Big Bamboo Shanghai Shooters AFC: Shooters Obituaries

Monday, June 23
(Sir) John Jofre 1998-2008

Ode to The Sir Jof

The time has come, it seems to me, to speak of many things,

To take the piss, and reminisce, of the Shanghai Shooters King,

We’ll speak of triumphs, highs and lows, of women plain and pretty,

Of games and shames and nights insane, in filthy Asian cities.

Some, perhaps, will shed a tear, and maybe even yearn,

For days that now are in the past, which never can return.

The time has come for all of this, because this is the day,

We must proclaim, despite the pain, “Sir Jof has passed away”.

Cry not you sad and lonely Shooters, sigh not in disbelief,

The world can scarce accommodate or tolerate your grief.

We all must come together now and bravely face the fact,

Sir Jof is gone, and our remorse, alas, won’t bring him back.

We must, instead, recall with joy, his very ‘vivid’ life,

(And hope in doing so we don’t embarrass his grieving wife)

So let us now rejoice and praise this great leader of men,

Sir Jof, the like of which this world will seldom see again.

For an enigmatic man like Jof, well where does one begin?

He thinks he’s mainly Scottish, though he’s got some Italian in ‘im.

He claims he’s part American, but we don’t know what he’s doing,

With a very dodgy middle name, inspired by JR Ewing.

He once played football for the Krauts, and claims to hate the English

But all his mates are from down South, and we think there’s something in this.

Could it be that despite his protests, Sir Jof would like a crack,

At throwing off his Scottishness, and being a Sassenach?

Sir Jof once left Shanghai and moved across to Amsterdam,

But after only six weeks there he realized he wasn’t a fan.

After Shanghai our Sir Jof found Holland pretty tough,

Apparently those Dutch are just not liberal enough,

Although we suspect the real reason is ‘cos he once was told,

He wasn’t allowed in a nightclub, because he was too old.

And now living in Manila, it will surely be a feat,

If he can remain monogamous, whilst living off Burgos Street.

Some will recall, when in Bangkok for the Far Easter Elevens,

Jof led us to a girly bar which seemed like very Heaven.

Girls of stunning beauty filled all corners of the place,

They sat upon our laps and pressed their breasts into our face,

By fortune I sat by Sir Jof, so heard him as he spoke,

“I’d marry yae” he said to his “if yae were nae a bloke”

Alas some Shooters further off were sadly not so quick

We never knew when Matt and Wytze found out their girls had dicks

Of course, tales of Jof in girly bars are too many to recount,

There are few bars in Asia which Sir Jof has failed to mount.

“New York, New York” is what he sings, as his clothes are discarded,

His strip show’s very popular and always well regarded.

By the end he’s starkers, to the dismay of many women,

And all the dice cups at the Long Bar have had Sir Jof’s cock in ‘em,

Even worse was once in Bottom’s, with Nick not paying attention

Sir Jof had stripped, and slapped Nick’s head, with his semi-hard erection.

Sir Jof is known for acts like these, that show his great compassion,

When the Shooters toured to Mongolia he lead in masterful fashion.

Stevie B had smashed his jaw, and Jof came racing in

But when he saw the blood, he turned, and raced away again!

Sir Jof is kind to children and to small animals too,

One night he purchased Little Shooter, a stray dog, on Ju Lu Lu.

But mainly down on Ju Lu Lu it was women Jof picked up,

The man has lifted almost as many skirts as he has Cups.

Which brings us on to speak about the Shooters great success,

Without Sir Jof we surely would have won a good deal less.

Stories of his pre-game motivational speeches now are legion

It seemed that every match we played was ‘The most important of the season’.

Extra motivation was required if we're playing Jof’s old mate Brian,

There’s nothing that Sir Jof liked more, than us beating the Lions.

By the end it was easier beating them than beating eggs,

And the Lions skulked back to Pudong, with their tails between their legs.

Sir Jof, Sir Jof, it grieves us all your Shooter days are through,

There will never be another Shooter who could compete with you

The fact that we’ve all traveled here from all corners of the planet,

Should tell you that the Shooters is less a football team,than it,

Is a group of fantastic mates, and there should be no confusion,

That you have built, in the Shanghai Shooters, a global institution.

So gentlemen please charge your glasses, and then please see them off,

As we join together to toast the man, the legend, that is Sir Jof!

