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The secret diary of Lee Ryder aged 44 and a half 16/02/2018 The Rise and Fall of the Ryder Empire. Alreet diary? Been a while like. Ah thought mebbeez it was time to knock the entries on the heed, after all, unlike me cutting NUFC analisi, anallysi, err, insights, nee cunt actually read me personal diary apart from me! Anyways, Despite being top dog of the NE media ah wiz getting the impression that some were starting to get a bit starstruck by some of the other, newer kids on the NUFC block. For instance, ah noticed there was a NE press forum thingy to aid the Newcastle foodbank and the cheeky cunts didn't invite yours truly but had a few Johnny come latelys like Caulkin, Edwards, Bird, Hope and even that sly cunt Douglas who said fuck ahl in the canteen aboot it the morning before he went on. They even had mackem split-arse Louise 'Whese keyes are theyse' Taylor before me! Divvent get mad, get even is what they ahl say and the boy Ryder was aboot to do both. Ah noticed things were quieting doon with the takeover which was obviously fucking horrendous news as it was a piece of piss to keep regujita, regerger, err, bringing up the same shite in different ways then gannin for a few swift ones in the Bacchus but ah'd also had a bit of gen from one of me invaluable contacts here at Thomson house, one Mr Eddie Eats and his bloater missus, 'She who must be fed'. He reckoned one of the waiters at the Koh-i-noor let on that a certain Michael James Wallace Ashley had been in on a thorsda neet and said he'd been in sometimes other nights. Fucking jackpot! That's what sets the Knight Ryder apart from the likes of Douglas, the quality of me shit hot contacts, and talking of hot and shit ah was ganna have to take one for the team Ryder and mebbees get a vindaloo to listen to the takeover craic and risk a bit of Gandhi's revenge to get ahead of the competition. Ah got home that neet, got some of me black football boot polish and smeared it ahl ower me face and hoyed a toowel rund me nappa. 'They'll never be able to tell' ah said to mesel as ah headed off for the famous Geordie/Indian restaurant. Ah got there just before opening time, went rund the back door and persuaded the head chef gadgie that ah was a new temp kitchen staff ordered by the owner and he fell for it despite giving iz some strange looks. Ah tried to wash a few dishes and serve the customers waiting for the Shirebrook supremo to walk in and would mutter 'Goodness gracious me, I am standing right here beside myself' now and again to throw everyone off me Geordie scent. Anyways, patience is a virtue in this game as ahl the auld journalist sweats like me good self will tell you and right enough after half an hour in walked the sports direct guru, the fat cockney bastard himself, Mr Mike Ashley with my former top contact, Lee 'Penfold' Charnley. Ah let Gupta gan ower and tek his order whilst ah stood behind him also with my pen and notepad oot pretending to copy the order but really writing doon ahl the NUFC takeover craic which ah just knew me loyal punters would lap the fuck up. Ashley took his mobile out and rang someone. "Oi! Bish! What you up to you old fackin' slag? Hahaha! Listen, put the fackin' cast of 'the only way is essex' on hold and tell Linda Lusardi you're busy washing your fackin' Y fronts! I want you to get back onto talksport and get them on fackin' message, fackin' capice?" Wow! So it was true! Mike really DID like football and was joining in some top soccer debate on the drivetime topic, 'Is Rafa a Spanish whinging cunt?' hosted by Adrian Durham and the fat Yorkshire ex-cricketer, Darren Gough. Ah was desperately writing ahl this doon when in walked the lads from the Seaton Sluice social club on a Leo Sayer! They walked in, pissed as cunts when one of them said to iz, "How! Gunga-Din! Eight pints and eight chicken phals, bonny lad!" Fuck! It was Mala of the not so much 20/20 vision! Ah mumbled something like "Bud, bud, ding ding, certainly wor kid" but ah knew ah was sussed the moment ah said it. "Lee! What the fuck yi deeing you daft cunt?" Shit! Ah had to get oot of there sharpish with my dynamite NUFC info. The head waiter said "I knew you were taking the piss you fucking arsehole!" and chased iz oot through the kitchen and into the back alley and ah spilt a bowl of balti ahl ower me new LeShark jumper. The waiter had iz cornered and fancied his chances but he obviously had nee idea who he was up against. Fucking West Ham, Millwall, Leeds, Man U the lot, nen of them had been able to break the escort to get the better of the Toon army foot soldier Ryder and this cunt wasn't going to either. Ah was aboot to swing a punch but then ah clocked the kids trainers, fucking Lonsdale! The kid was obviously desperate with nowt to lose and ah knew ah didn't have time to do the dance with the lad so ah flicked a bit of balti off me shirt into his eye and pushed past him to get the Metro home and write up tomorrows Ronny Gill back page which would not only satisfy me loyal punters, not only get one over on Caulkin and co, but would mean ah could knock off sharp and have a pint with the lads in the club and fill them in with me never ending Toon exploits! Anyways, things to do, awards to win! Lol! Laters. Ryder and out!

He’s still offside even in that pic.

Not sure if this is already on here but it features 'its a goal!' plus Gazza teaching Mirandinha how to talk English.

They ditched the rest of the group earlier in the night when Pards whipped those black glasses out and started taking selfies with young lasses

He must be in the same football Freemasons club as Hippo Heed and Steve McClown.