Oh you big fucking chicken-shit quitter. You thug, you bully, you treacherous cunt, you. We know why you quit Ireland, huffing your way off the island like a ten year old girl who's not allowed to watch yet another episode of Hannah Montana on her daddy's phone and we know why you quit Sunderland. Because you're a fucking coward, that's why. Fine, you don't want the job. Who could blame you? Sunderland may be an even worse place to live than Cork, though I fucking doubt it. But why now? Why now when this time last year the team were in pretty much the same position? We know, Roy, we know. You're fooling fucking no one. You couldn't face the prospect of leading your self-built team of mediocrity to the sporting rape-fest that is scheduled to take place this Saturday, could you? Couldn't face a well-deserved spanking from your former father figure.
What's your plan now, you fuck? Rhetorical question, prick, we know that too. You're going to fucking lurk about with your ridiculous, 'Look Ma, I can grow facial hair, I'm so fucking wise!' beard, until Trapp dies or we fail to qualify for the World Cup, at which point you reckon you can sidle into the job, take us to the Europeans, and then fuck off back to your dog boyfriend when every fucking little thing doesn't go your way.
You're such a winner, Roy. Because if you quit then you can't lose. Isn't that right, you yellow-bellied wank stain?
Start to slide out of touch
4 days ago