New Deviancy Claiming Footballers’ Lives
Darren Ford
New deviancy set to claim the lives of 14 Premier League footballers every week.
With the help of an iPhone app and a thing that looks like a sextant with big glass bollocks hanging off it, boffins at the University of Poindexter have rocked football to its foundations by publishing evidence that categorically proves, should Atypical Biclasmic Eroto-sthenalgia – the completely fatuous sexual deviancy they just made up for their own amusement – ever escape the confines of pointless supposition, the entire professional game could orgasm itself to death in less than two years.
Professor Alden Thoob, chief lecturer at UOP’s Faculty of Futile Abstraction, predicts upwards of 14 Premiership players will die each week unless the powers that be act now:
“Believe you me, if Sir Trevor Brooking fails to heed the warning, there will be blood on his hands, egg on his face, a mark on his conscience and David Ngog’s seminal fluid in his hair and eyebrows. And not in a good way.”
Atypical Biclasmic Eroto-sthenalgia (AKA ‘Jousting’), though entirely fabricated, has nonetheless sent every top flight club except Stoke into tailspinning conniptions, even prompting Arsene Wenger to hire lute-fondling mega-prong Sting as some kind of consultant sex mechanic in a desperate bid to shepherd his prize assets away from the hypothetical paraphilial fad and towards, I dunno, maybe not ejaculating for a bit.
The lethal guerrilla sex act is believed to have grown from the same idle petri dish that spawned the formative ‘Romping Albatross’ scene of the early 80s, made famous by the likes of Derek Mountfield, Nigel Spink and Chelsea frotting legend Colin Pates.
But with the invention of Sky Sports a decade later and the resultant deluge of money, fame, hyperbole and Redknapps, the harmless act of unrepentant goinking is now set to take a turn towards the very definitely macabre.
“[Modern football’s] depravity knows no bounds,” exclaimed one reliably nameless ex-pro. “I caught Neil Shipperley trying to bum a spider once. That’s how bad, or good, depending on how you look at it, things have actually got.”
Conveniently cloaked in the secrecy of non-existence, little is known of Jousting, though when confronted on Twitter about his involvement in the future-death of Michael Owen (1979-2013), a befuddled Cheik Tiote could neither confirm nor deny our groundless assumptions that participants are required to dress in crotchless batik speedos, bully themselves toward erection then run full-tilt at each other ‘til someone either dies, cums, or dies cumming.
His refusal to respond speaks volumes.
In a recent chatroom conversation with Sam Allardyce, Surreal Football confronted the stomach-faced laptop evangelist about Jousting’s plausibility. His response was as incomprehensible as it was unequivocal:
“With piss-all to do after training except maybe buy cocaine-pancakes or go to the local swimming pool in the hope of seeing a fat kid drown, the average-sized modern-day footballer has little option other than to fill the hours of retarded solitude by dislocating his owns legs and crawling inside the dishwasher just to see how his plates feel. It’s an interminable cycle and one that’s all too easily broken by inventing new and exciting ways to die with your cock out. At least that’s what Prozone says.”
Following the Virtual World passing of AFC Bournemouth’s Steve ‘Steve’ Fletcher and someone called either Dave Phillips or Phillip Daves, concerns are growing at FA headquarters that the endemic clattering of dicks could wipe out the entire England squad, including Gareth Barry, for generations to come – a scenario so horrifying its hard to put into words or even basic sounds. A smell might do the trick, though, if you can capture the essence of sheer mortifying terror inside a predatory paedophile’s turd.
Can you?
