I hate blues


I Hate Birmingham City FC. I hate them with a passion I hate the players, the manager, the coach the ground, the supporters, the club shop, the team bus, the pro-blues press, the flags and banners, the scarves and the hats and badges. I hate the colour blue, I hate FlyBe, I hate Diadora, I hate the Zulu Army, I hate Francis, Bruce, Claridge and Worthington, and anyone else they have ever worshipped. I hate that fucking disgusting song and any nob that sings it. I hate Jasper Carrott and Tom Ross and I hate that fucking chav from The Streets.

I hate Triton Showers, I hate Phones 4 U, and I hate Auto fucking Windscreens. I hate their chairman, I hate their board, I hate that fat fucking slag, I hate the Daily Sport, the Sunday Sport and I hate Ann Summers. I hate the way they deal in the transfer market, I hate their past players, I hate their present players, I hate their delusions of grandeur and their bias account of history, I hate the whole Small Heath machine. I hate what they stand for and what they represent, and I hate their obsession with Aston Villa.

I hate the way their badge resembles a piece of belly-button fluff and I hate the cheap fucking horrible things that they buy for two-ninety-nine from the Bullring market to wear around their unwashed necks… shit jewellery for shit people, eh? I hate the way they have at least 8 stickers in the back windows of their cars. I hate the Tilton End, the Railway End, the Kop and the Main Stand. St Andrew is my least favourite of all the saints… I fucking hate St Andrews day!

I hold my breath when I pass their slum eyesore of a ground, I scribble out the faces of players and managers when I see them, I spit at the Evening Mail when it kisses their arse and does a “Bloooze Speshull” when they get to the Atari 6-a-side final. I shout stuff at their fans when I see them. They make me sick.

They sit there in their multi-storey car-park stadium, with no atmosphere. Full of unfortunates, 6-fingered-inbreds and gyppos clapping along while they sing, “Shit on the Villa…” but don't give two fucks about their 2-bob, piss-poor club. They spout on about their full houses and how they can’t get a ticket, but they still haven't sold out this season!! I hate the way they celebrate an Aston Villa defeat as if it’s a Small Heath win. So fuck off you dirty, small-minded, small heath bastards…..

I fucking hate them....

♪...As I walked onto the steps of the Holte End,
As I walked onto the Holte End one day,
I saw a young Bluenose all cut up in ribbons
Battered and bleeding on the Holte end he lay.
...

I said to the Bluenose what has happened to you,
Why have they beat you and left you this way,
He said all I did was to come on the Holte End,
To come on the Holte End to sing and to pray
...

I sang that the City were better than Villa
That Villa were shit and they couldn't play,
So they beat me and cut me and left me in ribbons
And here in a pool of my own blood I lay,
...

So let this be a lesson to all bluenosed bastards
Don't come on the Holte End to sing and to pray
'Cause if you dare say a word about our Aston Villa
Iit'll be the last fucking word that you'll ever say.

Villa, Villa, Villa, Villa

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R.I.P Kyle Samon Xx

til tha day we meet agen
in mi heart iz where i keep u friend