Foxers or Briefs?


A LETTER FROM A FOXES FAN

Dear Peasants,

Like an old pair of my briefs, Leicester City Football Club you fit me like a glove. You truly know me and I truly know you.

You and I have been on some adventures, and most definitely could tell some stories.

There for the glories, and there for the disappointments. You never let me down.

When we both hit a brown patch or when an itch needed scratching, you’re there for me.

Worn at the edges and frayed in delicate places, but you are better than the rest.

 

I had my eyes on the silk ones. Like when I looked at the other teams ahead of us, all lauding it in the Premiership, and was jealous of their comfortableness.

When I was very young man I got my hand some silkens. Pure 100% silk. Existing in these was a like receiving oral congress all day long, but under your trousers away from prying eyes. Almost like sticking your junk in a pig’s ear. Wonderful stuff.

However, nobody told me that these items of pure luxury were tainted with a curse of disintegration. Apparently playing cricket in them is not cricket. Inappropriate. Playing in the field and after daydreaming for 1hr and half I snapped awake when someone finally  hit a ball. I went for a spectacular catch, missing the ball, and splitting these silkens to utter shreddies.  I learned my lesson after the third time.

As I sit outside my French styled mansion, outside of Smockington, Leicestershire, by the blazing fire, with Vicki, my lower class maid cleaning the fluffies from beneath my bedazzled toenails, I think fondly of Leicester City Football Club’s past present and future, and how that even with all my wealth I much prefer my old boxers, even when I can afford simply the best.

Incidentally I ran out of room for any more fireplaces so I decided to build one outside instead. Architecturally it doesn’t fit, I know, but you can never have enough fireplaces I say! As you can see I’ve hung my stockings up early. I’m hoping the ‘fairies’ at the end of the west wing garden will supply me boxes and boxes of white rum. Otherwise my servants will find themselves short of employment. I’m getting proper smashed this Christmas, and time too, last Christmas resulted in a dry patch of misery, that I could barely eat my quail egg and soldiers for my breakfast.

I’ve never had the opportunity to share my important thoughts with you all, and as I don’t work for a living, I’ll be getting my servants to type me up a word or two about my beloved Leicester City, and my infatuation with Nigel Pearson.

Until then peasants, let us support our blues together!

Adieu,

Lord Foxytoff

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