A couple of points on England players grumbling about potentially being made rich beyond their wildest dreams for a couple of hours' grafting with a bat and ball at the weekend:
1. It's your job. Hell, we all do things at work we don't like. Some of us dread coming in to work altogether. There are glimpses of fulfilment that punctuate endless hours and days and weeks and months of depressing gloom, stepping out at lunchtime into a freezing windswept concrete courtyard with only a flea-bitten pigeon for company, wondering what happened to those dreams, those ideals, those hopes, with the sense of frustration, misery and endlessly being sucked into the vortex of torpor, banality and inertia... and there you are, in the fucking Caribbean, in the blazing sunshine and wonderful climate, having a whine about having to play a little game of cricket? You want to get it over with...? Aw, poor lamb. If you really can't bring yourself to get it over and done with, you come and change places with some poor prole over here, who I'm sure would be more than delighted to be showered with unimaginable wealth just for standing out in the sun for a bit.
2. So you got food poisoning. So what? It happens to a lot of people when they venture off to The Abroad. Bung a couple of Immodium down you. If all else fails, shove a cork up there. You've only got to be on the pitch for a short time. Steve Bruce shat himself when he made his England debut, but you didn't hear him grumbling about it; he just went and did a sliding tackle in the mud to cover up the shit-stain. Now that's proper sporting stoicism. Stop whingeing, you fucking losers. You're the reason why Australians make jokes about us.
3. What the fuck did you think was going to happen when you became the bitch of some rich arse? What did you think, that he was going to be lovely and wonderful and nice and generous? Did you think he became a rich arse by being generous and kind and beautiful towards other human beings - did you? Did you really? Did you not realise that becoming someone's bitch means letting go of all those rights to dignity you'd otherwise take for granted? This man is offering you a fucking great big money-shaped carrot; ergo, you're his bitch. It's really quite simple. You do what the man says. You don't like it? I've got an uncomfortable office chair in a draughty strip-lit hell with your name on it, pal. Come and have a go at this shit, if you're too much of a pussy. If your Mrs didn't like being pawed by the rich arse, she should have smacked the fucking prick in the face. Or you should have. Or were you too scared he wasn't going to give you any money? In which case, stop complaining. You've made your decision. So go out and play like a man. You're getting a vast amount of money, win or lose, for doing the thing you love; be grateful for that, and shut the fuck up. If you didn't like being some rich arse's bitch, you shouldn't have said yes to doing it.
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