Grimsby lovely ground,been past it couple times on way up north i rem when they sold clive mendonca to charlton for 800k and he took us up to the prem!.what the hell has happened?do they need a takeover or is it the manager or is it the players grimsby shouldt be in the conference be at best lge 1
Nobody gives a **** about the Codhead ****s. I hope that little ****hole of a town is washed into the North Sea. And also that you die you ****-thread starting twat.
Erik - You're going soft - don't hold back. I think that a thread like this one deserves somebody going totally over the top in their response - So, go on, let yourself go - I promise you it won't look at all embarrassing in print. ACWORTH - that's irony - of which the English are very fond.
I've always had a soft spot for grimsby (i think it's because of the fish), shame to see them go so far downhill.
Have fun in Blue Sq North, you fish ****ing, ****hole dwelling, inbred, moaning, wannabe hardmen, failing, non-league ****s.
Basically, we have an owner who "loves" the club but makes terrible decisions regarding management, promises us a new stadium which will never happen, and continues to run the club into the ground. Each year we think we have seen the lowest point in our history, only for it to be toppled the next year (this years pick is the 0-5 loss at Braintree). Another factor was us signing terrible has beens such as Isiah Rankin and Peter "the dickhead" Beagrie. The only way is up, apparently...
This is great... it's a bit long but this is from a Grimsby fan. "Now Iâm as optimistic as anyone when it comes to this twát of a football club, but after this afternoonâs latest capitulation itâs time to wake up and smell the coffee â weâre fúcked. Down. Goners. Non-league. To be honest I didnât know how it would affect me, itâs not like it hasnât been coming, but tonight I just feel absolutely deflated. Absolutely fúcking devastated. I canât get away from these emotions, I just want the whole world to just fúck off and leave me alone. To help me come to terms with this whole mess, Iâve decided to compile a list of everyone and everything I want to fúck off most of all. For starters, work can fúck off. If they think Iâm going to be there on Monday morning theyâve got another thing coming. No way am I going in to spend time dealing with cúnts that I can barely stand being with when Iâm in a good mood, let alone this crushing feeling of anger, frustration and outright metaphorical-kicked-in-the-bóllocks-ness. Plastic Premier League fans can fúck off. I just spoke to my Manchester United supporting neighbour (who incidentally, has been to Old Trafford before â twice) about Townâs predicament. You know what he said? âI know how you feel; itâs like when we failed to win a trophy in â95â. NO IT FÃCKING WELL IS NOT! He no longer has a face. The girlfriend can definitely fúck off. Her best attempt at consolation â âI donât know why youâre bothered; you knew they were shÃt anywayâ. Yes love, but theyâre MY shÃt team. Theyâve been MINE for pretty much as long as Iâve been able to wipe my own árse, and theyâll be MINE for as long as Iâm alive (or at least, until Iâm no longer able to wipe my own árse). Truth is, watching my team win does things for me that no woman can. If push comes to shove and Iâm horny, I can always have a wánk. Barrow can fúck off. Iâve been all over the country and beyond to watch my team, but frankly I just donât have the stomach to visit any town which makes S****horpe look like fúcking St. Tropez. Dad, you can fúck off. This is your fault. Your idea. You introduced me to this shower of shÃt. âCome with me to Blundell Parkâ, you said, âCome and support the boysâ. What could I do? I was fúcking four, what choice did I have? Why not get me hooked on Heroin whilst you were at it? I could have gone with mum shopping for bras and knickers at British Home Stores, but no, you knew best. Granted, Iâd have probably grown up a homosexual but surely even being simultaneously búggered two guys named Seth and Quentin couldnât hurt like this. Seeing as weâre on the subject of homosexuality, Gok Wan can fúck off. No particular reason, I just plain donât like the annoying, goggle-eyed cúnt. The F.A. can fúck off. Not for supplying us, week-in, week- out, with inept referee after inept referee, but for imposing sensible financial rules on all clubs in League Two. How many clubs in this division have been into administration this season? Not one. How many points deducted? Not one. How the fúck else are we supposed to avoid relegation â footballing merit? We didnât have to last season, so why spoil the fun now? The World Cup can fúck off â I donât care anymore. My local pizza shop can fúck off. I ordered a 12â Pepperoni over an hour ago, and where the fúck is it? Are they trying to fúcking fly it to me or something? Sky Sports can fúck off. Nothing personal, but thereâll be little need for me next season with no Town to be found anywhere. Ooh, Bolton versus Wolves, LIVE. I think Iâll pass... The radio can fúck off. On my way home from the match, whilst driving down the M180, I caught three completely separate stations playing âDownâ by Jay Sean at the exact same fúcking time. The songâs the best part of a year old, how the fúck does that happen by coincidence!? My nanâs old lucky Buddha that used to sit in her front room can fúck off. When I was a kid I held it in my hands and wished for Town to be in the Premier League. I meant the proper one you fat cúnt, not the one occupied by Histon, Eastbourne and for fúckâs sake, Ebbsfleet, wherever that is. Tonight can fúck off. Iâve had enough of trying to cope with my emotions; the time has come for oblivion. I havenât kept any booze in the house since an occasion known only as âThat Nightâ by myself and the missus, but suffice to say that the toilet duck and luminous blue mouthwash are looking like stronger propositions by the minute. Most of all though, the last 10 years can fúck off. In that time Iâve watched my team fall from the top of the Championship into non-league nothingness. Weâve gone from one great big fúck up to the next without even coming up for air, and today is just the big, fúck off cherry on top. One thing Iâm sure of though is that we WILL be back. When it comes down to it, a football club is basically just a set of supporters, and frankly what Iâve learned in the last few years is that this one has some of the best. Weâve had to put up with some shÃt, havenât we boys, but in spite of all of that the future is still bright â itâs fúcking black and white. Grimsby âtil I die..."
