Issue 24           May 2002
 
 
 
Featuring: Editor's waffle
  The Puds 2002
  Fanny Pad of the Month
  Lookalikes
  Friends in high places
  Puzzle time
  Dirty Gary Lloyd's spitting range
  "Flying Frenchman stole my smoo"
  Limp Latinos
  Postal st-reich
  Puzzle time
  Cock rock of the north
  Exclusive S*FC competition
  Arran 'Tynemooth' Mallinson
  Modern footballers are rubbish
  Wor Wheelie's crapping corner
 
   

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EDITORIAL

In a season in which we’ve had to come from behind more often than David Furnish, we can all at last look forward to some European football next season….and Dave Wheeler being incontinent on the Continent no doubt. There could be ‘Pooping in Paris’,‘Turds in Turin’ or ‘Crapping in Calais’. Wherever, you can guarantee that Mr Wheeler will be bringing a whole new meaning to the ‘Italian Job’.

Right. We’re there but the rest of the country doesn’t seem to share our optimism. But “who cares!” As I pointed out to some Derby clowns after the match in April who were very kindly pointing out that “we wouldn’t ever win f**k-all, especially in the Champions League”. Maybe not, but it’s all experience, big, big bucks in the coffers and a very attractive proposition to would be big-name transfer targets over the coming months…..your’e not gonna get any of that in the Nationwide yer fc*kin’ sheep sh*gger! Might see you in the Cup next year. Bye.

This season has also put paid to the recent adage “Finish above Man Utd and you’ll win the league” but don’t tell any Scousers that!

The “big four-ha!” have been heard muttering words like ‘lucky’ and ‘in any other season’ along with Newcastle. Our away wins at Boro’ and Bolton had more than a touch of good fortune (and a missing opposition goalkeeper) about them…..but bugger it! Isn’t it time we had our share of the luck?

Let’s just enjoy the summer and look forward to July 26th, when we’ll all find out which European city(ies) ‘The Bin’ will be spreading his foul effluent in.


PS Vote Johnny the Mackem out on Big Brother. He really is a cocky tosser, from Trimdon which is fcukin’ nowhere near Newcastle, which incidentally, he has named as his home town.

He’s a fireman, which, when translated in Wearside, means arsonist. Vote him out and we’ll never have to hear him squawking “Skewel” “Pewel”  “Bewek” and the like no more.

Call: 09011 154402 calls cost 25p, but surely it’s worth it to pi** a Mackem off.


The other day I was in Halfords. This mackem tart comes in and asks for a “seven-ten” cap. We all looked at each other and said, "What's a seven ten cap?" She said: "You know, it's right on the engine. Mine got lost somehow and I need a new one."

"What does it do?  She said she didn't know, but it's always been there. The assistant gave her a note pad and asked her if she could draw a picture. So she makes a circle about 3 inches in diameter and in the centre she writes 710. Think about it!

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THE PUDS 2002

The ‘Paul Ince – how to make a head wound look a lot worse than it actually is by wearing a half turban’ Award:

Goes to Keith Barclay after his Teesside/Signpost/split scalp shenanigans.

The ‘David Shaler Award for managing to avoid capture by government agencies and still manage to appear on national TV:

Goes to a cleanly shaven and newly-toupeed Martin Hizbollah Miller. Who, despite allegedly having a very busy Autumn last year, still had the brassneck required to seemingly taunt viewers on ‘The Premiership’.

The Bus Driver of the Year Award (Sponsored this year by Jones the Steam):

Goes to Mr Alan Wilkes of Bristol who on no less than 10 occasions this season, marshalled the Bristol Templemeads – Edinburgh Virgin train via Newcastle for the lads. A massive improvement on the broccoli chewing alcohol Nazi that claimed the title last year, I think you’ll all agree.

The David Copperfield Astounding Magic Trick of the Year Award:

Goes to Andria of the NW Mags who turned up at Leeds City Station, pre Arsenal at home, in the amazing Marie Celeste mini-bus and then dextrously alleviated the assembled Yorkshiremags of additional hard-earned.

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F*NNY PAD OF THE MONTH

No 4.1 - Glenda Rhoda

This Leo-man-haired cockney get must have the memory span of a goldfish!

Despite slating our lot earlier in the season for approaching Trevor Sinclair “illegally” and being lampooned by Dave Bailey on the website, his lot still had the neck to sniff around and weasel details of Ollie Bernard’s current contract. Some might argue “but Gaz, he’s an ex-mag!” But as you know from previous FROTM’s, that doesn’t really count for anything. Take Supermac for example.