Monday, January 14
Ian Lee 2001-2007
Scouse by nature, Chinese by style,
Let us open this interesting file.
Looks may decieve,
and the voice may wobble your knees,
You may think your buying drugs,
or about to get mugged
For when the lad begins to speak,
You get that strange Liverpool squeak.
But there is nothing to fear
hes as soft as lamb, and behaves abit queer.
He claims to have studied wushi,
but we think its more sushi.
And you only need to see him head into a battle, going in for a tackle,
to realise that there was more chance of him growing a beard, than actually being feared.
A long serving veteran, and once highest capped player
Famous with the Shanghai ladies, especially the japanese flavour.
His left foot so famous and bass playing hip and groovy,
Daniel Day Lewis starred as him in that Left Foot movie.
So, rather than be moved to the defense, way up the back,
The elephant graveyard for those who had become crap in attack.
He bid farewell, to the Shooter institution,
And joined the Anzacs to drag them out of the first division.
Hes a top lad our Ian, you could never meet a nicer bloke
But I was a bit suspect when I first met him and he didnt drink or smoke.
The Shooters soon changed that, and had him drinking like the best,
A legend on and off the field, he'd be the one with the No.9 on his chest.

Thursday, February 22
Steve Brierley 1998-2006
Ode to the Donny

We mourn the passing of the great Steve Brierley,
A man whose middle name might have been ‘nearly’.
Nearly the holder of the most Shooter Caps
Though sadly some others surpass him for that.
Nearly the world’s greatest drinker of Jack
But Sir Jof overtook him and never looked back.
Nearly the best centre half in the club
Except that most match days he came straight from the pub.

He’s not ‘Granty the Goalscorer’, or even ‘Besty the Bard’
Seems Stevie was ‘mainstream’ in every regard.
But there was one Shooter Discipline at which he was great
Which now that he’s passed we should celebrate.
Surely no Shooter was so often knocked back
When trying to drag some poor girl to his sack?
So when it comes to being blown out by the tarts,
There’ll only ever be Steve at the top of the charts.

He’d do almost anything to pick up a chick,
But they’d always find some way to give him the flick.
Often they’d tell him that he was too pissed,
But the more pissed he was, the more he’d persist.
Even in Manila, the city of sin,
Any Flipper he picked would have her painters in.
And who can forget his attempts, oh so many,
To fill in the bass lines of Noemi and Jenny?

So where did it all go so wrong?
Well first, he looked like Donny Osmond,
Second, he had more body hair
Than a hirsute dreadlocked grizzly bear.
Sexually, he was a bold one,
Who liked to take his showers Golden
And it seems that all these things combined
Ensured all girls left him behind.

But despite all this let’s not pretend
That Donny wasn’t a Shooter Legend.
Along with Sir Jof he saw the future,
Got screwed by the Lions and gave birth to the Shooters.
Eight Years a Shooter, and forever a star,
Wherever he ends up in lands near or far,
Donny loved footy, Jack Daniels and strippers,
Much missed by the Shooters, (if not by the Flippers)!

Stairway to Heaven

Larry Langdon 1999-2005
Dynamic diver, fearless leaper,
Lazza’s made of the best bits of many a keeper,
He’s got Peter Shilton’s half mad glare,
Seaman’s dress sense, and facial hair,
The only goalie in all Shanghai,
With Gordon Bank’s squinty eye,
And come night’s end in a Shooter bar,
He has wobblier legs than Grobelar.

He dreams of being Petr Cech,
But he’s really much more Jerzy Dudeck,
Like Cech he’s kept the odd sheet clean,
‘Cos he plays for such a dominant team,
But like Dudek, he has been known to flap,
(Though in a penalty shootout he’s just the chap),
And like Cudicini, Laz holds his position,
As long as there’s no other competition.

He was at Team X when the master recruiter,
Known as Sir Jof said “Come be a Shooter”,
He anchored the team throughout their revolution,
6 seasons on – a Shooter Institution,
When Big Nat left Laz was the man,
To wear with pride the Captain’s armband,
His pre-match rants were sure to inspire us,
With no more than two words between each filthy cuss.

But things soon changed when games began,
Lazza became the loneliest man,
With all the action up the pitch,
He’s just do windsprints and then bittch,
At any small mistake we made,
There was no end to his tirade,
The wiser defenders put ear plugs in,
To try to block the ceaseless din.

And if by chance the oppo got
The chance to take a long range shot
We knew that we need not have fear
‘Cos Lazza would soon have it clear,
Mistakes from him were pretty rare,
Unless the ball was up in the air,
Laz struggles with a floated cross,
He has the vertical leap of a pregnant rhinoceros.

