The will to win.
Nothing will stop us.
From shagging a visiting Taffy.
The best thing about the Six Nations Rugby Tournament is the visiting fans.
No matter what the nationality, there is always something about them that you find attractive.
The Scots: What’s that big thing under the kilt?
The French: dirty and duorty!
The Italians: Hairy, masculine and insatiable bottoms.
The English: arrogant, pompous but great craic and great tops.
And of course the Welsh. Always ready to sing, dance, drink, sing some more and fuck.
We Irish like to sing too.
The Welsh sing about the sweet valleys, we sing about getting slaughtered in the valleys.
Don’t you just love a man that can sing?
You can tell a lot about a potential ride by his singing.
Sing with a full heart and a bellow: fuck like a champ.
Sing like a mouse?
You fuck like straight.
Repressed and boring.
Me? I sing like a legend after a few pints.
Good man ye self Pat, ye fecking ruide!
Go on ye bollix, fecking legge!
Many a man has fallen prey to my singing charms.
Who could resist a drunken singing Paddy?
Not a visiting Taffy.
Why would you come all the way to Dublin if it wasn’t to score some hole?
And my hole is particularly alluring.
Like I said, I sing like a legge!
Up the Irish!
Roll on the English!
Confessions of a Gay Rugby Player Part 4. On Sale Feb 19.
We all feign concern for poor Johnny and leave him in the hands of the Lancs’ team doctor.
“Well done, you fucking bollix.” Sean gives me a pat on the ass. I am, as they say, ‘da man.’ As a rugby player, you always want to get your hits in. That’s not to say that you want to kill opposition players, just hurt them a little. Maybe knock a few out.
Johnny looks like he has come around, and they are checking his neck. The docs take no chances and put a neck brace on him before they stretcher him off to the waiting ambulance. How melodramatic, totally over the top. But these are the times we live in. The man is used to being power fucked in saunas. Surely, he can take a little bump to the head.
Well, well, looky here. The replacement fly half is a duorty old ride by the name of James O’Dwyer. A Dublin man, no less. Jea’zuz, I didn’t even know he was still playing. He must be as old as my Aunt Fanny. Not that I have an Aunt Fanny, but if I did, this fucker would be older.
Captain smiles at Sean and I. “Fuck him up lads.”
You may think that after sending one Englishman to hospital, we would ease up on them. But a paddy, playing against the paddy team? The fucker is going suffer more than Johnny.
“Scrum, green ball.” That’s our put in.
“ Crouch, Touch, Pause, Engage.” Lancs have always been a good scrummaging side. Nothing has changed. Their front row is big and ugly. But we are not here to play a game of ‘who has the biggest dick.’ We won that game when we got off the plane. The teams that fancy themselves as great scrummaging sides always break every sinew to dominate the scrum. It’s heads down and push. Trouble is that they are so busy pushing, that they miss the pick and go from Captain.
What’s he going to do? Run right at that bollix, Jaime. Bish, bash, bosh. Captain hits him hard, but Jaime, fair play to him, tackles hard. Not bad for a fat old man. From the ensuing ruck, we spin the ball out to Enda. He pops it to Cian, who has taken a wonderful line running through the gap left by Thomas, who is still picking his hole off the floor. The Lanc lads get a fine view of his ass as he runs through to the left corner to score the first points of the game.
Our support erupts in cheers, but they are soon changed to roars of rage. Captain is having handbags with Jaime. It’s nothing serious and they are separated.
“What was all that about?”
“I called him a duorty gombeen.”
“You’re a gaaasman, Captain.”