Johnnersintheraw's Blog

May 1, 2010

Johnner’s Athletic Supporter Support Group

A Group for Those Who Hold Up the Crown Jewels!

Did you know I used to be a nice person? I bet you didn’t, did you?  In fact, I bet you didn’t even give it a single thought!  Not only that, but I’ll wager you a bucket of your bottom cellulite that up until this very moment, you didn’t even give a fuck.  I could have been the type of sociopathic hoodlum who beat small dogs and rogered your pet cockerel. But did you care? No!  And that, my dear friend, is not nice of you.  And if you are not nice to me, explain to me why I should be nice to you?  In fact, why should I be nice to anyone?  Seriously!  I mean, why should I?  What have they done for me that I should be nice to them?  Knowing them, they are probably lurking in the background of some celebrity’s four thousand nine-hundred eighty-six Facebook friends, and are feeling cocky because, at long last, they have made it to the ‘Big Time’. 

Now, notice please, we are now going to make our first little detour, after which we shall return to the subject of my niceness.

 Exactly three days ago (I remember it as if it was only the day before yesterday), I dumped my old Facebook page, and in the process I killed off exactly three thousand, six-hundred, five of my nearest and dearest friends, consigning them to a slow and agonizing death-by-disillusionment in the depths of the Facebook Cauldron of Hell and Insignificance, an inferno so vapid that not only are all the computers on dial-up party lines, but there are no laptops or Blackberries or iPods or iPads (do you know fucking annoying it is to type iPod and iPad?).  Try it a hundred times and get back to me.   iPod, iPad, iPod, iPad… does that mean we can expect an iPud in the future, followed closely by an iPed?  What bliss it will be! 

Imagine this, if you will. A universe full of iPuds!  Now, as you know, an iPud will be the Next Big Thing in fast food for our busy lifestyles.  Cyber puddings!  Think of all the time they’ll save!  No more wasting a moment of your 24/7 life actually eating.  You can now be texting your friends, overthrowing third-world countries, and having Kraft Foods taking over all the French 3-star Michelin restaurants and turning them into CheezWiz franchises. All while downloading images of Spotted Dick and Sticky Toffee on to your iPud!  And all for only the cost of the average, used Pagani Zonda.  And then the following year, of course, we shall have foisted upon us the ultimate in social preventative nannyism: the iPed, which every male whose balls have dropped will be required to carry on his person at all times.  It will sound an alarm and initiate punitive preventative strikes against his person, whenever he gets within a mile of a school, or within three miles of any house with children living in it.  Including his own.  It will work like this:  for the first offence: the removal of one bollock; for the second offence, the removal of the second bullock; for the third offence, the removal of the first bullock of the suspicious-looking blond man with the fake tan and the comb-over – you know the one: the poor blighter who just happened to be reclining sur la plage in Beachy Head, eating an ice cream cornet and studying an old copy of Health and Fitness.  The iPed will, of course, have a 100% success rate, in that after only a week and a half, Britain will be a nation of castrati. I’m not sure how the Scots will figure into this scheme, simply because a life spent in exposing your ginger, hairy scrotum to the north Atlantic gales and toughening your bollocks with Skull Splitter, will have rendered them impervious.  Which means, of course, that all the remaining males in the United Kingdom will be Scottish (wa-HAY).  Scotland will then regain its rightful place as the fatherland.  It shall proclaim itself Scotland the Big End of Britain, and England will be relegated to the position of That Little Country South of Scotland and East of Wales.  And all because of Steve Jobs.  I think that merits an honorary knighthood at the very least.

And, of course, the whole i-thing will go on and on, until eventually Sir Steve (but, of course, he won’t really be called Sir Steve, being an illegal alien and all that) will enter into his own dotage.  It will be at this point that he will come out with his masterpiece: the waterproof iPid (in seventeen decorator colours, all in shades of yellow). The waterproof iPid will be a handy-dandy little device that self-activates whenever an incontinent person empties his or her bladder.  For this particular gem, the possibilities are endless, but I personally think the most positive contribution it will make to society will be to electrocute each and every subscriber the first time he or she urinates on your new leather sofa.  Personally, I don’t know what the world would do without Steve Job. 

