Joey Barton (now retired)

[Guest Haris Vuckic]

 

Santon will adapt to the prem - with his pace and strength better than Barton would adapt to Serie a.

 

 

[Mick]

 

We are concerned. What difference does it make if he says it, not like it's something we don't know.

 

It makes no difference to me, it obviously does to some people.

[AyeDubbleYoo]

 

Santon will adapt to the prem - with his pace and strength better than Barton would adapt to Serie a.

 

 

It's the Championship that Joey has to worry about.

[Guest Haris Vuckic]

 

Santon will adapt to the prem - with his pace and strength better than Barton would adapt to Serie a.

 

 

It's the Championship that Joey has to worry about.

 

Aye

[David28]

GMack1995 Gregor Mackintosh

@Joey7Barton I'd pay good money to punch you in the face, stupid cunt!

 

Joseph Barton

@Joey7Barton Joseph Barton

@GMack1995 how much? I'd let u if it was for a good cause. Just don't complain if u hurt ur hand tough guy....

 

 

 

 

[Heron]

GMack1995 Gregor Mackintosh

@Joey7Barton I'd pay good money to punch you in the face, stupid c***!

 

Joseph Barton

@Joey7Barton Joseph Barton

@GMack1995 how much? I'd let u if it was for a good cause. Just don't complain if u hurt ur hand tough guy....

 

 

 

 

 

 

:lol:

[Cajun]

That's the Joey I like

[Guest]

 

Santon will adapt to the prem - with his pace and strength better than Barton would adapt to Serie a.

 

 

It's the Championship that Joey has to worry about.

 

He likes talking about unfinished business...he has unfinished business in that league so will get the chance to put that right soon.

[Guest axel]

GMack1995 Gregor Mackintosh

@Joey7Barton I'd pay good money to punch you in the face, stupid c***!

 

Joseph Barton

@Joey7Barton Joseph Barton

@GMack1995 how much? I'd let u if it was for a good cause. Just don't complain if u hurt ur hand tough guy....

 

 

 

 

 

  :clap:

[Sifu]

GMack1995 Gregor Mackintosh

@Joey7Barton I'd pay good money to punch you in the face, stupid c***!

 

Joseph Barton

@Joey7Barton Joseph Barton

@GMack1995 how much? I'd let u if it was for a good cause. Just don't complain if u hurt ur hand tough guy....

 

 

 

 

 

:lol:

[Guest BlacknWhiteArmy]

Get in.

[Hanshithispantz]

Haha wounded

 

Makes me laugh when I read gimps like that posting shit on twitter.

[Cajun]

"BARTON STARTS ON 16 YEAR OLD BOY!"

[Hanshithispantz]

JOEY BARTON THREATENS TO TAKE MONEY FROM AND BREAK THE HAND OF TWITTER TEENAGER.

 

 

[Dokko]

Na, now he's based in london it will be 'Role model Jospeh tries to raise money for orphanage by reaching out to thuggish looters and rioters'

 

 

[Guest BlacknWhiteArmy]

GMack1995 Gregor Mackintosh

@

@Joey7Barton Its a good cause, just the pleasure because your a proper cunt! You've got no fucking chance of making the england squad btw

 

What a shit reply.

[Sifu]

GMack1995 Gregor Mackintosh

@

@Joey7Barton Its a good cause, just the pleasure because your a proper c***! You've got no f***ing chance of making the england squad btw

 

What a s*** reply.

 

 

A very weak comeback.

[Hanshithispantz]

Aye, the kids craic is fucking shit.

 

You simply cannot win a debate/argument with anyone who possesses such woeful banter.

[Guest Rainforest]

I refer to my signature

[Guest axel]

at his new twitter background. Just noticed it

[Guest dogbeak]

The Love Song of J. Anthony Barton

 

Editor’s Note: The following lines were found in a battered notebook tucked between two dog-eared copies of Nietzsche on a Victorian standing-desk in the Newcastle flat vacated by Joey Barton last week. They appear to have been composed in the weeks preceding the poet’s transfer to Queens Park Rangers, when the force of impending change first began to disrupt what had previously been the comfortable certitude of his intellectual life.

 

Let us go then, the reserves and I,

When the afternoon is spread out against the sky

Like Newcastle etherised upon the league table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted stands,

The muttering fans

Of Amsterdam,

To restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And headlines about who our owner sells:

Tweets from followers like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .

Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’

Let us go and make our visit.

In the changing rooms the players wander to and fro

Considering whether to stay or go.

