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Quoted By: >>18142818
.“You position yourself upon your gilded perch,” he continued, his voice rising in cadence, “you thump your leather-bound compendium of fables and meticulously enunciate your prayers, and for what, precisely? It has availed you absolutely nothing. Your pre-match sermonising about psalms and parables and your protracted discourse on the Gospel of John, chapter three, verse sixteen… well, it all proved to be entirely ineffectual when confronted with a proper kicking.”
He paused, letting the words hang in the beery air. A few cheers started to bubble up from the audience as they began to grasp the nature of this eloquent defiance.
“You see, while you were poring over your testaments and seeking celestial intervention, I was engaged in my own scholastic pursuits. A different sort of study, you might say. A more practical curriculum.”
Austen leaned in close to the microphone, his eyes burning with a cold fire. The entire arena fell silent, hanging on his next words.
“So you may talk about your John 3:16 until you’re blue in the face. But allow me to offer a new passage for your consideration. A new bit of scripture for all you lot to digest.”
He stood up to his full height, a can of lukewarm Tyskie lager suddenly appearing in his hand, tossed from ringside. He cracked it open with a triumphant hiss.
“Austen 3:16 states, in no uncertain terms,” he declared, his voice now a roar that echoed through the hallowed halls of Wembley, “that I have just administered a comprehensive and rather decisive thrashing to your posterior!”
For a split second, there was stunned silence. The crowd processed the sentence. The juxtaposition of the formal, almost academic language with the brutal, playground insult was a work of avant-garde genius.
“And that,” he bellowed over the din, a wicked grin spreading across his face, “as they say, is the bottom line. Because the Guv’nor said so.”
He paused, letting the words hang in the beery air. A few cheers started to bubble up from the audience as they began to grasp the nature of this eloquent defiance.
“You see, while you were poring over your testaments and seeking celestial intervention, I was engaged in my own scholastic pursuits. A different sort of study, you might say. A more practical curriculum.”
Austen leaned in close to the microphone, his eyes burning with a cold fire. The entire arena fell silent, hanging on his next words.
“So you may talk about your John 3:16 until you’re blue in the face. But allow me to offer a new passage for your consideration. A new bit of scripture for all you lot to digest.”
He stood up to his full height, a can of lukewarm Tyskie lager suddenly appearing in his hand, tossed from ringside. He cracked it open with a triumphant hiss.
“Austen 3:16 states, in no uncertain terms,” he declared, his voice now a roar that echoed through the hallowed halls of Wembley, “that I have just administered a comprehensive and rather decisive thrashing to your posterior!”
For a split second, there was stunned silence. The crowd processed the sentence. The juxtaposition of the formal, almost academic language with the brutal, playground insult was a work of avant-garde genius.
“And that,” he bellowed over the din, a wicked grin spreading across his face, “as they say, is the bottom line. Because the Guv’nor said so.”
