Xmas time - presents, parties and pissed up old scrubbers

And lo the saviour was born wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger and in his company were a glory of angels sent from the father. Shepherds and wisemen surrounded him and his parents Mary and Joseph looked at their new child. I have also heard there was a donkey involved and also a drummer boy there which I thought was a bit stingy on the Christ families behalf, I thought if they were going to throw a do they would invite the whole band.

2006 years later the devil has taken over and men throughout Christendom are forced against their will to traipse through hell also known as IKEA. Other than fecking cushions and bollocks, all it is is a giant warehouse of doom where you are forced to witness your partner pointing at generic stuff and you nodding, I would kick Iran out of the axis of evil and put in IKEA instead.

The problem would be if we sent troops in they would have to follow the yellow fucking line and end up at the exit, full of meat (testicle) balls with a wooden spoon, a basket and loads of candles without firing a shot.

I often see a parallel between young Jesus life and my own. He helped people and I helped people get pissed. He performed miracles and I manage to get you fuckers out 4 times a year.
He walked on water – I can drink all day and get home after kiwis without looking up from my orange curry and chips once.
He could talk to the animals, no, that was Dr Doolittle but then I talk to a giant Morgan virtually every day so I am better than that prick too.
He raised Lazarus from the dead and I have managed to, on 2 occasions to wake up Taz after a huge session. He was the son of God and my dad drives a milk tanker so that’s one all. He died on a cross and I can guarantee I will definitely die cross or at least slightly perturbed.

So the Party is upon us and already the Rooster is hanging out of his arse. Wales’ capital city is a contemporary Sodom or Gemorrah. You just cant walk far without seeing fat valley commandoes with shiny shirts and shit moustaches trying to knock fuck out of each other while their ‘homebirds’ Beyonsi and Saycbiteandblak are when not spuing up whitelightning are screeching like banshees. These birds are fat as fuck but that’s a good thing because if they had to rely on the 3 pieces of faux leather they were wearing they would be dead from exposure in minutes.
The Lovechickens love skimpily clad women but we want them to look like Angelina Jolie not Taz with a bra on and his willy stuck between his legs.

Sorry follow chickens about this yuletide rant but it was just a precursor to wishing you all a very merry Christmas and a happy New year. Next year sees the Lovechickens going to at least 3 different countries and playing at least once – we will be expecting membership in the new year so look after your coppers so you can afford it.

While I am used to the plaudits telling me how brilliant I am let me take this opportunity to say thanks for you boys for being part of a great club – lets make 2007 a facking huge one…..

my weekend by the Vicar

God damn, It's taken almost 36 years to realize that the destruction of ones liver could be such a joyous event! Now I'm fairly new to this Love chicken lark. Call me old fashioned but I'm from the generation where the men and women drank in separate parts of the pub, Ladies drinking a small sherry whilst the men went off for a glass of stout and a sneaky game of skittles...............Fuck hang on.....what am I on about? OK, so Fergie has managed to find (as only he can) the only tear in the space time continuum known to man that is the Tavistock arms.

I know that the new Dr Who has been filmed in that wonderful capitol city or ours but how kind and novel of them to leave one of the sets behind and then allow it to be used as a drinking hole for the marauding mass that is the Love Chickens. And it was whilst i was stood there arm in arm with the Bois whilst the national anthem rang out that i realised just how God Damn special this creation of Thugs and Fergatrons is. Its never about the place (Kiwis be testament to that), its all about the Bois. The insanity and love that only 40 or so half cut men can bring to each other.

I know that Fergs already has a medal or two for his service to queen and country. Although I did not know that the Army gave medals for getting wankered and shagging pros! But man you and Thug deserve another for what is the 8th wonder of the world.

Roll on Edinburgh.

my note for the day from Spence the Viking

As it seems from your blog entries, I missed an almighty piss-up, which is a shame. Even more of a shame than not being able to play dirty against some fit and healthy young students who are trying to run rings around me. So, in order to make up in some small way for my absence from what appears to have been a large one by all accounts, I thought I would explain what I was doing for the weekend that prevented me from attending. As some of you may know (but most of you won't) I'm one of the Faces on the scooter scene (so I'll be gutted if you really did meet Ray Winstone). Prior to hearing about this event, I'd already booked a flight to Germany to attend the Armed Forces Scooter Club end of season bash in none other than that jewel of north western Europe, Paderborn.

Having spent the day at work, I dashed home, and RVd with the people I was travelling to Manchester Airport with. Arriving 1800hrs, having a secure carpark drama, then checking in, we met up with four more AFSC members and hit the bar. A couple of beers later it was boarding time, blah blah hour and a half, Air Berlin, screaming kid a couple of rows back blah blah. Got picked up at Paderborn-Lippstadt airport and taken direct to Willy's Bar (that's the owner by the way, not the entertainment) where we met about thirty or so more AFSC members and German scooterists. Straight on the Warsteiner in large amounts until 0230hrs when Willy had enough and chucked us out. "Taxis nach Zentrum bitte" all round; unfortunately Paderborn is not the Partei Zentrum I remember Herford to be, and the only place open at that time on a Friday night was an Irish cellar bar. So of course we hit the Guinness. As you do.

Inevitably, the more I drink, the better my German gets, so I spent several hours boring a local scooterist to death, before asking for directions to the nearest Gyros. Instantly I was transported back 15 years as I indulged in the heavenly combination of proper meat, pitta bread, tsatsiki and trimmings. Why on earth are we still eating that donner shit over here? Anyway, me and three of the lads grabbed a taxi (by now it's 0600hrs) back to Dempsey Kaserne with the nicest driver ever, until he noticed Steve had dropped Gyros on his seats, at which point he became comedy German, shouting things like "Scheisse!", I kid you not. So, after 24 hours on the go, I allowed myself four fitful hours sleep, before getting up, having several brews, shit/shower/shave and into the cookhouse for what the Army calls "brunch", but what you and I would call "scraps".

Having lined my stomach with grease, I gave the peggies a well-earned brush, and as soon as the NAAFI bar opened at 1200hrs we were in there. Sensibly sticking to Corona lager, which Ferg, Morgs and Pete Dev will testify is a thirst-quenching, life-saving alternative to 'heavier' beers, I watched my compatriots get steadily wankered on pint bottles of Beck's while we watched the international on about twenty giant flatscreens (NAAFIs were different in my day, I mean, my feet didn't even stick to the floor in this one). Now you might think, he was at the AFSC end of season bash, why was he taking it easy? Well that's because I wasn't. The bash wasn't due to start until 1800hrs, and with a scheduled finish of 0600hrs the following morning, I was playing the smart game lads, trust me.

So, at about 1930hrs, we thought it might be fair to show our faces at the do. Not before going back to the block for a shower and to iron the trusty Ben Sherman of course. By this time one or two of the lads were a little the worse for wear. One submariner who shall remain nameless even made quiet death threats to several of us before snapping out of it. But, we made it to the do and got right back on the horse. Then, using my awesome powers of switching to JD and coke, and burning off the excess with plenty of Northern Soul dancing, I made it all the way through until 0530hrs on Sunday morning when it was only excrutiating foot pain (damn you, penny loafers!) that forced me to retire. Yes, retire my lovelies. But only for another four hours fitful sleep, for once again at 1000hrs I was up and in the cookhouse for "brunch", then oh, what to do, what to do? Fuck it let's go to the NAAFI and watch the footy. Back on the horse, only this time in the form of Smirnoff Ice, girl's drink but doesn't taste of alcohol, just what you need in this situation. Another afternoon on it, then down to a local bowling alley where I was introduced to a wonder of the modern drinking world, the "Bierturm" or "Beer Tower", a four foot high glass tube with a tap on the bottom that just keeps getting replaced the more you drink. Brilliant!! Fuck the bowling!! Having eaten a huge plate of Currywurst and chips just to ensure another fitful sleep, we eventually got back to the camp and I got my head down at about midnight.

Reveille was 0430hrs unfortunately, because we had to be at the airport for 0530hrs but hey, who the fuck needs sleep? Fast forward, blah blah, take the piss out of the locals at the airport one last time, Air Berlin, screaming kid a couple of rows in front, blah blah. I got home at 0900hrs, got changed, and went to work for the rest of the day. So you see my lovelies, even though I couldn't be there with you on such a special occasion, at least I wasn't strolling around Ikea holding a bird's hand.

See you soon Spence the Viking (not a Saxon) LC70 I think

The return of Fat man Slim

Oh, oh what a welcome bois ? To the old chickens, it was truely an honour to see you all again, and to receive such tourment and abuse. It brought a tear to my eyes!
Special thanks to Ski for the constant punching all day - brought me back to my old school days.All I needed was Dev and Fergi to issue a "Bogging Dirty" (Its a Fishguard think, but you will all learn) to top the day off. To the new faces, it was so nice to put a face to an email address, and although many of you have been members for severals months, if not years, I hold my fat head low in shame for as a Club Founder with the Zulu Master ..... "Zuuuuuluuuuuuuuuuuuuu" it will be the first time we have crossed !! Here's to many more. Those of you who know me, you know this is utter bull shit !!!

Being out of practice of both any form of exercise or indeed drinking, for many years, I could not decide whether playing 10 minutes or drinking for an additional couple more hours, was better for my health? Anyway after a few pints I didn't care. That warm feeling of man love and chicken love was everywhere, and the tears of laughter seem to start, and didn't stop all day. I sometimes forget what a fatastic club me and Fergi have created here!

As I drove down from the land of Saxon, with the huge Big Dave (Lerch) I could feel my voice box changing, and a strange native tounge take a grip of me. A large hand took a grip of my wallet at the Seven Bridg toll booths, for the some of £4.90. Last time I graced you all with my presence, it cost £1.78 and England were a great nation in rugby. How times have changed!! Bastards, but at least we put 24 points on the All Blacks !!!! I have many, many fond memories of that Saturday. To name just a few, the sing along with 6ft Jap and his version of "Living on a Prayer", Nunnies underpants - truely truely hidious, Clysts and his ears, and million dollar legs, Champaign Ron (Euron) giving the chav's a hard time - anyone for a soverign or half-soverign !! Morg just being Morgan, and meeting Ray Winston in the toilets ! I forgot to get him to sign the poster that we nicked from the student union bar !!