The subject of a FROTM nomination a few months back. What does he go and do in March? He publically backs Newcastle to beat Arsenal in the ¼ Finals in the North-East rags but on the BBC Sport site he opts for Arsenal.

Must be something to do with the Kessie Super Strength.


No 4.2 - Alleged Toon Fans

The wank*rs at the Fulham game in April in particular.

They don’t sing or even encourage the team for the entire 90 minutes then they have the audacity to boo the fcukers off the field at the final whistle! Now, I know they’ll come out with the old adage; “We’ve paid our money into the players pockets…so I reckon I’m allowed to have an opinion”…….well, yes you have, but do you have to have such a fcukin’ negative one that isn’t doing anyone any good at all?!?!

Do us all a favour and fcuk off downstairs at twenty-five-to-five to stand on the concourse and watch the tellies with the rest of the miserable gets.


Fanny Rag of the Season No 1 - JT

As Johnny Rotten may have once venomously spat; “Our ex-figurehead, is not what he seems” and who would have thought that 25 years after the antagonistical cockney ginger scruff had first warned us, our ex-chairman  (now ex-booze/ex-sweary/ex-good laugh/ex-football) turns into Richard Briers circa. The Good Life?

If Saturday afternoons in the company of blokes with a ball is good enough for the gent pictured below (Retire? I wouldn’t want to spend Saturday afternoons in Sainsbury’s with Elsie!), then surely it’s good enough for Ol’ Turkeyneck.

So Mr Thompson, sort it out and get your local GP to reverse the triple humour/personality bypass in time for next season.


Canny Lad of the Season No 1 - Sir Bob

Bless him. What can you say about the old bugger that hasn’t already been said? He’s put us back in the top half of the table, commands total silence at 5:15pm in the Blackie Boy - not to hear him spout tactical nouse, just to hear what new words he’s invented since his last post match interview. Avoiding “Banana Blips” at Peterborough and “winning by a cup of tea” against the mackems. Despite a few tactical ‘dropped-bollocks’ against the likes of Spurs at home, when half the Hackett wearing tosspots in the Leazes End bar at half time were calling for his head, I think even the hardest-nosed fans would agree that he has given us back a bit of pride for the first time in 5 years.

Top team in the North East and heading towards Europe without having to start our season in July again. He put us in the Intertoto and signed Bellas last year and stood by his decision even though we (myself included) seriously doubted him.

Come on Lizzie R you old scrote, get the bloke knighted!

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LOOKALIKES
 

Jean Tigana from
Craven Cottage

 

Dr. Lucius Hibbert
from The Simpsons

 

Tommy Craig from
Kingston Park

Grumpy Alf from
Home and Away
in a trackie

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FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES

If any of you were wondering whether our current Chairman has as many friends in high places as our previous turkey-necked tyrant, then here is the proof you need.

It’s none other than Uncle Alan sharing a joke with Mr Bojangles himself, Sammy Davis Jr. on the set of 1967 movie ‘Salt and Pepper’.

Aye, they were canny days them” reminisces Alan, “hanging with Frank, Dean, Sammy and all that, mind you, they reckoned that Dean Martin could sup. I wiped the floor with him one night in Vegas….22 bottles of Broon I had, that’s compared to Dino’s 6! Yanks man, they cannot take it like what us lot can”.

And Frank?” he tuts “reckoned he was a bit of a hardman, but in all truth, he couldn’t fcuk off! I once seen him crying because a croupier at the casino in Spanish City at Whitley Bay took the piss out of his hairpiece”.

When asked about Sammy, Alan filled up “Sammy was class, an honorary Mag. There was one night at our lasses 21st birthday do and he’d had too much Fed Special and spewed his glass eye down the toilets in the CIU club.

Luckily I managed to save the day by sticking a pickled onion from the buffet table into his eye socket” he laughs.

A bit of a step-up in class from the ex-Chairman's schmoozing with Heseltine, Archer and Thatcher eh?

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PUZZLE TIME

Oh fcukin’ hell! Big Issue’s gone and left his mangy old sweater in the pub again.

Can you use your skill to follow the Geordie Gypsy Gents nose hairs to track it down so that he doesn’t freeze his crystal balls off at the match? Better hurry, it’s ten to three!


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DIRTY GARY LLOYD'S SPITTING RANGE *

At last you can recreate all of the magic of 4:55pm on December 22nd 2001.

