Competition Winner

A few weeks back, i was sitting in my home office heavily intoxicated when i received an email. The email was from Marathon bet. It was a competition, deposit using a promo code and for every £5 bet you place, you receive a ticket in the draw for VIP tickets to Man City v West Ham.

I support West Ham and i love watching Pep Guardiola’s teams play, so in a haze of delirium i deposited and bet with them throughout the weekend.

Monday arrived and i was already highly strung due to having to deal with human beings during the day. To be precise, i was having a SHIT whilst reading my emails and i saw one from Marathon bet with CONGRATULATIONS in the subject header.

My heart immediately sank and i started sweating like a paedophile in a nursery. I opened it and my fears were confirmed, i had won two fucking VIP tickets in the tunnel club premium.

The thought did cross my mind to delete the email and ignore it because i simply could not be bothered dealing with all the fucking shit that comes with it.

Do i have to act all grateful like you’ve just made all my dreams come true?

I decided the best course of action was to take a BETA BLOCKER from the stash i use to take before exams. With clarity of mind, i decided that i had to fucking take them as they are £600 a ticket.

Before i continue, i might as well give the standard response to a competition win. OMG! I can’t believe this, i never win anything – this never happens to people like me. Enter some FUCKING COMPETITIONS THEN. The lottery doesn’t count, you are more likely to be a fucking astronaut.

I replied to the email. It’s very rare that i use my own name when conversing via email, even in the work environment. For some reason i don’t like people knowing who i am. I find it very hard to show gratitude for something at the best of times, even if i am overwhelmed with joy – i normally just pat someone on the head or back or something. It made me physically sick trying to do it to MARIA from Marathon bet via email.

The first phase was complete, the tickets were claimed. I took my brother along as a social shield and we took the train up to Manchester.

We boarded the train and i had my heart set on drinking six Estrellas in peace while reading some shit off my phone. Unfortunately, the old couple opposite me had other ideas. They proceeded to tell their life story for the next two and a half hours before they got off. I am the LEAST APPROACHABLE cunt on earth and i ALWAYS get this. I never give them anything, one word answers, look at my phone, pretend to be dead – They still fucking bang on.  

I could tell you what their kids do for a living, where one of them works, where they grew up and where she fucking sat for a coffee when one of their grand kids took their driving theory test in Newport. It is fucking unbelievable.

We arrived at the stadium and despite them initially having no record of my name at the desk, collected the tickets and waited to get in like a fat cunt in line at KFC.

As i feared, the greeting from the staff was violently enthusiastic to the point i had to stop myself from bursting out laughing.

I can’t stand impolite people but this was ridiculously over the top. It’s pretty clear i don’t have the personality for hospitality, but fuck me – They must go home and scrub themselves down in the shower with a wire brush.

It also opens themselves up to ABUSE from the entitled WANKERS in society. I saw people clicking their fingers, tutting and treating them like shit because they’ve apparently paid £600 for a ticket. The correct response to this is “Get up and get it yourself if you’ve got a problem, you fucking fat bald cunt”. I wouldn’t even bother complaining if they poured a bottle of wine down my back.

This was way out of my comfort zone. Too many fucking people dithering about treating you like royalty, five course a la carte meal. The saving grace was the free drinks. Birra Moretti on tap, free champagne, kraken rum, belvedere vodka but the whisky was disappointingly Glenmorangie.

I picked up the run rate considerably in order to block out the surroundings, like a crack addict let loose in a pharmacy.

In fairness, it is a great set up aside from the staff licking your arse every five minutes. A one way mirror so you can see the players scratching their arses from an inch away in the tunnel. You can stroll out pitch side before the game and you have heated seats behind the dugout.

One of my main fears about accepting this prize was the fact it was a shared table, and i was deeply concerned about what monstrosities would be sharing it.

The marathon bet representative arrived, and to my surprise he was a top lad. He was Spanish and a Barca fan, you can’t really ask for better than that. There are two very simple questions you can ask someone about football to see if your football philosophies align.

The first is who do you prefer out of Barcelona and Real Madrid. Barcelona are the epitome of football, they do everything the right way. They play football how it should be played, Real Madrid are snide, privileged anti football pigs.

The main question obviously is Lionel Messi or Ronaldo. This is not even a question, Lionel Messi is a fucking genius and is on a different planet to anyone. I seriously cannot understand how people can watch both of them play and come to the conclusion that Ronaldo is a better FOOTBALL player. Ronaldo is a great player and a better athlete, but i’m afraid the game they play is FOOTBALL not athletics. I don’t watch football to see athleticism, i don’t even watch the olympics for that – because it is boring turgid SHIT.

Anyway, this is a great indicator of whether you can completely disregard anything they say.

As expected, the five course a la carte menu was a collection of sickening, poncy shit. I don’t really know where to start with this stuff. The starter i settled on was ‘Brown crab, chervil & Pennywort – Squid ink pickled turnip, fennel top puree & liquorice shoots’. What the FUCK is that meant to mean? LOOK AT IT

It was incredibly underwhelming to be honest. It was basically grated crab sticks you can buy from the shop for 80p sandwiched between some biscuit thing with a load of green slime drenched on top which tasted like cold sick.

The best thing was, after hoovering down the grated crab sticks monstrosity in under two minutes, the waiter came back and complemented the crab with a kiss to his fingers ‘isn’t the crab exquisite’ or some shit. Yeah great mate.

The other two competition winners arrived late and needless to say they were fucking annoying. They wouldn’t fucking shut up all night. The main protagonist was the older one who looked like Mr Gilbert off the inbetweeners. They were fucking Liverpool supporters which explains a lot. I also thoroughly enjoyed winding them up by saying top footballers deserve their money.

“The prime minister only earns their weekly salary in a year”. Yeah, and she’s fucking USELESS. If you are exceptional at your job you deserve to earn whatever your industry generates. If you don’t like it, don’t watch it and they won’t earn as much.

The half time burger was absolutely EXQUISITE as well (kisses fingers). 

They really are having a fucking laugh. Who eats this crap? Ooooo i’m so cultured and clever, i eat minuscule portions because it’s so divine. I think it’s a bit like art. People pretending they understand the deeper meaning of some shit painting when the artist is blatantly taking the piss. Good on them, lob a load of paint at a canvas and make up a story of how it accentuates a lost soul and get some idiot to buy it for a couple hundred grand.

The game itself was pretty shit to be honest. We lost 1-0. It comes as no shock that i attend a game against the most attacking side in Europe and it ends in a dreary pile of shit.