And of course Kiwis - how could anybody not mention Kiwis - I really do hate the place, its now a love thing! I am already missing you all, well not all of you, and for the new members who became just a blur and a slur during the night, I look forward to many, many more events. Zulu!! Zuuuuuulu ! Hoo-Ha ! Hoo-Ha - Great great memories !!!!!!!

Man Love - Roberts LC (1/2)

A Little bit of disappointment by Old Father Time

A little bit of disappointment…

Arose at 0600 hrs. Threw the horsehair blankets off. Good fart. Scratch of the balls. 20 press-ups. 20 squats. 20 star jumps. Then leapfrog with the missus for 20 minutes. Folded my pyjamas. Hung up my dressing gown and nightcap. Slippers under the bed. Empty the pot.
Strip wash in cold water, with coal-tar soap. Talcum. A good lather up with the shaving brush, stropped the razor, then a good hot, wet-shave, applying some balsam.
Nice cup of hot water and some salted porridge for breakfast.
Made sure my string underpants were clean and ironed.
Then checked the stitching on my leather boots, making sure that they wouldn’t be too tight around the calf, and a liberal application of warm dubbin.
Then to starch my rugger shorts (funny how the pockets were still stitched up – by grandma, before she passed away in 1977, poor dear).
Quick check to make sure I had my second set of false teeth.
Checked my hair, ensuring a straight parting. Sufficient application of Brylcreem.
Spare metal studs? Check! Wintergreen? Check? Elastoplast? Check! Picture of my mummy? Check! 20 Woodbines for the touchlines? Check! Woollen gloves? Check!
Right, I was ready.

Got to Newport in good time (before anyone else, as a matter of fact).

Such disappointment to find that the game had been cancelled due to a waterlogged pitch. Tell that to the fusiliers in the trenches. Game wouldn’t have been cancelled during the war, I can tell you! I remember when the whistle went and we all came out and shook hands and had a game of football. Ah, those were the days (sigh!)!

So to drinking then. Saw a lot of familiar as well as not-so-familiar faces.
Uncle Fester and Lurch Thug and his bodyguard turned up. Thug said he’d lost two stone. I reckon that was due to having the bottom half of his legs chopped off (or have they always been that short?)!
Euron still lashed up after the previous night’s edification.
Ski threatening to chuck up any second. Then he got his second wind and noticed the top shelf of the bar.
Hardly any of the opposition turned up (perhaps confident of a good performance of rugby, but obviously not so confident about their performance at the bar).
Nice presentation of a shirt to Fergs by Newport Uni, accompanied with our rendition of Zulu, of which the Welch Regiment would have been very proud. Then plenty of man love.

Then off to Cardiff on the love bus. Bit too much for me, I’m afraid. Was running on a full colostomy and had to drain the surplus into a half glass. With my cock.

Came off the bus in Cardiff, and then off to the Tavistock.
Then it all went a bit strange. In fact I think I disappeared! Came-to in Kiwis.
Anybody know what happened to me between me leaving the pub and getting into Kiwis?
Did I eat anything?
Did I see the Wales game?

Nunny

PS Game will have to be rescheduled. Otherwise my leather boots will get hard and crack up.

That Saturday by the largest man in Essex

I have been on some benders in my 35 years on this ball of rock hurtling around the cosmos but none like the one i've just recovered from. It only took 4 days but i think i'm starting to feel somewhat normal or what i feel is nomal for my life.

Let me start off by saying that i feel absolutly honoured to finally won my first cap as a Love Chicken i've been looking forward to it since i missed the Bath Spa 7's tour which took place too soon after Thug's stagg doo, then came Thug's wedding. I think Thug's stagg doo was a glimpse at what a LC tour was like but on a smaller level so needless to say i was some what shocked when myself and thug climbed in through the window of the newport uni bar and saw what we both thought was two teams enjoying a bevy together. Oh how wrong we were because the 40 or so blokes having a laugh and a beer wern't two teams oh no they were one team and only one for they were all LOVE CHICKENS all 40 or so.

As this was was my first cap i was some what nervous all these new faces, but thats one of the best things about being a lc as soon as they see the tye or they know your one of them the Love Chickens treat u as though they've known you for years, and so that was the start of a fantastic day a day of drinking a day of singing a day of drinking things that really shouldn't be drunk and i think everyone who was on the coach knows what i'm on about...enough said. In fact the only spoiler was not actually playing those Newport boys which i feel i have to say was a real let down but hay that only left more time for downing some ale, chinwagging and watching the game on t.v. I also have to say Kiwi's was an eye opener again, i can't believe so many people can get into such a small place but i think thats wha makes it good. Anyway in summary my first cap as a LC was something i will take fond memories from i will take them all the way back to the eastern shores of this fine and great land. So once again thanks to all the Love Chickens for making one of the newest members welcome CHEEEEEEEEEEERS!!!!! LC84 BIG DAVE

Diary by Big Jim the Turk protector of the public

Saturday the 25th of October 2006
Dear Diary,
My day began leaving the small village of Hendy, that is situated in the Costa Del of South West Wales. It's was about an hours drive to Cardiff and I couldn't wait to get there.

I'd been looking forward to this day for weeks! I was more excited than a young boy getting a second hand Sega Master System for christmas! As I'd previously discussed with Fergi, I was even more excited than when Emyr "Tarw" Lewis had that drop goal in the Arms Park when I was a young Turk in my red Harp Lager Scarlets jursey eating pop and crisps.

I hadn't been able to concentrate at all during the last week...Carmarthen had been like a crazy, thug filled, drug consuming scene from Hell! That's all I could think about during my long, never ending journey on the M4, was the day ahead! I knew that the company that I was going to be in could not be blemished and seeing many of them after a long 5 years would be as if I saw them yesterday in The Old Monk! I knew that people like the 6ft Jap...who nurtured me for many years , Mike "the Jamie Oliver wannabe" Stephens, The Sex Pest, Rhys "Top Man" Bach, Ferg and the only English man who claims he is Welsh Falls would all be there. All close friends who used to gather in the now fallen, but never forgtten Ponderosa, to play "f**k the buss"would be together again. Not only was it Wales v New Zeland but it was a gathering of brothers!

After my long tedious journey of trying to catch the eye of parallel female motorists I finally arrived in Cardiff where I met Jamie and Russow. Nice to see them but I had no idea what Russ was talking about as it appears that since he has moved to Rhoose Point he has become involved in some strange Ghetto! "Wapnin!"...what's hppened to "how are you butt?" or "ow are 'ew luv?" as they say in Gorseinon! Anyway...I was told that we were meeting a bus full of Love Chickens in a Brains pub called the "Tav"!...I was a little weary as I'm only used to drinking Felinfoel Double Dragon ale but I thought to myself "when in Rome!" I walked into this small, smoke filled public house with the landlord cutting fresh black pudding and ALDI mature cheese, on the bar ready for the half time festivities...again, it wasn't what I was used to but I thought I'd throw myself into the deep end and ask for three pints of Carling Extra Cold! After drinking several pints of cold lager, and ripping my tongue off the ice cold glass, the bus arrived! Amongst the constant traffic noise of the city I could hear the deep, rumble of the bus outside. My stomach started churning with excitement and my heart staterd to beat at a irregllular pace...one, two, three, four...when was it going to stop...one after another, they all walked in, heads bowed, through the small door of the public house! Christams has come early! Although I knew many of them there were so many new faces that I was excited to meet and be introduced to!

The initial meeting had now passed and we were all in the swing of things! We moved from pub to pub, sang nostalgic anthems and chugged beer with long lasting friends. Nevertheless, I remained a little nervous as I'd never been to the place where everyone had always talked about since I was a young 'un in uni...I'd been told that many naive Chickens hadn't come out of the place alive but I had been assusred, over the previous weeks, that I would be nurtured and looked after in "KIWIS"! Feeling extremely naive, I walked inside and was immediately met by a sea of heavily intoxicated individuals...Their speesh was slurred, they were unsteady on their feet and they smelt of intoxicating liquor, in my opinion they were drunk....doh, wrong diary entry!...I couldn't believe I was actually there...it was "tidy"! Every one of my expectations were met! For all these years I'd heard Ferg and little Mr. Parry talk about "KIWIS" and that one day, when I was old enough they would take me there...that day had arrived! One by one, the Love Chickens were walking into the den of iniquity! My heart began to pound again and I wanted to experience everything...from the talented female that Taz met all those years ago to Big Will being extremely thoughtful and offering his pineappple cubes (not from a crisp white paper bag though!) to fellow urinators...neverthless, I thought to myself, I must learn to walk before I try and run! As Phill May once told me at a Llanelli Scarlets Youth presentation..."You are young but you will learn!"

I had travelled all those miles from Hendy to Cardiff, met people who were/are now like family to me, experienced new and interesting ways of life but most of all what touched me the most and what made my day is that I knew I would return there again soon and be a Love Chicken!

pint of piss anybody.....................

The Rooster is hanging out of his shitty arse. normal service will resume once i can feel my legs.

Great day and new members

Zuluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu

last post before match

(above - New Zealands John Twatt shows why he won the world Ricker licker championship last year in Sketty)


So its the day before the match. Lovechicken excitement is at fever pitch and we are witnessing definite last minute nerves. Obviously our beloved captain of the day – Big Will, isn’t nervous at all. This experienced behemoth of the rugby and drinking pitch is ready and we will be seeing his captains words after this blog. Although he has asked me to print this one rallying cry.

“Ida wanna win tmorow, youm better work otherwise wem gonna get pasted you fucking pricks.”

Fantastic – thanks Will, youm the best.


As some of us know we will be playing in 3 parts on Saturday. Big Will is the captain but the following has been named as Vice-Captains for the Three parts.

Part 1 – Pete Dev
Part 2 – Mitch
Part 3 – Rhys bach

Congratulations!!!

This is a short one but bois this isn’t just a game its a statement;

It’s a statement on how you live your life, it’s a statement on how much pride and determination you can muster and it is a statement of you.
While many of you play week in and week out for many others this is a chance to get on the pitch for the first time in ages, feel again the exhilaration of the contest.
Chickens, we live in a sanitised world of safety and warmth unable to plumb the depths of our angst and ire in order to break out of the norm and feel the passion of battle, of contact, of standing shoulder to shoulder with your friends and toe to toe with your enemies.
We must play 110%, isn’t it better that we have dared to live our lives than just to exist in a lethargy of regret.

