Football Crazy Read Online Free PDF

recognised me.”
    She looked him up and down. “No.”
    Donny was surprised, but unfazed. “And you are?”
    “ Linda”
    “ Lovely name.”
    “ Thanks.” She placed the drinks on the bar.
    Donny picked up the brandy and coke, silently toasted her, and took a drink. “So, how do you like working behind a bar, Linda?”
    “ It keeps me out of trouble.”
    He put his glass down. “Guess what I do?”
    “ I've no idea.”
    “ I do the same as Ron Atkinson.”
    “ Sweat a lot?”
    “ What? No.” Donny put the poor girl right. “No, I'm the manager of Frogley Town.”
    “ Oh, football,” she said, with a distinct lack of interest.
    Donny had interest enough for both of them. “Yes, we're going to be knocking on the door this season, Linda.”
    “ I hope they let you in.” She smiled and sipped her gin and tonic.
    “ And quite probably lifting the big one.”
    “ I hope it's not too heavy for you.”
    Donny looked at her sharply. Was she taking the piss? No. Why should she? No, it was just that she was a woman; she just didn't understand football expressions such as knocking on the door and lifting the big one. She was still smiling at him. Good. He jumped in at the deep end. “You're a very attractive girl, Linda.”
    “ Thank you.”
    “ A very attractive girl indeed. How would you like to be my mistress?”
    “ How would you like to fuck off?”
    As her reply seemed fairly definite, and her face suggested that a house call from Harold Shipman might have been more preferable, Donny quickly finished his drink and left.

    The average Frogley Town footballer exhibited all the arrested development of Ant and Dec, and as the team sat in an around the centre circle of the Offal Road stadium taking a break in training their conversation reflected this.
    “ I reckon our entire squad is worth about as much as a clinker hanging from David Beckham's bum cleavage hair,” opined Gary Moggs, the Town's first choice goalkeeper.
    “ David Beckham won't have clinkers,” said Darren Briggs. “Posh wouldn't allow it.”
    “ No she wouldn't put up with him having clinkers, a woman like her,” agreed midfielder Gareth Rock. Originally from the Rhonda Valley, Rock had a soft Welsh accent and a soft Welsh head. “I mean....I mean well she's....you know, well she’s posh, isn't she boy.”
    “ I bet he does have clinkers,” argued Teddy Links. “I mean stands to reason, playing football, shooting TV commercials, modelling, I mean poor bugger won't have time to wipe his arse, will he.”
    Higgs looked puzzled. “How have you worked it out we're only worth one of David Beckham's clinkers then, Moggsy?”
    “ If he has any,” Rock chipped in.
    “ If he has any,” Higgs conceded.
    “ Well I reckon our squad is worth about five hundred grand,” said Moggs. “And Beckham must be worth hundred million quid. So we're worth one two hundredth of him, and a clinker is about one two hundredth the size of somebody.”
    “ Not the soize of one of your clinkers Moggsy,” pointed out Hereward Stock, the central defender from central England. “If it was the soize of one of your clinkers you'd have to modify your calculations more than somewhat.”
    “ I'll modify your nose more than somewhat if you don't shut it, you Brummie tosspot,” threatened Moggs.

    Lying down near the centre spot Danny Crooks was with Carl Cook.
    “ So anyway,” said Crooks, “there was Paul Gascoigne driving down Tottenham High Road the week after he'd been transferred from Newcastle United to Spurs, and he pulls up at the traffic lights. And this bloke wearing a Newcastle United shirt taps on his window. Gazza winds the window down and the bloke says 'You're a twat you, Gascoigne, leaving Newcastle for Spurs'. Gazza winds the window back up, the lights turn green, he drives off. Just down the road there's another set of traffic lights on red. Gazza pulls up and he sees in his rear mirror the same bloke in the Newcastle United shirt running