Picture the scene: your lads have snatched a 4-3 win at Elland Road from the jaws of defeat. You’ve suffered the taunts of the ‘dirty whites’ for almost 2 hours, you’ve been caning NBA from 11am and it’s about time you vented your throbbing spleen…what are you going to do? Spit. That’s what.

And what better way to practice than with this fantastic cut-out-and-keep target range.

Simply paste the two offensive shirts to a pair of lollipop sticks and stick into a piece of plasticine onto a firm surface (a drinks tray on the back of a train seat is ideal) and fire away. Happy spitting and take care not to hit the life size Leeds fan sat in front of you.

* This product is by no means endorsed in any way shape or form by Big Graham Waddington. His verdict? “Eeeurch! You fcukin’ dirty b*st*rd!”

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"FLYING FRENCHMAN STOLE MY SMOO"
(another Pud exclusive)

Arsenal’s French international winger Robert Pires has been sensationally accused of taking a Serbian pornstars famed pubic hairdo without her consent.

Bosnian nymphette Stella Sukalotovdic, 46 (52/52/48) made the amazing claim last night. Stella claimed that whilst filming what was to be her last adult movie in Marseille a few years back, she had put her expertly trimmed “Brazillian style” pubes in for an economy wash at a nearby launderette whilst she went off for a spot of tiffin. When she returned to the launderette and hour or so later, the launderette owner regretfully informed her that her prized pubes had been jumbled up with the Marseille FC kit which the accused had picked up only a quarter of an hour earlier.

“The launderette owner could not apologise enough and gave me Msr Pires’ home telephone number in the hope that I could reclaim it” explained Stella.

“I must have called his home number at least 100 times and when he did answer he denied all knowledge” she sobbed. It was not until his £6m transfer to North London in the Summer of 2000 that Stella finally gave up hope of ever seeing her neatly trimmed clocksprings ever again and decided to regrow her snatch from scratch.

A Yorkshiremag insider allegedly commented: ”He should hang onto the stolen muff because, let’s face it, it’s the only time he will ever have a birds fanny hair on his chin……the fcukin’ big puff!”

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LIMP LATINOS
 

 
Before the Brazil v Argentina game recently, an Argentinian condom manufacturer posted the first advert to show what Argentina were going to do to Brazil. After the game, the Brazilian football organisation posted this poster everywhere....why doesn’t our FA have a sense of humour like that?

(Spotted by Big Issue)

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POSTAL ST-REICH

A Forest supporting mate of mine is a postman in Ashby in the Midlands. He told me this tale.

His work colleague (another postman funnily enough) had returned to work after a fortnight's holiday and was doing his usual daily delivery round, when he came to deliver post to the house of a mate of his only to discover two young black kids (who were obviously up to no good - well aren’t they all?) messing about in the adjoining garage.

Upset by the thought of these two young scamps robbing from his pals garage he chased them both away with a wild tirade of foul language and racist abuse.

Feeling smug and particularly happy with himself after saving his pals property from the thieving scamps, he then knocked on the door of the house to warn his pal (the owner) and tell him of his good deed.

Who should answer the door but  former Wednesday and Forest midfielder Chris Bart-Williams, none too pleased with the fact that this goon in an SS/Royal Mail uniform had verbally assaulted his two children and chased them from their newly acquired home, which they had moved into whilst the Nazi mail stormtrooper had been on holiday!

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COCK ROCK OF THE NORTH

Found this piccie whilst surfing. For the elder (or maybe even the younger, as the case may be) YM’s  it is in fact Steven Perry (Toon top) and Steven Tyler (Sh*te top) of American cock-rockers Aerosmith. Obviously the years of class A abuse has affected much more than Mr Tylers looks as he poses in the old scum shirt for a FA Cup promo in ’99.

So, if Toon players past and present and a charver ‘tached Mackem were to record an album of Aerosmith covers, would the following record the tracks listed?

1.Bolivian Ragamuffin – Clarence Acuna 2.Crazy – Asprilla 3.Fly Away From Here-Solano 4.I’m Down – Carl Cort 5.Jailbait – Kieron Dyer 6.Lightning Strikes – Craig Bellamy 7.Magic Touch – Laurent Robert 8.Monkey On My Back – Kevin Phillips 9.Walk On Water – Bobby Robson 10.Voodoo Medicine Man – Paul Ferris 11.Young Lust – Barry Venison.

Rumours that Wes Saunders was to record a version of (G)Love In An Elevator are completely untrue.

