Writer, 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘉𝘰𝘺𝘴. My novel, 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘊𝘰𝘢𝘴𝘵, a gangster tale set in late 60s Salford, is available on Amazon. #MUFC. 🇾🇪
The psychedelic coal seam
Joined November 2022
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My Salford gangster novel, "Barbary Coast" is now on Amazon. It's a hardback so you can use it as a step-stool around the home. A cracking read! amazon.co.uk/dp/1915616395
Well, this one didn't age well. Russell Brand, a vile creep. Never liked him as a lefty and should have kept my original opinion of the man (if you can call him that).
Scruffy poncey fucking cunt. Anyone with a daughter should be hoping more women come forward and this vile entitled wanker serves life in the big house.
The repulsive rapist Russell Brand trying to get Vanessa Feltz to hand over one of her daughters to him for sex. His persistence is really telling. “Hold on you’ve got two whole daughters and I can’t even have one?” This is a man riddled with sexual entitlement. He even says he would have sex with his own children if they were boys. None of this was funny. It is hard now to imagine where he would see a boundary. I hope more victims step forward. I refuse to believe there aren’t any. I hope he never gets out of jail.
Ian B. Hough, esq. retweeted
🚨UPDATE🚨
We will be opening submissions for 2 weeks on 7th December. Only writers born or living in the north of England or Scotland will be considered, and we are solely looking for historical fiction.
Please note submissions that don't follow our requirements won't be read
Ian B. Hough, esq. retweeted
Grimsby Town's ground, boxed in on every side by rows and rows of terraced houses. That's what a club at the heart of its community looks like 👌
Cracking photo. Proper old-school football ground, slap bang in the middle of where the fans actually live.
Wtf are the poppy armbands? Cartooonish shite. Looks like Barbapapa bent over stretching his shitbox open. Just wear a proper one ffs.
Later, there WILL be people saying if Mount's effort that hit the bar had gone in we could have got something out of this match.
Something about people called Ferguson and horses...
When Duncan Ferguson was playing for Everton, he went for a day out at Chester races with some friends, including Mark Quinn, the brother of former Newcastle striker Micky Quinn.
They had been drinking and enjoying themselves, and by the end of the afternoon, Ferguson had decided that he quite fancied owning a racehorse himself.
“That’s a good idea, let’s buy a horse.”
“As you do.”
Micky had become a horse trainer after retiring from football, so it all seemed like a perfectly normal plan.
Ferguson arranged to visit Micky at his stables, where he was shown the horse he would be buying.
But when Micky brought it out, Ferguson was a little concerned about its size.
“Jesus, Micky, it’s not very big, is it?”
Micky reassured him there was nothing to worry about.
“It’s just a yearling, Dunc, it’ll grow.”
So Ferguson handed over £27,000, and became the owner of his first racehorse.
But there was one problem.
“It never f****** grew.”
Micky had told him the horse originally came from Mick Channon, the former England footballer who had become a successful trainer.
Ferguson was not entirely convinced.
“I bet he never.”
“He probably got it off Blackpool beach and said, ‘Here you go, a horse.’”
Micky had arranged for jockey Franny Norton to ride it, and when the day came, Ferguson gathered his family around the television.
He told the kids they had their own racehorse running, and they were all excited to watch it.
Ferguson had even made a special request to Micky.
“Get the horse in the front, the kids want to enjoy it in the front.”
Franny came flying out of the stalls, got the horse into the lead, and before long it was twenty lengths clear of the rest.
The kids were jumping up and down in front of the television, watching their dad’s horse miles ahead of everybody else.
But it could not keep going.
The rest of the field caught up, went straight past, and Ferguson’s horse finished last.
And unfortunately for Ferguson, things did not get much better.
Every time the horse ran badly, Micky seemed to have another explanation for what had gone wrong.
“Dunc, he likes a mile, he likes half a mile, he likes two miles, he likes an inside track, he likes an outside track, he’s got sore feet, he’s got sore teeth.”
Micky was doing everything he could to keep the horse in training, but Ferguson was spending a fortune and getting absolutely nowhere.
After a while, he had enough.
“Just sell the f****r, Micky.”
Micky agreed to take it to auction, but when the day arrived, Ferguson got another phone call.
“There’s been a car crash on the motorway. There’s nobody at the auctions, Dunc, there’s no point selling the horse.”
Ferguson was past caring how much money he got for it.
“Sell the bloody horse.”
“Just sell it.”
Later that day, Micky rang him back.
“Dunc, you’ll never guess what, I got £1,200 for your horse.”
Ferguson wasn’t exactly thrilled.
“I’m made up, Micky.”
“Keep the £1,200, mate, and don’t ever phone me again.”
By the time he finally got rid of the horse, Ferguson reckoned it had cost him around £50,000 over two years.
“It’s the best thing I ever did, getting rid of that horse.”
And after all the money he had lost, there was one final detail that made the whole thing even worse.
The horse’s name was:
“No Regrets!”
“The final f****** insult to f****** injury.”
#football
Rory Gallagher - Garbage Man Blues - Rockpalast Essen 1977 youtu.be/HaHjog_nvxw?si=coZD…
They've got BOTH Neville brothers here today at NBC. Phil reckons the 115 guilty charges aren't weighing on the cheating blue cunts.
