Hi boys . . . oh hi, I was just talking to my breasts . . . Oh why must our footballers be so well-spoken and refined? Does anyone really buy David James' Renaissance man act when he eschews chocolate bars for a bit of salad? Wow, Dave, I bet you read the smart papers instead of the tabloids, like most of the EPL's intelligentsia. Forget about The Economist-reading, fine wine-appreciating, I've-got-my-finger-on-the-pulse-of-current-events footballers. What we really admire is those emotionally-stunted, never-opened-a-book lads, those ones that think a pair of ta-tas are an invitation to a quick release.
Which is why I love Joey Barton, in the complete opposite way I love anyone who plays this sport for a living. That is I love him because he's such a massive tool and I don't have to worry about any wavering respect on my part. Theirry Henry will always be loved as a classy player by me, but as his abilities diminish, so does his position at the forefront of my mind. With JB, all news is good news from him, because it usually involves him being a complete ass. Which I love.
Here's the lastest on JB, who is currently probably sitting on a cot in a Liverpool cell, wondering how it is that everyone is against him and what is it with his bad luck? Apparently, JB has a stellar way of getting a woman's attention/affection/or possibly to have sex with him and several teammates. It typically involves approaching a busty chick, sticking your face between her sweater fruit, along with pulling her hair a few times as well. Sounds good to me. I mean, who can say no to that?
Boozy Barton boob rub shame [The Sun]
-bl
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