But where was I?  Oh, yes, I was bemoaning the fate of all those Facebook friends I had consigned to eternal rejection, damnation and despair.  On one hand, I feel their pain, because they will no longer be able to send me free gifts of chocolate, and kisses, or Free Visits from the Tena Lady.  And nor will they be able to submit their heartfelt requests that, in lieu of my sending them boxes of JumboGasoMart’s best-selling white port, cases of precooked InstaFlab Frozen Pizzas (each with a tonne of extra cheese) and cases of Velveeta Donuts for their birthday, I should support their cause.  Which is invariably to help sponsor free breeding herds of swine, as well as low-cost female circumcisions for every Jewish and Muslim family in the Middle East.  Not to mention Detroit and Bradford and St Loo and Welwyn Garden City and the suburb of Golders Green Crematorium.  On the other hand – and this is to my credit and must therefore raise my niceness quotient by at least one point – when I closed my Facebook account, I did actually save two people.  But it was a matter of sentimentality, I guess, for I had been having honest-to-goodness social intercourse with both of them (and privately – not by plastering my innermost thoughts on their walls), so I suppose it wasn’t so much niceness on my part as it was fear.  For if I dumped these two rather disreputable lowlifes along with the rest of the great unwashed, I would be left completely friendless – both in Facebook and in real life.  And so I caved in to my fears.  And now, fuck it with a garden implement, not only did I rescue them from a fate worse than death, but I even invited them both to join my new page.  And they fucking well did!  And this means I am now I’m stuck with them. Forever! I can see it in my crystal ball:  these two refugees from Noddyland will start recommending all their friends, and their friends will recommend all their friends, and before you know it, all my former, discarded and loser friends will find their way back to me.  At which point I shall be forced dump them again, and then yet another endless cycle of misery will be set into motion.  And that will go on for the rest of my life.  And even unto the third generation.

However, know this! I am being crafty and evil-minded this time round:  on my new page, only those involved in national hunt races or rare breed insemination of pigs or fans of Sodom-maniacal-psychopathic-sociopathic-monosexual stand-up comedy or unicycle-restoration will be approved.  And don’t fucking think you can pretend you are one of these things if you are not, because don’t forget, I have been around this block before.  And I have ways of finding out who you are.

And now that we have finished our little detour (you know I always find my way back in the end) let us return to the subject at hand.  Support Groups.

Now, I suppose support group have their place, but why are they always attended by the same small clusters of people?  It’s like an exclusive club.  Now I admit that my experience is limited, confined as it is to the ‘Schizophrenics-R-Us’ group, the ‘Pit Bull Terriers Under Sentence of Death’ group, the ‘Reality Television Multiple Personality-Enabled Performers’ group, and, it goes without saying, the ‘People Who Never Do Anything Useful But Tell Each Other What To Do’ group. And it doesn’t take a great deal of intelligence to figure out that all of the members of my groups could actually belong to as many groups as they have split-personalities. The world simply is not big enough.

 Yes, I know we all need a bit of help, and we can’t all be on the Oprah Winfrey Show every week like Tom Cruise, but it would be nice now and then to belong to groups which attract a different clique of people.  A fresh clique. A new clique  A clique for people who have never before had their own clique – people such as falling down drunks, or drug fiends, or serial bigamists, or morbidly obese people who  marry donuts.

It is, of course, inevitable that among our multiple personality groupies, there are a certain number of sexual addicts.  In fact, at least twenty of my fellow support-groupers have – collectively – a minimum of five thousand, seven hundred and fifty-five sexually addictive personalities. Imagine, if you will, what the meetings are like.  A newcomer will stand up – a bustier version of Katie Price – and announce in her best Essex accent that her name is “The Duchess of Essex” and that she is a sexual addict.  Whereupon she will grab herself by the scruff of the neck, push herself roughly out the window, and squeal (in the accents of the Cardiff versions of Ant and Dec), “NO! I am a sexual addict!” And then a third personality – someone looking suspiciously like an Argentine version of Peter Andre, will join the fray (but only for a season and a half).  And from there, it will go on until every single contestant from the last twenty-five years of “I’m a Celebrity…” has stood up and taken their proverbial ‘place in the sun’ (I’m sorry, that was another support group, one devoted to rejected overseas holiday homes). 

But back to the multiple personality group. After two months of sitting on the sidelines, the penny finally dropped.  Every single person who has ever appeared on “I’m a Celebrity…” is the same person!  Just think!  The producers are geniuses!  They managed to track down the one person with so many multiple personalities that they could solve all their casting problems for the rest of century (don’t tell anyone, but I have a sneaky feeling it is John McKittrick)! 

But back to the meeting.  After an eternity of bickering and eating pig’s penises and bathing in whale semen, the sessions looked like they might actually be drawing to a close, which only goes to show how stupid it is to succumb to optimism.  For no sooner did I conclude that everyone had finally had solved their personality conflicts and that perhaps I might be able to remind them that this was actually the “Gardener’s World” support group, the fucking “Strictly Come Dancing” multiple personalities, which were actually the adjunct personalities of the “I’m a Celebrity…” personalities, jumped to their feet, bared their sequins and tortured us with yet another dreadful paso doble.  This latter indignity alone – repeated as it is on a weekly basis and with no improvement or resolution in sight – has done nothing to help me with my own problems:  and do you still think I should be a nice person?  Do you still ask me what I have against support groups?