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EXCLUSIVE S*FC COMPETITION

On the left is the outright winner of the Mackem Echo’s “Design a Mackem Shirt” competition which was run by the paper last month. The shirt will be adopted by the Sunderland squad during next seasons 9 month relegation slog and also during their first season in the Nationwide the year after.

The lucky winner, Mrs Jenny Tilwarts aged 14 and a mother of four, was treated to a traditionally exotic Wearside / Chinese meal of Spare Rib flavour Nik-Naks and a Chow-Mein flavour Pot Noodle at Sunderland's newest and most exclusive restaurant the “Itchee Kok” pictured on the right.

An overjoyed Mrs Tilwarts screeched;”Eeehh! I felt like royalty man, it’s normally only film stars an’ that what get to eat proper posh grub like that. It was purely lush man!” she continued “It’ll be something I can tell me Grandbairns about in weeks to come, me eldest lassie’s 7 and she’s 8 month gone with me first Grandbairn. I’m proper proud”

The winning shirt design which was chosen from an estimated 43 entries and judged by a panel of inbred, boss-eyed ginger tosspots is described as revolutionary and will be worn by the squad until the 2003/04 season, after which a new shirt will be designed to accommodate the club’s new sponsor ex-Wham singer, George Michael.

The club have already negotiated the deal for the hairy faced Greek cottager to sponsor the club when the current deal with the nappy giants runs out. The clubs Chief Gypsy, John Fickling stated: “George has always been a huge fan of Sunderland. In fact when he’s not cracking himself off in front of LAPD’s finest in a public toilet, you’ll find him sat in the Fosters Stand at The Stadium of Light, cheering on the lads. He’s a big fan of Michael Gray and he’s said in the past that if he wasn’t a multi-million selling chutney ferret pop artist, then he’d have loved to play in goal for Sunderland as there are a crowd of w*nkers behind him and 10 ars*holes in front of him”.

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ARRAN 'TYNEMOOTH' MALLINSON
 
 
Arran


"TyneMooth"
Mallinson
Voice of (Un)Reason

A monthly feature in which our very own "Raging Gnome" discusses life, the universe and...

Fcukin’ strip joints what divven’t cater for the shorter gentleman!!
What the fcukin’ fcuks aall tharraboot eh?? Yer pay good money to gerrin the joint then spend an hoor lukkin’ at taller gadgies arses instead of quality blart. Nuw I knaa that might appeal to some bus drivin’ members o’ the club but not nee-one as streyt and gadgeyish as wharriam.

Sort it oot or thall be a serious doontorn in 4ft-plus desperate punters wi’ plums like two tins o’ Carnation milk comin’ through yer porple doors…..I knaaa!

Jonathan fcukin’ Woodgate!
He reckons he knackered his jaw durin’ a birrov horseplay! What was he tryin’ to dee to the poor beast like? Suck ‘im off?!?!

Shithooses what gan to away matches in a suit and get preferentiaral treatment and aaall that!
Tha should be some sort o’ strict dress code an’ that to stop the fcukas getting’ into games dressed like Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen.

Next time I see yuz, an’ yuz knaa who yuz are, I’ll tek yer tie off of yuz both an’ fcukin’ geld yuz like racehorses yuz pair of spawny bast*rds!

 

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MODERN FOOTBALLERS ARE RUBBISH

This letter is an actual letter received from a fan, by a Sheffield United Magazine. The letter reads....

I'm feeling all angry about these modern day footballers. I know why - they have gone all soft. It's because of poncy names. That's what it is! Remember in the old days, when footy players kicked a fcuking ball made out of ten pound of clay stitched inside a steel-reinforced leather shell with laces made out of piano wire? Well, in them days players could only survive the rigours of the game because they were called things like Albert, Arthur, Bert, Harry, Bill, Eddie, Bob, Jack and Tommy. Fcuking tough names for tough men, them was. And what do we have now? Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie. Fcuking tarts' names, they are. Great big fcuking puffs. No wonder the ball's like a fcuking balloon and shin pads is like slices of bread.

In the old days you never saw a Len Shackleton or a Billy Wright with a puffy little Sondico pieces of paper down his little thin socks. Fcuking shinpads in them days was made out of library books, and socks was like sackcloth. Same with the jerseys. Fcuking shirts with holes in now so they can breathe. Yes, so that little Jody's hairless chest can breathe and he doesn't get a chill. Fcuk off!

Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a fcuking tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob suit. Aye, he fcuking did! No wonder players fall over all the time whenever an opponent comes anywhere near them.  And they never used to show their arses at one another either. Can you imagine what might have happened if Don Revie had flashed his ring at Nat Lofthouse during a City-Bolton Wanderers game? He'd have got one of them size-10 hobnail fcukers up his bastard chuff.

Fcuking therapy for stress my arse! Stan Collymore slaps his missus about and he takes three seasons off with stress counselling. What the fcuk is that all about? In the old days it was expected for footballers to belt the old sow about a bit, especially after a bad defeat. And the women used to expect it, and so they should have. They were lucky to be married to footballers. Ha! Trevor Morley got a kitchen knife in his back off his wife and was out of action for three month. Soft twat!

Archie McShitt of Port Vale got run over with horse and cart one Friday night and he still turned out against Bradford the following day. And he scored two goals! That's cos his name wasn't "Trevor". Good old Archie! Broke his hip, both his legs, murdered his wife and buried her under the patio and still made the England team for the Home Internationals. Did he have any "stress counselling?? Did he bollocks!!!

And drugs? There was none of that in the old days. Oh, no! In them days it was a quick shot of morphine before kick-off and you was lucky if you got that. By half time it had all but wore off so they pumped you full of laudanum. None of this cocaine sniffing and shooting up class A narcotics. I know. Me dad told me!

Goal celebrations? Don't talk to me about goal celebrations. Crawling on the floor and thrusting their hips at the crowd. Huh! I'd like to have seen Cliff Bastin do that after a run down the left flank and crossing for Alex James to fire home a winner. Handshakes ... and that was all you got. That and a wank in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper wank all man stuff. None of these puffy wanks between blokes that you get nowadays. With players like Greame le Saux and Stephen Gerrard, allegedly. In them days, there was nowt wrong with it cos it didn't mean nowt. They used to say there was a "gay atmosphere" in the dressing room after the match. But it didn?t mean owt mucky. Just a bit of harmless spanking the plank among healthy young sportsmen.Aye. I know. Me dad told me!

Sixty grand a fcuking week! Ha! I wouldn't pay 'em tuppence! Two bob Tommy Lawton used to get ... a month! And Tom Finney still worked as a plumber four days a week when he was playing for England. It's true, you know. Me dad told me! Fcuking is! Players had to work then he says just to make up their money. Not like today. Stan Pearson had to clean sewers and doubled up as Old Trafford shithouse cleaner. He had to go off during one game because some cunt had built a log cabin and blocked the U-bend. And that Eddie Hapgood was a male model ... though he never liked to talk about it. So I say we start calling kids real male names again.

If you're having a kid, don't even consider puffy names and shite names like what people call their kids these days. Otherwise what we gonna get in twenty years' time? The England team full of players called Keanu, Ronan, Ashley and fcuking Chesney!?!?! Fcuk that! Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred and Wilf, and let's get the puffs out of the game once and for all!!!!!

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WOR WHEELIE'S CRAPPING CORNER

A monthly feature in which our very own Dave Wheeler gives you the lowdown on the best places in the UK to “rake your cage out......

Och! I’ve jist came back frae Amsterdam wi’ one o’ ma mates. Whit a braw place that is, I can tell ye!

Ma pal Shakey Boab wiz tellin’ me to take over £200 for a 3 night stay. “Crivvens!” I said, “£200? Whit the feck fae Boab?”

£100 for ale, £50 for a pro and £50 for some ‘shit’” he replied.

Feck tha’!” I argued “I’m takin’ £150….I’ve got a guid half a poond o’ grade A shite in ma duds as we speak”.

So we git tae Holland an’ nae sooner are we settled into wor digs than ma mate says he fancies poppin’ oot fae prozzie. Fancyin’ a wee bit masel’ I tag alang. 10 minutes later we’re at a brothel, ma mate disappears in one door an’ another whoore comes oot o’ the next one. She tells me thae she likes tae dee it outside, so we pop into the alley a’ thae back o’ the whoorehoose.

In broken English she says “60 euros for oral or 50 for a penguin”. Sae, bein’ the adventurous an’ stingy type I says “Jings! I’ll hae a penguin please”.

So she takes doon ma trolleys an’ I shut ma eyes only tae find that she’s put her hand in ma pockets, swiped ma wallet and is hairin’ doon the alley as fast as her rarely closed legs will carry her. “Feck this!” I thinks and decides tae gi’ chase after ‘er wi’ ma pants roond ma ankles…….shufflin’ like a feckin’ penguin!

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