საფასფა

Like is drawn to like - not otherwise.მამა მულრინი შვებით ამოისუნთქვდა ხოლმე, როდესაც მისი წარსული ცხოვრებიდან ვინმე ესტუმრებოდა.მან ახალგაზრდობა "ნორვიჩში" ცენტრალური მცველის პოზიციაზე გაატარა, მშობლიურ "ულსტერში" 27 შეხვედრა გამართა და თავი 3 გოლითაც გამოიჩინა, თუმცა რესპოდენტმა, რომელიც საბოლოოდ მამაო გახდა მხოლოდ ერთი შეხვედრა გაიხსენა - გასული ათწლეულის ბოლო თამაში, რომელიც "მანჩესტერ იუნაიტედის" შემადგენლობაში გამართა.ამ სიტყვების პირდაპირი მნიშვნელობით - ის "წითელი ეშმაკი" "წმინდა მამა" გახდა.21 წლის ფილიპ მულრინი სავარჯიშო ბაზაზე ნიკ ბუტთან, რაიან გიგზთან, ენდი კოულთან და ტედი შერინგემთან ერთად პირველად და უკანასკნელად ვარჯიშობდა. ამის შემდეგ ბევრმა წელმა განვლო.ამის შემდეგ მულრინმა სიღარიბეს ფეხი აუწყო, საბანკო ანგარიშები გააუქმა, მთელი თავისი ქონება კი მის ნაკლებად შეძლებულ ნათესავებს გადასცა. ამის შემდეგ მამაო მშვიდად არ მჯდარა, ხელთათმანები საეკლესიო ნივთებით შევცვალე, 6 წელიწადში კი გაერთიანებული სამეფოს გარშემო ვიმოგზაურე... ფეხბურთელები აღსარებლის ჩასაბარებლად მასთან მიდიოდნენ, ეს გასაკვირი არც იყო, რადგან როგორც არუნდა თავისუფლად გრძნობდე სასულიერო პირთან საუბრისას თავს, შენი ყოფილი კოლება მაინც სულ სხვა იყო.რესპოდენტმა ცოდვები დაგვისახელა, რის გამოც ინგლისს წარმატება უჭირდა.პირველი ცოდვა - სიხარბეპრეზიდენტის შანტაჟიThe first came to Father Mulryne in Cork, Ireland. By the accent, he knew - Geordie. Most likely from Durham. Possibly Newcastle. The man behind the screen spoke slowly and breathed heavily.- I started playing football at about five years old. Around the same time, I began to steal. My heart jumped out of my throat every time I took something that didn't belong to me. This was a special thrill. I carried sweets from shops. My friends teased the woman at the counter while I quietly swept the shelves of tweaks and mars. I took with a margin - even what I could not stand. Then he threw it away.In another shop, a bell hung over the door so that the seller could hear when customers came in. I called him and immediately fell flat. The seller came out of the back room, shrugged his shoulders and went back, they say, he heard. And I could fill my pockets without hindrance.I also handed over to the pub empty bottles that I stole from this very pub. I took the last money from my mother's wallet, once I stole from my sister all her first salary, which she saved for some party. I was going to her all summer, buzzing all our ears. Have I felt guilty? I do not remember. May be. I can't say for sure.Once I was lucky, I bought the first lottery ticket in my life - and immediately won two thousand pounds. When I brought the money home, my mother only asked gloomily: "What, stole someone from someone else?"And then I grew up, became a famous football player and got the biggest contract. More precisely, I knocked it out myself. Manchester United wanted me, Alex Ferguson invited me to walk around Old Trafford and fuck a pint. But at that time only “spurs” had money for me.In the office of the chief, I immediately began to download the license. My salary has already increased 10 times, but I wanted more. “Here's a Mercedes,” the president said. “Great,” I said, “But my daddy doesn't have a car either. Drive the Mears to him as well. " Then I asked for a sun lounger for my sister and fishing gear for myself. They also paid me a lift - a hundred, which I gave to my mother to buy a house. He himself settled in the coolest London hotel.For three days my friends and I drank 38 bottles of Dom Perignon, blew all the corridors, put out cigarettes on expensive tablecloths, swam naked in the fish pond in full view of the local aristocrats. For the finale, I opened the lid of the piano and made a big pile in it. If I knew how much it costs, I'd rather put it in a pond. Did I feel ashamed? Because he wanted to take everything from life and not give anything in return? I do not remember. May be. But most likely not.Second sin. AngerProud of his homosexual son, but beat his dead father "for callousness"The second came to Father Mulryne in Belfast. He was drunk and tried to provoke himself. He spoke from behind the screen as if he met friends in a pub and retells them the latest greasy news.- My son is a fagot. Or as it is now fashionable to say - bisexual. Fuck them, these fagots. He recently came out. That is, he admitted that he loves not only women. For professional dancers, they say, this all the time. He is brave, certainly bolder than his daddy. In my entire football career, I have not been able to be honest - at least with myself. There was simply not enough spirit for it. My son needed my support, and I said: “Son, whomever you spiked, the main thing is that it’s not me. Because I love you". In short, we have a complete - as it is fashionable to say now - consensus. So I'm not here because of him. And because of his father. It didn't work out that way with my father. He was so dumb I remember how he began to periodically beat his mother, and I ran, hanging in his arms and babbling something childishly, trying to soften his rage. Then he lived in two houses for some time. Then he went to Germany, where he caught some