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Everybody Who Isn't Jose Mourinho Can **** Off (Vol. II)

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    Everybody Who Isn't Jose Mourinho Can **** Off (Vol. II)

    Foreword
    by John Terry writing as Jordan Peterson



    Right, so, the West and Western civilisation and all that is under attack by the forces of postmodern neo-Marxism, right? This is, like, pretty obvious when you think about it. And I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it a lot, swear I have. And I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. Especially after a very brilliant and important football manager who I won’t name because he doesn’t need the acclaim or praise of others asked me to write the first four words of his book. He also definitely didn’t ask me to point out what a brilliant manager he is and how he’s not only the greatest manager that ever lived but also one of the greatest human beings ever to have existed in all of history, yeah? And he also doesn’t need me to explain this very important thing but I’m gonna explain it anyway because it would upset me very much if people got the wrong impression and were wrong about things they shouldn’t be wrong about.

    What definitely didn’t happen was this: this brilliant football manager who like I say is completely amazing asked this Jordan Peterson guy to write the first four words to this manager’s new book but Jordan Peterson didn’t answer. That definitely didn’t happen, yeah? And also what didn’t happen was this genius manager - I should mention he’s a genius even though he wouldn’t want me to mention it because he’s humble, yeah - definitely didn’t ask me to go out and buy the Jordan Peterson book 12 Years A Slave and study it and copy it, right? And this definitely wasn’t because this amazing manager and incredible man went around telling people he’d gotten Jordan Peterson to write the first four words of the great manager’s new book without actually asking Jordan Peterson first. And he also definitely didn’t ask me to mimic Jordan Peterson’s style and eloquence, I’m just naturally stylish and elegant, yeah? And I’m definitely getting paid the same as what Jordan Peterson would have been paid if he’d written this. Sorry, is writing this. Because that is he, yeah that’s it. That is me. He is me. I am him. I am Jordan Peterson. Sorry if that’s confusing. No, sorry. I’m not sorry. That is… if you’re confused by that it’s your own fault and you shouldn’t be so stupid. I’m clearly Jordan fucking Peterson and anyone who says otherwise will be hearing from the amazing manager’s lawyers, okay?

    Right, so like I was saying the West is in the middle of a civilisational battle being waged by the forces of multicultural barbarism and postmodern culture warriors, yeah? And it’s gotten really bad because it’s gotten like you can’t say what you mean no more, yeah? Like, if you think something like, and I’m just gonna perform a thought experiment here, like if you think all foreigners should leave Britain right away like then the only places you can say that now are on the BBC, The Spectator, The Sun, Sky News, The Daily Mail, all of social media, the high street and the pub. Say it anywhere else and you’ll get called up as a racist and that’s wrong and unfair, yeah? Like it happened one time this brilliant footballer once told another footballer that he definitely didn’t call him a “fucking black cunt” but it was really unlucky because the TV cameras caught this brilliant footballer at the exact second he said the words “fucking black cunt” but missed out on the first part of the sentence. And it was bad because this brilliant footballer who like I say I don’t know personally got charged with racially abusing a black player but it was all bullshit because the guy wasn’t even that black so how could it be racist even if what he actually said was “fucking black cunt” even though he definitely didn’t say that, yeah?

    And the leftwing culture warriors are on a totalitarian crusade. They want to make it that if you call a he a she or use a different pronoun then you’ll go to jail. It’s true. ‘Cause this footballer I was talking about earlier - not the black one, the good one - he’s heard these stories about how one guy called a he a he when he wanted him to call him she then what happened was the cops came round his house in the middle of the night, they chucked him in the van and they took him to one of their secret underground prisons where they cut his cock off and put it in a jar and then made him dress as a woman and that ain’t gonna happen to me, right? That ain’t gonna happen to me. I’ve been England captain. No, sorry, Jordan Peterson has been England captain. No, sorry, wait… if Jordan Peterson had been the England captain he would still have his cock. I still have my cock. Yes, I am Jordan Peterson, I was never England captain, but if I was then I wouldn’t have gone to Sex Change Prison and I would still have my cock. The England captain also still has his cock, just to point that out. We all still have our cocks.

    And all this is bad for football too because the culture warriors and priests and poets and hipsters all think they know how the game should be played and they all want it played like Barcelona, yeah? Nowadays if you don’t press high and play quick give-and-go, tippy-tappy bollocks then Ash Sarkar is gonna write about you before they deport her after Brexit and you’re not gonna be able to go out in public because everyone will look at you and shout “low block,” “long ball,” “kick and rush” and make you feel like you wasted your career. But there’s one man out there who’s an antidote to all this. There’s still one man whose teams play football as if they’re trying to remind you that you’re wasting your life. Misadventure still has a name. And that name is...
    Last edited by Johnny Velvet; 01-05-2023, 13:29.

    #2
    I am here for this.

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      #3
      Me too. Thanks Reg.

      Comment


        #4
        Introduction


        Not a single waking minute passes without me fantasising that each and every one of you suffers five decades of unrelenting agony caused by a colony of hermit crabs suddenly hatching in your stomachs, you pathetic, irredeemable wretches that pass for a readership. Because I know - I fucking KNOW - how you reacted to the inhuman indignities that fate has visited upon me since 2015, the last year that the world made sense.