Whilst on the pitch Laz was a star,
He performed even better when in the bar,
He could talk for hours on any topic,
And whatever you’d done, he could top it,
On the back of the bus, with Carlsberg lubricating,
Kaiser and Laz, smoking fags, pontificating,
And then at Malones, with a Shooter Champagne
Laz would talk shiite for hours, and drive you insane.

And of course, no Shooter can ever pass by
A Karaoke bar without wanting to cry
As memories return of Lazza’a pained wailing,
Which unfortunately was not his worst failing,
He thinks he is a stage performer,
And every gag will go down a stormer,
But although on stage he’s really committed,
He never got a clap that wasn’t sexually transmitted.

He leaves us with memories we’ll fondly look back on,
Like the great Christmas brunch when with blue anorak on,
He ranted of boxing, and wanted to do,
With the whole of Malones, the Electric Boogaloo,
He’s left us for Honkers to play for the Squadron,
Where he’ll take lots of blueys and have a permanent lob on,
So we say farewell to a wonderful blokey,
The Captain, the Legend, the only, Larryoke.

Jon Best 2003-2005
The 25 Cent - Rap Version

Yo Yo, lets bust this track,
Lay down the muther fucckin facts.
Gonna clear the rubble, stir up some trouble.
Make a noise, burst his bubble.
East side, West side, forget them both,
Weymouth Town, his home crib, from where he boast.

Oh he do like to live beside the seaside, yo.
Oh he do like to live beside the sea,
He’s blue eyed, blonde haired Besty, and he works for SAP.

It begun in glory, a romantic story, his arrival in the Shooters team.
Cup final sub, two time scorer against the Lions Club,
An introduction one could only dream.
Shooter induction, Jack Daniel corruption, party eruption.
In the thick, drinking quick, singing and dancing tricks.
Welcomed to the side, arms open wide, Shanghai life became a roller coaster ride.

But as time went by, hanging with his homies, there started da rumour that he was a homey.
No visible interest in the hos or bittches, only a male fan club and wack behaviour by the pitches.
Dissing the wonders of the Manila scrubber, hiding a crazy fetish for black rubber.
It only got worse, when the team were swallowed by the Jack Daniels curse.
Stories followed of manicures, facials and honeymilk blonde highlights,
Someone seeing Besty in Isetan, searching for a decent pair of womens tights.

Oh he do like to live beside the seaside, yo.
Oh he do like to live beside the sea,
He’s blue eyed, blonde haired Besty, and he works for SAP.

Tight t-shirts, sleeveless, wacked out coloured training tops.
A style unto his own, like Keith Chegwin on Cheggers Plays Pop.
Time did move, and all theories, wrong did he prove.
A true player on the pitch, and in the drinkin ditch, hittin on many a bittch.
A player, a mate, comin round my house for xmas cake.
Laughing, joking, towel in his mouth, almost choking.
Ask him about the weirdo bittch, and Granty’s famous double kiss.

Lets give up a holla, coz he’s multi million dollar.
Man of the hour, no tougher than a flower, looks like Jack Bauer.
Breakdance boogaloo, swan diving, back spinning fool.
He’s blue eyed, blonde haired Besty, and he be cool.

Peace out, yo.

Andy Kilby 2001-2004
Ode To The Kilbatini

It starts with a bottle of Calsberg and a packet of smokes,
Later a bombay saph, some laughs and a joke.
The start of the evening, Kilbs is in the mood.
A liquid dinner, no time for any food.
Will the wheels fall off, will we see a crash landing.
Look out ladies its the famous Sleeping Man Standing.
If you were walking past Malones, the Long Bar or Bamboo,
You might have enjoyed the amazing view too.
You may have witnessed and marvelled at one of lifes freeks
The man who gets drunk and where he stands he sleeps.

I recall one comedy, some time ago.
The man known as the kaiser, came down to see the show.
Sat at the back, thinking he was out of sight.
He sat on a stall and tried to stay awake with all his might.
His head started to roll, to bob up and down
Like a nodding dog in the back window of a Toyota Crown.
After losing the battle to keep his head aloft,
He drifted into a deep sleep dreaming of ladies with curves like Lara Croft.
Balanced daringly high on his stool like a skilled tightrope walker,
Calsberg in hand clasped tighter than the virgin pussy on a Reverends daughter.
Moving slower than the human eye could possible see,
He started to roll forward at the mercy of gravity.
And after which seemed like an eternity,
Kilbs went over onto his knees.