kind of infection. One day, when I was twelve, he collapsed in the living room foaming at the mouth. Since then, my father has not worked anymore. In fact, he was disabled, but sometimes it seemed to me that he was using his special position to ** and not do them. Everyone owed him.When my father died, I was overcome with anger. No, I had no idea that he left us alone again - this time forever. The family had already gotten to their feet by that time. My brother became a drug addict in a boarding house for difficult teenagers. I became famous and even played well for the England national team. And he ... He was already an old feeble piece of shit. I jumped onto his bed and slapped him in the face. Then another one. The dead father did not react. Then I hit his head on the bridge of the nose and added a couple more pokes. Someone's hands tried to pull me away, but I had already calmed down. He hugged his beaten father and cried like that for 40 minutes.I still miss him. Mostly on Sundays. But he always preferred to chat with his buddies, and never bothered to talk to me even once. At least so, father, as I have just spoken to you. Thank you. I really felt better.The third sin. GluttonyWeighed 120 kilograms, but still went out to play for the Chinese (and scored!)The third came to Father Mulryne in London. Even in confession, he chewed pies. In sequence.- My mom hated her name. Her name was Carol. Nee Harold. Because of her name, she was teased at school: "Carol Harold, fat as barrel." As fat as a barrel. Despite the fact that she was not fat. My first real friend was named Jimmy, the Five-Bellied. He weighed 150 kilograms. Only half a centner more than me.I've always been fat. Well, as for a professional footballer, damn me. Do you know what the first adult coach did to me? At that time I was already giving heat in the youth team, but he was more impressed by my belly. He put his hand on my wineskin and said: "I've heard about you, fat man." I stood there chewing my lips in silence. “I also heard that under this fat, there are some skills. You have exactly two weeks to lose weight. If you don't get rid of it, get out of the club. "As soon as the first fear passed, I went to a cafeteria near the base to stock up on more pies. But the guys from the club have already been there and they strictly forbade me to serve me. On the next workout, I found a dense garbage bag next to my uniform. I started fooling around and put it on my head. Then it turned out that they needed to wrap their belly and wear crosses around the stadium.It wasn't that easy. Not only was I always fat, I was also lazy fat. In the end, I came to the conclusion that it is easier to eat nothing at all. So I could hold out for three days - only on the water. As for a person who, at the age of 20, practiced the methods of the Roman patricians, so that more food could fit into him is a direct achievement. Roman patricians, if you don’t remember, Father, belched. Two fingers in your mouth - a little water - and that's it, you can refill your womb.At the end of my career, I went to China as an openly sick person. In terms of weight, I was close to the "Five-bellied Jimmy", but in football there was still something. Why then would I suddenly score five goals on the first two-sided? True, there is an idea that the servile Chinese were simply afraid to take the ball away so as not to inadvertently harm my pot-bellied body. I was generally a playing coach there, so I could quietly chew a sandwich on the bench, telling who to run to. But he could not resist. To be honest, the fat was dripping from me, but I still let myself out on the field - to replace. Made a hat-trick.In China, I had the peak of gluttony. I have been there in almost every restaurant I have found. And you know what, Father? It seems that the world escaped the coronavirus pandemic seventeen years ago thanks to me. I also ate a bat then. They said it was a delicacy, so I bit off her head and crunched the bones. But not a single coronavirus seems to survive in an alcoholic body.Newspapers recently compiled a list of people who are expected to die in the next year. I am among them. And my girlfriend - well, now an ex - believes that if I don't stop eating and drinking, I won't last ten months. As for my opinion, it seems to me that I will live another 20 years. Maybe 25. What do you think, Father?The fourth sin. PrideCoached autograph at age seven, sat on the Old Trafford toilet and introduced himself as George BestThe fourth came to Father Mulryne in Dublin. I started right away - without beating around the bush. As if he wanted to get rid of the burden as soon as possible - and get permission from Father Mulryne to forget about it.