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Senior Member
I did a google-around..

Unbelievable but true how battalions of Absolute Monarchy were simply driven into the sea. Very terrible news which ever way you snide. My remnant of battle is this dicrete, descreet, descreted scrag remnant from 2014. I cannot believe I am old. This only piece I [ever] wroted that received hate post responses. I'm not sure if this is the best version, [i think it's about 3rd best, it does sag at mid-point, probably a brillianter version elsewhere] they're all the worst really. Also please forgive comma sickness, scrubbed a couple out at 09:s0. I wrote it when I was 8.

CW Cup
610 words
by Mat [age 8]
Team Absalon Whiter wait align by the mascot tiger, and take half an hand from our ugly Princess Margaret. She gives it shaking, sneers, introduces by fat federate of the PETA, Mister Serge Bloater. They are glittery. Array literary stars, include clutch of the fantasy heavies: players hopping inter nation from leg to leg. Frost billows past the stretch of open mouths. Indeed the entire squad ooze sperm once chat-along. They appear fresh fishing keen to give the game.
Away the TV, a camera crew pan shit shirts, frame talent display here for the view – Beardos Grey, at one by reputation has blood on hands, has signed on-line in the wake of major submission tissues, whilst midfield selection impress equals with their turn in prose. Absalon, they top the pops, recruit wisely, select best bodice professionals of the Kindle for every match, and their editor strokes pussycat; before seemingly as one athlete they entirely remove all their spectacles and hand two tracksuits to the water girl. Most of the pros sip herbal tea, roll the shoulders, and puffin cheeks, anxious to compete the poetry prize finale.
And finally showed the ponies, we find him, AW’s inspirational captain, chatterbox Fred Head – the superlative nutcase in comedy attack, that Fred. He throws up the jumper, reveals the plastic palm, so fresh, so Fred is Fred from the joke shop, instead insists on a latest draft performance of Daft: you nose, push and fingers wriggling beyond a thumb? The crowd cheer this business, though who was has not seen it all before, and Fred grins, his red nose aglow aside Hilario, their prick.
‘Welcome world’s premier line-up literature…’ says the commentator from his boxing, a microphone stuffed up nostril, whole arse wide is watching. ‘Let’s see what against they buggers, tonight!’
For twelve years Word Forum straggle mid-table in the league, and roundabouts the scruffy assortment douse cigarettes on Astroturf, melt it down. This team consist – a couple of guys from some sci-fi experience and they waving the printed university glossy ’94 at their solitary fan, Stalky who sits dwarfed in empty, away stand.
They time for a warm-up on the field is over, and Crit, the backwoods woman always appears dedicated as she swinger long kidneys in a series of jog sprints between the corner post and the half-way flag, otherwise notorious and gruff. Grot Chopper hacks, blames a blind ball upon the midfield. Meanwhile Eternal Author tyres on ballet pumps, a job and swallows – the whisky chaser, tossing bottles across the field to Wackjob who whistles and sees to that Chewy pulls his gloves. This squad, they are losers like you and their tendency is to glue like a band of sticky brothers come kick-off. Adverb bound, they leave enormous withs of the white empty space along the wings and beyond the crucial first page are swathed completely in feathers. They manage the manager, Chips, rides his motorcycle down the touchline and the foreigner sweeps the bench. There is great excitement.
‘I does all the works,’ he shouts at the team, once the referee was blowing off.
‘Defend yourselves at all times,’ he says.
Eighty minutes done and struggle, second knock down in as many rounds, the commentator becomes quite delirious and intense.
‘I find myself curiously drawn to the parish…’ he screams.
And with his back to the corner Rocky swings his tiny pink fist, catches the behemoth upon the chin, and she falls stunned on the canvas, dribbling porno past the gum shield.
‘Adrian, Adrian, Adrian…’ World Chimp raises both his arms, egc[sic] the word boys have done it.

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