Get amongst em yer bastards zuuuulllluuuuuuuuuuuuu

As for afterwards – tomorrow a squad of drinkers will come together like no other. There will be singing, drinking and shenanigans on an international scale. Hold the line and look after each other – there will be no spoiling tomorrow – everybody will be everybody’s wingman.

Roberts and Tew – I am going to cook you

News from the training ground - Thursday

Some of the competition on the pitch will be lightning hot (except for those first 10 minutes of course) but it’s off the pitch where the interest could be most intense.

Eyebrows
While it must be extremely hard carrying the equivalent of the Forest of Dean on your face, these two do it with style. Let me introduce Pete ‘The Meat’ Farrell and Alex ‘The Sod from Llandod’ Williams. The competition begins at one o clock where they will see how long they can balance Ski and Big Dave on their eyebrows.
Trivia: A Lovechicken once convinced his missus that they were called ‘eyebrowns’.

Willies
A bit of a four way competition. All four competitors have King dongs about the size of Baby Ben and the Rooster is very proud to know that all four are Welshmen, two from the north and two from the south. The cocks of the North are Champers ‘the python’ Thomas and the previously mentioned Pete ‘the meat’ Farrell. The contenders from the south are Richard ‘DICK’ Lloyd and London Welsh ‘ding dong’ Bell. About 8 years ago it would have been a done deal with LW the leader by a yard, literally a yard. Now after years of over use and trips to the clap clinic it has shrunk down to being just huge………..

Other news
Don’t tell Fat Mike but the only way we could get him to come on Saturday was to pretend that we were all going to watch a division 3 east match between Treherbert and Fleur de Lys.

Odds
Speaking of Fat Mike, the latest odds have come into the Chicken Coop about who is going home first on Saturday.

10-1 Morg – odds will be cut if he is on curfew but will grow if he does his favourite move of taking a 5 hour snooze mid sesh

10-1 Balsom - Last seen out wearing a T-shirt with ‘RELAX’ on. His lack of form may lead to his downfall. On the first pub golf was named Bertie Six-Thirty after the time of his departure

9-1 Nunny – all depends if the nursing staff at his home lets him out late

5-1 Fat Mike - Some great form recently but may revert to form. Doesn’t say a word just leaves you in the lurch.

4-1 Neil - lucky if he will turn up but if he starts on the chardonnay he will end up crying In a toilet and be home by seven. Just like in Scotland

2-1 Tew – the favourite for Saturday. Like Balsom, hasn’t been out for years (last seen out with stonewashed skin tight jeans, a white T-shirt and a suit jacket with the sleeves rolled up ala Chris Parry). His going home early antics are at an international level. Nothing can stop him, in Swansea, he once needed to get home so badly he paid a taxi £70 to take him to Ponty.


And on other side of the coin
1000-1 Champers – will only show clues of being slightly merry after 12 hours of heavy drinking – git
1200-1 Kitey – he will get home when Ferg tells him – see also Pete Farrell
1500-1 Fuzz - auto-pilot on this mentalist will ensure a late return no matter what the mess he is in
2500-1 London Welsh – he won’t get home


Got a few spies in the enemy camp last night – don’t know how the play but know for a fact that the fuckers cant sing

News from the training ground – Wednesday

News from the training ground – Wednesday

Someone will need to bring spare shorts. Euron Thomas the LC super Gog is our man from the north of Wales. As we all know North Wales is very much like Bedrock from the Flintstones and has only just started receiving BBC 2. It is with a heavy heart that I have found out that his shorts are made of woolly mammoth and are therefore banned under IRB regulations.

Below- Euron 'Champagne Ron Atkinson' Thomas off for a few jars in the Octogan in Bangor








All knowing king of jazz Neil, has actually deemed the day important enough for him to turn up. However this was only because his hockey game was called off. The young man who pretends to be a vegetarian to get off with women also contemplated not even turning up! A big day would not be the same without the stuffed pepper loving soil jockey.


First caps
While there will be quite a few new faces this weekend I am going to mention a few new caps. Legend of Fishguard, Mitch Mitchell who has been out on numerous occasions with the chickens will be an official Lovechicken this weekend. We will be looking to the old man for not only confidence on the pitch but his leadership on the piss.

Next up is nationalist choir Monkey, Darren P. He is tipped to be a professional singer who partnered the Fergatron, drinking and singing in Ukraine. Another social handgrenade in the mould of Fuzz and definitely one to watch.

Finally for this episode I introduce Earl the Titan. A great player and is one of the only people in the entire world who doesn’t drink that I actually trust (it will never happen with vegetarians). Whilst I would rather stick a poker down my japs eye than go out sober with a bunch of twats like us, Earl always enjoys it and is always there till the end – so watch and learn Tew!!!

Special Video Offer

Living with a bunch of cocks
Special behind the scene footage of the Lovechickens team as they prepare for the match against the money scrounging students.

Witness the extraordinary scenes of the captain Will eating urinal cubes after training. Watch a triple heart attack as Thug, Carlton and Gar San Francisco get to level one on the bleep test. Gasp in awe as you witness Taz walking around bollocko resembling King kong after an incomplete wax. See the additional 30 hour footage of Rhys Bach, Sex Pest and Chez in the bathroom preparing to go out on the piss.

Other important news
News just come in is that there are 2 elite Lovechicken drinking teams going out on the Friday before the big match. I hear that the 6ft Jap is captaining the ‘Newpuurt’ side whilst Ski Barr will be fronting the Cardiff side.
Double carnage……………………………………………………

The day to end all days by the Six Foot Jap

The historical day is nearly upon us, where lovechicks become lovechickens, and cold hearts become warm. United as a indestructible force, a rugby clan, with fire in our eyes and boots on our feet. Not a single phrase can be used to describe the growing feeling inside of each and every brood member. If it could be summed up it would have to be the speech from William Wallace. Take heed of this fellow chickens as it would stir the souls of friend and foe.

“Aye, fight and you may die, run and you'll live. At least a while.
And dying in your beds many years from now, would you be willing to
trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one
chance to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take
our lives, but they'll never take our free-range?!”

No other passage is more true. From this day forth only live for this match, hate the enemy, for they hate us. Prepare for the contest that rivals no other. Feel the anxiety and nervousness boiling inside and use it well. For this will be our day!

News from the training paddock

Good news on the squad (all 500 of them…), I have been informed that Big Jim and Carlton the Kaahnt are definates for Saturday. Bad news is that the cockney bastard has to leave through the day and the giant Turk will be coming straight off crime fighting and will be too knackered to play. I am not good at convincing people but I know that Kitey has an innate talent in mithering people to do what he wants – ask his missus and mam for proof. (I have witnessed the phenomenon at first hand its as amazing as watching Fuzz on the first night of tour….).

JJB sports has seen an increase in sales since the announcement of the Lovechickens game against the tax dodgers. Morg has told Dai fingers to get him a scrum cap, if the Morgatron is spending money then you know he is taking it seriously.

Todays short interview is with Coffin dodger Andy Nunn who will be the Lovechickens oldest player on Saturday.

Rooster: welcome to LC news Nunny, after narrowly missing out on playing at the Bath Spa sevens for the Chickens how does it feel to be finally getting the call

Nunny: Eh? Who are you?

Rooster: I am from LC news

Nunny: I don’t want any!

Rooster: No I have come to interview you

Nunny: But I don’t want a bath, I want to watch diagnosis murder

Rooster: Do you know that you are playing for the Lovechickens?

Nunny: I love beef more than chicken tell the nurses

Rooster: Sigh…thanks for your time Andy Nunn

Nunny: I’ve made another wet mistake in my pants, will you help me

Rooster: no


More news

As many of you know for the first 10 minutes of the match against the great unwashed we will be fielding some of the old boys (that’s in age not in a uni sense), many of who will be playing in their last matches ever. The average age of our backs will be 33, I don’t think the rest of the first half squad is that much younger. What I would love to know is how much older the combined age of the Uni team is compared to the combined age of Nunny and Mitch.


First rule of Saturday is that the LC’s will be required to where novelty or shit underwear. For many of us Fishguard Lovechickens the words ‘shit’ and ‘underwear’ conjures up memories of Thug Roberts and Morgatron Hart who broke the world record for forgetting their kit for their entire school lives. Memories of passing 2 cross country runners with towellette orange Y-fronts with turquoise Y’s will stay with us forever……..

Fact of the day
A Lovechicken has won the weakest link.

draws in rugby by London Welsh

It has been three days now, and I still have no emotional response to Saturday's game against Australia.
Throughout the years I have born witness to many types of displays and results. Brave Welsh performances in the face of adversity, classic routs of the oppo, games where we have snatched victory from the jaws of defeat (and vice versa on many occasions) and downright rapings. Each has had an emotional response because there was closure.

Whether the team who deserved to win actually won or not was irrelevant; the best team won because they had more points then the other. I'll refer to RWC 2003 where we outscored The Saxon 3 tries to 1. Did it matter? No. Jonny Papercut slotted multiple lefties and we lost. I was left aggrieved, upset, and when The Apeth lifted the cup I was left to wonder "what if..."

In kiss-ball, the draw is commonplace. For a game that increasingly disgusts by the week, I can let it go. After all, we are not Americans (sorry Doug et al) and do not need meaningless numbers of baskets, TD's or Homeruns only to be excited by the final seconds of a game in all of our major sports.

But Rugby? Please no, 30 men give their bodies, souls and lives for their club or, more importanly, pride and honour for their nation for 80 minutes and still they cannot be separated. Personally I feel that the phrase "the draw was a fair result" is a cop-out. It is a typical Dewi Morris/Stuart Barnes soundbyte typical of the fence sitting, (Welsh born) Saxon Fecks. I do not think there is a single player on the field at full time who would have said "yeah, i'll take that". Chris Latham gave one of the most impressive performances at 15 I have ever seen. He would have taken on all 15 of our guys on his own given the chance, and i'm sure that applies to the other Wallabies and Welshmen who gave their all on Saturday.

