Football Fuckeries - Marlon King

- The Musings of a Failed Football Fan

When a King is not a King

When I was matriculated into room 214 of the YMCA homeless hostel (The Walk, Cardiff) at the age of 16. They said to me, on my first day, “You’re our youngest resident, so be warned. You may experience unwanted sexual attention and you may experience some racial abuse…if you have any problems, you must let us know about it immediately.” The hostel provided temporary accommodation for homeless people of both sexes, all ages and various backgrounds. I spent one birthday and one Christmas in that place before they moved me onto Dr Barnardo's.

There was crazy mother-fuckers, desperate mother-fuckers, old mother-fuckers, smelly mother-fuckers, white mother-fuckers, black mother-fuckers, baby-muffa mother-fuckers, ginger mother-fuckers, suicidal mother-fuckers, anorexic mother-fuckers, alcoholic mother-fuckers, diabetic mother-fuckers, woolyback mother-fuckers, drug addict mother-fuckers and plain old motherfucking mother-fuckers in that place. But you know what, I didn’t have any major problems. Looking back, them people were nice…looked-out for me. D’you know what I mean? We all had nothing.

Then, last week, I read about Marlon King being sent down and I thought to myself…what a dumb-ass motherfucker! How you gonna have it all like that and just fuck it up the wall?! Based on my own experience of footballers, I would rather spend five years in that homeless hostel (pissing in the sink and eating canteen food) with them residents - who were on the whole - good people that were just down on their luck, than spend five minutes with most footballers. 

Marlon King’s attitude exemplifies what I what I call the ‘Boss-man syndrome’. The ‘Boss-man syndrome’ is when footballers go round acting skank; thinking they’re better than you. Casting shade on people. And generally behaving like they’re YOUR boss, and YOU should be out in the fields pickin’ cotton ‘n’ givin’ it sum, “yessum boss” every time they got something to say, just cos YOU can’t do a couple of keepie-upies or get a glamour-girl to suck-you-off.

I understand, better than most, what it’s like to be from wrong side of the tacks and then be given the chance to turn your life around. When I got my job at Liverpool FC, I woulda rebuked Jesus himself if it meant bringing that club into disrepute! The thing was, I wholeheartedly believed (with all my heart…what’s left of it) that I owed the club, it’s supporters and Rick Parry a dept of gratitude for taking a chance on a lower-class sand-nigga like me. I did. I still do.

So here’s a cherry, for anyone interested in eating my particular brand of cake: Please be careful who you worship. Cos a lot of them footballers who you idolize, who you believe in, whose wages you pay, whose back you’ve got…they wouldn’t shit-you-out a chocolate log if you was drowning in their Olympic-sized swimming pools, star.

As this is my first “Football Fuckeries” column, I’m dedicating it to anyone who is down on their luck (including Marlon King); take a good look around at the people who are down there with you, they may just be the greatest people you’ll ever get to meet.

- A failed football fan

Mission Statement

My research of the species known as ‘footballers’ comes not only from the fact I was Liverpool FC’s first official Resident Poet. The truth is, I dated the owner of a sports management company for a number of years, I was also Head Cigar Girl at Café de Paris (London) for a number of years, and I currently live in the northwest of England - the spiritual home of football. So please don’t assume I’m referencing Liverpool players in the column. My vantage point is, in fact, much wider and far more varied. I also accept that not ALL footballers are twats. - Just most of them.


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