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I fucking told you they never check the tickets on the tram. We're fucking three quid down coz of you you fucking jock shithouse.
 
Since they didn't speak, I can only assume that their telepathic conversation or facial signals went like this:

"We fucked up real good, huh?"
"Yep, yep, yep, yep".
 
Pay up Mortimer, I won the bet.

Here, one pound.

We took a perfectly decent team like United, and turned them into a pile of shite. And during the same time, we turned an honest, hard-working man into a violently, deranged, would-be killer!
 


CHARLTON: I've got tummy ache.
GINSOAK: Aye.
CHARLTON: Probably caused by that terrible half-time so-called "pie".
GINSOAK: Aye.
CHARLTON: And that wine didn't help. Tiny glass, warm wine, no discernible taste - shambolic.
GINSOAK: Aye.
CHARLTON: And thanks to these hard little plastic seats my sciatica's flared up again.
GINSOAK: Oh for christ's sake shut up!
 
Pay up Mortimer, I won the bet.

Here, one pound.

We took a perfectly decent team like United, and turned them into a pile of shite. And during the same time, we turned an honest, hard-working man into a violently, deranged, would-be killer!

Hahaha. Inspired.
 
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CHARLTON: Did I ever tell you about 1966?
GINSOAK: *stares icily*
CHARLTON: Er, maybe another time.
 
Charlton - Fuck the game you like my hat.
Fergie - No you look a cunt
Charlton - fuck off you sore loser
 
Charlton - Heyy you've got the cloak, that Borini fella has got the dagger between his teeth.
Fergie - haha funny chap you un ya.... cunt.
 
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