Originally posted by davestar_delux
Celtic
Coach: Jock Stein
Simpson;
Craig; Gemmell; McNeill; Clark;
Murdoch; Wallace; Auld; Johnstone;
Chalmers; Lennox.
Think I've got that lineup right? It's the Lisbon Lions basically although I would probably drop Chalmers for Dalglish.
SUBS:
Larsson, Jimmy McGrory, Paul McStay, Danny McGrain.
How can you beat that?
I'd play a 2-3-5 though, and stick in John Thompson as sub-goalie.
This is the type of thread I normally avoid like the plague; I thought it was because I saw them as being silly
howls for attention or pity, but it’s really because I wanted to make one myself, I just couldn’t manage to do
it. Today seems like a good a day as any to give it a go, I will probably regret this, but I don’t really care anymore.
So this is my cathartic post. I need to get some things off my chest, read on if you want.
I had a pretty tough upbringing, I didn’t think it was at the time but it turns out I went through stuff that I really
shouldn’t have had to.
All my life I’ve put a brave face on things and locked away any negativity, but here I am, feeling a bit emo,
necking vodka like it’s going out of fashion, about to tell some things for the very first time.
Around the age of 6 I got my first beating from my stepfather, (I never knew my ‘real’ father) I’ll never forget the
pounding I got with his leather belt. I quite literally couldn’t sit down for a week, at least not without being in
raging agony. My gin-soaked mother couldn’t give a toss about what he did, she was so drunk she couldn’t keep
it together long enough to cook dinner. At least not for me, my younger brother always got a decent meal. They
loved him a lot more than me, it wouldn’t be hard mind you.
For the next 5 years I lived in fear of beatings from the monster that married my mother, sometimes he’d use an
old broom to strike the back of my legs as I tried to run away, it hurt like hell but was nothing compared to the
orrible mental pain. A few days after my 11th birthday I took a really bad beating and I just cracked. He had a
locker where he kept a few shotguns, I waited until he fell asleep on his chair, loaded a shell and shot him.
Looking back, that was a mistake. I was put in a home for delinquents, where the abuse wasn’t any less,
only of a different nature. The shot didn’t kill my stepfather, but it prevented him from working on the modest bit of
land they had. He drank all day and eventually died when I was 15, my mother committed suicide a year later.
Like I expected, I was passed over in her will. I didn’t think she had very much worth inheriting, but my brother got
everything and has been living the life of Reilly ever since, we don’t speak.
Right, I’m feeling a bit sick and drowsy, if I’m still around later, and folk want, I’ll write the rest and answer questions…
See you on the other side.