Sailor Jerry did you write this? Dear Players of Grimsby Town FC I am writing with regard to my absolute astonishment and disbelief as to the sheer magnitude of your complete lack of talent and failure to carry out the job for which you are paid to do. I am not aware of any swear word or other derogatory phrase in my current vocabulary which comes close to a description of your ‘performance’ (and I use that term loosely) this afternoon, but let me just say that you have collectively reached a level of inadequacy and ineptitude that neither I nor modern science had previously considered possible. In fact I recall a time, in my youth, when I decided to call in sick at work and instead spent the entire day in my one bedroom flat wearing nothing but my underpants, eating toast and ****ing furiously over second-rate Scandinavian porn. Yet somehow, I still managed to contribute more to my employer in that one Andrex-filled day than you complete bunch of toss-baskets have contributed to this club in your entire time here. I would genuinely like to know how you pathetic bunch of pissflaps sleep at night, knowing full well that you have taken my money and that of several thousand others and delivered precisely **** all in return. I run a business myself, and I believe I could take any 4,000 of my customers at random; burn down their houses, impregnate their wives and then dismember their children before systematically sending them back in the post, limb-by-limb, and still ensure a level of customer satisfaction which exceeds that which I have experienced at Blundell Park at any time so far this season. You are a total disgrace, not only to your profession, not only to the human race, but to nature itself. This may sound like an exaggeration, but believe me when I say that I have passed kidney stones which have brought me a greater level of pleasure and entertainment than watching each of you worthless excuses for professional footballers attempt to play a game you are clearly incapable of playing, week-in, week-out. I considered, for a second, that I was perhaps being a little too harsh. But then I recalled that I have blindly given you all the benefit of the doubt for too long now. Yes, for too long you have failed to earn the air you’ve been breathing by offering any kind of tangible quality either as footballers or as people in general. As such, I feel it’s only fair that your supply runs out forthwith. I trust, at this precise moment in time, that Mr. Fenty is in his office tapping away on the Easyjet web site booking you all one-way flights to Zurich, complete with an overnight stay with our cheese eating friends at Dignitas. Don’t bother packing your toothbrush – you won’t need it. In the event that our beloved chairman can’t afford the expense (understandable given that he’s soon going to have to assemble a new squad from scratch), then I am prepared to sell my family (including my unborn child) to a dubious consortium of Middle Eastern businessmen in order to pay for the flights. Christ, I’ll drive you there myself, one-by one, without sleep, if I have to. Failing that, understanding that most dubious Middle Eastern businessmen are tied-up purchasing Premier League football clubs, I ask you to please take matters into your hands. Use your imagination, guys – strangle yourselves or cover yourself in tinfoil and take a fork to a nearby plug socket, or something. Just put yourselves and us fans out of our collective misery. So, in summary, you pack of repugnant, sputum-filled, invertebrate bastards leave this club now and don’t you ****ing dare look back. You’ve consistently demonstrated less passion and desire than can commonly be found within the contents of a sloth’s scrotum, so frankly you can just all **** off – don’t pass go, don’t collect your wages, and don’t ever come back to this town again. I look forward to you serving me at my local McDonald’s drive-thru in the near future. Yours sincerely