Football Pundits on the Sesh. A thread...

Crestfallen, faintly cheated early arrivals at hookah party, Andy and Keysie settle in and respect the culture, biding time to ask Sheikhy to sort them out. Clicked fingers. Drug platter, Bangladeshi widows. Take a bow, son. Andy shags, Keysie blogs: ‘Surviving Sky’s Green Room’

2am, Merse finally back. “Could only get ben- ... benzo- … You say it, Jeff”. Jeff says it, grabs it, racks it. Charlie pounces. Le Tiss opts out (“heard it gives you rabies”). Tommo draws in a deep nasal didgeridoo breath, clearing plate from 15ft. “Red card all day long, Jeff”

Roy-organised eurodebauchery. No backing out. Dingy flat in brutalist tower block in Minsk (“Fuck yer Pragues, yer Brugeses”). Wraps of krokodil, Roy tying a belt round your bicep. “Get. The fuck’n. Drugs. In ye”. You grab the needle, trembling. “Only fuck’n messin, ya prick!”

One Peroni and Carra’s all in. Calls Scouse capo pal for ‘Mozam’, pivoting from bar crawl to club then AWOL to illegal rave in Runcorn. You find him at the back of a warehouse at 8am, lying in a puddle of piss. “Smashed, mate. And worra meeean by tha’ is…” “I know, mate. I know”

Mezzanine Malbecs in Swank, Gary’s posse out-decorumed amid the pecs and preening: “Absolute embarrassment”. Drags you to The Bell. Quizzer vortex. Loses £84 while you pull, score and leave unnoticed. “Joke!” 8-day trivia ritiro. £20 jackpot won. Deserved something from the game.

Manhattan. Selfie-stick bucket list. See DiCaprio in West Village. Blurted fame credentials. “Loved Titanic, mate”. No right to get involved. Does. Interrupts Leo’s 17-minute Scorcese anecdote at the punchline. Force-fed eyebrows of CK1. “I’m literally dying, lads”. Literally is.

The Souness Room, round Souey’s. Bravery. Masculinity. Mescaline initiation. Pogba rumours. Quadrupled dose. “In my day, druuugzh were drughmhnn” he says, pixellating into shards of pure fear, assailed by phantasmatic revenge-tackles from his Gallery of Victims. Sectioned at 4am.

Arrive 7pm on the dot, Lawro still in Playboy kimono and PJs, about to have his evening Valium. “Sorry lads, don’t fancy it”. You stay and babysit, joining him for vallies, curry and ‘Requiem for a Dream’. He tips brown powder onto foil. “Right, fuck off. Football Focus tomorrow”

19th hole, manly gulps of Carling, Shearer gloating, banter safe-space (“It’s never been a jumper” etc). Spy barman’s pupils. Sneaky line. Rumbled by Al, outraged by the very thought. Grapples you to the car park, friendship done. Outs you on Facebook: “No place for that at all”.

Alton Towers. Shrooms. Come up in Nemesis queue. “Too intense? Don’t mug me off!” Too intense. Repair to log flume, then gardens. Big re-up. 2h gift-shop goof, Wrighty caught shoplifting. “So sorry, Mr Security Man”. Nabs walkie-talkie. “SCARPER!” Larks. Dread. A talking Cornetto

Dinner and beers at his. Dinner cancelled (“gay”). Honest British sesh: Staropramen, tequila, the missus’ jazz fags. Foodless, you whitey. He stands over you, chiding you for going down too easy, slapping you back to consciousness. “You’ve not been at it”. Arrange golf. Do one.

Housewarming, Dion’s £11k end-terrace conversion in Stoke (stairs going up to the bedrooms). Jam session on ‘The Dube’. Tinnies. Cougar harem. Find stash in the attic: 20g of meow meow. “I’m game. Ha ha ha”. Sex party, skin reeking of cat piss. A shame that will never leave you.

Standard night at Crooks Towers. In strict sequence: Advocaat, Babycham, Guinness, Tia Maria spritzers, Wotsits, Cinzano, ouzo, Carling, raw chillis in blancmange, Strongbow, ketamine, Malibu, finishing with goblets of goat’s blood and chants of “Hail, Lucifer, bringer of light!”