In my opinion, the international draw is unnacceptable, and should be irradicated from the game as soon as possible, including RWC pool games and Six/Tri nations. Let's take it to the school yard...next score wins!

City Road Crisis by The Generic Yeti

Once upon a time, it was so easy, we would go to the Tavistock, have several pints, and move onto Kiwis, having passed through a vital staging post, the “Tut n’ Shive”. Here, much 'Bo' would be consumed whilst the Chickens would wager princely sums on games of skill such at “Battleships”, “Cludo” and “Hangman”. Occasionally, we could play pool, and in the high times, sit in the Waltzer chairs, close your eyes, and pretend you were at the fair.

However, as anyone who has been listening to Real Radio will know, the Tut is now a trendy ‘place’ called “Poets Corner”, or, as they like to call it “PC’s”. Apparently, they have live music every Saturday, to stop us talking about rugby after the game and as a Greene King pub, serves the same shit IPA bitter that I was forced to drink for the seven years I lived in East Anglia.

Couple of interesting things about this whole set up.

1) Be careful about jumping into a Taxi, and asking to go to the “Poets Corner”. Until recently, Poets Corner was a pub in Grangetown. From the outside, the picture of Coleridge on the sign, and nice blinds, made me think it would be the most classy pub in Grangetown. However, having dressed up for a night on the town, me and the missus faced the widest array of Burburry and tattoos seen West of Newport. As the ‘News of the World’ say “We made our excuses and left”, the ultimate ventriloquist pub. The name may have changed, but the custom may not.

2) Greene King have a good record of wrecking pubs in Cardiff. You with long memories will remember happy drinks at the old, old Slug and Lettuce, which became the Glassworks. Who can forget Tew gagging on Pints of Piss during the 1999 Rugby World Cup Final. The Glassworks actually won awards for its ale from CAMRA, but never got to collect it, as by that time, it had become Copa, dedicated to the sale of Belgian Beer, and Vanilla flavored Kronenbourg at £5 a pint.

So what are the alternatives? I have not been into the newly re-opened Corner House. Apparently they do Jazz, so Neil will be the best person to fill us in on there. The Wetherspoon’s is still there, and it has cheep beer. However, there always seem to be lots of old men who want to fill you in on their time in Aden, through their pipe smoke, killing what little atmosphere there is. To top it all, no telly to catch the second game. Finally, we have the Roath Park, which is in the wrong direction, and we call it the flying chair, need I say more.

You know something, we need a Club House.

Wingers - faster than Chris Parry?? - doubt it!!

Wingers, such great wingers and so many to consider. Obviously I consider myself in the category great and would include Mssrs Pete Dev and Fat Mike. Chris Parry would obviously include himself but if we follow that rational we could also include Rick Waller and Sir Stephen Hawking.




(above - Chris Parry and a friend collect their runners up medals in last years Bath Spa 7's)

As I have already stated I have decided not to go too far back as, although I have seen film of Gerald Davies and Dai Duckham – that would just get boring.
I will start off with Welsh wingers. I wanted to put Gareth Thomas in, he is a great player and very versatile. He makes me very secure that he is in the Welsh side but what is he, Full back, winger or centre – I don’t think he is amazing in any of those positions but bizarrely he is an amazing player – don’t understand? Don’t ask? I don’t either.
Another person like this is Dafydd James. A centre through and through but competed for Wales on the wing and was such a great player at the end of the nineties and beginning of the noughties that he was not only picked to go on the Lions 2001 but played, and well, in all three tests.
For me the two wingers that I would put in my team would be Shane Williams and Ieuan Evans. I know that Shane Williams is a bit of a surprise but I remember the first time I saw him live, it was against Italy and every time he touched the ball the whole stadium were enthralled, a general gasp went around wanting to know what the diminutive wizard would do next . He may be small but his running angles and ability to beat the man can change games, people want to see him and he is hard as well. The way he played against the All Blacks in 2003 and Argentina in 2005 was awe inspiring. His defence isn’t as dodgy as what ‘the man in the pub’ always points to and who would worry about that when you have Howarth at his back.

No doubts about defence or anything else to be honest with regards to Ieuan the Lion, the Carmarthen cowboy. 72 caps for Wales, 6 for the Lions over 3 tours, 33 tries for Wales and countless others, among them the try that beat the Aussies in 1989 and the English in 1993, a European cup medal winner and the bloke who finished the try that Bill Maclaren (priase his name above all even Mr T and Brian Blessed) commented so:

“Inside Duncan, inside Gavin Hastings, inside everybody, Jink Jink Jink and that was out of top drawer, Merlin the magician couldn’t have done better himself”.

Well, I could have. Ieuan had it all except dress sense, Jeans and daps…tut.

Internationally
Many people would think me foolish to discard John Kirwan but I didn’t see too much of him and I think he was injured before the 1989 All Blacks tour (one of the best teams in history). I considered Josh Lewsey as well, a cracking all rounder but I put him in the same category as Gareth Thomas (see above). Doug Howlett, Rico Gear and Joe Rocococo, great players but for the best of the best I want something more which brings me to my final three. The person who I left out, just, was a player who I loved to watch but I wouldn’t expect many people to remember him never mind rate him and that was Patrice Lagisquet, the Bayonne express. The player seemed lightning back in the early 90’s, I thought of him because I wanted Blanco as full back and they complemented each other. However I plumbed for the following duo Jonah Lomu and David Campese. I really don’t feel like I should have to justify my selections because they speak for themselves. However try I must, David Campese, even though he was knob that could give away a try in a pass, could in the next move start and finish a move that won the match. His side step and general awareness was mercurial and his confidence bordered on arrogant which I loved.
When thinking about Lomu you always think about the 1995 World Cup in South Africa and especially when he destroyed England. He was extraordinary but he wasn’t just a crash bang wallop merchant, sure he could make Big Will look like Clysts but he had a great rugby brain and a huge side-step. His guts to come back from a debilitating illness was phenomenal and even though he took it a step to far coming back a second time (waddling around like Ski) he still had the rugby brain. A nice guy who would have to organise the taxis and the kitty cos he can’t drink as much anymore, he definitely would be wanted around if Taz got punchy.

so there is mine but I doubt you will have much of a different international pairing.

Welsh teams in Europe! by t' Merthyr Yoth

Last weekend we seen the start of the new european season, and even though there is only 3 out of the 4 welsh regions involved this year it looked promising to see that they all won! 2 out of the 3 where away wins which makes it impressive, but the game that made it more impressive was the ospreys win over the English champions Sale Sharks! They played to the final whistle and it paid off with interest!

The only disappointing win i feel is the way the Scarlets let the London Irish come back at them in the last 20 mins of the game, but they still come away with a bonus point win on an away game which has proven to be costly in past years of the competition.
The Cardiff Blues played well to win in France and hopefully will be able to continue this form as they have been placed in one of the hardest groups, with Leicester and current champions Munster!

Lets all hope that last week was not just a bit of luck for our Welsh teams but one of the last steps showing that Welsh rugby is becoming great again!

full back by London Welsh

Quick one from me as I am currently working harder than a 3 year old in a pakistani sweatshop...

Wales - Being a fullback myself this is quite a decision. As much as I loved Howarth and his passion for his country (and his blinding DG against Argentina from 45 yds!) he played on a lie. If I were giving out citizenship, he would get it no question... but I don't make the rules.

If you're talking angles McManus, the guy i'd pick (from viewing) would be Mike Rayer, the man so good they named a piss up after him. I loved it when he took the 15 off Clements (twat), and the two tries against Scotland in 1994 live lovingly in my memory.

International - As much as I hate to say it, he's english. So solid, very versitile and put in the best comeback i've ever seen! Eng v Aus, 2003. Jumped up little ex-touch rugby (league) twat Mat Rogers gives my man a sly dig on the floor, I think followed by a knee and Aussie mouth filth about fuck knows. My man waits for the next time Mat is at first receiver and times his hit perfectly. not too late to be penalised, late enough to decimate his mind and body and leave Mat to be carried off with 2 broken ribs. I do of course refer to ex-army hard cunt Josh Lewsey. I dont know if he drinks. I';d be dissappointed if he didnt. I'd replace him in a "good looking blond squad" though. Just.

Best XV's - Fergs choice full back.

Dear girls knickers,
With the autumn internationals almost upon us, most normal men with backbone and lives are thinking about rugby. Many of us will actually go to the pub and the conversations will be diverse. From the sitting/standing pooing debate (which some people cant be bothered to state their preference – twats) to how many top class rugby players have Cardiff made shit and not forgetting the eternal question of who would win a race out of superman and the Flash. One of my favourites however is the who would I have in my all time 15. So I thought I would put a Welsh XV and an international XV to play against down to see if anyone can be arsed to agree or disagree.

While I would love to put down JPR, Gareth, and Dai Duckham they were a little beforemy time (mitch - from Fishguard you can put these down!!) so I have kept my selection to players I have seen from my childhood till now. Obviously Spenny and Ski etc will pick an English team, Connair and Sex pest to pick an Irish one, Will to pick a Japanese one and as soon as we know where the fuck Fuzz is from, we can get his.

Today I pick my full backs. I must say that I put 2 names down almost immediately and no matter how many great players I added to the list, come the end I couldn’t bring myself to change them.
It depends what sort of full back you want. Old dependables like Gavin Hastings who while I consider boring as fuck, was a solid influence on a Scottish team. For my Welsh side the equivalent was Paul Thorburn. On one occasion he ran into the line and Bill Maclaren said
“…and Thorburn was going like a train” yes he was, a Sprinter train from Milford Haven to Carmarthen, I saw more movement from Roberts in 2003 and he didn’t move a lot.

So for the Welsh I had 3 choices, one is actually a current player but people forget that he has been around for nearly 10 years and if not for injury would have been a Lion in 1997, 2001 and 2005. He should make the Welsh side this autumn because without a doubt he is the best full back around. Its Kevin Morgan, everything I want in a full back but he just missed out to my choice. My other option who just missed out was the Swansea player Anthony Clement, although he played fly half, he was the full back during the 1988 triple crown season and made 2 Lions tours. He was great but most of all I loved his jink and his forest animals instinct to know where to go. In the end I picked someone who played for Wales but found out he was not actually eligible. This was after showing a commitment and a passion to my great country that was sadly lacking in many who have put on the jersey with the three feathers. His name is Shane Howarth, a true professional and a double hard bastard. Great runner, great passer, invincible under the high ball and people forget that he also scored a try against England in THAT match in 1999.

