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[2] ‘We’re Man Utd, we’ll poo where we want...?’

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  • [2] ‘We’re Man Utd, we’ll poo where we want...?’

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    this article first appeared in Red News 174

    ‘We’re Man Utd, we’ll poo where we want...?’

    I have a confession to make. I have never had a shit in Old Trafford.
    Now the pooing habits of man, of any Man Utd fan for that matter, is best left unspoken, an unwritten code between mates that whilst you'll barf at the premature early warning system signalling a shit is imminent - a bad fart, made worse if it's produced after a night of ale and curry - nobody in their right mind will go into too much detail after they've trotted off and done a trot. We'd rather hear a Glazer apologist than someone describing their pan as if they were Gordon Ramsey lavishing a dish. If it actually is the trots, God help you, you might not be seen for some time, miss some good pre-match banter, and return less of weight but also less of cloth if you've had to discard a boxer short because it just got too messy down there and a bit like Obertan heading down the wing, you did too much, too early, before you were supposed to perform. But it's for you and your maker to contend with, as there's nothing quite so conversation sapping - even more so than an ABU dragging up age old Talksport gems of shite themselves to lob our way - as a man with a shit story. Literally.
    Several United fans sprayed by shit throwing Scousers had them literally smelling of Merseyside, and that lovable Scouse wit and personality we get force fed didn't get reported in its aftermath as a bit like the act and package itself, the footballing press when told the story by United fanzines said their fancy editorial offices back at HQ, didn’t fancy it. Used to no doubt flushing away any sewage that comes their way with fancy technological advances in toilet systems that most backwater matchday pubs are so far behind it's a bit like neanderthal man spending years trying to light a fire as some futuristic whizz-kid laughs in his face with a 5 for a £1 lighter. The word was that the general public does not like shit. Their readers don't want to see it, talk about it, be told about it, and certainly not expect to read a football report and then bring up their cereal as the fluidity of your average retarded Scousers’ shit is detailed 2nd paragraph. Pardon my line of wording, but nobody wanted to touch it, both at the ground or in newsprint.
    We all do it, we just don't want to talk about it, but if a bird you shag won't want to fart in your presence, it's a good bet there's no chance she's going to shit her knickers and probably holds it in on the first few dates - would explain the screwed up facial expressions of a few of the mingers I've been with over the years, when I thought they were either pig ugly or just unhappy that I was a shit shag - until she’s back home and then let rips as if Jan Molby is about to sit on the throne after another eat as much as you like buffet (wonder if he was allowed second's inside, so he could deposit his usual worth, outside?).
    The toilet habits of fellow Reds is not a subject I'll ever switch on hoping to see the idiots and self important journalists discuss on that Sunday Supplement on SKY, but suffice to say if ever you've been in the Blaize and managed to escape some of the warbling singing, you'll wander for a quick piss and be confronted from the cubicles by grunts, groans, splashback noises and spits that make you think you've entered some X-rated David Attenborough programme. What kind of men are in there, what the fuck have they eaten to get in such a horrifically bad place so that they seem to have no control. Could they not have waited? It sounds as evil as a night out with John Terry. This is not good.
    Do they have skid marks for the rest of the day? Do they get a seeping arse and develop a walk like Tommy Smith, all hobbler, as they fear another explosion. The subject isn't pretty, and for those still reading you've either got a strange fascination with the subject or whenever in Amsterdam you find yourself in the S alphabetical order of the porn DVD sections. I mean, ‘Shitting fuckers part 8’, who bought the other 7 volumes? Frank Bough?
    All this springs to mind as I enter K Stand on a matchday, have a quick whazz before the game, and feel content I'm not one of those grimacing in a small queue waiting to use the few cubicles available. If you can avoid the smoke from the few brave but hardy souls sought out by CES for adding to global warming in the bogs, you'll get caught by the napalm fumes coming from the poor soul who is current occupant. Some should enter Britain’s Got Talent. And see his face.
    I try and hold my nose, look compassionately at those who are waiting to go next, and thank the Lord there but the grace of God go I. In 30 years of attending Old Trafford I have managed to make my habits work, a bit like John O'Shea, head down, do your best and just get on with it, so I poo before I've left for a game, or when I get back. Never get drawn to the darkside and get caught, as short as Sammy Lee. Fortunately any bad curries have been flushed down the Irwell long before kick-off, and my only encounters from the darkness that is the actual inside of the cubicle of K Stand is from a sudden surprise sighting if someone has rushed out, as they escape back into the crowd, glad to be free, shamefaced at what they've just done, wanting not to be spotted and wanting the whole sorry saga to be forgotten.
    So it is here that we need to feel compassion for one RN seller who has had to go during a match twice already this season. Not for him even the small consolation in being first of the day - and I'd imagine it's as clean as Alex Curran's even then - but more arses having gone through it when it’s his time than even litter city's books. As one Red asked, rhetorically: ‘In 20 years of going, I've never had a shit at OT. I have thrown up in a cubicle once, but never taken a shit. Judging by the smell coming out of the cubicles, I've often wondered what sort of people shit in there.’
