You've probably been wondering where I've been since my unceremonious sacking by THFC. No? Really? You haven't been thinking about poor little me? Too busy smiling for a selfie with the bloated Disney freak replacement currently parading around White Hart Lane like a mental patient on poppers? No, I'm not talking about my man Vlad the lad Chiriches and his defensive positioning. I'm obviously referencing the other Chirpy. The state of him and his stupid thick white eyebrows. The only white on your face should be blow back from a gram of coke. He's so squeaky clean he makes Mickey Mouse look like Fred West. Against Modern Mascots is what I say. No characters left in the game. Just jobsworths.
What's that? Commercial evolution you say? He's third generation and I'm the forgotten second, the harshly good looking finger-licking knicker-dropping cock...erel Spurs lasses love. These days I hear they prefer dolphins.
I was never kid friendly enough for the replica shirt wearing children. I'm talking about the dads there. Grown men in colours, the absolute melts. I don't actually mind the kids. I'm talking about the kids that are prone to a bit of ASBO. They made good runners when I needed gear. As for the very first incarnation of Chirpy and his drunken stupor into Chick King, the less said the better.
To be honest, I'm glad I'm out of it.
Football is hardly what it was when I controlled pre-match entertainment at the ground and organised the occasional strip poker game with the corporate girls and Pat Jennings. Today it's all contrived and forced PR stunts, youtube videos and agents tweeting on behalf of footballers. Social media? Bore off. You can't even be anti-social on it. Met Police will be right on top of you for speaking the truth because someone is uncomfortable with your opinion so they drop the O word and p*ss their pants with offence. The whole consumption of the experience of match-day has also lost its edge. I doubt you'll ever see the current Chirpy running with the the yoof boys. More likely to be found injecting himself with doughnut cream down the local Greggs, the fat f***king b*stard.
So whilst our beautiful game has been spiralling down the bog I've cleaned myself up. A forced intervention involving me, myself and I. My recreational misdemeanours are now in the past. No more blow, H, amphetamines. No more K-holes and glory holes. Don't touch bath salts. Not gone anywhere near crack. Well, apart from the occasional visit to Spearmint Rhinos.
I've also just completed a years of sexual abstinence. I'm clean in the head and haven't felt an itch down below for twelve months. You're still likely to find me at the Sugarhut on a Saturday night sticking some slick moves on the dancefloor and then getting sticky fingers in a cubicle. Emphasis on the word 'completed' a years of abstinence. I'm back in the game, but strictly a one chick at a time kinda guy. Chirps by name, chirps by nature.
As for the punch ups, I've walked away from them too. Ended up doing some jiu jitsu to keep myself fit and channel all that aggression into a discipline. I also meditate a couple times a day and do yoga. That's right. It's a health kick. No puking over Spurs legends after excessive early morning drinking. No home invasion at the Gunnersaurus family home involving duck tape and nail gun. Can't even remember the last time I dropped roofies into drinks at a club then nicked jewellery and wallets off the victims. Good times.
So with my clean living life style and my forced retirement from the hospitality business you're probably wondering...what next for Evil Chirpy? No? Really? You don't care? Well go f**k yourself sh*t c*** because I've got myself a new gig. That's right. I'm now a football pundit. If Michael Owen can get paid for verbally haemorrhaging words like an ignored stroke victim at a bus stop then I'm gonna bring some much needed carpet bombing to this vanilla landscape. Gonna leave you all swimming in napalm. Gonna drop ether like Katie Hopkins in a fat farm.
That's right. I'm here to lay waste to the billion pound bubble and I'm aiming to burst it with my big fat pecker. Everything and everyone. Players, the clubs, the media, the supporters and all those wretched know-nothings on social. So cock-a-doddle-f**king-do to you.
Evil Chirpy will be guest blogging with regularity, exclusively here at DML...soon.