The life of typical football fan (this one being Grimsby) . . Read it, its inspired..

Now I’m as optimistic as anyone when it comes to this twát of a football club, but after this afternoon’s latest capitulation it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee – we’re fúcked. Down. Goners. Non-league. To be honest I didn’t know how it would affect me, it’s not like it hasn’t been coming, but tonight I just feel absolutely deflated. Absolutely fúcking devastated.

I can’t get away from these emotions, I just want the whole world to just fúck off and leave me alone. To help me come to terms with this whole mess, I’ve decided to compile a list of everyone and everything I want to fúck off most of all.

For starters, work can fúck off. If they think I’m going to be there on Monday morning they’ve got another thing coming. No way am I going in to spend time dealing with cúnts that I can barely stand being with when I’m in a good mood, let alone this crushing feeling of anger, frustration and outright metaphorical-kicked-in-the-bóllocks-ness.

Plastic Premier League fans can fúck off. I just spoke to my Manchester United supporting neighbour (who incidentally, has been to Old Trafford before – twice) about Town’s predicament. You know what he said? “I know how you feel; it’s like when we failed to win a trophy in ‘95”. NO IT FÚCKING WELL IS NOT!

He no longer has a face.

The girlfriend can definitely fúck off. Her best attempt at consolation – “I don’t know why you’re bothered; you knew they were shít anyway”. Yes love, but they’re MY shít team. They’ve been MINE for pretty much as long as I’ve been able to wipe my own árse, and they’ll be MINE for as long as I’m alive (or at least, until I’m no longer able to wipe my own árse). Truth is, watching my team win does things for me that no woman can. If push comes to shove and I’m horny, I can always have a wánk.

Barrow can fúck off. I’ve been all over the country and beyond to watch my team, but frankly I just don’t have the stomach to visit any town which makes Scunthorpe look like fúcking St. Tropez.

Dad, you can fúck off. This is your fault. Your idea. You introduced me to this shower of shít. “Come with me to Blundell Park”, you said, “Come and support the boys”. What could I do? I was fúcking four, what choice did I have? Why not get me hooked on Heroin whilst you were at it? I could have gone with mum shopping for bras and knickers at British Home Stores, but no, you knew best.

Granted, I’d have probably grown up a homosexual but surely even being simultaneously búggered two guys named Seth and Quentin couldn’t hurt like this.

Seeing as we’re on the subject of homosexuality, Gok Wan can fúck off. No particular reason, I just plain don’t like the annoying, goggle-eyed cúnt.

The F.A. can fúck off. Not for supplying us, week-in, week- out, with inept referee after inept referee, but for imposing sensible financial rules on all clubs in League Two. How many clubs in this division have been into administration this season? Not one. How many points deducted? Not one. How the fúck else are we supposed to avoid relegation – footballing merit? We didn’t have to last season, so why spoil the fun now?

The World Cup can fúck off – I don’t care anymore.

My local pizza shop can fúck off. I ordered a 12” Pepperoni over an hour ago, and where the fúck is it? Are they trying to fúcking fly it to me or something?

Sky Sports can fúck off. Nothing personal, but there’ll be little need for me next season with no Town to be found anywhere. Ooh, Bolton versus Wolves, LIVE. I think I’ll pass...

The radio can fúck off. On my way home from the match, whilst driving down the M180, I caught three completely separate stations playing ‘Down’ by Jay Sean at the exact same fúcking time. The song’s the best part of a year old, how the fúck does that happen by coincidence!?

My nan’s old lucky Buddha that used to sit in her front room can fúck off. When I was a kid I held it in my hands and wished for Town to be in the Premier League. I meant the proper one you fat cúnt, not the one occupied by Histon, Eastbourne and for fúck’s sake, Ebbsfleet, wherever that is.

Tonight can fúck off. I’ve had enough of trying to cope with my emotions; the time has come for oblivion. I haven’t kept any booze in the house since an occasion known only as ‘That Night’ by myself and the missus, but suffice to say that the toilet duck and luminous blue mouthwash are looking like stronger propositions by the minute.

Most of all though, the last 10 years can fúck off. In that time I’ve watched my team fall from the top of the Championship into non-league nothingness. We’ve gone from one great big fúck up to the next without even coming up for air, and today is just the big, fúck off cherry on top.

One thing I’m sure of though is that we WILL be back. When it comes down to it, a football club is basically just a set of supporters, and frankly what I’ve learned in the last few years is that this one has some of the best. We’ve had to put up with some shít, haven’t we boys, but in spite of all of that the future is still bright – it’s fúcking black and white.

Grimsby ‘til I die...