Spunk and blood and tubes littering the pitch. The ref’s whistle clogged with pubes. The goalkeeper flailing his limbs around to get free from the stringy load-web that a ball-less spiderman had hand-spun last Sunday. Scrag ends of turkey neck skins littering the sidelines where once, back in the days of Association Football, the skins of oranges once lay.
The baying crowd tucking into a teste pie and pint of piss, just like they did during the Premiership’s heyday, only then branded as “meat” and “ale”.
The assistant referees, bombing down the touchline, their black uniforms splashed with man-muck, making it look like they’d just run through sixty puddles of white emulsion. The stink of sweat, cum, balls was well hung in the air and only those in the top tiers managed to escape the bitter male-stench. Imagine hitting a near-perfect 30yd shot, past the keeper, only to see the ball come to an abrupt halt in a pool of warm condensed man-milk, left there by some rogue string-slinger.
Although it could be that the shop’s window dresser just didn’t check the display before clocking off that day.