>be me
>Norff FC diehard, head like a dropped pie
>Stone Island jacket bought off some dodgy bloke down the boozer
>worship at the altar of TOMMEHH Rubenstein, patron saint of shoutin’ at brown people in Luton car parks
>“he’s the only one speakin’ for the workin’ class lads”
>meanwhile geezers down the job centre can’t even get a brew without some clipboard merchant askin’ for forms in triplicate
>walk down the high street
>chippy’s gone, now a bloody kebab house
>pub boarded up, turned into another Tesco Express only selling Halal
>Greggs only floggin’ vegan sausage rolls and oat lattes
>TFW Britain’s soul died the day they ditched the steak bake
>post a rant on Facebook: “INGURLAND FOR THE INGLISH”
>only comments are me mum sayin “u alrite son? need a lie down?”
>mates don’t back me, they’re too busy on the scratchcards
>stand outside waving the St George’s Cross
>realise it’s upside down and covered in kebab sauce
>grab The Sun from the corner shop, even though it costs more than me dinner
>“best paper in the country, tells it how it is”
>read headline: BRITAIN SWAMPED
>nod sagely
>get back to me council flat
>sip me lukewarm PG Tips
>open page 3
>no topless bird anymore, just another thinkpiece about Harry and Meghan
>mfw Britain is finished
>read about “migrant invasion”
>look out window
>only thing invadin’ is me landlord knockin’ for rent again
>mate says “Sun’s all bollocks lad, owned by Murdoch”
>tell him to shut it, Tommyh and The Sun are the only truth left
>Sun tells me Gareth Southgate’s woke, ruin’ footie with rainbows
>scream “BRING BACK 1966” into me Pot Noodle
>mum walks in, asks why I’m shoutin at the telly again
>tfw the paper is me bible
>shout “INNGURLANDDD” at a passing pigeon
>pigeon flies off, prolly emigrating too
>tfw Albion is gone
>tfw all I’ve got left is Carling, casuals, and cryin’ about the 1966 World Cup

>>513738167
>be me
>Norff FC diehard, head like a dropped pie
>Stone Island jacket bought off some dodgy bloke down the boozer
>worship at the altar of TOMMEHH Rubenstein, patron saint of shoutin’ at brown people in Luton car parks
>“he’s the only one speakin’ for the workin’ class lads”
>meanwhile geezers down the job centre can’t even get a brew without some clipboard merchant askin’ for forms in triplicate
>walk down the high street
>chippy’s gone, now a bloody kebab house
>pub boarded up, turned into another Tesco Express only selling Halal
>Greggs only floggin’ vegan sausage rolls and oat lattes
>TFW Britain’s soul died the day they ditched the steak bake
>post a rant on Facebook: “INGURLAND FOR THE INGLISH”
>only comments are me mum sayin “u alrite son? need a lie down?”
>mates don’t back me, they’re too busy on the scratchcards
>stand outside waving the St George’s Cross
realise it’s upside down and covered in kebab sauce
>grab The Sun from the corner shop, even though it costs more than me dinner
>“best paper in the country, tells it how it is”
>read headline: BRITAIN SWAMPED
>nod sagely
>get back to me council flat
>sip me lukewarm PG Tips
>open page 3
>no topless bird anymore, just another thinkpiece about Harry and Meghan
>mfw Britain is finished
>read about “migrant invasion”
>look out window
>only thing invadin’ is me landlord knockin’ for rent again
>mate says “Sun’s all bollocks lad, owned by Murdoch”
>tell him to shut it, Tommyh and The Sun are the only truth left
>Sun tells me Gareth Southgate’s woke, ruin’ footie with rainbows
>scream “BRING BACK 1966” into me Pot Noodle
>mum walks in, asks why I’m shoutin at the telly again
>tfw the paper is me bible
>>shout “INNGURLANDDD” at a passing pigeon
pigeon flies off, prolly emigrating too
>tfw Albion is gone
>tfw all I’ve got left is Carling, casuals, and cryin’ about the 1966 World Cup