By Dave Schilling
|Recently, I had the pleasure of attending a Los Angeles Galaxy soccer game at the Home Depot Center, in beautiful Carson, California (HOME OF THE WORLD’S LARGEST FREE-STANDING CHICKEN SANDWICH!).|
I love soccer. I think it’s the most beautiful of all the sports. The artistry, the passion, the excitement. It’s truly unparalleled.
At this most recent match, I was abruptly attacked by an elderly English woman with what appeared to be a glass eye. She yelled at me for 10 minutes in an unintelligible growl, then passed me the following letter. The only thing I could make out in her rant was “GIVE THIS TO DAVID BECKHAM!”
Now, I don’t know David Beckham personally to deliver this message to him, but hopefully he reads this website.
If so, hello Mr. Beckham! I’m posting this letter addressed to you. I hope that it finds you in good stead. Go Galaxy!
Oh, hello there David, it’s your mum. Glad to see you’re back in the States! You look a bit nackered, luv. Been layin’ the bones to that tart of wife? I saw those undie ads you did last year. Oy, you been smugglin’ marbles across the border or what?
Ya don’t write much na’more. Bein’ a world class footballer with an old lady with cracking fake knockers is a full time job, but what about your family, David? Lemme giv’ya an update on the brood then. I’ve included pictures of all of us, just in case all that fame and money made you forget what we look like.
First photo is of a certain special someone you might know.
It’s you as little boy! Oh, David, you were such a darling at that age. You were the most handsome 17 year old 5th grader on the bus! At least that’s what your dad told all his mates when he was drunk.
Remember when all the boys would tease you about being retarded? I bet they’re all jealous now that you get to pound the ground with a genuine Spice Girl. Sure, you’re a bit slow. You got a few problems wif getting lost in your own house. We all gots problems, David. You’re rich enough and stupid enough that your problems can easily be ignored. I bet that you just sit by the hearth, sipping tea and thinking NOTHING. Literally, no thoughts at all. That must be splendid…
Patty from down the road says to me, “Oy, Fatty Beckham!” She calls me Fatty. Don’t know why. Anyway, she says “Oy, Fatty Becks, why you don’t wear no makeup?” And I was all like, “Oy! Mind your own f**king business!” Now, I’m wearing a bit more rouge. What cha think, David? Now that I’m wearing makeup, people stop me on the street and say I look like someone famous. I says, “Do I remind you of Los Angeles Galaxy midfielder and undie model, David Beckham? Cuz I’m his proud mum?” And then they says “No way, ya old trollop. I was gonna say you look like Mick Jagger’s saggy old ballsack! Now get the hell off the sidewalk before I cane you to death!” The village isn’t what it used to be. A lot of Persians have moved in. They’re not quite polite, if you know what I mean.
Your pops is getting laid off from the coal mine. He asked for Sundays off, and they gave him a right nasty kick in the arse out the door. He’s a bit shy ‘bout askin’ ya this, but he’s wondering if you got any extra cash layin’ about? Just a couple quid to tide us over whilst your dad tries to find another job. Why couldn’t they pay this fat bastard to eat? Sorry about the picture. Your dad won’t keep his shirt on for more than 10 minutes a day. It’s like they say in America, “Like father, like son”!
Uncle Peter is still not allowed wifin 20 feet of the local primary school. Let’s not talk more about Uncle Peter.
I hope to get a reply to this letter, David. Maybe you can find the time to write something in between fixtures? Give my best to the Big Breasted Spice Girl and your kids. Tell them Gammy Fatty Beckham sends all her love!
Sorry, David. Just getting a little misty-eyed. If you see tears on this letter, they’re from me.
If you see gravy stains, it’s from your dad.
If you see any other stains, they’re from Uncle Peter.
PS: Keep your shirt on. It might convince your right moron of a father to do similar.