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Send
Your Emails to editor@dangerhere.com |
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What
a bunch of meanies you lot are.
This week valued DangerHere
correspondents Premier Man and The
Dog are taken to task.
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Premier
Man - The Real Story
As a former teammate of the “premier”
correspondent, I feel compelled to
take issue with some of his clearly
demented ramblings. To begin with,
our hero recounts proudly how he was
at the height of his footballing
prowess at under 12 level. If this
means happily thundering around the
pitch with unfocused enthusiasm,
then yes, he was on of the stars of
that lacklustre team. The “footballing
brilliance” he mentioned had no
place in a team where the prematch,
sideline, and halftime instructions
were “Jesus lads, will ye stop
bunchin” Your correspondent
obviously hankers for these glory
days, which he obvious sees through
rose-tinted glasses - but more
likely a drunken stupor.
The Premier
Man was accurate in saying that he
was unable to make the step up to
youths level. And I must commend him
for admitting this painful truth.
The dream was over for a footballer
of limited ability but great heart.
But the true agony must lie in being
left out of a team that was a pure
shambles - just a few notches above
an average pub team. In training, he
would try to impress with
speculative hoofs up the field and
crunching tackles, but he always
came up short and failed to impress
a management devoted to playing the
beautiful game. (A completely
ridiculous notion, really)
Nevertheless, out hero slotted
neatly into the role of “desperation
sub” He fed off the scraps of
dignity he could extract from the
likes of an 85th minute appearance
in a preseason friendly against a
Vintner Association XI - some say
his finest hour.
The Premier
Man's twenties have been better to
him in footballing terms. Having
cultivated a generous waistline, he
has been able to use his impressive
bulk to good effect in five-a-side
football. Using his weight to shield
the ball has added another dimension
to his game - the ability to look up
and complete a crude, yet effective,
passing movement. He may not possess
the gung-ho spirit of his youth, but
"skill" ( and I use term
this in the broadest sense of the
word) is finally crepping into his
game - even if his physique is more
Eric Bristow than Cantona.
I admit the initial purpose of this
letter was ridicule, but as I wrote,
I couldn't help seeing some light at
the end of the tunnel for this
footballing nobody. I can't hjelp
thinking that in the twilight of his
footballing career, there may be as
many pleasant surprises as crude
challenges. A future in the lower
divisions of a pub league may
beckon. Who knows?
Anonymous,
Tipperary
Well
anonymous, the lads did have their
suspicions about the Premier Man's
skills after seeing some of his
performances for DangerHere
Alexandra. But we'll put your
accusations to the man himself when
he returns from the unofficial
Paddy's Day Parade round Lambe field
in Thurles.
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The
Dog Talking - what's all that about?
Who's this chancer writing about
Newcastle? I'm sure I've seen him up
in Santry Stadium moaning about The Hoops.
And what's all this "dog
talking" lark about? And also, my
Mammy said I'm not to be looking at
his page any more cos' he looks like
a big rude man.
Offended, Tallaght
Not
for the first time, we apologise
about the Dog's behaviour. The
lad is doing work experience at
DangerHere Towers and threatened
that if we didn't let him do
something besides make tea for
Little at Large, he'd kill us all,
so he would. Anyway, we think that
"the dog talking" is a
reference to Newcastle Brown Ale but
since, as we speak, The Dog himself is probably lying
in a pool of vomit outside Rosie's
Bar in The Gallowgate, we can't
entirely confirm this.
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