So lets look at the alternatives for my international team, Percy Montgomery, Jean-Babtiste Lafond and Christian Cullen are up there. Lafond was not as well known but I loved his confidence. Montgomery was great, a true competitor and oozed class especially when he came to Newport and then there was Cullen, while he still looked dangerous when playing for Munster, he was a shadow of his former self. When he played for the All Blacks he was truly awe inspiring, he ran great angles and was great under the high ball. So I got down to my final 2 and was gutted I had to leave the next player out, however I would put him in my squad. He really is fast as fuck and every time he got the ball against Wales I would truly shit myself, he is still a great player but luckily for us Andy Robinson the English coach wouldn’t know a good thing if he bought a good thing box from a good thing shop, opened it up and found a good thing staring back.

I am wandering somewhat so I will reveal my favourite full back. For my world XV I wanted my kind of player and this will make more sense as I name more of my team. I didn’t want a team full of good players I wanted a good team, bois that would set the rugby world alight and then burn down the bar afterwards as well. Jason Robinson doesn’t drink so I don’t understand him, I just find it very hard to trust people who don’t drink, I also don’t think he is that good under a high ball so that is why I am going for the chain smoking, wine drinking nasty bastard from France, Serge Blanco. It was his vision that set off that amazing try against the English in 1991 (I think), he was the one who scored that brilliant try against the Ozzies to reach the finals of the first world cup in 1987. He also was a dirty sod that knocked fuck out of the English winger during the 91 world cup. I am not sure he ever lost to Wales, we were so pants at the time we almost made him look godlike. He had everything and therefore is in my XV.

i look forward to hearing your views and your choices, however Neil and Ches should remember that they cant include themselves in their choice and i will shoot the first person that names Derwyn Jones as a full back

The Art of Winning Graciously by Ski Barr superstar wears crotchless knickers and a nipple crampp bra

Whilst I always look forward to an international weekend whoever is playing, there really is something very, very special about an England v Wales match. This predates the Lovechickens, and has always been the match I most looked forward to each and every year. I think for me the love of this game is down to the history and the pedigree of two sides that have in their time bathed in glory as the greatest teams of their time. (Northern Hemisphere). I refer to the great Welsh teams of the 70’s who created so many Rugby legends and more recently the Great English teams that have dominated the 5 nations and then 6 nations and obviously the current holders of the Webb Ellis Trophy.

I think that the passion the Welsh Nation has for the greatest game on earth (with the possible exception of Online Texas Hold Em Poker) is unrivalled and it is this passion that I now need to refer to.

The Welsh are the greatest, most gracious losers that it has been my pleasure to commiserate with after the final whistle has blown and we head off into the bars and clubs of Cardiff or Richmond with a pat on the back from every Taff we meet, stating what a great game the English played and how we deserved to win, whilst in return with our usual English graciousness concede that we had indeed played well but Wales had put up a hell of a fight and were unlucky not to have beaten us. We then all agree that we could lay no blame on the Welsh players but instead on the WRFU hierarchy for their incompetence before downing another 2 or 3 pints in quick succession, toasting both teams. This is how after game celebrations should take place.

Now I come to the point of this Blog. The Art of Winning Graciously or Disgraciously as it really should be headed. Whilst this is definitely not a dig at any of the Chickens, who have been more than gracious in the past, it is an observation of the Welsh in general once they are victorious. It is the change in attitude and behaviour towards anybody who is adorning any sign of an English Rose anywhere on their person. Instead of the commiseration ceremony by the victors towards the vanquished, there is an altogether different attitude adopted.

This can come in many degrees of negativity from just being a few nasty comments as to my English parentage to full on assault tactics.

As an example let me cast your mind back to the Wales v England game in Wembley on that glorious Saturday afternoon in April 1999. What a fantastic match, so closely matched throughout. We were in the Claude in Roath and what an atmosphere. A couple of hundred Welshmen and Women proudly in Red and only 2 or 3 of us Englishmen resplendent in our White Jersey’s. The atmosphere was fantastic, and the banter throughout the Claude was as good as I have ever known. Everybody was enjoying the game and the playful insults were being hurled across the pub at each other in the greatest of spirits. One minute to go and England are leading. Whilst the Welsh seemed to be resigned to yet another defeat at the hands of the old foe whilst the English could already feel the Grand Slam was won yet again, my good friend and Rugby Legend Scott Gibbs scores a last minute try which is converted by the Great Neil Jenkins to give the Welsh a 32-31 victory. What more could any Rugby fan want but the drama of that game, no matter who you supported.

But there was no time to celebrate or commiserate as the mood changed within The Claude. It was turning particularly ugly and nasty. The win seemed to boil the blood of a good proportion of the gathered Welsh throng. Instead of the usual slaps on the back and the sympathetic “Unlucky Bud” for losing, the 2 or 3 Englishmen in the pub were subjected to a tirade of abusive remarks with spitting and threats of violence getting worse by the second. My good friends of the Chickens surrounded us to protect us and we quickly left the Claude totally bemused as to the change in character of what a few minutes earlier were a joyous and jovial crowd. How could winning a game in such style turn a crowd into such and ugly mob intent on making our defeat even worse. Talk about kick a man when he is down.

Now you could consider this an isolated incident, but no, over the ensuing years, usually whilst on tour with the Chickens and England have been defeated, the same pattern of behaviour has risen again and again wherever we have been or whoever has beaten us.

My conclusion in all of this is that, the Welsh do not know how to win graciously. Now whenever I have raised this point with the learned Rooster as to why this is the case, he just answers that it is because the Welsh hate the English so much that any victory is like winning a Battle against Long Shanks himself. But I still don’t understand why the English are hated so vehemently by our closest neighbours. Please enlighten me so I can better understand the treatment that is meated out to us in defeat.

No really I want to know why you hate us so much!!!!!! I want reasons, dates, events, battles, whatever it is that has engrained the hatred of the English into the Welsh DNA.

A Texan Mos Eisley Cantina by the American Muscle

This promises to be a gigantic undertaking as the Love Chickens try and categorize and label their local pubs and watering holes into a classification system for which they can be rated and compared to one another as "The Mos Eisley Cantina/Emerald Cafe" types.

This could be a useful guide in the event a Love Chicken finds himself alone in a foreign place. This compiled list could serve as tool to located other lost Chickens looking for a place to roost for the night! Here, in Texas there are multitude of preverbial Emerald Cafes. There is one in almost every small town in Texas. Of all of these "Mos Eisley Cantina" types I would have to say you should try Arkey Blues Silver Dollar located in the "Cowboy Capital of the world" Bandera, Texas. Here we find Bandera offering up its finest fit for a "Emerald Cafe" type.

As you find your self sauntering down Main Street there is a door with a sign shaped as a silver dollar above the awnings that over hang the street. Then you notice this door which leads down a flight of stairs and with unrecognizable sounds emitting which drew your attention to the fire engine red door. Now you realize the door must go with the sign above. These sounds have peeked your curiosity your eyebrow is raised to maximum height and you decide to chance the desent into the basement entrance between two store fronts regardless of the sense you might regret it later. Here lies a set of stairs that has been traveled so many times over they are worn and uneven. When you manage your way down the stairs with an opening large enough for an 8 year girl you will find a world that most people thought was extinct! In the corner off to the right after your desent of the stairs is the stage. Here you will find what rivals the music of Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes ... You find Arkey Blues and the Silver Dollar band belting out their best renditions of Patsy Cline, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, and Hank Williams, Sr. It is like stepping into the past. You notice the stairs have let out into the middle of a sawdust covered dance floor and if do not move immediately you will be trampled by those twirling all about. While the band plays those who have work so hard all week now work to forget how hard they have worked and Dance with spurs jinglin' as they Boot scoot across the Dance floor to the skretches the band offers up as music.

Here you will find the local farmers, ranchers, and cowboys in there jeans, boots, spurs, and cowboy hats looking to spend their hard earned pay on beer as your allowed to bring your alcohol. On almost every table stands a bottle of sour mash whiskey or bourbon pushing everyone to forget the weeks labors. The smoke lingers so thick it makes impossible to see across the saw dust covered floor most nights. Here you will find women of all ages, with or without teeth willing to please as long as you promise to please them back. The frequents do not take kindly to strangers with their eyes, but state all the pleasantries we have come to expect in the south.
"Ya'll comeback ya here!" It is like nothing you have ever expereinced!

I offer you up this spot in Bandera, Texas, USA as "The Mos Eisley Cantina/Emerald Cafe"

International rugby and sunday games - a rant by the Fergatron

Child poverty, international terrorism, rogue states, Young criminals, Clowns, Geese and Austin Healy. Things of pure evil created by the devil but other than waiting around SPAR and duffing up the little scrotes or using some of my chums to create regime change in Burma, things I can do nothing or very little about.

I also know nothing about them really except that Healy is a gob shite and is losing all his hair – ha ha and terrorism is bad unless it’s done by people burning down English peoples second homes. While I am not belittling these huge world evils, to me there is an evil so all consuming, so life changing that every time it is mentioned I feel my chest tightening and my heart beat quickens to a rate that makes Chris Parry’s blackened heart rate seem sedate.

I can feel the bile of hatred raise to the upper reaches of my throat even contemplating writing it, but write it I must because this evil is not mother natures design to keep us down, it is not even this stupid arrogant, ignorant Labour Governments fault although they must be kicking themselves that they never thought of it to begin with. This evil is the creation of greed, of money, a creation of faceless executives who know nothing of the beautiful thing they are hell bent in destroying.
Love chickens and non affiliated rugby boys I bring you

Sunday international rugby!!!

There I have written it now.

What these morons don’t realise is that international Rugby Union isn’t just 80 minutes of a sports match, it isn’t turn up, sit down, cheer and leave for home, neither is it; get up, go down, turn on television, watch match, scratch bollocks and then go to bed.

Its weeks of piss taking and banter, its weeks of organising trips away or piss ups at home. It’s the busy streets of Twickers, the pinnacle of piss ups in Edinburgh, the mental birds of Ireland and the easy American students of Paris….mmmm Paris. But tours are something I will leave to others; I will concentrate on the Cardiff weekend.