- I began to hone my autograph at school - I painted my own portfolio. I remember a dialogue with a geography teacher. "What are you doing?" - he asked. "I am honing my autograph." "And for what?" "I'm going to be a great footballer." The teacher then snorted: “Only one in a million succeeds. Stop this whim! " On what I told him and dumped, they say, calm down, one in a million - it's just about me.I have bullied my elders for as long as I can remember - either from stupidity, or from excessive pride. We had one tough guy on our team. So the first thing I did was check it for a point. He vouched: "Do it again, I'll fuck you." Naturally, in the next single combat I did the same procedure with his "point" - and the tough guy pounded me right on the spot. Another guy was standing next to him - a little less tough. He whinnied. "Old fart," I grumbled, spitting out blood. So I also got a turnip from him. My career has developed in an ascending order. Once I went into the Old Trafford dressing room, then I went even further. I sat down on the toilet and imagined that George Best himself was sitting on this very place with his majestic ass. I adored this shit and wanted to be like him in everything. It was an amazing moment of unity with the legend. For persuasiveness, I took a brush in my right hand, a roll of toilet paper in my left hand and practically saw the courtiers and paparazzi with cameras in front of me. Bow down, bitches, before you on the throne, the king of England. Fifth sin. EnvyHe wished his teammate death and was happy when he ended his career due to injuryThe fifth came to Father Mulrine in Coleraine, Northern Ireland. He was in a hurry, with porridge in his mouth. And it seems he did not regret anything.- Only Ian Bogi in our youth team was more talented than me. Have you heard of this, father? Nobody heard. And then he is a nimble technical guy with an excellent kick. We were not even competitors in position, but I was wildly jealous of him. How envious? I just wished him dead. Or, in extreme cases, some serious injury. For example, in an accident. But, to be honest, all my life I have been much closer to injuries than he.After one of the trainings, I was forced to run a penalty loop. The puny stood in the shade, ate ice cream and consumed me. Then I got on a tractor - with its help the base workers leveled the lawn. It was only in the cockpit that I suddenly remembered that I did not know how to operate it at all. But it was too late. The tractor accelerated and hit the wall at full speed. I managed to jump out at the last moment.As a child, I was the champion in the number of stitches on the body. The record is 56 at a time. Jumped from a cement pipe and did not notice a hefty pin. When I was seven I jumped from tree to tree, but I didn't calculate. I broke my arm, but the plaster cast didn't stop me. I remember even swimming with a plaster cast on my hand - I just put it up.Ultimately, Ian Gods broke down. I will not say that with my prayers - much later than he ceased to interest me. Severe trauma and depression finished him off. Port Vail is the maximum he was capable of. I have always believed that character and the ability to not bend in the face of difficulties are very important in order to become a superstar. I will say this: character is even more important than talent. Did I have the right character? Of course not. I was just lucky.Sixth sin. LustHe kissed a fat woman passionately so that she did not have complexes, ran away from an anxious Swede, but almost never joked about sex The sixth came to Father Mulryne in Sunderland. He spoke in an insinuating quiet voice - either shy or vice versa - wishing to unobtrusively emphasize his piquant adventures.- I have never been a voluptuary, and my stories with women are, rather, stories of senseless victories and deafening fiasco, which immediately became known to the tabloids. Among all my countless pranks, many are stupid. But only a few had sexual connotations.I remember one. When a Brazilian came to our team, by the way, the first in the Premier League, I undertook to teach him the language. We started with the days of the week. When my teammates asked him how it would be Wednesday, he didn’t blink and said: “Wankday, wank day”. A funny joke, although you, Father, will probably disagree with me. You probably had a more elegant joke in Manchester. However, it doesn't matter. Have you heard the story of how one drunk guy on the train suddenly kissed a fat black woman passionately, and now he is being tried for rape? They are ringing about her at every corner. Not? Few people know that exactly the same incident happened to me twenty years ago.We then went to Sweden on a pre-season tour and before the start of some game I stroked a pretty Swede's hair. She was among those who took us to the match. Well he stroked and stroked. So what?! A couple of days later, I received a letter from her with photographs and declarations of love. The photographs were in negligee, and I happily let them on the bus. The guys were really inspired - it seems that it was just Wednesday.A bouquet of roses was waiting for me at the hotel, and the voice on the phone began to insistently call me into my room. She literally stalked me. This is a confession, isn't it, Father? So - I didn't go anywhere. Overcame, so to speak, lust. Showed professionalism. A couple of weeks later, they wrote about me in the newspapers. The same girl whose hair I stroked told how I spent