A Must Read: I accuse Mike Ashley
Mike Ashley. Mikey effing Ashley. Michael ‘the ba..ard’ Ashley.
Ever since this cretin slid in under the radar to snap up Newcastle United on a whim, life as we know it following the famous black and whites would never be the same.
This gargantuan sh.. of a human, almost completely unreported and (ED: Allegedly!) without due diligence, somehow blunder-bussed his way into power with the speed and shock of a greased weasel on jet-propelled roller-skates into a chicken coop.
The ‘payments in’ letterbox to Sir John Hall’s bank vault swung open so fast that the sneaker-wielding gargoyle didn’t even get past a couple of days of negotiation for the sale of his shares.
Freddy Shepherd (rest his soul) from his hospital bed and laid up with pneumonia put up more of a fight than ‘good old’ Sir John, but not enough; and regrettably once a Sports Direct biro was shoved into his grasp by a sweating, pudgy trotter belonging to our then prospective owner (along with a whole load of loot) the rotten deal was struck. The Cuckoo was in the nest.
Cue lightning strikes, thunder claps, the sound of horsemen riding into town with his very own tat-shop apocalypse.
This prized asset, the pinnacle and shining golden goose of NE1 was bitten in the jugular by this jakey-vampire, and that folks was fu..ing that. The slow bleed out began.
That was twelve years ago. Those twelve years were littered with opportunities to build, whiffs of almost getting things right (by absolute fortune), only for none to be taken. The grand snide-one pulling his bi-annual rug from under the club to derail any glimmer of upward fortune.
Those same twelve years were and continue to be peppered with crimes against the club (and club legends) that should have seen this fraudster tried and punished long, long ago.
The gallows on Gallowgate wouldn’t be a serious enough a punishment for this pimp, who has systematically and willingly stripped our beautiful club of its dignity and assets.
Staggering naked down the street under the burning Sky TV gaze, whilst every prat with a cake-hole (with not one care for the club) smugly insists that you be ‘careful what you wish for’ – and the ‘poor old Mike’ bull-sh…
These pi..ants: Wise, Kinnear, Craig, Jordan, White, Ferdinand, Gray, Keys – whoever it may be, bucking sanity, publicly saying some really bizarre shi.. in the hope of keeping their pathetic little personalities validated and in the public domain, and no doubt their piggybank coffers swelled with Ashley’s blood-dollar courtesy of Keith Bishop. This clown, with a lantern jaw and a face you would not grow tired of slapping, is commander in chief of personally squeezing out the diarrhea fed to their willing media ‘partners’.
I mean, can you imagine any other business or otherwise, paying to have their own employees and customers muted and discredited?
Even Kim Jong Un has his good days. Mugs one and all.
Numb-nuts has regularly hired the incapable, with jobs for the boys – who just LOVE working for Mike. Aye, his pals, mates, cronies, henchmen, clingers-on, whatever you want to call them. All to a man a snivelling bunch of weasels, a mob of winnet-chewing acolytes gratefully munching on the dangle berries harvested off his flabby undercarriage.
These goons, are spawned through nepotism and hired to spread the gospel according to Mike (i.e. however the hell his unholyness wants it told). If it’s black, and Ashley says its white – cue the propaganda police churning out the guff faster than one of his sweat shops’ under 6’s sock production team.
This select ‘pack of ba..ards’ has happily ‘helped’ us veer from one disaster to the next like a drunken sailor stopping only to power-vomit into fireplaces.
More’s the pity the people at large taking in any of this shi…
Relegations, lies, court cases, Kevin Keegan’s successfully fought employment tribunal, regime proven as liars, club for sale, club not for sale, Shearer shafted, Gutierrez discriminated against for having the audacity to get Cancer, Llambias and purple players, Wonga, Sports Direct Arena, horrendous red and blue signs daubed all over the stadium, flogging any player with two legs and a pulse in the search for profit, spending nowt on replacements, Hughton bulleted, clowns such as Pardew, Carver and McClaren let loose, letting the ground go to rack and ruin, Rafa debacle, more takeover nonsense, more lies and yet even MORE LIES.
This guy couldn’t lie straight in bed man! But to be a good liar, you need to be clever. They cannot even remember what they have lied about now, that they are spewing so much out. There have been so many contradictions this summer that they have proven themselves as liars again and again. Not even trying to hide it now – but who questions them? The Chronicle are printing the club’s very own diversion tactics to the masses, ‘there’s nothing to see here’, ‘business as normal’, ‘Penfold travels Europe on race for New Manager’, ‘cat up tree’ exclusive. Meanwhile, the place is burning to the ground and Ashley is shipping cash out the back door in crates labelled ‘Copa Cabana’.
The lying isn’t for me the worst part, it’s the perverse pleasure he clearly takes in making us poor sods squirm. No doubt in his mind punishing the ‘dirty Geordie clueless peasants that we are’ for insubordination.
Like all burgeoning sociopaths, devoid of emotion, this evil git has likely been burning ants with magnifying glasses and pulling off the legs of daddy long-legs for decades. Now he’s at Premier League standard of bastard and we are getting the brunt.
He has torn the fanbase in half, with those who cannot bear to not be there and those who simply can’t take anymore. Not much in between, but whether you go or you don’t, this bucket of puke’s life needs to be made a misery until he finally does toddle off.
The only thing keeping most folk from going completely doolally-tap is the thought of Ashley being drop-kicked out from his padded seat and sent packing. The thought of Kevin Keegan on PPV TV crowbarring the Sports Direct signs off the stadium makes me heart skip. I’d pay whatever you like to be there to watch that happen.
Cue BZG, the Sheikh and his mates seemingly doing everything they can to buy the club, and would have you believe they have ticked all the boxes – apart from transferring the funds. Or proving the funds, or bidding, or proving a fit and proper test with the Premier League – if you were to believe Mike Ashley TV’s Keith Downie.
They have shared a flurry of early statements and it was a done deal five weeks ago, yet here we are, no manager, hemorrhaging players, and still not a Scooby do what is going on. Twitter has been lit up by our very own lunatic fringe, highlighted by flight checker and updates from barbers. Personally, it feels like an end game, one way or another – but it hinges on the unhinged and likely a seller who really doesn’t want to sell. We can all cream wa’ kegs until the cows come home about BZG and Billionaire Sheikhs, but if this piece of work doesn’t want to sell, or keeps moving the goal posts, we never, ever will.
Desperation is now the name of the game in wanting this leech gone, and I’d likely accept a takeover by Satan any day of the week. But until the fat lady sings (and deadline cometh), I’ll be keeping me fingers, legs, eyes and toes crossed for it to finally happen.
To surmise on the takeover – nobody knows. On a new Manager, nobody knows and have we reached the point under Ashley that nobody cares? Whether that’s Steve Bruce, the ghost of Bruce Forsyth or Lord Lucan riding Red Rum. So what?
On the season ahead, if it’s yet another one under this ownership then we don’t need to crack open the McEwan’s best Scotch and get Einstein knocking out answers on the Ouija board do we?.
They say it’s the hope that kills you, well that’s dwindling by the second – but that is all we have left and every hope is pinned on a takeover. A takeover that probably will not happen. Again. Jesus Christ almighty, I rue the day this gangster laid eyes on us.
You can follow the author on Twitter @JamieSwan1
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