You see these fuckheads don’t understand that more than anything it is about the weekend, it is about friendship, about camaraderie, something lost in these sterile days of 9 to 5 and health and safety. Now all that remains is this game, our game, these 80 minutes of conflict, of attack and defence when 15 men represent us on the field of battle and use everything they have to compete and above all, win.

For the Cardiff matches you see the Friday is the day of the gathering, most of the day spent on phone calls, on texts and on emails. It’s about organising lifts or booking tickets. Those overtime hours are exchanged for flexi time and an early finish is part of the course. You have the bois who take the day off and arrive like kids on Christmas morning, drop their ironed shirts at the house and go straight to the pubs and wait as the day goes by and their numbers grow until early evening arrives and the main group of bois are there.


As we all know Friday for the Love chickens is the
“What we will do, we will have a few pints and get to bed early as we have a big day on Saturday.”

Its bollocks, it’s as unlikely as Tew making it to midnight or Roberts wiping his arse properly.

It is a night of furious drinking, stories and laughter in suburban pubs before the gathering head into town, Fat Mike runs off, Phil Kite can’t see properly and we all end up in what I like to call Valhalla (Kiwis). We don’t have an early night we roll in at 4 o clock in the morning having spent £20 each in Charleston’s steak house buying shoe leather with a packet sauce. But it doesn’t matter because we were allowed to sing and when we get back, we sleep, we sleep the drunken sleep of the dead. The international weekend sleep of
Lie down
Close eye
Open eye
Get up
In reality this lasts about 5 hours but in the head of the Love chicken it seems about 4 minutes.

Big bum boys like Neil ‘the King of the Gays’ Evans has usually gone home at 9 o clock and had about 10 hours sleep in his cumquat face mask so many are woken (especially me) by the smug gits phone call at half eight in the morning (For our American members that’s half past eight not four o’clock).

The Ambleston Yeti AKA Morgs had a 5 hour sleep head start as he normally falls asleep as soon as he gets into Kiwis.

Most of us wake up early automatically, this is what we have been waiting for, and the adrenaline pushes up, sends us to the shower and prepares us for the day. The knowledge that you will spend the whole day surrounded by friends that you trust and love, talking about rugby, women and regaling each other of stories that you all know as you were all involved. Friends who know you better than you know yourself and that you would trust with your life.

(disclaimer – while I would trust King of the Gays with my life, I wouldn’t trust him with my mobile phone or him holding a ladder for me – you can just see his devilish grin………………………..).


Visits to the greasy spoon and bookies are part of the tradition and a pre-cursor to the lift to the pub. We arrive at opening time and sit there for hours discussing, cajoling and in the back of our minds is the rugby, our raison d’etre and before you know it………………..its here. The warm feeling of looking up and seeing Grandstand on the Telly in the pub brings an inward smile and you know its time as people jostle for seats as the teams run on the pitch and the voices go from loud to louder.


In an instant it goes to silence because now its time for the anthems. Watching the pride, passion and focus of the teams singing the anthems fires the blood. As a Welshman one of the great sadnesses is that the WRU brings in a singer to help us sing. We are Welsh, we don’t need it. It’s in the genes, if we can’t bloody sing our national anthem than let’s pack up and go home (like we did in the 90’s). While I love Kathryn Jenkins or Charlotte Church to bits I doubt if the players are fired by a single female voice rather than the combined effort of 50 thousand fans willing them on to victory.


Then, the whistle blows and for 40 minutes the world is forgotten, work, family, missus, commitments, mortgage, bills pushed to the back of the mind by the gladiatorial battle that presents itself before you. Power, intelligence and skill combine and when the final whistle goes your appetite for competition is sated.

The depression of loss doesn’t last too long while the elation of victory will last until the next match. Drinking re-starts in earnest and from now on its pub to pub to pub and in true Love chicken styley groups split into smaller groups spreading through shitty pubs, shiny bars, gleaming nightclubs and kiwis.

By the ending of the night we have done everything we are allowed to do and we find ourselves in Chip Alley. Historians state that only the Pyramids remain from the old Seven Wonders of the World however Tacitus or any of the old historians never witnessed the stench and vitality of Chip Alley. (See next blog for new wonders).

Here you will taste the culinary delight known to punters as ‘Orange Curry’. At the end of the night you will end up with this orange curry on your shiny shirt, so you may as well eat the shite anyway – even if the day before the meat on your plastic plate had a name, a name tag and a kennel.

And finally its home, stories of nakedness, debauchery, boozing and shenanigans, of grown men wetting their pants (could 4 of us please put up our hands) and dance moves that could only be called ‘Freestyle’ and then we witness the end of international weekend. Sunday is a day for Fergatron to be stuck in his pants and watch shite Sunday telly; it’s also time for him to open the door to London Welsh after a night of him being a dirty dog.


You can’t have this with Sunday rugby. Yes you can go out on Friday and Saturday but you can you do this anytime. It is the rugby on the Saturday that brings the bad and the brilliant down to the capital.
On Sunday the atmosphere is damp, more people stay at home, sure you can still get drunk but do you go out with that intention or do you start thinking I am not going to have a big one – that’s not the attitude, because even if you do its not with the gusto of a Saturday. I remember being on tour in Scotland and the game was on a Sunday. Yes the Friday and Saturday were great but the Sunday was…….wrong. One of the major plusses with rugby is that after the game is finished you go on the beer (Chardonnay if you are Neil) with opposition supporters but there was no atmos with a lot of Scots worried about work. It’s a disgrace. Three games in one day is not the end of the world and the game should be there for the people.

As Love chickens we must fight this injustice – it is our future fun they play with and it must stop. What next? The Six Nations during the week? So we do what rugby bois have done since William Web Ellis told the powers to be to ‘swivel’ and ran with the ball, we will plan for Scotland and plan for the home match against the English and then we will drink and be happy.

In these days of external threats and internal apathy, we as proper blokes must rise up and meet these head on because

we’se is men but theys is just a bunch of puffs

Star Wars Bars by London Welsh

STAR WARS BARS
"The Mos Eisley Cantina, officially named The Emerald Cafe, is a fictional bar of the Star Wars universe located in the “pirate city” of Mos Eisley on the planet Tatooine. It is the haunt of freight pilots and other dangerous characters of varying races and contains booths, a bar counter, and some free-standing tables, and sometimes a band of musicians named Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes." [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mos_Eisley_Cantina] 2006.

I have found another. It is called the Castle and is in Whitechapel, East London.

Amazingly, this place does not kick off until 2am, where all the pleasant folk of the East end slide in after they have been selling fruit or vauxhall novas or 'stabbing people up'. Personally, i'd stick a bit of 'effnik' bashing in there too. Men are there to be men, to drink until the sun comes up or until they pass out, are thrown out or are knocked out. The women are there for a jump. It is a proverbial Parachute Club, Spunk Shed, or any other endearing term you have for somewhere where you WILL get fucked.

Can we please formulate a list of Mos Eisley Cantinas/Emerald Cafes and come up with a tick box classification system to simplify qualification?

Division 3 + 4 rugby by The Fat Lipped Jew

Many people have watched in awe as Skinner and Baddiel introduce their one man fountain of knowledge ‘Stato’ to our TV screens. People are virtually pissing in their pants when the national lottery presenter ‘Claudia Winkleman’ stands up on a Wednesday evening and spiels off the lotto statistical bollocks. But it is within these realms that I, The Fat Lipped Jew, find comfort and warmth, find joy and belonging but most of all achieve a hard-on that rivals no other (even London Welsh!).

The Jew has been the brunt of many a joke for his attitude to the sport in which he loves, rugby union has been a hobby of the Jew ever since giving up a life long ambition to be Vanessa Mae, and putting away the violin for a pair of boots at the age of 16 took more guts and determination than many of you piss taking brood realise. The Jew always knew his future would lead to rugby union ever since he was 12 years old when his father tossed him a cream slice and he dropped it in the mud. It was there and then that The Jew decided to learn to catch. If not to enjoy the sport of rugby union, to at least be able to eat food without cat shit and bird mess in it!

So it was at 16 years old that the 20 stone Jamie Oliver look-a-like decided to embark in a sports career in school and then university. But this is not a tail of happiness and fluffy puppy dogs, this is one of trial and tribulations, ups and downs, nudity and chastity, but most of all boredom, pure and utter boredom (most might say!).

Through hard training and pure dedication week in week out the Jew finally managed to put his rugby boots on, and even at one training session had to remove a steak and onion pie from his mouth in order to catch his breath after walking to the training field from his changing rooms. The Jew was not a true athlete YET!

But hold on fellow Love Chickens this is not a story of tears and woe, and do not get the Jew mixed up with the Treasurer, as stories do run similar. But there was the light at the end of the tunnel for The Fat Lipped Jew.

One late autumn, in between dinners, everything just seemed to click into place, for The Jew realised that his career truly did lie in rugby union, division 3 and 4 rugby union, but nevertheless rugby union.

The Jew began to lose weight, put on speed, he learnt to close his mouth when he ran to make his lips more aerodynamic but most of all he began to catch. His prospects as a professional was slowly beginning to be fulfilled.

But, fellow chickens, who said he never had set backs. The career of the Jew had one disastrous final turn, one that all chickens would come to wish never took place. Those who are familiar with the life of the Jew will have heard this story thousands of times. Little children all around Pontypool are being put to bed on the story, as a warning to behave and sleep tight.

It can only be described as the ‘Water Bottle Rollie-Pollie’ Incident. A career ending incident that makes the guts turn, whilst warming up for a match the Jew feel over a water-bottle, forward rolling into the ground and breaking 3 things. His shoulder, his self-esteem but most of all in weeks to come his fellow chickens 'will' to live.

Would this really be a career ending injury the brood might ask itself. The answer is NO! But this is the Jew we are talking about.

Instead of channelling all his efforts into recovery the Jew became ‘Claudia Winkleman’, literally dress and all! He became the one to avoid on love chicken outings, he spurted off everything from division three and four rugby union, and even managed to talk the Llanelli wonder boy and THE Six Foot Jap to sleep on the pub golf. Now this get even worse, he was even talking about Croesyceiliog RFC to the doorman as he was judo thrown out of Walkabout.