Its not all drink and bars and clubs,
well it is I suppose if your including pubs.
But let us not forget the man the mate the player the spar,
The General, The Kaiser, the ultimate bra.
Generous to a fault, friendly even to his foe.
Cant sing a lick and dances like hes got broken toes.
But its all alwight, hes always got a smile,
the daft lad from Cambridge, a Londoner in denile.

Kilbatini, midfield maestro, centre half stopper,
Just dont ask him to play if the night before he came a cropper.
Lack of sleep and too many beers
Means double vison, no pace and swearing to hurt your ears.
But when hes on form, hes solid as a rock
Although much relies on his keeper to tell him whats what.
The Shooters number 4, a shirt thats strangely gone astray,
Although I bet it can be found in Cambridge one of these coming summer days

Nat MacKay 2000-2003
Ode To The Nat

Another young man, arrives in this grand city,
amazed at the easy of getting his hands on some purt titty.
Carrying just a whisp of bum fluff upon his chin,
a cheeky wee smile and a mischievious grin.
A Kiwi, a Yank, his true origins unknown,
who really cared, so into the Shooters he was thrown.
The speed and skill was clear to the eye
Some amazing goals that would make a grown man cry.
A wonderful fella whom we remember so fondly,
strange coloured hair somewhere between a ginger and a blondie.
As the years went by and the goals got fewer,
The speed deserted him and this brought the attention of the Fuhrer.
Adjustments had to be made, and he was sent to the back,
where he could be supervised under the watchful eye of the Cat.
A new Captain, and a new position,
quickly he became a force you dare not question.
But alas as always, nothing lasts forever.
his time had come to move on and start a new adventure.
We wish you well old pal, old chap.
At least now I have more cigerettes left in my pack.

John Vinnai - 2000-2003
Ode to the Vinnai

Twas in the Long Bar that the first meeting took place
A young cheeky chap from Canada, with a strange looking face
His slow drawl, reminisent of a man from Texas,
Obviously not the type that would drive a Lexus.
But his speed on foot would dazzle us all,
although losing to Watson, we wondered how low one man could fall.
It took him a while to come out of his shell
But I am not so sure if he remembers it all so well.
For hidden beneath the wirery body topped by the massive hair
was a comedy genius to which no one would compare.
It may have been the heat of Manila in November
but then it may have been the young lovelys who we all so fondly remember.
The event I refer was our opening match,
the team talk to which so much importance was attached.
The key to combating the humidity and heat
Was subbing quickly when you could run no more and were physically beat.
Vinnai was to start the match, much to my suprise
But there was little to fear when he subbed himself after just one blink of an eye.
Now I would never consider John unfit.
but it took him longer to run off the pitch.
And I can recall the sight of a very large 737
just 100 feet between us and heaven.
Not one but many throughout the course of the day
So frequent, our attention, we need not pay.
But not waiting to consider the options at hand,
Vinnai was too quick before he could tie his mouth with a rubber band.
With comedy timing, deadpan and cool
‘Is there an airport near here’ was the quote I recall.
So it is with a fond fairwell and sad goodbye,
That we say cheerio to a brother and team mate as he prepares to fly.
And dont forget that when you next come by
We will get you a game in the Dragons back line.

Stairway to Heaven

Scott Compton 2001-2003
Ode To The Compton

So another Shooter bids farewell
Calls time on Shanghai and rings the bell.
In the Shooters history books Compo will be remembered
for his individual footballing style and absense last November.
But surely Compo is better known from another time,
When he appeared every Sunday in the ‘Last Of The Summer Wine’.
But back then when he was chasing old Nora Batty
His hair was not so tidy and he was a bit of a fatty.
It would perhaps explain, the rumours that never travelled beyond the White Cliffs Of Dover
That our right winger carried the nickname, simply known as ‘Comb Over’.
But whether you fancy old birds in wrinkly tights
Or you like to die your hair so you glow in the night.
We will always remember the short fella out on the right,
Who tries to volley everything with all of his might.
We can even forget that he hates to back track
Follow his marker and defend at the back.
So good luck old friend in your journey back west
And we wish you well in your forthcoming quest.
Remember the Shooters and the times you had
The great keeper and his wit and long list of gags.
Because come June, one evening we will collect in your name
Those famous treble trophies, ours once again.

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