Fancy pretending to be a blue, the lying Rag. No doubt, he's afraid to admit he supports a team full of fraudulent, pouting children and preening clack wankers, all of whom are shite at football, belong in a pub team and whose manager looks like he would be happier manning the tills at Asda than managing his shite team of talentless Pound Shop cluster fuckwits. There. I said it. Monstrous stuff.
As for my husband, I must remember to run him over with my car and leave him somewhere in Trafford before I head off to work in the morning. If the police come, it can all be blamed on the doormat. It would be justifiable homicide, given the outrageous conduct involved. Or maybe I'll chuck him in the Salford Canal tomorrow along with this abomination of a door mat of his. Then when he starts choking on all the Rag sewerage being dumped in with the rest of the shite, he will be taken out by the fumes and whisked off to burn in hell fire for all eternity. And it will serve him right.
A doormat. A bloody City doormat. There is no such thing. He must have made it himself in the shed because nobody makes doormats out of the Kings of the world. United deserve one, admittedly, but that goes without saying.
I wonder if you can buy toilet roll with that stupid, toxic devil Rag badge printed on each piece? That'd learn him.