Dear You, You suck. Signed, me.

Dear reader,

It has been brought to my attention that you support a football club which is different to that which I support.

The regrettable but necessary responsibility therefore falls upon me to inform you that your team sucks.

Your team sucks so much that the area surrounding it is subject to many devastating hurricanes with stupid names like Mabel and Alphonse.

Your team sucks so much that the jellified alcohol product it attempted to consume was projected through the back of its neck and proceeded to strike a patron who was sitting at the adjacent table, thus causing a “scene”.

Your team sucks so much that an act of fellatio it once performed rendered the hapless recipient most uncomfortable in the latter’s private regions. (Note how I have implied a connection between your club and homosexuality, which is, as we all know, a synonym for the quality of having negative worth of the most extreme sort. This was quite deliberate.)

You, I have reason to believe, are of the opinion that your team is of such greatness as to be above my team in that particular category. You are very much mistaken. The multi-billionaire’s toybox to which I have affiliated myself is of a far higher standard than the multi-billionaire’s toybox to which you have affiliated yourself. (I’ll wager that my father would triumph in a pugilsitic duel against yours, too, though I doubt you even know the latter rum-soaked cur’s name.)

We are first in the first class. In point of fact, we are the sole occupants in a special class distinct from and superior to all others. Evidence for this can be heard fortnightly at the customer-processing centre at which the employees of the parent company to which we have loyally subscribed dance their heroic dance. “We’re by far the greatest football-based subsidiary of a large energy/entertainment/media concern the world has ever seen,” we chant in unison, with much more gusto than the squalid and ignorant rabble of which you are part could muster, even were your lives to depend on it (and this being football, they do).

Without knowing you, reader, or indeed having met you or engaged you in conversation, I can deduce, simply from the knowledge of your football team, that you are given to partaking in an array of perverted sexual practices with members of your own family and various domestic and farmyard animals. Please do not attempt to counter this assertion with an accusation of a similar nature; I will merely reply in kind, and you will seem quite foolish.

Despite the fact you may regard your star player and see a lithe, athletic figure with nary a trace of corporeal fat, I can reveal to you that he is actually morbidly obese. Furthermore, his wife’s preferred position for the conjugal act is after the fashion of the wretched citizens of Sodom. We know this because her spouse plays for your team.

The player who was previously at your club and is now at ours, whom we habitually accused of bestiality while he was at his former post, does not engage in this activity, nor have we ever said that he did.

Reader, you quite often make disparaging remarks about my team. I may encounter you – or another of your cursed ilk – who, on realising that I am inhabited by the soul of the world’s foremost assortment of mercenary ball-players, will say: “Your assortment of mercenary ball-players is inferior in relation to mine!” This is something to which I am accustomed, and I am also accustomed to using it as a device with which to bore through the thin crust which divides my mind and the profound well of righteous anger that resides below.

Our fans are renowned the world over for our ironic wit and self-deprecating banter. We are also blessed with the ability to swiftly and effectively put down any attempt to denigrate the good (nay, great) name of our team, like white blood cells rallying to fight a cancer. Some would call it “paranoia”; some, “psychosis”; others, even “pathetic fumbling towards a strange version of adulthood by people with actual blancmange for brains rather than normal brains with merely the consistency of said dessert”.

What rubbish! I say it’s another P-word – PASSION. Passion is the most important quality in any fan – not well-thought opinion, not a somewhat-biased-but-generally-pretty-balanced outlook, but pure PASSION. We have more passion than any other group of club superstore patrons and message board dwellers, and that is a FACT, my friend.

You are understandably jealous of our wonderful club. We have something you don’t, and that’s history. Were one of the heroes of our club’s past to saunter to the top of Mount Olympus, Apollo himself would vacate his throne and offer it to the man, as well as promising to give many sexual favours (which would be declined, because our players are not sexual deviants, unlike those at your club, the bath in the home changing room of which could tell some incredible tales, I have heard it said). I am reasonably certain that I could name some of these heroes, too. Just give me a few hours.

Everyone else is jealous, too. Every referee in the league clearly resents us. And one cannot peruse a journal or take in a televisual presentation without stumbling across some half-wit trying to drag my team through the swill. Only last week, an article which purported to discuss a recent fixture of ours in fact contained a stinging message of rebuke. If one took the first letter of each paragraph and re-arranged them, one could spell the word “LUZERS”. I think it is quite clear what the author was endeavouring to convey! Rest assured than an explosive device was dispatched to the address of the publication in question with utmost haste.

One may wonder whether it is worth the time and energy of a sentient, adult human being to invest such energy into such rabid protection of a sporting entity. But you obviously do not know what it is like to be so devoted to this great, great institution. We are mighty, mightier than all foes – including you, reader – and we will vanquish them all by devising amusing nicknames for them and getting very, very cross whenever the opportunity presents itself.

But the ultimate proof that my team is above all others is that I support them. I say this not from a position of subjectivity, but merely to point out that I have the great fortune to have been born as me, whereas you, damned soul, are you. I hope, reader, that settles the issue.

Yours in superiority,


Fredorrarci is Luxembourg’s chargé d’affaires in Tashkent and writes a blog called Sport Is A TV Show.

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