Now being of sound mind and body whilst writing this he see the errors of his ways. And vows never to say or write another thing ever on division 3 and 4 rugby union. He hopes the brood is finally happy.

Never again, EVER.

The chickens will not ever here a thing about division 3 and 4 rugby again.

Ever!

Not one word, promise.

Not one.

Bollocks can not do this.

Here are the results from the Konica Minolta Cup this weekend.

Aberavon Quins 21-24 Pencoed Abergavenny 0-7 Tonna Aberystwyth P-P Laugharne (Aberystwyth walkover)Bettws 13-3 Pontypool United Brynamman 8-10 Seven Sisters Bryncoch 8-51 Treherbert Caernarfon 15-0 O Illtydians Caldicot 0-48 Garndiffaith Cambrian Welfare 29-12 Glyncorrwg Cardiff HSOB 32-34 Fairwater Cardiff Medicals 10-23 Nantyffyllon Carmarthen Ath 42-10 Amman United Cilfynydd 22-29 Denbigh Cowbridge 18-34 Abertysswg Crymych 0-54 Mumbles Cwmbran 0-13 Felinfoel Ferndale 16-22 Tylorstown Glyncoch 17-26 Penallta Gwernyfed 12-16 Llandaff North Heol y Cyw 46-5 Risca Lampeter Town 22-13 Pill Harriers Llandaff 31-23 Crumlin Llandudno 18-20 Skewen Llangefni 29-24 Aberdare Llanishen 42-8 Newtown Llantrisant 65-15 Cwmgors Maesteg 19-9 Dolgellau Mold 23-29 Corus (P Talbot) Morriston 18-3 Machen Mountain Ash 48-10 Haverfordwest Nantymoel 8-16 Penclawdd Nelson 57-5 Trefil Pembroke Dock Quins 5-25 Maesteg Quins Brynithel 15-22 Ynysybwl Penarth 31-7 Bryncethin Sports Pontyberem 31-7 Newport HSOB Pwllheli P-P Blaina (Pwllheli walkover)Resolven 18-13 Tredegar Ironsides Rhydyfelin 66-0 Colwyn Bay St Peters 31-14 Porth Tondu 34-0 Dowlais Tonmawr 34-6 Cwmavon Tredegar 80-0 Crynant Treorchy 15-10 BP Llandarcy Trimsaran 31-15 St Josephs Tumble P-P Brynmawr (Tumble walkover)Usk 11-22 Brecon Ystradgynlais 13-15 Nantyglo

Next round is on the 20-22 October.

THE JEW IS SO SO SO ASHAMED OF HIMSELF! Sorry Chickens.

The great sitting down or standing up debate

By your leader

with the Rooster away for a bit i thought i would right about something close to my heart or my arse if you'd rather.

I don’t know why it started and I am certainly don’t know when it started but I do know where it started. It was the Abergwaun Hotel in Fishguard, through the bar door and just to your right. The weather was overcast and a selection of arch drinkers had converged here in the twilight hours of a Saturday to prepare for yet another caper of drinking and shenanigans.

The person I do remember who was there, who prompts me to write this raging debate, is the one and only master of Fencing Matty Miles. Not a Zorro-esque character who is an expert with the sword but rather a brash character with no social skills who is an expert with the hammer and a large sharp piece of wood.

However, I digress, we found out after being on this God’s earth for at least over a quarter of a century that

Blokes wipe their arses one of two ways and the other wau is abhorrent to the other (does that make sense?)

Now I can’t speak for everybody but from what I have gleaned from some of the boys is that I am part of a minority with my style of bottom cleaning. I am part of a group that actually stand up while wiping it.
Matty is part of the majority who sit down (crouch also applies) while wiping it. This is 2/3rds of everybody I have asked and I can only think that this must be down to misinformation or bad habits.

Now people can break these bonds and realise that there is another way. Surely you can’t get enough purchase when you are sitting down. Also one must look at comfort, sitting down and reaching around or through can’t be as comfortable as the good old fashioned stand which is manly. Anyone who has watched girls have a wee (Two fannies – I am thinking of you!) will know that they crouch down or sit therefore it is a girls thing and the other way is a mans.
My way.

I am glad we had this little chat and looking forward to you lot telling me you have changed your ways.

Overlord Fergatron
LC ½
The visible half of the leadership

My favourite pub by the Fergatron

Whilst I have my favourite gems of pubs throughout the country and even one in the USA I am picking a pub much closer to home to nominate as my favourite.

“A wretched hive of scum and villainy”

is what old Ben Knobi tells young Luke Skywalker when he attempts to comment on the space port Mos Eisley. If I’d have been Skywalker I would have probably forgotten about the Force, the princess and flying X wings and immediately organised an all-dayer in the beloved place because dark and dingy with interesting mutant life forms is my bag baby!!!
Dark and dingy with interesting life forms then leaves me straight on to my favourite pub in Cardiff – The Tavistock which is off City Road in Roath.

I have been a regular visitor to this pub and on many occasions was joined by Lovechickens in official and unofficial visits. The bar where we sit is particularly dark which is something I like in a pub – as our glorious treasurer once said in Brisbane

‘Darkness Is my medium’ and for once I tend to agree.

The floors are wooden and the seating comfortable however last time I went in there I noticed some chairs that wouldn’t look out of place outside a west Wales café. There are 2 telly’s and they are in great places – this is a fantastic place for watching Friday night rugby before getting into town. Another bonus which could be said for other pubs in the Welsh Capital is that it has a skittles alley which is a great place to start off a sesh in. I am brilliant at this game and I won £20 off Roberts the last time I played on his stag do. I now bet him a tonne that I could do it again.

As for personnel - the Tavistock is great, the locals love their drinking and their rugby and on one occasion when me and Tew (1988-2002) went to watch the Wales France match – the locals supplied cheese and red wine for half time. We only went out to watch the match but pissed up on wine we ended up on a big one – bloody cheese. The old landlord was Alan who was a legend but I cant help but think that the new one Keith is going the same way. A young landlord who is up for a laugh – during the New Zealand match last year he made me and the King of them all (Neil) neck 2 pints – oh how he laughed when I spued all mine back into the glass in front of a packed pub.

That was a great time however I have 2 favourites. The first one was watching the third test of the 2001 lions. The match was on about 8 or 9 in the morning and the Lovechickens had to show their ties on the door in order to get in. They had closed the curtains and left the heating on and this was in the middle of summer!!! It was boiling so of course we drank even more! There were about 15 of us and when the match finished they opened the curtains and the pub and most of us were absolutely twatted – how we laughed when we realised it wasn’t even midday.

My best memory was for pub golf in 2004. We had Lovechickens from all over the UK and were joined by our Chickens from over the pond. The period we spent in the Tavistock was extended as we were having so much fun and was the best laugh and then we had to order 8 taxi’s to take us to town – delight. I think that that was the only time it has ever featured in a proper cap but what I delightful day it was and I am proud to say – I was there!

Although unfortunately for Morg they don’t do food and I know Chez wished there was more skirt and King of them all wishes there was at least some sort of contemporary jazz and/or line dancing but it is a favourite of mine and I still wish to put forward the Tavistock as one of my favourite pubs and onto the official list of Great pubs for the Lovechickens RFC.

kind regards jessies
The Fergatron
Joint Overlord of the Lovechickens RFC
LC1/2

The Brood, the crude and the ugly by THE six foot jap

THE Jap has deliberated, confabulated, and decapitated the proceeding of the first of ‘THE pub golf grand prix’ session, and he has come up with this summary.

First a famous quote to reach the heart of even ‘the social hand grenade from over the bridge’, and a quote that should be the motto of the Love Chickens RFC.

“A man who won't die for something is not fit to live.”

(Martin Luther King, Jr.)

How true is that fellow Fowls?! THE Jap knows everyone of us on that glorious day back in August left a piece of our souls (if not our lunch) on the Caerleon battle field. Not since the Celts fought off the Romans on the hallowed fairground patch outside the Drovers arms, did such an important battle take place. One of sabotage and tactics; one of wounds and fatalities; and one of alcohol and debauchery. THE Jap is a little confused to the meaning of debauchery but it sounds sinister (if any Fowls know of such as a word send the meaning to P.O.BOX KISS-MY-ASS).

The Jap is sat here rubbing his hands with anticipation about sharing the story to long lost Love Chickens who through no fault of there own (they were told they weren’t allowed out by their missus) managed to dodge the day of pain.

Now THE JAP is not one for story telling, as the Brood knows, but for those Fowls who stayed in that weekend and watched P-Ants and Dics Celebrity Golf series from the Celtic Manor there was a serious cock-up in filming and the camera’s were definitely in the wrong place to be for golf in Caerleon. For James Nesbit we had our very on ‘Cameraman’ who beat Mr. Nesbit in the uni-brow competition and the ‘fuck me he’s boring’ competition. We had Blue who through out the whole day slowly but surely turned into what can only be described as the Love Chickens one and only Alice Cooper. As for the ‘The Aggressor’ well come on, (THE Jap chuckles) and thinks of Ronnie Corbet. As for ‘Bannatyne’ who cares. And THE Jap thinks he is now getting on a par with Ross Kemp, both in baldness and flumpishness!

Anyway look at the Jap coming over all Steven Spielberg, back to the story. It started off at a leisurely pace for pre-round thirst quenchers in The Red Lion (A pub which will later in the story becomes the centre of mischief and mayhem). It was here at the beginning that THE Jap knew the day was going to be painful, when he realised that his son for the day was going to be the cameraman, the one they call ‘Unibrow’! Dun Dun Daaaaaah! We left The Red Lion and headed to the 1st hole in a more orderly fashion than when we head back there!

In The Ship THE Jap giving a quick lesson in Killer to the other Fowls. A pint of your choice was a definite good shout. And with the par being 10 many was well under par leading into the 2nd hole!

The Hanbury Inn was a bit of a let down (as for a bank holiday weekend, a fat man with beer stains down him was all that was on show, and as we had to look at him (The Rooster) for the next 7 holes, moral was low! Haha). After finishing in there many of the Love Chickens were looking at each other with horror, anticipation, and constipation, at the vast challenge ahead.

