He's not here then?
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Manager Ange Postecoglou
- Thread starter The Fighting Cock
- Start date
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Sadly, you are though..
Palmers Green in North London must've been right up there at one time, although to be specific many of them were Greek-Cypriots, and amongst some of my best school friends in the 80s.
Ding dong the the fraud is gone
Which old fraud? The useless Fraud!
Ding dong the fraud is gone
Wake up, you stupid throng
Wipe your tears, you were wrong!
He's gone where the losers go
Below below below
Ho ho lets tighten up and win and win the games from now
Ding dong the the Frankie's here, sing it high and sing it clear
Let them know Angie is no longer here
Yeah it's fucking stupid but I just fancied throwing salt in the cultists wounds
Which old fraud? The useless Fraud!
Ding dong the fraud is gone
Wake up, you stupid throng
Wipe your tears, you were wrong!
He's gone where the losers go
Below below below
Ho ho lets tighten up and win and win the games from now
Ding dong the the Frankie's here, sing it high and sing it clear
Let them know Angie is no longer here
Yeah it's fucking stupid but I just fancied throwing salt in the cultists wounds
Wow, you need a life.
Let me guess, you’re 48, live with your parents and firmly solidly single. Apparently by choice though.
Ding dong, you’re getting none ya nong!
When you look in the mirror, do you wonder why you present as a dickhead?
What a absolute fanny. lol
White so doesn't suit them FFS. Make them too pure of what they are not.
He’s an utter waste of life who hasn’t the self awareness to realise how much of a dribbling cunt he is.
Block him. He’s no use to anyone here.
The Ballad of matt1882: Angepocalypse Now”
Oh matt1882, in a rage so divine,
Foaming with fury each Ange-thread you find.
You click “New Topic” with trembling hand,
To once again scream: “This bloke’s out of hand!”
You loathe his smile, his accent, his beard,
Each touchline grimace leaves you disturbed.
“Inverted fullbacks?! The hell is this rot?”
You shout to a void that trembles a lot.
Your keyboard’s worn thin from your tactical rants,
You’ve scared away newbies and half the Romance(d) fans.
When Spurs win? “It’s luck!” you cry with a howl,
When they lose? “I told you! He’s thick as a towel!”
You count long balls like a doomsday cult,
Each one a dagger, each press an insult.
Ange could cure cancer, world hunger, and gout,
And you’d still say, “A fraud, without a doubt!”
Mods beg you softly: “Please, just let go.”
You reply with graphs and an Ange death blow.
You’ve called for his sacking more times than a bell—
Even Poch fans are telling you, “Mate, seek help.”
Your dream? A 0–0, two banks of four,
A keeper hoofing it—football, not war!
But Ange dares to pass, to shoot, to try,
So you post 600 words asking, “Why?”
Oh matt, dear matt, this vendetta’s your vice—
You’d boo him coaching a team made of Christ.
Yet in all your rants and glorious rage,
We thank you for lighting up every page.
For no thread’s complete without your despair,
No matchday post without “Ange doesn’t care!”
So here’s to the legend, the salt-laced king,
Who hates Aussie ball more than anything.
Ange lives rent-free in that head of yours,
While you storm the forum like old Trojan wars.
And though you despise him down to your core—
We suspect… you check his pressers even more.
Oh matt1882, in a rage so divine,
Foaming with fury each Ange-thread you find.
You click “New Topic” with trembling hand,
To once again scream: “This bloke’s out of hand!”
You loathe his smile, his accent, his beard,
Each touchline grimace leaves you disturbed.
“Inverted fullbacks?! The hell is this rot?”
You shout to a void that trembles a lot.
Your keyboard’s worn thin from your tactical rants,
You’ve scared away newbies and half the Romance(d) fans.
When Spurs win? “It’s luck!” you cry with a howl,
When they lose? “I told you! He’s thick as a towel!”
You count long balls like a doomsday cult,
Each one a dagger, each press an insult.
Ange could cure cancer, world hunger, and gout,
And you’d still say, “A fraud, without a doubt!”
Mods beg you softly: “Please, just let go.”
You reply with graphs and an Ange death blow.
You’ve called for his sacking more times than a bell—
Even Poch fans are telling you, “Mate, seek help.”
Your dream? A 0–0, two banks of four,
A keeper hoofing it—football, not war!
But Ange dares to pass, to shoot, to try,
So you post 600 words asking, “Why?”
Oh matt, dear matt, this vendetta’s your vice—
You’d boo him coaching a team made of Christ.
Yet in all your rants and glorious rage,
We thank you for lighting up every page.
For no thread’s complete without your despair,
No matchday post without “Ange doesn’t care!”
So here’s to the legend, the salt-laced king,
Who hates Aussie ball more than anything.
Ange lives rent-free in that head of yours,
While you storm the forum like old Trojan wars.
And though you despise him down to your core—
We suspect… you check his pressers even more.