a passionate night with her in the same hotel. I recognized her in the photograph - they were more decent in the newspaper than the ones she sent me.With the plump black woman, unfortunately, everything turned out slightly in my favor. That is, of course, they set me up, but I, to put it mildly, was not up to the mark. I made a noise in the train carriage, practicing drinking. I think by that time I had posted six or seven cans of beer. She made some cautious remark to me to be quiet. I took note of this and decided to apologize. But she put on headphones and pretended not to hear me.Then I decided to sit on it. On knees. To get attention and to apologize for the swinish behavior. When she pulled away from me in horror, I said: "Honey, do not worry" - and our lips intertwined. Well, how entwined. The woman later in court called it "a frivolous kiss of violence." Poetry, not otherwise. Excuse me, what kind of kiss should it be? Innocent? I saw that she was obese and decided to just give her a little confidence. Moreover, she immediately recognized me. A passionate kiss from a former football superstar is not a weight loss remedy ?! Seventh sin. DespondencyNine nervous tics, childhood trauma, and suicidal thoughtsFather Mulrine met the seventh again in London. It was the shadow of a man. His voice rustled like leaves in an old abandoned park.- On May 18, 1991, my career went down the drain. Many people think so, although after that fateful day I was still quite good. But I know for sure - if the fucking Harry Charles hadn't happened to me, I would have become great. Perhaps even the greatest player in English history. But in that Cup final at Wembley, I only played 17 minutes. Charles thrashed me because I used to bully everyone - and something cracked in my knee. Crosses. I was treated for nine months, after which I went to a pub and got punched in the face. All would be fine, but, having fallen, I again injured the same knee. The treatment lasted for another six months.You heard the word "pub". That's right - nine months without football turned into hell. I fell into a steep dive. No, I drank before. I first tried vodka at 14 - by the way, I didn't like it. But I drank not because I liked it and not because I was sad without football.I have been crazy since childhood. Full of fears and nervous disorders that constantly made themselves felt. I also poured them. My courtyard friends died through my fault - under the wheels of a car. It didn't matter that they were accidents - I blamed myself. At school I started making some stupid bird sounds. Swallowed, giggled, chirped, cooed. I was even suspended from classes because it prevented others from concentrating. I'm also obsessed with the number five. He touched things five times, turned the light on and off five times, opened and closed the door five times. Already playing for the Newcastle youth team, I counted my nervous tics. There were nine of them. All different. In addition to the fact that I continued to make strange guttural noises, I continuously blinked, twitched my pelvis, tapped my right big toe on the ground, stretched my mouth in a grimace. Sometimes it happened right during the game. But I did not go to the doctor - I was shy.Then, after the final on May 18, 91st, they brought me my well-deserved medal. The team won, but I sank to the bottom. Now, almost thirty years later, I am in about the same position. About. There is only one important difference. My life is ending and the only thing I'm afraid of is becoming a fucking bore. I lived a fucking life and was a fucking person. But when I drank, I just stopped realizing it.Recently I sewed some kind of crap into my belly - I flew to Australia for this, spent almost 40 thousand pounds. Let it go. Now a sip of beer makes me sick, and I can only smoke - 10 cigarettes a day instead of two packs. Everything seems to be good. But what if the payback for this seeming calmness is that I become a godly, dull, boring shit? Maybe it's easier to get drunk once and let my belly burst from melancholy? Oh, father? What do you think?And Father Mulrine said to this: “My son, do not be discouraged, and do not fall into sin, even more terrible. Your story is the most innocent story I've ever heard from football folks. If you only knew what they came to me with ?! One beat his dead father, the other committed adultery with an accidental fellow traveler, an unfortunate plump woman, the third stole, the fourth wished death to his friend in order to get into the main team. "And the voice behind the screen sighed at that. And said:- Father, don't you recognize me? I told you all these stories. The article uses fragments from sonnets by the British poet George Gascoigne as epigraphs. Fragments of the biography of the British footballer Paul Gascoigne “Gazza. My story". In essence, this was a confession, the first attempt of the great jester, football player and alcoholic to explain himself to the demons in his head.

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პრობლემების მქონე პსჟ-ისა და კარგ ფორმაში მყოფი "ვილიარეალის" მატჩის დღე