    You wonder how many then have taken sides here, putting any takeover arguments to shame as the ‘shat at OT’ and ‘would rather develop a prune face by holding it in and developing a hernia’ camps develop. This bought a healthy (well…) debate for some RN readers, “Never had a shit at OT, the bogs are always full of people smoking or sniffing. When Boro beat us 3-2 in Dec’ ‘98 I spent most of the game insulting the porcelain as I'd overdone it at our Christmas do the night before. Never, or at work for that matter. The lure of my own thrown and home comforts is usually too much to resist. I do recall once seeing that someone had smeared shit all over the wall behind a toilet in OT. What possesses someone to do such a thing? Vile bastard.” Was it a Glazer?
    Of course away from Old Trafford I have tried to keep the same system, not changing tactics like Fergie does with 4-4-2 at home and 4-5-1 for Europe. I don't want to shit in a football ground, ever. I go there to have fun, not develop piles, and that has pretty much worked bar the disastrous time difference affecting my shitting clock for the Moscow Final. I had no choice, but on the day trip and with fuck all else to do after taking one step in and then one step out at that ludicrously downtrodden and wet fanzone, I had fuck all else to do anyway so it actually passed a bit of time. Not bad too, all quite aesthetically pleasing as clearly some architect shafted by a boss in the design department when told ‘yes you have part of the Olympic Stadium to design, but do you want the bad news…’ and of a far higher standard than some metallic crap basin that United leave us with in the poor sections as if we're like some Eastern European cesspit club providing nowt better than a hole in the ground.
    So I shat, was pleased to discover my schoolboy error in not checking for paper wasn't a critical mistake thousands of miles away from home and spare underpants, and only spoilt as I opened the door to find a Russian soldier had clearly followed me down and stayed close to the door - and all the subsequent noises and smells - just in the vein hope his request for cigarettes could be answered. I didn't, as I don’t, but would he really have wanted me handing him a cig without washing my hands? Or was he into this strange voyeur fetish?
    I now realise why bog roll was everywhere in the 70s, not just a homage to the Argentinian World Cup ticker tape, but in case anyone dare use one of the Stretford End bogs, take a full roll, if not needed, throw it at Grobbleshite. Perfect! I also remember the only time when pooing became on the national agenda when an under 21 England coach defecated into a paper cup in front of his players. Whilst he was sat on a wardrobe! It was on the back page of the Mirror and they kept using the term ‘defecating’. I had no idea what they meant, all manner of weird and wonderful scenarios going through my mind as to what he'd done on top of that wardrobe. I looked it up in the dictionary… and … ugh… you dirty bastard! And is that a party trick? Fuck me I'm glad I went to shit ones where the only offer was cheap and nasty mulled wine.
    Our seller chooses his moment - not for him the desperate fucker with legs crossed banging on the door, but is it worse in that he may miss a goal during game play? I've never sat in an exec. seat at United so presume they will have comfy cushions and be fed prawn sarnies under the door, but in K you are going back in time as if you're shitting on an old British Rail train where no matter what the climate and weather the bog is always 20 degrees below freezing. Ice, ice cold baby.
    I know this because I'm now fascinated, like a groomer training his perverted eye on the net, at the shitting habits of my friend. How can he go a second time? In one season, is this some new perverted thrill for him? What if we start scoring every time, we'll be sending him down as some ritual, and piles will be worth it in us topping the table. Does he now have to watch his diet on game eve, for fear of him creating Niagara Fall like gushings if h;'s not careful, eating a Chicken Shaslik (which sounds like the noise it makes when leaving your arse) a no-no. Does he think about the game? Or no distractions a rule?
    So sod bagging a Gimp, or Gill, this is the interview you really want to read, with the Red News crapper! He told us exclusively: “I don't like shitting in K Stand it's just a necessity. Yes I squatted over it and yes I used bog roll, and no I'm not a savage. The toilet was a bit grim so I just shat it out dead quick. I've shat in worse places than K Stand, a train station in Milan, I had to do a shit in a hole in the floor”. Well that sort of precision placement we'd best leave to Ronaldo, suffice to say you may well be reading this mag itself on the bog, but we don't want to hear your tale and experience, as one shitting feature is more than enough in 24 years of this fanzine!
    But heed these aged words of warning that maturity watching on as people come in and go in the shitting lane of United’s support has given me; where once I paid on the gate and carried coins to get in, now I have a wallet, and I not only tap my season ticket to check it is there before leaving for every home game, but also the one capsule of Imodium right next to it. Just in case. Protection. And preservation.
    You either do or you don’t, you either have to or don't mind, you either would do anything but, you may have been one of the lucky ones who gets out scar free, or one of those who is 4th in the queue and never made it out for the post match session because he had a little accident and learnt that you can never leave these things to chance. But whatever you do, please check the bog roll status before you go in for the kill, because under the Glazer cost cutting, if they won't spend money on players, there's fuck all chance they will be ordering large quantities of Andrex to preserve your or my dignity if the time comes…
    New Red News 266 out 20th October 2019
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