You've just achieved the highlight of your pissant, whinging little career so far and what do you do? Put on a hat that some wool from Bebington would be ashamed to be seen cavorting in, then strip to the waist so that your bumboy mates can crack one off over you.

This sort of shite might be acceptable in the backstreets of Prague if you're selling your arse, but not here, pal.

What's more, Scarves? fuck me, You glory hunting fucker. You weren't wearing that red shite when you were playing gash against piss poor opposition for the rest of 2005, were you?

Do you really expect to stay with displays like this? The lack of goals is not the end of your Liverpool career, acting like an OOT wanker surely should be though.

Thankfully we don't have to put up with displays like this from you anymore!

Better still, lets sit back and talk absolute bollocks about fuck all for as much as we can. Better still, let's get paid for spouting out this shite to everybody.

We present you the this as an example; "I think I chose Liverpool; but maybe it chose me." What the fuck are you talking about man! Why do you need to keep coming out the with same old real fan shite week after week? Secondly, why does everyone treat this rubbish with the long lost words of wisdom crap?

And in the great words of the man himself, or at least how he would put it, I give you:

(maybe even I would love, if that’s not putting it too strongly) to nominate yours truly (me, myself or even I) for the coveted numero uno spot on your twatwatch column.

I like to think of myself as an astute commentator on all things LFC-related (who doesn’t think that of **** mentioning no names since, ahem, I am the type that would sue, and might even stoop to suing me, myself and I). I have had a terrible case of the brackets all me life, Jesus missus if you’ve ever had the brackets yourself you will know it is not a disease to be poked fun of (not, of course, that one would ever stoop to poking fun at diseases or the like). Yet even with the chronic brackets I manage to get meself a regular weekly slot on the old dotty vee (as we like to call it) not to mention (how could I forget to mention!) my own excellent little piece of we-are-not-worthiness called “The future’s shite, the future’s red” which can be purchased from all bargain bookstores at the knockdown price of 99 pence.

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