Not my style at all this

Not really my style at all this, un-solicited or fettered rampage against our nearest and dearest, however on this auspicious occasion i will make an exception.
Received from a chap in my office earlier today, he really should get back to work.....

Choose life, choose Leith, choose not winning the cup for over 100 years, choose Gareth Evans, choose a disabled fan's carer running on to the park for a sly kick at Stuart Dougal, choose hookers down Coburg Street, choose Jimmy Boco, choose the smell wafting from the Seafield sewage works over the Links each morning, choose loosing to a bunch of Lithuanian waiters in the Inter Tattie cup, choose entering the Inter tattie cup in the first place, choose Jocky Scott, choose dirty needles, choose having the worst derby record in the entire world, choose Alan Sneddon, choose making a big deal about being "the first to wear the green" like it actually matters, choose being one day away from being closed down by your biggest rivals, choose being 'classy' when half of your support is made up of chavs, choose singing songs about refugees, choose a tenner bag, choose David Fellinger, choose David Duff and Jim Gray, choose trying to kid people into believing that you've always played good football when the truth is that you've been absolutely shyte for 30 years, choose going on and on and on about a game that occurred before most of you were even born, choose the Loch Inn, choose Edward Hurtado, choose getting humped 5-1 by some Ukranian team whose name nobody can pronounce, choose hiring an open-top bus for a cup final against a diddy team and then proceeding to loose the match, choose loosing 30,000 'fans' on the way home from said cup final, choose Benny Brazil, choose your derby rivals having won more derby matches at your ground than you have, choose to go on and on and on about once beating Real Madrid in a friendly match, choose Steve Cowan, choose running on the park for a sly kick at Andy Goram, choose Salamander Street, choose John Burridge, choose going 22 games in a row without beating your biggest rivals, choose making a big deal about a scoreboard that worked for a month, choose Alex Miller, choose incessantly going on about how some shady Russian is going to sell Tynecastle and shut Hearts down only to look on in horror as he invests heavily in the team, writes millions of pounds of debt off and builds a new main stand, choose Joe Tortolano, choose Burberry caps, skiddy pants and shell-suits, choose flairdoo's instead of hairdoo's, choose thinking that 'Sunshine on Leith' is not dreadful, choose running on the park for a sly kick at John Robertson, choose John Robertson scoring 27 goals against you, choose Wayne Foster actually scoring a goal against you and putting you out of the cup into the bargain, choose Bobby Williamson, choose hiring a manager with a monkey head, choose worshipping and buying a decanter for a manager who only won one match, choose defending your club captain for urinating in a charity shop doorway after a team night out watching strippers, choose thinking that the term 'yam' is even slightly amusing in any way shape or form, choose Mickey Weir, choose Pirniefield in the morning, choose being the most ungracious losers this side of Christendom, choose the cow-shed, choose going out of business when Celtic nicked all your players, choose running on to the pitch to celebrate your first derby win in 10 years only to be chased off again by the visiting support, choose living in the shadows of your neighbours for 131 years and forever knowing that you will always be the wee team, choose the Proclaimers, choose John Leslie, choose Hibs.

The first line is enough for me