Vegas. Hooters rendezvous. Double-drop Adderall then hit the slots. Alert! 48h later, Claridge flying solo, $85k down, buying crank and Vicodin off a croupier. Wired and numb, he staggers outside, blinking, telling the pimp who’s stabbing him: “I don’t know Scooby fucking Doo”.

Beefa. Tip out of Pacha, Russian countess on JJ’s arm. Villa in the hills. Eurotrash, bohos, avant-garde jazz, Dalí originals, hallucinations, fruit, chemsex, “What eez Tottenham?” Out of his comfort zone, JJ slinks off to calm waters of R&B Spotify playlist. You stay. And oh my.

Micah answers door, full bunny suit. Out back: bouncy castle, foam fight, Blue WKD punch, influencers, suicidal ideation. Fruitless rifle through bathroom cupboard. Back outside, wobbly now. The fucking punch! Micah hops over, twitches nose. “Fancy a carrot, Flopsy? Ha-ha-HAA!”

Marbella at dusk. White suit, black shirt. Margaritas, señoritas. “The owner corjally invites you to 'is table”. Leathery 60-somethings, not yet sniff-retired. Chelsea banter. Arsenal banter. Cheryl banter. Sheepish laughter at casual tales of ultraviolence. “Bangin’ night, fam!”

Mysterious pink square on Insta, then Monte Carlo canapés at launch of his apparel brand, Fanny Magnet. Skimpiness everywhere, except the free coke. Evra disappears, models in tow. The warm clasp of evening sun, bra clasp expertly undone. You overdo it and can’t get wood. Merde.

Jam butties for tea round Scholesy’s mam’s. He nicks a tenner. Up Mad Kev’s, skunk 10-bag. Offie for 4-pack of Special Brew. Grab fishing tackle. Down the canal. Scholesy skins up. Icy wind. Weed gone, lost to the murky depths. 3 hours’ silence. Not one bite. “Top night, ah kid”.

Rio chats and racks. Beak. Beak. Big Opinions. Beak. Crouchy bangs on Radioactive Man. Shapes. Beak. Blah. Michael Owen leaves, frightened of who he’s becoming. Beak. Beak. Lineker’s out, nose gone, lines tumbling straight back out. Rio ploughs on. Relentless. Ambinostrous. Beak.

Glenn’s keynote sermon. World Congress, Church of the Narcovores of Christ. Above the Turtle’s Head, Acton. Swooners everywhere (LSD? Placebo?), letting the Big Ref upstairs know they’ve been touched. Later, Glenn pulls out a speedball. “Loada bollocks, but pays the bills. Line?”

Garden party chez Savage. Budweisers. Yacht rock. Sutton plates up "once-a-year gear". Robbie lowers head. Exhales. Cokestorm hits the lawn. Sutts on knees, Edvard Munch. Too late. Sav unrepentant: “Tell me if I’m wrong, but do they or don’t they call it BLOW in America?” Fists.

Eight pints up West, Tim bringing everyone down a peg or two. Drive out to Essex. He totals his SUV, staggering from wreckage into village pub, commandeering karaoke to prove sobriety. “Show some bollocks, you nonce. Serve!” Arrested for manslaughter (you, dead, in SUV). “Slags!”

“Total shambles,” Keown grouses, hacking through Gabonese jungle. Finally, you find the witch doctor. Iboga pep-talk: “Sacred root”. Keown guinea-pigs. Heroic dose. Psychedelic vomiting. Speaking in tongues. Getting tight, dropping off. Talking to the forest. Screaming for help.

Apologies:

McManaman, Hargreaves, Joe Cole, Cottee, McInally, Dowie, Incey, Dixon, Nevin, Danny Mills, Fizzer, Bobby Z, Ljungberg, Clive Allen, Alan Brazil, Kammy, Coisty, Hartson, Ruud, Jimmy-Floyd, myriad women, many others.

YOU JUST DIDN'T WANT IT ENOUGH.

If you haven't seen it already, this is a follow-up to this.

Gaffers lay their souls bare. Pundits just pundit. So, y'know. Difficult Second Album. https://twitter.com/reverse_sweeper/status/1325491317066117125