Roy Keane Continues To Give Nary A Frig...
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Is it me or does Roy with that beard look like a refugee from H block? He only needs a poncho and a liberal dash of fecal matter to complete the look.
He's just a mentalist.
He could've been a Mo bro. Instead he chose to be a mofo.
SOME PICTURES FROM ROY'S SCRAPBOOK:
Cork, circa 1972: Me Aunty Clodagh has just knitted me first beard for me. Best Christmas ever.
Cork, 1980: I've just heard the news that I've been offered a place with the youth team of the Nebraska Cornhuskers. I'm over the moon. Then, of course, I discover that my father has misheard the information and I'm actually off to play for Cobh Ramblers. I just gave me dad one of my stares. But I was furious. Absolutely furious.
Manchester, 1993: It was a tradition for newcomers to the club to do a 'turn' for team bonding. Some liked to sing, others to dance, while the Neville brothers liked to claim they were from Manchester. Much to my regret, I was on my very best behaviour, so I decided to just punch the fecking lights out of the manager's cat.
Manchester, 2001: I was worried about John O'Shea. I thought he was an effeminate, ineffectual, incompetent, insufferable little fop, and I told him so straight to his smooth-cheeked, female-hued, stupid little potato face. He didn't have any problem with it. You might, but then you're an idiot.
Japan, 2002: I'd just had to endure two hours training in a car park with a horse-faced Yorkshireman who couldn't even get his nose to remain on message. And now this. One tiny white bar of soap and no plug for the bath. And no towel. I'd had enough, as I think you can tell!
Teneriffe, 2007: Whoa, how did that get mixed up in here? This is a holiday snap. I'd just argued with some idiot six-year-old for kicking sand about on the beach. I hate untidiness. After that everybody left and it was so quiet. This was an ace vacation.
Ipswich, 2009: My first day at Portman Road, announcing my ban on mobile phones. Needless to say, they were all taken aback by my professionalism.
Birmingham, 2014: Villa seems a tolerable place. Here's me with the tea lady. I punched her in the face shortly after this picture was taken. She understood. You won't. But then you're an idiot.
Extracted from 'Feck You and Yours and Yer Mam: My Scrapbook' by Roy Keane with Shane MacGowan (Beardy Press, 2014), £19.99.
Cork, circa 1972: Me Aunty Clodagh has just knitted me first beard for me. Best Christmas ever.
Cork, 1980: I've just heard the news that I've been offered a place with the youth team of the Nebraska Cornhuskers. I'm over the moon. Then, of course, I discover that my father has misheard the information and I'm actually off to play for Cobh Ramblers. I just gave me dad one of my stares. But I was furious. Absolutely furious.
Manchester, 1993: It was a tradition for newcomers to the club to do a 'turn' for team bonding. Some liked to sing, others to dance, while the Neville brothers liked to claim they were from Manchester. Much to my regret, I was on my very best behaviour, so I decided to just punch the fecking lights out of the manager's cat.
Manchester, 2001: I was worried about John O'Shea. I thought he was an effeminate, ineffectual, incompetent, insufferable little fop, and I told him so straight to his smooth-cheeked, female-hued, stupid little potato face. He didn't have any problem with it. You might, but then you're an idiot.
Japan, 2002: I'd just had to endure two hours training in a car park with a horse-faced Yorkshireman who couldn't even get his nose to remain on message. And now this. One tiny white bar of soap and no plug for the bath. And no towel. I'd had enough, as I think you can tell!
Teneriffe, 2007: Whoa, how did that get mixed up in here? This is a holiday snap. I'd just argued with some idiot six-year-old for kicking sand about on the beach. I hate untidiness. After that everybody left and it was so quiet. This was an ace vacation.
Ipswich, 2009: My first day at Portman Road, announcing my ban on mobile phones. Needless to say, they were all taken aback by my professionalism.
Birmingham, 2014: Villa seems a tolerable place. Here's me with the tea lady. I punched her in the face shortly after this picture was taken. She understood. You won't. But then you're an idiot.
Extracted from 'Feck You and Yours and Yer Mam: My Scrapbook' by Roy Keane with Shane MacGowan (Beardy Press, 2014), £19.99.
That tea lady looks like she could give as good as she gets.
Id read it if it was uploaded. Definitely dont want to put any money in that cunts pocket tho.
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