I’m being held hostage as the manager of a terrible and rather demanding Glasgow-based football club. I did not sign up for the pressure I’m currently under. I am but a simple man and can’t take much more of this pish. Please send help, Jocky.
Graeme M, Govan.
Hiya Graeme! Hiya pal!
Ye came tae the right place fur help, ye poorly disguised temporary manager o’ Rangers cunt. Enjoy last Friday? Jocky certainly fuckin’ did.
Big Jocky is the Scottish futba equivalent o’ Superman. Eh fly aboot, on the jetpack, and save cunts. Eh’ve punched Lex Luthor’s pus fur no’ putting his drink on a tray at the Fairmuir. Eh’ve questioned the severity o’ Christopher Reeve’s spinal injury, tipped him oot his wheelchair and felt a wee bit bad when the cunt couldnae get up. No’ that bad though, the boy wiz a bit o’ a prick wither he wiz disabled or no’.
Nae joy being left in cherge o’ Rangers, Graham. That’s a shite situation and nae mistake. Eh’d rather coach Jim Spence as he attempted tae tak a shite on the tits o’ aine o’ they junkie hookers that hing aboot the Arbroath Road. Meh auld pal and member o’ the Fairmuir clubbie darts team the Pope has sympathy fur ye, and he’s the treasurer o’ Lochee CSC, fur fuck’s sake.
When Rangers punted Pedro they immediately sought oot the very best futba managers they could think o’. Jose Mourinho’s on a long term contract, and Alex Ferguson’s strugglin’ wi’ the leprosy, so they came chapping at Jocky’s door.
Which turned oot tae be a huge mistake on their part.
Eh wiz in the hoose tannin’ a kerry oot, listening tae the Wu Tang and makin’ anonymous threatening phone calls tae Stuart Cosgrove. When the door went eh thought it wiz Tam Cowan, wha often joins iz in makin’ anonymous threating phone calls tae Stuart Cosgrove. Turns oot it wiz a diplomatic perty fae Ibrox, consisting o’ Dave King, Queen Elizabeth II and a clearly drunk Gazza. Hostess wi’ the mostess as eh am, eh invited them in.
Dave King did maist o’ the talking. The Queen got right intae the Wu Tang tunes and went aff intae the kitchen tae watch interracial porn on her ehPhone. Eh locked Gazza in the doonstairs toilet fur his aine safety, the man’s a fuckin’ liability.
Dave King wiz like that, “Here Jocky, we’re needin’ a manager, aye.” He pulled oot a giant wad o’ cash and drapped it on meh coffee table.
Eh says, “Hiya Dave King! Hiya pal! Wha’s in cherge here?”
Dave King kent he wiz dealin’ wi’ a tough negotiator. He took another giant wad o cash oot his pocket and laid it doon.
“You’re in charge here, Jocky.”
Eh looked at the pile o’ money. It wiz the maist eh’d seen since eh dared Jim McLean tae crack a BBC reporter in the pus before he retired.
“WHA’S IN FUCKING CHERGE HERE, CUNTO?”
Dave King emptied his pockets. Serious money on the table. He offered a handshake to seal the deal.
Eh whipped meh cock oot and shook his hand wi’ it. When the cunt trehed tae flee eh punched his pus, sat him doon and made him watch the highlights o’ Mark O’Hara getting his shitey fucking team telt at Dens last week. Jocky’s a Dee, and Rangers can get right tae fuck.
It turned oot tae be a teckle night. Liz dressed up as Megan Markle and was pumping Jocky like a piston, the twa o’ us shrieking aboot Prince Philip haein’ Princess Di assassinated the hale time. Gazza’s still locked in the doonstairs toilet fur his aine safety, the man’s a fucking liability.
The Rangers joab is a poisoned chalice, Graeme fae Govan. Join Pedro in the caravan and pay nae attention tae the dugs that keep on barking as it rolls past Ibrox.
All the best, pal.