I only just realised that it is, in fact, or at least will be next year, the 
20th anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster, when 96 lives were lost. 
Twenty years is a long time, and the scars of that day still run deep. My 
brother was there, and he's still got the railing marks all up his face to 
prove it. Terrible. I myself wasn't there; I hadn't got a ticket so, unlike 
most people, I decided not to try and force my way in. Instead I took the 
day off and went swiping wheel-trims and smashing up telephone boxes round 
Norris Green where I lived at the time. Little tinker that I was.

Given the nature of the sadness of the event, and given that this year is to 
be Capital of Culture year for our wonderful city, I say we start the whole 
paying respect thing right now, with at least twelve months to go. Let's 
face it, no-one puts on a show of maudlin misery and self-deprecatingly 
abject melancholia better than us good old chirpy Scousers. We could have 
events up and down the city to commemorate the upcoming anniversary - Cilla 
Black and Tarby and Stan "Aren't The Germans Cunts?" Boardman scuttling up 
from Surrey and fucking Essex and other home counties to show deep 
connections and heartfelt sympathies to the cause. And I'm pretty sure a few 
jugglers, slilt-walkers and balloon animal makers up and down Ranelagh 
Street would do wonders for morale at this (upcoming) dreadful time.

They say no-one wallows in such regional misery like us Liverpudlians, and 
that's probably a bit of an exaggeration. We don't wallow in it; it's just 
that we love it. All those flowers, teddy bears, cards and football shirts 
wrapped round lamp posts where little Jamie the twocking little bastard has 
rammed a Cozzie up a fucking central reservation taking out a granny and her 
miniature poodle...we love it. It's part of our chirpy nature - as much a 
part as our quaint accent, deprived slums, corrupt council, and the shite 
football teams supported by people who live miles away.

So let's get in there early and start wallowing now. Let's get the ball 
rolling and out-misery the Mancs by commemorating the tragic events of 
almost twenty years ago. What's wrong with a 19-year anniversary anyway? 
Come on, all you scallies in your all-black attire, with your hoods up as 
you BMX along looking for delivering Argos lorries to rob; all you 
pink-pyjama-clad sluts with your slobbering kids with faces full of Greggs' 
dummies, hacking on L&B outside the "Tan-talize" tanning studio; all you 
drunken bearded twats at the top of Penny Lane, leaning against trees 
singing 'In My Liverpool Home'; all you ex-pat celebs who bang on about 
Liverpool being the greatest city on earth from the cosy confines of your 
mansions in Suffolk. Let's all start the year's silence now in memory of 
those who lost their lives in the pursuit of their football happiness. In 
other words, let's shut the fuck up about it before we even start.

--
The Thack Is Back

all copied and pasted from google groups circa 2002, not the real thacker. 
he died many moons ago.


i.e

from thacker

The thing about Scousers is that they've got this huge great fucking chip on
their shoulders about who and what they are. Your average Scouser falls into
two categories. The first is the kind who goes on about what a wonderful
place Liverpool is, and yet he can't wait to get the fuck out of there
because it's such a dump. The second is the kind who couldn't care less
about Liverpool; as long as he has houses to burgle, grannies to mug and
dole to scrounge, he couldn't give a flying fuck where he lives. And yet
both kinds of Scousers have one thing glaringly in common: if anyone attacks
their home city they leap about and make a big song and dance about it.


"Aye, aye, soft lad. Don't be slaggin' off de Pool, laaaar. Yer fuch'n
bleeeaaeert. Or I'll fuch'n beeeeeeerst yeh."


My arse. Another thing about your average Scouser is that he thinks he's
dead hard, when in fact they are all as soft as shit. Fact. If they were so
hard how come they got crushed so easily? Tell me that. Hard as soft-boiled
eggs. And all these Scousers who are coming out of the woodwork to slag off
Alexei Sayle for his outburst, saying he should come back to Liverpool and
say that. People like Jimmy Tarbuck, a Scouser through and through who
lives...either in London or fucking Protugal, where he daily displays his
attachment to his Liverpudlian roots by playing golf with the likes of Bruce
Forsyth, Ronnie Corbett and Sean fucking Connery. Oh, aye, a fine example to
every good Scouser, Tarbuck is. Scousers? I've shit 'em.


Cilla Black? Where does she live, eh? It's not fucking Scotty Road where she
was born and dragged up, the Tory bitch-whore. Stan Boardman...lives in
Blackpool. Ken Dodd. Fuck knows where that cunt lives, but you can bet it's
not in the salubrious splendour of Knotty fucking Ash. Only a rat would
deign to live in that unmitigated craphole. And yet there he is, every time
you see him, going on about Liverpool and how great it is. Doddy is typical
of your average Scouser - works on the sly and dodges his fucking income
tax. The buck-toothed grabbing Scouse twat.


Every Scouser I've ever worked with, lived among, socialised with and spent
time in the company of (and that's a lot of Scousers for a bloke my age who
lives just around the corner from that shitty city), has had the one thing
in common: they all hate Liverpool and can't wait to get the fuck away, and
yet they won't let anyone else slag it off.


