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You’re worse than a boss, you’re a bosses’ man…

Submitted by on March 4, 2010 – 9:53 amOne Comment

With a nice, quiet, relaxing day unfolding before me I did as so many of us do, and sat down with the latest, January 2010 edition of ‘Shooting Gazette – driven shooting’s finest journal’.  It’s a £3.75 insight into the drippingly rich excesses of kill-obsessed, salivatingly sadistic, secret-silk-knicker-and-suspender-sporting world of the Dingwall-Fordyces, Eaton-Wells and Tyrwhitt-Drakes and their inferiors who run round after them seeing to their private educated needs whilst drawing the minimum wage. It’s an environment where a ‘must-have-pair-of-Purdys’ is not a threesome with two women who have a bob and where even wellybobs are categorised into Doo Breeze, Le Chameau and Aigle. Sick, sick counts. Bosses and their bosses’ men.

However, just as reading the Financial Times was instructive during the Miners’ strike, as that’s where your betters were honest between themselves as to how they are going to giggle at you, so it is with Shooting Gazette. A rah-rah rattling hooray of tweeded top-lippery and fawning rich man at his castle, poor man at his gatery. Obsequious bosses’ men skivvying around pleasuring their bosses’ whims as the Daily Mailed horrors of ‘druggies with guns’ becomes simply ‘Oliver’s high Beretta jinks‘ when they do it and not the drugged with a gun, hooded iniquity of Longsight. Their press, their ruling ideas.

If you had a pound for every time you’ve heard this saying you’d be struggling to buy a hundred Tetley teabag ‘one-cups’ for a pound in pound world – don’t have a shit whilst wearing the towelly housecoat borrowed temporarily for going around her house because you’re nesher than most. You know you shouldn’t have it on anyway but having a shite in it will almost certainly result in the belt to tie it around your waist falling down as you’re wiping your exit panel and you getting shit on the aforementioned belt.

And the aforementioned belt will almost certainly smell of the fancy scents women put on themselves because women smell naturally nicer than us so you putting shit on the belt will only look as if the belt smelt of shit but you sprayed it with scent in a really lazy way to mask the shit smell instead of washing it. But really it was the other way round. So don’t.

But do read Shooting Gazette. Don’t buy it, borrow it like I did. You unashamedly do that with the programme, A fine lung, Under the boardwalk and Red Issue so why not apply the same micro economics to Shooting Gazette? Anyway I’m a softy for a Labrador and the below caught my eye on page 111. It headlined…

‘Labrador not top dog everywhere’ and carried on…

‘Registration data for the last ten years recently released by the Kennel Club shows that the Labrador may on average be the nation’s most popular dog, but it is not universally top dog.

In London, 13 per cent of all dog owners opt to buy a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, which is also the most popular in Humberside, the North East, mid Glamorgan and the west Midlands, with the Labrador second in those areas.

The Labrador is top in all other areas in England, with the exception of Manchester where it is knocked into second place by the Shi Tzu…’

Did you notice the main, exasperating bit of inf in that? I know … it is just potty that Staffordshire doesn’t rate Staffordshire Bull Terriers enough to get a Staffordshire Bull Terrier.

The bit about the Shi Tzu? – that‘s just Gill bored-buying because he’s bored with £1.7 million a year wages his bosses have handed down to him for his gamekeepering of the shoot.

I was going to finish the article there but something bizarre has happened over the last few weeks…

We all know that there has always been glazer apologists whether in the pay of or just plain tits. We can understand that, as some will always see the till rather than the niceness –we compartmentalise them so that the compartment can be referenced when the compartmentalised make a point about something and the words ‘Till motivated’ pings up, so you don’t have to waste too much time digesting their views as you know the catalyst for them – and some others are just so daft and impenetrable to anything resembling sense that really they’re not worth concerning yourself too much with.

Then there are the Ferguson apologists. I shouldn’t but I understand them. It’s very hard to see fault in someone who has replenished and replenished your redness and so by consequence it’s a bugger to pull yourself away from that with unfettered eyes and see something disturbing. On this matter Red Issue’s editorials and Backbeat this season have been consistently outstanding. Point by well argued, fact attained point they have documented the reality of our loving relationship. It is no coincidence I have found myself on the couch reading them as it has touches of the psychiatric counselling about it.

