The round is brought to a close with Richtea trying to stuff a defective Toby Tyke mug down Gord’s throat … it seems Gord expects the fans to swallow anything, but he can’t manage it himself.

Gord uses the break to try out his new walk in bath.
Richtea senses the end is nigh … and is rubbing his speckled head in anticipation.

Gord isn’t yet beaten and starts the third round with a defiant “I’ve turned this club around. We were losing money hand over fist – and now look at this year … we actually made a profit, which turns into a loss when I apply my magic cooker equation to it.”
Richtea isn’t listening & stuffs the Jag motif from the front of Gord’s zig-zag-mobile straight up his nose.

But what’s this?
Gord takes his black magic teapot from his pocket & starts to hypnotise Andy.
“Andy, you are feeling sleepy” Gord says “Soon, just like SM, you will believe everything I say. You will claim that the board are behind you, you will claim the board are doing a great job, you will state that the failure to sign top class players is down to global warming, you will not need a new contract – in fact, you’ll work for free just like me … and you will talk in a more interesting voice – not all at one level like a dishwasher”.

Andy kicks the teapot from Gord’s hand and howls “I am Richtea – I’m oblivious to your black tea magic, you will pay for what you have said”
Gord replies “How much? Therteh six pence?”
“No” Andy cries “with your life”
Andy then removes the contract he was offered, then withdrawn, and stuffs it clean into one of Gords ears & out of the other … as Gord slides down the ropes to the ground.
The crowd think it’s all over … but, amazingly – Gord gets back up and says “There we go – I had mi brain removed after the Korean war” he quickly removes the plate from the back of his head & smashes Richtea’s skull in.

The bell is rung & the bout is over.
The white haired wombler has done it again – first he dispatched Rib Noodles, now Anderson Richtea.
Is he unbeatable? He certainly thinks so.

All that’s left to do is invite the herd of Tongan goats into the ring to bum Richtea’s corpse into oblivion.

So, that’s it for another year … and just another lesson that although class is permanent – money can tell class to get fecked right off.

Good night.
God bless.
Allsop, Hull, £50k, 30 a season, Monster.

 

B. E. A

utiful.

 

I dip my cap

Poetry

 

Classic Stuff.....

 

Brilliant.

 

****

 

ACTUALLY I'M COMPLETELY WRONG

top marks you ugly fecker

 

Kinell.

I'll remove what I put - as it doesn't sit well with your SM pisstake.
Which was probably funnier than the Feyt Neet.

Yer lovely person.

 

sir, that was brilliant !!!!!!!!!!!

 

Absolute pure genius. So accurate aswell trust me i no about GS's fascination of cookers. fighter jets and everything olden times.

 

Dip your cap?

Have you got spermicide on your fingers?

If you were a woman for the day, and just happened to be a cheap dirty slut ... what form of contraception would you choose?

Have that.

 

If I was a woman I would use...

the Dildo contraception.</p>

And I would not set foot out of the house.</p>

 

That's not 100% foolproof though.

I've seen that film where the bird has 2 blokes & a dildo in at the same time.

I'd be on the pill.
If I caught bum AIDS, then so be it.
I'd be a reyt whore.

 

RE: Friday Feyt Neet Special ...Nobel Prize for literature

So very,very,funny. If you are not a professional scriptwriter you bloody well should be.
I am faxing that to the team hotel tonight and if they play badly tomorrow it will be because they could not stop laughing all night and it will be all your fault.

 

I'd be one of them internet whores...

Who fingers themselves for money.</p>

Hi kids</p>

 

I'm not really pretty enough.

I'd just let truck drivers do me in the harris int he disabled bogs.

Form a queue.
Get it here.
It's free.

And bring your goats.

 

My mate once...

Shagged a pro in a doorway in Aberdeen. Her opening line...</p>

'Pass it here then!?!!?'</p>

You'd be like her but bald.</p>

 

Correct.

I'd shave my quim.

To be fair - my clunge would be hanging down like a bag of onions from over usage.

I'd even do ginners.

 

RE: Friday Feyt Neet Special ...Nobel Prize for literature

genius.. but wots wiv the therty five pense or woreva it wo ??

 

would somebody mind giving me a brief outline cos i can be bothered to read it