Now, I do admit to getting my feet wet in a support group or two.  In fact, in the course of my life, I have sampled nearly every single one.  I’ve searched and I’ve searched and I’ve searched.  I’ve tried the religious fanatic support group, the groups for those who are obsessively punctual, the groups for those who are addicted to standing in queues (I endeavoured to establish chapters of these last two groups in Egypt, but they only attracted members of the first group, which was the one I had run away from).  And then there were the vegetarian support groups, the bacon-addicts’ support groups, the new millennium support groups, the support groups for people who like Brussels’ sprouts, the support groups for people who want to destroy all the other support group.  And even a support group for those who would like to join a support group, but not a group that would accept them.

But, alas, none of them did a fucking thing for me.  But then I had an epiphany!  Instead of searching for a group that might help me, I would start a group to help others worse off than me.  Of course, finding a group worse off than myself made me face up to an insurmountable obstacle:  When it comes to people worse off than me, I always ended up by throwing my hands up in the air, and shrieking, “Why the fuck should I help these losers? What did they ever do for me?”  Of course, I could have started a group for those who feel they are too good to help others, but since that would have attracted almost everyone, I instinctively knew I was too good for that group, and so I rejected it. 

And then, one night, I had an epiphany!  What was the one segment of society that provided more support than any group, and yet received no support themselves?  And the answer?  Athletic Supporters!  Think about it.  Day in, day out, these brave little fellows are forced to live in the murkiest of slum dwellings.  They carry unsecured, constantly shifting, heavy loads; they are manhandled by large muscular hands that continually fondle our supporters’ burdens as though they were sacks of plums.  Can you imagine what the smell must be like in their sweatshops?  And have they ever been heard to complain?   Have they ever once asked for danger money?  Have they ever threatened to go on strike?  Not on your fucking nelly.

I ask you this: what do athletic supporters get in return for their hours of servitude?  They get dropped on to the floor and stepped on, or else they are thrown into a bucket of bleach with fifty other supporters, many of whom are of foreign extraction.  Or Welch. They are then left there overnight – and God only knows how many of them die of suffocation. But does anyone remember?  Has anyone ever paid tribute to them in the News of the World?  Has BBC-2 ever produced a documentary on their plight?  And where are the obituaries in the Times?  And why hasn’t Clare Balding taken them on as her cause?  Quite simply, they are the forgotten ones; when they die, they are simply thrown into the incinerator.  Yes, my friends, Athletic Supporters are truly the lowest and most despised members of our society.

When and if an Athletic Supporter is actually given a decent bath, do you think he is ever properly ironed?  No, he is not.  He is wadded up and stuffed willy-nilly into a drawer of underwear.  And believe me, for any self-respecting athletic supporter, that is completely unsupportable!  For underwear is very snobby when it comes to the lowly athletic supporter.  Underwear think they are too good to cradle a furry sack of foetid, foul smelling testicles. And as for coming into actual physical contact with such an ill-mannered and unpredictable animal as a penis?  Forget it. As far as underwear is concerned, the average penis doesn’t even know how to shake themselves off, and warrants an ASBO.  They lisp, “Let the thupporter do the dirty work.”  For according to underwear, Athletic Supporters are ignorant know-nothings who don’t know any better.  They are the untouchables of the unmentionable world. Fit only for foreskin slime and suffocation and genital herpes and crotch rot!  Why, most of them don’t even know what a designer label is!

On the other hand, underwear just… is!  Underwear is a status symbol.  It is quite simply. Le dernier cri!

I am going beg you, my friends, to open your hearts and – for a moment or two – thank God for your humble athletic supporters.  Treat them with dignity.  Occasionally, find it in your heart to wash yourself before asking for their support.  They may be shy at first, because God only know they have suffered nothing but abuse in their lifetimes.  But given enough time and patience… and, yes, niceness… you’ll find that they will start responding to you.   They might even start loving you a little, in return.  And when this happens, you will suddenly notice that they are more than willing to put an extra special something into their work.  Your balls will – at the end of a busy day – be as fresh as they were at the beginning. Fresher than springtime!  Fungal infections will be a thing of the past.  And the happy, contented Athletic Supporters will even start urging your cricket box not to pinch you when you squish it with a cricket ball.

The benefits of having a happy, well-adjusted athletic supporter are endless.  And for this reason I am soliciting your help.  Running such a charity does not come cheap.  Therefore, what I am asking is that, in lieu of the customary boxes of JumboGasoMart’s best-selling white port and cases of precooked InstaFlab Frozen Pizzas (each with a tonne of extra cheese) and lorry-loads of Velveeta Donuts for my birthday, please help me send a worthy athletic supporter, together with his loving wife – Mrs. Sports Bra – and his teenage daughters – Britney and Brandi Thong – on an all-expense-paid holiday to the Maldives.  Please make your cheques payable to Johnners In The Raw Save the Athletic Supporters Fund, and send it care of this address.  Thank you.  And bless you, my children, for by contributing to this noble cause, you will be helping to make this world a happier, healthier, fresher, and… yes… nicer… place for each and every one of us.

 

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