Then there's this business about Liverpool having no culture, as expressed
by Alexei Sayle. Er...hate to tell you this, you sad Scouse twats, but he's
right. He's right, and you know he's right. If Liverpool is so cultural, how
come the only people who talk about culture in the city are fucking students
from down south, or Japs with cameras round their fucking necks, snapping
pictures of the Cavern Club. The Cavern...fuck me. They were so enraptured
by their own culture up in Liverpool that they knocked the Cavern
down...then built it up again when everybody was wondering where the famous
Beatles' club was.


"Err...sorry...er...we knocked it down. It was fuch'n shite. Tourism? Oh,
aye, let's build it up again and tell everybody it's the same place as
before."


That's the Scouser for you: doesn't want something until some cunt points
out that it might be worth a bob or two. Suddenly he's a man of culture. For
your average Scouser, culture means not wearing the same trackie top five
days running. The scruffy cunts. But you can't walk down any street in
Liverpool these days without passing some gaudy fucking posh food joint, a
pavement cafe. All that does is encourage the bag-snatchers and the muggers
who are rife in the city centre.


I just hope that all these visitors who are due to flock to Liverpool for
2008 have made sure they've got everything fully insured. Otherwise they'll
be sadly disappointed to see the level of culture in the city first hand.
The culture of the brandished baseball bat, the crack house, the street
whores parading down Upper Parly night and day.


Oh, and if anyone's interested, I'll be driving through Liverpool tonight.
About half-seven. Taking in all the sights and culture of Wavertree,
Aigburth and Childwall. If anyone fancies a pop, I'll be driving a blue
Suzuki and wearing dark glasses. If you think you're hard enough, that is.

The Thack submitted this idea :
> I only just realised that it is, in fact, or at least will be next year, 
> the 20th anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster, when 96 lives were 
> lost. Twenty years is a long time, and the scars of that day still run 
> deep. My brother was there, and he's still got the railing marks all up 
> his face to prove it. Terrible. I myself wasn't there; I hadn't got a 
> ticket so, unlike most people, I decided not to try and force my way in. 
> Instead I took the day off and went swiping wheel-trims and smashing up 
> telephone boxes round Norris Green where I lived at the time. Little 
> tinker that I was.

> Given the nature of the sadness of the event, and given that this year is 
> to be Capital of Culture year for our wonderful city, I say we start the 
> whole paying respect thing right now, with at least twelve months to go. 
> Let's face it, no-one puts on a show of maudlin misery and 
> self-deprecatingly abject melancholia better than us good old chirpy 
> Scousers. We could have events up and down the city to commemorate the 
> upcoming anniversary - Cilla Black and Tarby and Stan "Aren't The Germans 
> Cunts?" Boardman scuttling up from Surrey and fucking Essex and other 
> home counties to show deep connections and heartfelt sympathies to the 
> cause. And I'm pretty sure a few jugglers, slilt-walkers and balloon 
> animal makers up and down Ranelagh Street would do wonders for morale at 
> this (upcoming) dreadful time.

> They say no-one wallows in such regional misery like us Liverpudlians, 
> and that's probably a bit of an exaggeration. We don't wallow in it; it's 
> just that we love it. All those flowers, teddy bears, cards and football 
> shirts wrapped round lamp posts where little Jamie the twocking little 
> bastard has rammed a Cozzie up a fucking central reservation taking out a 
> granny and her miniature poodle...we love it. It's part of our chirpy 
> nature - as much a part as our quaint accent, deprived slums, corrupt 
> council, and the shite football teams supported by people who live miles 
> away.

> So let's get in there early and start wallowing now. Let's get the ball 
> rolling and out-misery the Mancs by commemorating the tragic events of 
> almost twenty years ago. What's wrong with a 19-year anniversary anyway? 
> Come on, all you scallies in your all-black attire, with your hoods up as 
> you BMX along looking for delivering Argos lorries to rob; all you 
> pink-pyjama-clad sluts with your slobbering kids with faces full of 
> Greggs' dummies, hacking on L&B outside the "Tan-talize" tanning studio; 
> all you drunken bearded twats at the top of Penny Lane, leaning against 
> trees singing 'In My Liverpool Home'; all you ex-pat celebs who bang on 
> about Liverpool being the greatest city on earth from the cosy confines 
> of your mansions in Suffolk. Let's all start the year's silence now in 
> memory of those who lost their lives in the pursuit of their football 
> happiness. In other words, let's shut the fuck up about it before we even 
> start.

Cranky old fucker aren't you?

LMAO!!!

-- 
+ His Holiness Pope Pompous XVIII

"I am bent to know by worst means the worst. For mine own good all 
causes shall give way, I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I 
wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er" - /Macbeth/ Act 3 
Sc 4.

Jamie presented the following explanation :
> all copied and pasted from google groups circa 2002, not the real thacker. 
> he


fUCKING COINCIDENCE and fucking caps lock too.

I was going to reply couldn't you have fitted that fat cunt Tarbuck 
into the script along with that toothy old minger Cilla "I hung with 
The Beatles" Black.

Tarby was going to run a as a Conservative councilor once but was 
advised against it, did you know ?

-- 
Count  Baldoni