Let’s Be Racist Towards Chelsea Fans
“Racism consists of both prejudice and discrimination based in social perceptions of biological differences between peoples. It often takes the form of social actions, practices or beliefs, or political systems that consider different races to be ranked as inherently superior or inferior to each other, based on presumed shared inheritable traits, abilities, or qualities. It may also hold that members of different races should be treated differently.”
So says Mr. Wicky’s Encyclopaedia. Actual racism, of course is to be abhorred. Racists are vile, stupid, sub-human pignuts.
There is, however, a type of racism which should be encouraged. Chelsea fans, a race of people who are despised by the rest of the world, are deserving of our contempt. Racism, in this case, is a real time-saver. They are, to a man & woman, the worst type of vermin. If we do not watch out, there will be one moving in next door, and then they’ll fly their family over, and before you know it, they’re living ten to a room and the house prices will plummet. And the smell! Chelsea fans, it is well-known, do not wash.
They use their left hand to wipe their bottoms. They store their own urine for their womenfolk to use as perfume. They have an insatiable sex drive. They are bone idle. They are all on benefits. They are inherently less intelligent than fans of other clubs. They are sneaky and untrustworthy. They have a natural inclination to violence. Chelsea fans can’t swim. They are fat. They are all terrorists. They are savages.
See? All true. So I urge you – treat Chelsea fans with extreme prejudice. Exclude them from normal society, until they can be assimilated into the human race.
On to happier subjects, and our worryingly efficient win over the Smoggies this weekend last.
Primitus: The wondrous world of St. John Cousins, our final third octopus. Just look at the little fellow.
He lived up to his other nickname of Hand Feet for this match. How his home town of Finsbury Park must have oohed and aahed at his How Do You Do, – his best trick, an inexplicable optical illusion in which he seems to split into three separate beings who all play a decisive ball at the same time, making defenders weep with bafflement.
On this occasion the How Do You Do ended up with the splendid Gibbois, who squared to the Brigadier to steer home the opener. We pray that the recent rumours of his departure are just that – rumours. A player of his ingenuity and mastery of the leathery sphere should never have to play for a team with ‘Atletic’ in their name.
The Brigadier’s second is currently being framed for hanging in London’s Tate Gallery, where it is to be hung next to other modern masterpieces. The information card is below. Apologies for their use of his nickname.
From then on in there was no way back for our northern chums, who brought 6,000 of their chemically poisoned supporters with them.
Notable for his first start was Mr. Pallister. He promises much. After retirement, surely a career in acting beckons? Some selected pages from his 2015 Official Calendar:
Marvellous stuff. To Palace then, where rubber-faced doghearted Lewdster Alan Pardew awaits.
Chin chin!
