Football And Gangsters – How Organised Crime Controls The Beautiful Game

Football And Gangsters – How Organised Crime Controls The Beautiful Game
By Graham Johnson
Mainstream Publishing – £7.99

Why, along with a menagerie of ghastly tarts, unceremoniously photographed falling out of nightclubs without any knickers, sense or morality, does football in general, appear to be generating into an utter morass of maggot broth shite? Why, is the so-called beautiful game, evolving into nothing other than a byword for non-surreptitious scandal, greed and nigh complicit stupidity?

What was it Dylan once said, ‘’money doesn’t talk, it swears.’’

With regards football, not only does money swear, it cheapens, belittles and infiltrates the game, as well as its sycophantic trajectory, like cancer.

Indeed, a cancer growth, that’s as equally conniving, as it is cunning, as it is silent. A mere breeze through the 202 pages of Graham Johnson’s Football and Gangsters – How Organised Crime Controls the Beautiful Game will surely substantiate as much – plus a whole more besides.

The whole lot more besides, being that even this book is as cheap and as nasty as that which it purports to supposedly be saddened by: ‘’Gina also told me that Rooney had asked her to wear a schoolgirl’s uniform. But she made him make do with a ‘60s-style outfit of white PVC knee-high boots, black miniskirt and a black-and-white crop top which she already had on and couldn’t be bothered changing. She then let me in on the gory details of the night’s proceedings.’’

If the details were so ‘’gory,’’ then why go on to write them with all the candour and wit of a council house slapper? That’s not to say everyone living in a council house is a slapper, but one hopefully ascertains the drift as to where I’m coming from – regardless of redundant, politically correct bollocks.

In all truth, I was enticed into reading this book by its title. I was keen (still am), to find out and perhaps understand a little more behind the dark side of football. And the words ‘Football’ and ‘Gangsters’ would suggest that that was what I was letting myself in for.

How wrong I was.

This book is nothing more than a tittle-tattle consortium of Scouse induced, shameful, page three journalism: ‘’And then we did that for about four or five minutes. He was fast and furious, like he is on the pitch… and very strong. I pretended I was getting turned on – making the noises and going through the motions. But really I was thinking of Pot Noodles and which one to have after he’d finished: chicken and mushroom or the beef one.’’

A joke. Surely?

David Marx


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