Dear Steve Bruce (and the first team squad at Sunderland)
Jesus TITTY FUCKING CHRIST
What an embarrassing display of fuckwittery you are currently treating us all to! I wasn't aware that the current training regime was being overseen by the bastard lovechildren of Charlie Chaplin, the Chuckle Brothers and Morecombe and Wise, but the utterly embarrassing, humiliating FUCK KNUCKLE performances that you have turned in recently would suggest that rather than dribbling footballs round cones and learning how to play incisive one-twos around the opposition's box, you have instead been mastering the art of turning round whilst holding a ladder and twatting each other face-first into piles of cow shit, or leaning on recently-removed sections of the bar in the Nag's Head.
I have never in my life been so APPALLED at a bunch of footballers - and I've supported Sunderland for my entire life. That means I have seen some phenomenal shite (see McCarthy, M and McMenemy, L). But fuck me, you take the biscuit. You take the whole packet of fucking hobnobs, stick them up your arse (individually) and run off into the sunset singing the theme tune from Glee, actually.
It's bad enough that you look like the kid from that Mask film with Cher, if his face was set on fire and put out with a shovel, shortly before a swarm of killer bees took it in turn to sting his face, then force-feed him peanuts just before he discovered a horrific allergy to the fucking things. Then inject him with all the botox left over after Michael Jackson died.
No, annoying as it is looking at you (Mrs Bruce must have one hell of an imagination, if she lets you bone her with a face like a bagful of smashed twats), it is the fact that you somehow manage to send the troops out to battle with such a remarkable dedication to inefficiency that they somehow manage to fuck up like they did tonight.
We were playing BOTTOM OF THE LEAGUE. A team that has not even got enough money to pay the paperboy. A club that has taken hit after hit after hit. A team that had its best players sold without the MD or manager being told. A team that, until recently, could not afford to play its own goalkeeper. A team that has less money than me (and I had to borrow a fiver to buy a bottle of wine to get me through the dismal existence that was listening to your overpaid shitstains lose tonight). A team that is OWNED BY THE FUCKING BAILIFFS. Never before in the history of football has a team been as badly run as Pompey. Tonight, you made them look like a well-oiled machine. We were a Morrisons to their Marks & Spencer.
To recap, we were playing against a team that is about as capable of winning the Premier League as Mohammed Ali is of winning gymnastic floor show (girls) at the next Olympics. A team that is so worried about where the next blow is coming from that they are starting to resemble a squirrel trapped in a room full of rocking chairs. Yet, faced with this glorious opportunity to halt the biggest slide since Lando Calrissian fell into that pit with the tongue things, you and your heroic employees decided that it was not necessary to take advantage of the fact that they were down to TEN MEN after a trifling TWELVE MINUTES and we were ONE NIL UP. No, like a confused former paedophile in a nursing home we decided to ignore the chance to bury the past, and show matron our photo collection.
You FUCKWITS. I admit that I do not yet hold my UEFA B Licence, but if the exam asks 'what should you do when winning one-nil away from home against bottom of the league when they are reduced to ten men?', DO NOT answer 'get two intellectually subnormal fucktards sent off as quickly as possible, then let them equalise while I stand there looking like someone just wanked on my children's faces in the queue for their school bus'. That might help you progress as a coach.
I sincerely hope that our team of multimillionaires learns from this latest unmitigated disaster. I am not hopeful, however. To be honest, I am not especially hopeful that any of them can actually wipe their own arse without getting shit on their chin, but perhaps time will prove me wrong.
In the meantime, I fucking quit. You are not worth the anger and hatred that following you engender in me. It's like going out with a bird who fucks all my mates, just because we went for a pizza 15 years ago and had a nice evening, and you never know, it might happen again sometime.
Besides which, there are only so many tramps I can kick to death in the aftermath of our failures to win without eventually being traced, and your shitehole football club is no longer worth the risk of an official police caution.
FUCK YOU.
Love,
The Fucking Angry Man.
