Alan Shearer

Alan Shearer would be a selfish lover. 
He wheels away in post-coital ectasy as his clenched fist salutes the Gallowgate End.
Lustrous love batter clinging rebelliously to the remaining strands of his isle of follicle. 
Lineker would be far more attentive.
Loitering around the labia waiting for any unexpected spillage. 
Beardsley would be there too.
Juxtaposed like a gurning angel.
All obtuse angles and raking crossfield balls.
The smell of fear in the opposition box as Barnes' whipped cross finds a deep-lying playmaker. 

No one else would be there. 

Attendance: 3,706
Referee: G Poll

Really

And I thought I was troubled...

Maybe Nicky Papavasiliou. Quick one-two with Wim Jonk, Gilles de Bilde comes steaming in from the wing. Not today matron. Foiled once again by the wispy aerials of David Felgate's Düsseldorf facial topiary.

St.Bernardus Prior 8. Not that it's any of your business. Did Dave Gilbert have a right foot?

Quoted from Borbs

Really

Quoted from I Hate Chris Hollins

Alan Shearer would be a selfish lover. 
He wheels away in post-coital ectasy as his clenched fist salutes the Gallowgate End.
Lustrous love batter clinging rebelliously to the remaining strands of his isle of follicle. 
Lineker would be far more attentive.
Loitering around the labia waiting for any unexpected spillage. 
Beardsley would be there too.
Juxtaposed like a gurning angel.
All obtuse angles and raking crossfield balls.
The smell of fear in the opposition box as Barnes' whipped cross finds a deep-lying playmaker. 

No one else would be there. 

Attendance: 3,706
Referee: G Poll

My nomination for Post of the Week.

Do you get inspiration from the saw movies

Sunlight streamed seductively through the unfurled wisps of my tattered cardboard box as I awoke from my Belgian beer induced slumber. It was the morning of the 26 October 2005. The world was a happy place. Alan Shearer was my friend. Whilst hardly luxuriant, his hair was only just beginning to exhibit the signs of premature baldness that had forced me to tear off the Steve McDonald stickers from the interior of my bijou box (not a euphemism) .
I'd forgiven Alan for his bland interviews and deconstructed English delivery. I'd even waged a one-man campaign of hate against Alan Pouton in the underworld of the Pontoon in a failed bid to get Pouts to change his name by deed poll. For, like a sheep, Shearer was my favourite Geordie Alan. 

Fast forward twelve hours. Alan's lip is torn like a p*rn star's v*lva after a particularly enthusiastic d*uble p*netration. He is no longer my friend. Justin is my friend. 

I returned to my box and rocked myself to sleep to the soothing sounds of Sade's 'Sweetest Taboo'. I will never forget Wednesday 26 September 2005. The day that Sir Justin Whittle showed Alan Shearer to be two-faced. 

What a beautiful juxtaposition of genres this post is.

I am particularly fond of how it captures the beauty and joy of making love; while openly discussing the mechanical, animal act of burying one's helmet between a young filly's labia. When one discusses Alan Shearer, it is of course vital to highlight his rapidly receding hairline, or as you have judiciously named it 'his isle of follicle,' which I'm sure all at The Fishy will agree is a truly wonderful metaphor.

The ending of the attendance and naming of the referee, which lands us straight into a dry news report of a fourth division somewhere rubbish like Swindon, reminds us of the mundane nature of sex with Alan Shearer, and indeed Alan Shearer himself. A man famed for dullness as much as goalscoring, ropey management and being less than trustworthy with his elbows when heading or indeed when a ginger Irishman is at his feet.

I award you an A.

You should feel proud of your achievement. Now move on to the advanced problem solving task, a task almost everybody finds difficult or even impossible to solve.

How and why does Peter Taylor keep finding employment?