After The Hanbury the Brood made its way to the 3rd hole, The White Hart, where for many a Newport Fowl a tear was shed and fond memories reminisced of yester year, (for all 3 minutes till we supped our pints and left). As alcohol was consumed moral was lifting and even ‘Fat Lips’ was starting to have interesting conversations outside of Division 3 and Division 4 rugby.

Our next port of call was the 4th hole, Caerleons newly named pub ‘Boleros’, now THE Jap has been to Caerleon many a time and knows Baleros is the place to be at night, but at 4 in the afternoon, with 7 Love Chickens in it was definitely THE place to be in Newport (Nobody else thought so but us, we were the only ones there!). A swift Vodka, Lime and Lemonade the preferred and Patriotic beverage of the Love Chickens RFC and we was off again to the 5th hole.

Ye Old Bull was were the alcohol was beginning to take over blood in the Love Chickens systems, it was the last port of call for sober Fowls, and this is where THE Jap played his joker card, he wasn’t having Cider (I don’t know whether you have been out with THE Six Foot Jap when he has had a Cider, if you have you will remember it, if you haven’t you will never get chance. But that’s a story THE Jap will tell again). After finishing the pints in there a quick tally of scores were made and THE Jap saw he was joint first with ‘Bannatyne’, he thought he had him beat.

The walk between Ye Old Bull and the 6th hole The Red Lion, I will now refer to as THE GREEN MILE. Many of the Brood turned ugly within this stretch. We reach the tee in good humour, although the 2 minutes walk without an alcoholic drink in their hands was too much for some Fowls. What was too come I can only describe as monstrous!

To lift moral even further and too lift those Fowl from the depths of their glasses, boules was to be played, or as Blue (Geoff Capes) thought, they were mini-demolition ball and continuously hoyed them at the next door houses’ wall. Then the most terrifying (but absolutely hilarious) incident occurred, it was better than the Rooster-Cockney Boules-gate incident of yester year. It was the Swingball-gate scandal.

The Brood made its way over to play swingball (a childish game for drunken adult men to show off their manhood) or in the case of ‘Bannatyne’ to pick up swing around and smack ‘The Agressor’ squire on the back.

THE Jap has seen many a grown man cry and shed a few himself, but he has never witness anything so funny as a grown man squeal like a pig at slaughter, run around the edge of the garden like a Cheetah trying to swipe a gnat off his back. And hold back tears like the camera crew on Steve Irwins last adventure. Jackass would have been proud. But that’s not all! Oh no.

The Rooster in all his wisdom decides that then is the time to flush his system of toxins in a public manner, much to the dismay of THE Six Foot Jap who with weak stomach has no option but to clear his system too (A big thanks to the Rooster)! But what was funnier was seeing Fat Lips and then Unibrow raking the sick over to hide it on the boules court.

So onward and downward with our travels to the 7th hole, The Drovers, a quite little pub in the heart of the Caerleon community, where father and son, brother and sister could all be the same person. Now bare in mind there are seven in our Brood and it is THE Jap’s round, so with my son ‘unibrow’ in tow I go to the bar. My mistake entirely! From this point on I take no blame. Unibrow took command demanding the bargirl (a 14 year old novice with huge breasts) poured the pints exactly how he said, he turned into Adolf Hitler (I was proud to be his dad until…..)! The daft bastard had ordered 9 pints of beer for 7 of us! So we made him drink two and luckily there was a little troll in the corner (reminded me of the cockney wanker) who would have the other. And once again off we went.

By this time competition was rife between me and Bannatyne, we were still level. Leading on to the 8th hole banter was in abundance even if it was slurred.

In the Angel it was a bit surreal with all the mayhem of the previous holes, there seemed to be a quiet calm across the brood, as if we were suddenly waiting for the next bit of mischief to appear, only we had took it to its limits of human decency and the next step would have to be human sacrifice. And none of us wanted to go to the Royal Gwent Hospital (apart from ‘The Aggressor’ who thought it might be better than sleeping in the streets for another night).

The 9th and final hole Minstrels, what can be said about the place that hasn’t already been said. The place looked how we felt, like shit. The pool table turn into a big beer mat, chair, penguin, bed, Christmas tree, for most of us anyway (it had got that bad). With arguments occurring for silly reasons like, ‘You like Barbara Dixon!’, ‘No I don’t!’. After downing the Red Wine and celebrating a joint victory between THE Jap and Bannatyne it was time to get the fuck out of dodge, via town cabs to THE ‘PORT.

First port of call was Wetherspoons to meet up with ‘The Llanelli Wonderboy’, then onto Walkabout (Remember guys it was 8 o’clock!). The brood had consumed the best part of two barrels of ale between the 7 Fowls and at 8pm was being refused alcohol in Walkabout. So someone suggested The Meze Lounge, gooooood idea, not! All day THE Jap had felt something was missing that empty feeling inside THE Japs stomach, that aching, yearning feeling, for something. Then there was something Bannatyne did that triggered off what it was. Bannatyne booted fuck into the telephone box (someone wants to tell him money doesn’t buy everything, he’s spoilt!). Like lightening flashes the essence of ‘The Social Hand Grenade from over the Bridge’ was with us. That sense of team completion was there. The fat little Peck was with us in spirit.

THE Jap and The Wonderboy spent some quality talk time catching up on the way to the lounge, only to pay for entry, then two seconds literally after entering having to leave, as the other Fowls came flying towards the exit after being thrown out. This wasn’t looking good for an enjoyable night in Newport.

After having a quiet few in some pubs around the area we tried to venture into Walkabout again, whilst walking down the street THE Jap met someone who resemble Alice Cooper, but later realised it was Blue. Who got refused entry, because according to him, ‘Like come on man I like paid about 5 times now’. Although, he had been chucked out 4 times.

Then there was Fat Lips being led out of Walkabout like Bruce Forsyth, off the 18th hole stumbling, shaking and muttering to himself (probably at the same time in the day too, it was a killer round!). THE Jap has never laughed so much in my life when the doorman asked Fat Lips to leave and the Jamie Oliver look-a-like said ‘Pukka’ and walked out! Although THE Jap did have an accident whilst dancing to THE HOFF’s new song when he slipped and landed on his back infront of everyone and had to be helped up by a bunch of lads. He thought he had gotten away with it until he seen Wonderboy laughing. Goddamn it!

And as far as THE Jap is concerned that’s the end of his story, he left at 1.30am to meet MRS Jap had a curry and went home, he’s sure you all have your Gems from the day but he’s never laughed so much in one day and cried so much the next!

So THE Jap proposes a Love Chickens RFC motto

“A man who won't die for something is not fit to live.”

(Martin Luther King, Jr.)

We all died that day for the Love Chickens which means we all live for each other and the brood. Bring on the next challenge

stupid golf...............

Even though I write this on a Tuesday a full 2 and a bit days from the end of Caerleon pub golf 2006 I am still squinting through puffed up eyes and every so often getting sharp pains ala Ski throughout my body.
To say the day was a success was an understatement, to say that the competitors were in a giant mess can also jump in the box called ‘understatements’.
As I already stated in my previous blog the field was a strong one and it was a dead on statement – I can honestly say I haven’t been involved in a harder pub golf tournament before because there was nowhere to hide. The championees in the end were the Six foot Jap and London Welsh, both pushed the pace and made me want to phone my mam and tell her to travel the 110 miles to come and pick me up.

By the Red Lion it was all going a bit mental with the Jap and the Rooster spuing, the boys playing ‘killer French boules’ and swing ball and than London Welsh smacking the swing ball so hard at ‘The Agressor’ that he admitted he nearly cried for the first time since he was six (which incidentally I think is bollocks cos he must have seen a.) Watership down b.) forest gump or c.) Wales play in the early 1990’s).

The Golf was done at such a pace that it started at 1445hrs and finished just before 7. Newport itself decided that it wasn’t going to let us in to all its pubs. Many of you know Newport’s reputation for being rough as fuck and it is a reputation that it deserves and revels in so you can imagine how bad we really were when we stopped getting into four of its bloody pubs. 2 of us managed to get chucked out of Walkabout twice.

If it wasn’t for Jez Phillips we wouldn’t have known half of what had happened but then I know it was going to be bad when I had to tell Blue to ‘look soberer or we wont get into wetherspoons!!’ at quarter past seven in the evening.

This may be the last blog for a bit as the Rooster is going to visit the Lovechicken King from over the pond. Big Doug has called and I have responded – however looking at the weather it seems there is a big fuck off hurricane heading his way so it looks like me and the Ayatollah will be down to Tenby.

Remember you can still send me your postings and I will put them on – but none about kiss ball – it will not be tolerated!!!

PS The Kaahnt let us down good and proper – so disappointed

And they're under starters orders...............

On Saturday we see the start of the pub golf grand prix season 2006-2007. This inaugural competition will begin in the old Roman fortress and University town of Caerleon which is a few miles away from Wales’ newest city Newport.

While The Rooster is still unsure of competitors early information states that whilst there will be a strong Gwent influence, The chickens will be joined by a champion guzzler from Llanelli and of course there is also rumour abound that the Cock will be gracing us with his presence.

With the ‘Oval social hand grenade from over the bridge’ not attending I do feel that a podium finish is there for the taking.

I only wish that Tew, Pies and Thug were taking part. In the first ever pub golf – which incidentally was the full 18 holes, Tew ‘cooked’ our glorious co-founder and uber hermit Thug Roberts by 1830hrs.
I hasten to add that this was when Tew was in his pre-nancy boy stage and could drink a little. I mention this because Tew was next to join the ‘list of the shamed’ when after 14 holes had to be helped into is Car like a giant spacker while his missus and kid watched on.

Gold medal and top of the list goes to Saxon oil change monkey, Pies who was so hung over turning up to pub golf a few months ago, had to leave after 15 minutes not touching a drop and going home at quarter past twelve (yes in the afternoon).

Pub golf is not just about drinking but also about mental strength and determination. With this in mind I do expect the arrogant half French Canadian to be in jail rather than bed by 10 and ‘The Voice of division 3 rugby and golf’ to be home so early that he gets in a Delorean time machine car and actually asks Lyn to pick him up in the year 1993.

London Welsh will pull while I will have to follow ‘The cock’ around as he tells everybody he’s 27.

All chickens are welcome – Get involved!!!