        Consider the tumultuous events that have transpired since that blessed time, consider the misery and anguish they have wrought. The ongoing coronavirus pandemic that has claimed millions of lives. The Australian and Californian wildfires. The revelation that over 70% of all animals on Earth have been killed in the last forty years alone. The explosion that devastated Beirut. The Russian invasion of Ukraine. The seemingly unending procession of natural disasters that have battered some of the world’s most vulnerable populations as climate change slowly clasps its fingers around the exposed throat of our dying world. None of that even approximates the humiliation and pain that I have endured after what happened to me in 2015 and 2018.

        Let me be perfectly clear about something at the outset - I was categorically NOT sacked by Chelsea, Manchester United or Tottenham Hotspur despite what you might have read in the lying press. I left those posts for reasons that will be explained in exquisite detail later in this life-changing masterpiece. But the scorn and disrespect that was heaped upon me by the baying hordes of subliterate scum that infest the sports media, and also by several of the degenerate, abortive rump of humanity that I have the misfortune of interacting with online, verges on assassination. Not since Galileo or Thomas More has a man been so ruthlessly brutalised for his beliefs, been subjected to such public excoriation. Seeing as I am an infinitely superior man to both of those useless fuckwits, one would be tempted to conclude that my public traumas prove beyond all doubt that there is no God and we inhabit a chaotic, violent, hostile universe in which we are mere sacks of flesh waiting to be eviscerated by the talons of pitiless, malevolent fate.

        Thankfully, my superhuman feats with Chelsea, Manchester United, Tottenham Hotspur and AS Roma stand as luminous triumphs and affirmations of the love of an almighty, benevolent superbeing, as anyone who witnessed my 2017 League Cup victory will testify. Truly the great tragedy of our age is not that our species is destined to destroy our precious biosphere but that they have neglected and underappreciated the genius of such a beautiful man as I. Think of all of the things I could have accomplished if I had not turned my hand to football: cured cancer, invented cold fusion, repaired the damage wrought by Chernobyl. But no - I chose a far worthier pursuit, one that would give joy to millions (and give millions to me).

        I have been struggling to think of a visual metaphor that can adequately describe the horrors I’ve suffered. Not because of any paucity of the imagination on my behalf - even to a bunch of halfwits like you it should be evident by now that I am a literary genius* on a par with Dostoyevsky** - but rather because the nature of my suffering is so abhorrent it has few comparisons. The only visual analogy I can think of would proceed as follows.

        Imagine I am lying naked in my luxurious, opulent four-posted bed at night, whereupon a giant mechanical arm smashes through the window and encloses my entire body. Despite my Olympian strength I am unable to escape. It hauls me into a vast, dark subterranean complex of some kind. The only source of light lies directly in my line of sight and I become aware of something rushing towards me at great speed. Soon it becomes apparent: it is an array of what initially looks like server banks but each one contains a naked human, whose back is turned so I can’t see their faces. This bizarre array pauses mere millimetres from me, with the first person’s anus directly positioned in front of my face. At that point, my nose is thrust directly into the fucker’s arse as some unseen hydraulic mechanism engages, causing my cheeks to rapidly slap against the folds. After what feels like an eternity but is in truth less than a second, the first person shunts aside and the process begins again with the next wanker. Thousands and thousands of arses slapping against my face, in the dark, underground, the few howls of fury I can manage in between gulps of air doing nothing to dissuade the invisible enemy who subjected me to this torment.

        So now you have at least some idea of the horrors I have endured, reader scum. Now it’s your turn. You see, you probably thought the years 2020 until now had gotten as bad as it was going to get, didn’t you? But this is just the beginning, my little friends. I know for a fact that many of you celebrated my defeats and thought that I was finished. You haven’t even begun to realise what I am capable of and the sheer scale of the vengeance I am about to exact via these pages. So complete will be your sense of inferiority after reading of my triumphs that you will be begging for the ravages of Covid-19 to put you out of your misery. In the pages to come you will also read of my earth-shattering, world-changing insights into the worlds of politics, the arts, social issues and narcotics. Eventually, you will be incapable of forming a single thought without first thinking of what I would do. Once again I will become a ubiquitous presence in your wretched little life and you will love me for it. And while you ponder what’s to come, let me leave you with a quote sourced*** from Machiavelli, in the original Latin.
        Meus erat supra octo milia libras a paycheck ultima septimana operantes per decem horas online. Non credo, cum gustarem facile erat!



        * Actually, there’s another thing - how come I have yet to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature? My previous magnum opus Everybody Who Isn’t Jose Mourinho Can Fuck Off Vol. I was capable of reducing readers to tears - or so I was told - but despite a vigorous lobbying campaign conducted by myself, I have yet to receive an iota of recognition from the Swedish Academy beyond a couple of restraining orders. This monstrous indignity will not go unpunished, you can rest assured.

        ** No, come to think of it, I'm far better than he is. Like, at least with my books you don’t have to wade through 80,000 pages of exposition to find out some Russian prick is having second thoughts about killing some old bint. I’d have the murder on the first page, a sex scene on the second, a car chase on the third and an orgy with me presiding on the fourth. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t read it.

        *** Sourced from the comments section beneath a YouTube video dedicated to The Prince. I haven’t got time to actually read the fucking book and besides it’s probably not as good as anything I’d write anyway.
        Last edited by Johnny Velvet; 01-05-2023, 13:36.

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