Sitting here on the plane letting the Xanax wash over me, vodka tonic in one hand, can of Tiger in the other, I thought I would put down my predications for the coming season. Chelsea will be champions of that there is no doubt but what of these other cunts ? Here is my guide to the coming season.. Arsenal Aston Villa Blackburn Bolton Charlton Derby County Everton Fulham Ipswich Leeds
Player to hate: Take your pick between young Jonathan and Lee Bowyer. Leicester Liverpool Man U
Who the fuck are Man Utd? Newcastle Southampton Sunderland Tottenham West Ham
Champions: Chelsea - 1st time since '55 I will be in the garden of the Legless Ladder at noon before the Newcastle game with Priesty, Nobby and Dogman. If you're going to the bar mine's a Kronenbourg with a shot of Jose Cuervo 1860. My good mate Ginger will have sorted me out with a large bag of skunk weed so if you fancy a blast just follow your nose.
Dr Les.
PS: Fuck off Poyet.
You will be lucky to get past immigration, Les, but on the off-chance that they do let you into the country I look forward to seeing you at the Legless Ladder before the Newcastle game. I hope you are kidding about the tequila, though. I would have thought that the bestial scenes that followed your last binge on tequila would have made you a little more circumspect in your choice of alcohol. What am I talking about ? Let me refresh your fucked memory. Picture the scene: it is the 30th of August 1997 and the first day of the new season coincides with your birthday. You are a lucky bastard. You seem to be dimly aware of this, as you abuse Priesty's hospitality by imbibing impossible quantities of beer, tequila, vodka and soft drugs on his premises. Eventually we leave to walk the short distance to the ground. You buy more alcohol on the way down North End Road. With your friend Priesty holding you up you weave your way happily past Fulham Broadway, along Fulham Road and onto the forecourt at Stamford Bridge. All the world is your friend. In your bovine excitement you yell incoherently as you make your way into the queue for the turnstiles. You almost knock over an eighteen year old police officer on crowd duty, and are outraged when he stops you and looks into your eyes. What he sees so disturbs him that he announces that there is "no way on this fucking earth that you are coming in". Congratulations ! You have reached the drunk's Nirvana and achieved what only a select few have done before you: you get chucked out before you even get into the ground. That takes some doing, but the fact that you are wearing cut-off combat trousers and are balancing stupid surfing shades on top of your freshly shaved head does not help, as it makes you look like a cross between a fully paid up member of the Freddie Mercury fan club and a neo-nazi. Just as I am beginning to make progress in my appeal on your behalf to a senior police officer, attempting to persuade him that you are over-excited but basically harmless, you fatally sabotage my good work by elbowing past me, yelling "Who's this cunt, Priesty?" The memory of your forlorn face receding into the distance as you are held back by a spotty copper almost young enough to be your son is a treasured one, Les. You are forced to retire hurt to the pub and I walk into the ground on my own to watch the Blues smash four past Southampton. To add to the amusement Frank Sinclair is sent off for accidentally smashing his elbow into Saints player Andy Williams's face. An unexpected but nonetheless welcome bonus, made all the more entertaining by the memory of Dr Les's banishment. Things deteriorate later that evening as we sit in the pub, where you are like a petulant schoolboy who has had his gameboy confiscated by Sir. Most of the evening is spent trying not to listen to your increasingly drunken threats to "get even with the fuzz". Retribution appears to consist mainly of writing a stiff letter to the Home Secretary outlining their shortcomings. Suggested themes for this letter increase it's size to over twenty pages, but we end up cutting it to one terse but succint sentence: "Dear Homey, all coppers are bastards. Signed Dr. Les." This sad interlude is compounded by pathetic attempts to cop off with any female who is unfortunate enough to pass within leering distance, none of whom, of course, want to know. Embarassing is not the word. Predictably the evening ends badly, with some shocking abuse of innocent late-night tube passengers involving importuning them to finish rolling the spliff you are too pissed to finish yourself. Tut, tut. Let that be a warning to those of you who imagine that drinking or drug taking is clever.
© 2001
Priesty's Chelsea FC Refuge.
Sir,
A loathsome team, who deserved to win fuck all last season. They have no moral fibre - just look at their performances in last seasons champions league. Also got done 6-1 by United in their last outing at Old Trafford.
Verdict: No moral fibre
Sing with me - "they're going to win fuck all". Worse manager in the world. Enough said.
Verdict: Wankers
Out of their league. Souness will always be a cunt unless he has another change of heart - geddit? Change of heart? Boom boom!
Verdict: Where's Jack?
Up and down like a whore's drawers. Should be good for 6 points for the mighty Chels. Priesty's second team.
Verdict: Northern Monkeys
You mean they didn't get relegated last season? They did us home and away? Death to the upstarts.
Verdict: Used to share a ground with West Ham - enough said
Another team who sold plenty but bought fuck all. Good for 6 points and a plus 7 goal difference.
Verdict: Can we play you every week?
Sold a lot of players and bought fuck all in reply. Lets hope Gazza can overcome his emotional problems so we can have the opportunity to enjoy a chorus of "he's fat and beats his wife"
Verdict: Relegation certainties
Shitty ground, dodgy chairman, racist goalkeeper. They will score less than 20 goals this season - get down to Mr Ladbrokes with that one.
Verdict: Fuck off back where you belong. Cunts that you are.
Surprise package of last season. Needless to say they will either struggle this year or come second - your choice.
Verdict: I can't read and I can't write, it don't fucking matter, I come from Ipswich Town and I can drive a tractor
We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds. Fucking Northern cunts.
Verdict: Get out Duberry, while you still can.
This team have Chelsea's number. They know our Achilles heal and regularly bum-fuck us for the 6 points.
Verdict: We'll get a point off you, you cunts
3 cups in a season? Who fucking cares - its ancient history. We won the league in '55, but you don't hear us banging on about it now, do you?
Verdict: Out in the 1st round of the champions league
Verdict: Sing "Always check on the runway for ice" (to the tune of Always look on the bright side of life)
Middlesbrough
New boss. Same shit players. Where's your Terry gone?
Player to hate: Hamilton Ricard
Verdict: Fuck off Boro.
Bobby Robson? Bobby Bollocks more like. They are here to make up numbers. Priesty was born here!
Verdict: Haven't won in town since beating Palace in 1963. Mid-table muppets.
New ground + shit manager + shite players = relegation
Player to hate: Kevin Davies
Verdict: 4 points for the Mighty Blues
They play like a bunch of 6 year olds in the park. Relegation fodder.
Verdict: exposed as long ball merchants with a foul-mouthed manager
Glenn Hoddle is a terrible manager. Unlike Claudio he is trying to increase the average age of his squad - work that one out! Football genius? Muppet more like. They are wankers to a man
Verdict: Where's your Campbell gone?
They are going down, my friend. And not before time. Best fans in the league? You've got to be kidding. Fuck off and play with Millwall.
Verdict: The first team to be relegated
Prediction:
Runners up: Ipswich
3rd: Arsenal
Relegation: West Ham, Everton, Fulham
FA Cup: Chelsea
UEFA Cup: Chelsea
Champions League: Barry Town