The Tyneside fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke of a cigarette that rubs it muzzle against my name,

Licked its tongue as it denied me a visa,

Lingered upon me as I stood in chains,

And in my cell I woke with a sudden leap,

Upon dreaming of a soft July night,

Of curling frees into the box, then once more fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke of every agents’ meet,

Rubbing its back upon the Mirror’s leak;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the chairmen that we meet;

There will be a time for podcast and debate,

And time for all the drills and pre-season plans,

The careful low-carb meals upon our plates;

Time for them and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred rumours and revisions,

Before the taking of a player from our team.

In the changing rooms the players wander to and fro

Considering whether to stay or go.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’

Watching Shearer descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of his hair—

[i shall say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’]

King Kev in his morning coat, collar mounted firmly to the chin,

His necktie rich and modest, giving opinions to ESPN—

[He will say: ’But how the squad is growing thin!’]

Do I dare

Disturb St. James’ Park?

In a minute there is time

For a whispered destination where a player may embark.

For I have known them all already, known them all—

Have known the Carrolls, Nolans, sold too soon,

I have measured out my life among the Toon;

I know the voices crying with the last kick of the ball

Beneath the music of the Geordie tunes.

And how should we resume?

…

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the stripes that glimmer on the shirts

Of lonely men in replica kits, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have bargained for a transfer clause

And scuttled elsewhere with a silent ease.

…

And the players rest so peacefully!

Injuries smoothed by the masseuse’s fingers,

Cramp…tightness…while some malinger,

Stretched on the floor, here beside Danny Guthrie.

Should I, after halftime rubs and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my lip (grown slightly bald) moved to speak and flatter

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of our greatness flicker,

And I have seen Mike Ashley grab his coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

To smash some teacups, demoralise the team,

Among the talk of Arsenal, of Manchester United and me,

Would it have been worthwhile,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed my frustration into a ball,

To loft it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: ‘I am Barton, whose career was once dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’—

If one, upon opening the paper the next day and reading the line upon the head,

Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all.’

And would it have been worth it after all,

Would it have been worthwhile,

After promotion and Hughton and the damning tweets,

After Sunderland, after Villa, after scoring five or more—

To follow Kev and Andy out the door?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean

In 140 characters on a computer screen!

Would it have been worth while

If a new player, settling in and kicking around the ball,

Should bring up the transfer window and say:

‘This is not it at all,

This is not what I wanted, at all.’

…

No! I am not Clown Prince Shackleton, nor was meant to be;

Am an English midfielder, one that will do

To fight the hero, end a scene or two,

Control midfield; no doubt, a useful tool,

Temperamental, easy to provoke,

A headstrong but manipulable bloke

To get sent off some Wednesday night in Stoke,

At times, indeed, almost a sort of joke—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

…

Shall I leave this club behind? Do I dare to go for free?

I shall wear an England shirt, and walk out at Wembley.

I have heard the Geordies singing “Drunk and Disorderly.”

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them in the stands forming waves,

Combing the body hair on their bare backs,

When the wind blows the rains white and black.

We have risen from the chambers of the league,

Away from the Eagles, Sky Blues and Ipswich Towns,

Till Ashley’s choices break us, and we go down.

 

Other articles Barton apparently left behind in his haste: notes toward a system of devising Twitter passwords based on Bertrand Russell’s lectures on Logical Atomism, several dried roses pressed in an antique copy of Swinburne, a pack of Arrow collars, Amanda Harrington.

[Guest johnson293]

Joey7Barton Joseph Barton

"@banksie1892: Tell me this is photoshop at work? This cannot be real. How have I missed it? Ha ha ha yfrog.com/nyq0zwj"

4 minutes ago

 

 

[Guest TheSummerOf69]

The Love Song of J. Anthony Barton

 

Editor’s Note: The following lines were found in a battered notebook tucked between two dog-eared copies of Nietzsche on a Victorian standing-desk in the Newcastle flat vacated by Joey Barton last week. They appear to have been composed in the weeks preceding the poet’s transfer to Queens Park Rangers, when the force of impending change first began to disrupt what had previously been the comfortable certitude of his intellectual life.

 

Let us go then, the reserves and I,

When the afternoon is spread out against the sky

Like Newcastle etherised upon the league table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted stands,

The muttering fans

Of Amsterdam,

To restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And headlines about who our owner sells:

Tweets from followers like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .

Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’

Let us go and make our visit.