Effectively they are saying to you “I know you are in love but you do know you’re being bummed don’t you? And not even with any gently administered water based lubricant but dry and with an object rubbed in gritty road salt. And not even fresh gritty road salt but stuff dried out from the sluchy sluch from the edgings at the side of the road”. The counselled words are always met with a sub-conscience that refuses to let it filter too deep. “Why would someone you love do that to you? And at the behest of such leveraged evil that is laughing at the history of Manchester and all it has done. This is someone who has my love and respect. He wouldn’t do that.” But those in love don’t see what those outside the relationship can see. We all know that. Except when it’s happening to us.

With the turmoil and the wrenching of the above I find the following apologists bizarre. Fckn bizarre. Gill apologists. Yes, you can reread that in case you think your mincers are taking you around the corner. Gill apologists. It’s been put out to us that really, he’s not such a bad fella. He’s been put in an unenviable position but really, and underneath it all, he’s a decent bloke with the underwritten inference that it’ll all be right in the end and we’ll say “Oh David, you silly person fancy getting yourself embroiled in all that. Glad to have you back though now the war is won.”

I understand working class reds working at United. It was theirs before the cancer and it’ll be theirs after it’s cut out. There’s such a scaringly obvious difference between those reds trying to put a bit of money in their paw from a local employer and Gill. It is so terrifyingly obvious that no more electronic words should be spent on it.

It is unfathomable to so, so, so many reds why Gill, the principal glazer apologist, should be afforded anything other than what should come the way of wartime collaborators.

He is being paid 1.7 million pounds of your season ticket money to tell you lies. Lies that are telling you that you are a fool. Lies, year after 1.7 million a year lies. Let’s put it in situational context. ‘Poor misunderstood David’ the decent but misunderstood bloke has to go outside and tell other decent blokes ie you, that everything is not as bad as you’re making out. And because he is clever at his twisted linguistic skills, he makes an articulate case for the debt that the first group of glazer apologists mentioned above in this article, latch onto and use in the upside down world. He’s 1.7 million brick worth of word skills, he’s good at it. He then goes back inside behind a solid wood panelled United door with a plaque with ‘David Gill’ written on it.

He either believes the words he’s just dished and looks at his wage packet or he’s an untrustworthy twat of beyond bellamy proportions and looks at his wage packet. Either way the bloke is a rotting piece of pound note sycophancy that doesn’t deserve one word, not one fckn word of defence from any red. He voluntarily took the part he’s played in our downfall. Whilst the recession bites, he’s gorged. Whilst the green and gold has gone for decency and defiance he’s chosen to sit down and calculatedly prepare deliberate speeches of treachery with his queasy, doo-breeze wellybobbed, farmer accent talking in his head telling him his next disingenuous, dirty slither of sleaze to slop over the resistance of Manchester.

If you’re unfortunate to be subject to Gill apologism from any other source than Gill himself then compartmentalise and ask yourself what interest does it serve them? They surely have got to be such a small grouping and each, I am sure, would be worthy of individual investigation for their sickeningly bizarre compliance with the one point sevened, little Shi Tzu’d walking Judas in these uplifting green and gold times. Bosses and bosses’ men come in many forms.

Having said that it’s been argued if Gill married a woman called Gill and she changed her name, then she’d be Gill Gill. Two names both the same but pronounced differently. Now if Gill was prepared to do that for comedic value then I’d be up for putting away the decorating scissors, taking the Primus camping gaz canister from under the tar and putting the feathers back in the eider down.

Manchester, along with many other proud cities who’ve faced conflict and confrontation, loves laughing at itself with those who are with it. It traditionally empties dicks who are against it. I’m a traditionalist, we’re traditionalists. Gill will be remembered with the rest of the dishonourable connivers. As the song sings and as he will never, ever understand –

From a team of railway workers to the team we love today,
Our hearts are Man United’s it could be no other way,
Our blood is red, our shirts are red,
And as the great Matt Busby said,
Go and thank your Mam and Dad that you’re Mancunian,
Go and thank your Mam and Dad that you’re Mancunian…

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