Football Fuckeries – The Sheik's Wife

The Musings of a Failed Football Fan…

For whom the doorbell Chimes

Let's do this…

So there’s been some controversy because Portsmouth FC (a Premier League football club) has, on a couple of occasions, not paid its players on time. The club has also defaulted on payments to other creditors and is currently subject to a Premier League transfer embargo – but I’m not getting into all that in this post. I ain’t Gabby-fucking-Yorath and this ain’t Soccer-fucking-Sunday.

Here’s my take on it – who cares? Who cares if a couple of Premiership footballers got paid late? I don’t. Moreover, if I’m 100% straight-up with you – it kinda gives me a warm fuzzy feeling on the inside (where it really counts) every time I think about a Premiership player not getting paid on time. Actually, I think the FA should bring in a new rule and make random missing wage payments mandatory for all Premiership players. I realize I may appear somewhat venomous, if not downright twisted, but here's why:

South Wales during my formative years was a place where men were unemployed, on-strike or a scab. I have witnessed, experienced and survived EXTREME penury in my lifetime and it does not escape me that we are currently in the midst of a deep and prolonged recession. A recession where folks have lost their jobs, their homes, their stuff and most are struggling not to lose their dignity too.

So, I personally, am not gonna waste one single nano-second worrying about some jumped-up, half-rate, ressie goalie from Portsmouth FC, who gets paid several thousand pounds a week – and that’s being conservative. Just because he’s missed a coupla payments on his 5 Bed, 4 Bath, Mock Tudor executive home in a bucolic gated community, within ten minutes of the city centre, with double garage and costal views.

Further more, the players down there wanna mind-out that their ‘Sheik du jour’ don’t reach round my sides and start taking me out for cheesy-chips (a local delicacy) and buying me camels and shit. Cos if I was the wife of one of them Premiership football club owning Sheiks, this is how it’d go down…

Abdullah - fuck ‘em. Leave ‘em a couple more months. Leave 'em till their wives have to consider cancelling their precocious progenys' piano lessons; till their credit card companies are phoning them up night and day to get a payment; till their nearest and dearest have to consider taking second and third jobs just to have enough money to keep the car running; till they have to stop drinking champagne and switch to Happy Shopper orange squash; till they're on a first name basis with the staff at the local Cash Converters; till they don’t know if the knock at the door is the postman or the bailiff. And until, they reach that broke-arse moment, of having to make a list of all the stuff they’re willing to sell, just to keep their heads above water. And you know what Abdullah, even then don’t pay ‘em. Wait…wait till they have to face the real possibility of having to go on strike, and finding out which of their colleagues will turn out to be SCABS. And then, and only then, Abdullah – my dear, sweet, kind and inconceivably rich husband who just bought me a second home in Mostaganem (Algeria) and a 2 carat, flawless, pure white princess cut diamond (WOO-HOO – I’M RICH IN THIS POST AND I’M LOVIN IT!) ring for my perfectly manicured fingers – pay ‘em. Cos then, and only then, will you really know the “players” from the “stayers.”

So here’s a half-priced Aldi’s cherry, for all the hard-up Portsmouth squad who may be contemplating the idea of downsizing to free up some funds. A very wise Arab woman – who just happened to possess a keen eye for British real estate – once said, “Never worry about how many bathrooms you got in your house, cos you can only shit in one toilet at a time anyway.”

- A failed football fan

Mission Statement

I often read my own blog – I do. I think some of the posts are quite good (they make me laugh, think, sad, angry, proud). And what struck me on re-reading the Football Fuckeries columns, is that if I didn’t know me, I’d think: “Jesus, a footballer must have really given this girl the run-around to make her so bitter.” You would, wouldn’t ya? So, just for the record, I have NEVER dated, fucked, kissed, or even blown a footballer – NEVER. I can also confirm, the bitterness, vitriol and ugly untempered heartlessness displayed within the Football Fuckeries columns, is 100% au naturel and as organic as it gets. Totally and wholly inspired by the ugly players proliferating our beautiful game.

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