In the changing rooms the players wander to and fro

Considering whether to stay or go.

The Tyneside fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke of a cigarette that rubs it muzzle against my name,

Licked its tongue as it denied me a visa,

Lingered upon me as I stood in chains,

And in my cell I woke with a sudden leap,

Upon dreaming of a soft July night,

Of curling frees into the box, then once more fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke of every agents’ meet,

Rubbing its back upon the Mirror’s leak;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the chairmen that we meet;

There will be a time for podcast and debate,

And time for all the drills and pre-season plans,

The careful low-carb meals upon our plates;

Time for them and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred rumours and revisions,

Before the taking of a player from our team.

In the changing rooms the players wander to and fro

Considering whether to stay or go.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’

Watching Shearer descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of his hair—

[i shall say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’]

King Kev in his morning coat, collar mounted firmly to the chin,

His necktie rich and modest, giving opinions to ESPN—

[He will say: ’But how the squad is growing thin!’]

Do I dare

Disturb St. James’ Park?

In a minute there is time

For a whispered destination where a player may embark.

For I have known them all already, known them all—

Have known the Carrolls, Nolans, sold too soon,

I have measured out my life among the Toon;

I know the voices crying with the last kick of the ball

Beneath the music of the Geordie tunes.

And how should we resume?

…

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the stripes that glimmer on the shirts

Of lonely men in replica kits, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have bargained for a transfer clause

And scuttled elsewhere with a silent ease.

…

And the players rest so peacefully!

Injuries smoothed by the masseuse’s fingers,

Cramp…tightness…while some malinger,

Stretched on the floor, here beside Danny Guthrie.

Should I, after halftime rubs and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my lip (grown slightly bald) moved to speak and flatter

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of our greatness flicker,

And I have seen Mike Ashley grab his coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

To smash some teacups, demoralise the team,

Among the talk of Arsenal, of Manchester United and me,

Would it have been worthwhile,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed my frustration into a ball,

To loft it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: ‘I am Barton, whose career was once dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’—

If one, upon opening the paper the next day and reading the line upon the head,

Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all.’

And would it have been worth it after all,

Would it have been worthwhile,

After promotion and Hughton and the damning tweets,

After Sunderland, after Villa, after scoring five or more—

To follow Kev and Andy out the door?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean

In 140 characters on a computer screen!

Would it have been worth while

If a new player, settling in and kicking around the ball,

Should bring up the transfer window and say:

‘This is not it at all,

This is not what I wanted, at all.’

…

No! I am not Clown Prince Shackleton, nor was meant to be;

Am an English midfielder, one that will do

To fight the hero, end a scene or two,

Control midfield; no doubt, a useful tool,

Temperamental, easy to provoke,

A headstrong but manipulable bloke

To get sent off some Wednesday night in Stoke,

At times, indeed, almost a sort of joke—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

…

Shall I leave this club behind? Do I dare to go for free?

I shall wear an England shirt, and walk out at Wembley.

I have heard the Geordies singing “Drunk and Disorderly.”

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them in the stands forming waves,

Combing the body hair on their bare backs,

When the wind blows the rains white and black.

We have risen from the chambers of the league,

Away from the Eagles, Sky Blues and Ipswich Towns,

Till Ashley’s choices break us, and we go down.

 

Other articles Barton apparently left behind in his haste: notes toward a system of devising Twitter passwords based on Bertrand Russell’s lectures on Logical Atomism, several dried roses pressed in an antique copy of Swinburne, a pack of Arrow collars, Amanda Harrington.

 

 

RTG has the mackems coping with derby defeat by clogging barely comprehensible missives together from misspellings of non-existent words, an effing exuberance of sweaty swear words, and a binding of blood-splattered saliva as they tear Bruce and each other apart.

 

We console ourselves over Barton's passing from working class hero to the leafy afterlife of West London with a parody of TS Eliot. Class.

[Hanshithispantz]

"A touch of class"

[Dave]

"The fans were brilliant at Newcastle.

 

"In my last couple of seasons there, they've supported the football club through thick and thin. I'll always have a relationship with them.

 

"We had a journey with them - not just me but a number of players in the squad, when the club dropped out of the Premier League.

 

"That could have been a difficult and turbulent time in the club's history but we regrouped as a playing staff and decided that we'd dig deep and not only get the club back to the Premier League, but to stabilise it quite comfortably last season.

 

"What's gone is gone. I'm never going to say a bad word about the football club or the fans. I wish them every success."

 

Greedy cunt etc.