kevin sampson

smithdown · May 21, 2009

Go f*ck yourself.

Heard a review of this f*ckin film of his on r4 last night. Ok, first things first, I'm an arlarse for judging it on that particularly negative review and the absolutely grim twenty second clip they played but f*ck it, I'm going to lump on big style that it's a massive steaming pile of sh*te and a gobsh*te's idea of an idea, written for cheap thrills for sh*tehawks and smackheads.

Perhaps I really resent the idea of a film that is trailed as being about "Liverpool hooligans", and perhaps I'm oversensitive about the idea that it should be released five weeks after the anniversary, and perhaps I'm being harsh in thinking that it's a tw*t's trick for someone to even contemplate making money and/or one dimensional art out of such a delicate issue at this particular juncture, and it may well be that I'm wrong to be sick to death of fartarsed writers without a decent story to tell about their experience of football that doesn't fuel such a sh*ttyarsed myth that "in the seventies, the term 'kick off' applied to what occurred both on and off the pitch" as if that's all that ever feckin happened at the match - oh look at the sensitive boys from the estate yearning to find their identity by wrestling in underpasses with other sensitive boys from other estates to a joy division song, do you see? do you see? nice jumpers, cool haircuts - and it could be unfair of me to suggest that he's gorging on the rotten stinking corpse of a genre that wasn't funny, clever or worth acknowledging ever since some fat bald c*nt called brimson or whoever 'gave it large about avin a pwopah ruck with the lincoln baby governors intercity transit casuals' fifteen horrible years ago, and I might be over the top in thinking that the only c*nts who want to get into it have as much awareness of their own closeted homoerotic fantasies as...well I don't know where to go with that one but anyway, or appeals to kids or people from small towns who think they are latching onto some form of zeitgeisty culture frenzy and dressing up like their fantasy heroes when they should be smiling and helping old ladies across the street and stuff and drinking less six per cent fizzy lager and snorting less vim and coke and all that and maybe I'm completely wrong about everything and it's a fine piece of art and is worth the time, expense and attention that all those involved have put into making it one man's vision of a way of life and his coming of age in thatcher's britain but one thing I'm absolutely sure of is that having actors affect sh*tey bad bad bad bad bad bad scouse accents that haven't been heard since Bread was on the telly or them mad feckin Beatle cartoons where they all sound like they are from wolverhampton and pronounced ringo as ringow, by having these so-called "Liverpool hooligans" sound like Cilla feckin Black on too much methadone - "you doan wanna be mixin wid dese dey ore norty boyees" - is the mark of a real feckin w*nker. I don't give a sh*t where the actors are from, or where they've feckin been, once they opened their gob someone should have shouted 'CUT! What the F*CK do you think you sound like? You're all feckin sacked lads, go on f*ck off somewhere else you d1cks.'

Yeah, so they might well have the clobber spot on and selected a decent soundtrack but so feckin what?

Awayday? F*ck off.

Walrus · May 21, 2009

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