What the bleedin’ ‘ell did you just chat about us, you little tart? I’ll have you bang to rights mate, I’ve got an NVQ in Bricklaying, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on West Ham fans, and I have over 300 convictions for football violence. I am well handy on the cobbles and I’m the top lad in our end. You are nowt to me but just another mug. I will spark you clean out sharpish sunshine, know what I’m on about?. You think you can get away with sayin that barney to me on the web? Think again, ♥♥♥♥. As we have a natter down the blower I’m belling up my secret network of EDL members across saarf Lahndann and your boozer is being drank in right now so you better prepare for a row you bellend. The row that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your firm. You’re ♥♥♥♥♥♥ BRAHN BREAD YOU CAHNT. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I have watched over 700 episodes of Danny Dyer: The Real Football factories, and that’s just on the telly. Not only am I extensively trained in doing ♥♥♥♥♥ in with ashtrays, but I have access to videos on YouTube of me and my mates attacking foreigners and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your soppy ♥♥♥♥ arse off the Old Kent Road. If only you’d have used your noggin and realised the sort of aggro your little “cheeky” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have kept your Hampton shut. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re forking out the sheets, you right big pair of Bristols. I will Richard this Ruby all over your manor and you will drown in it. You’re facking Donnie Darko you ♥♥♥♥