Above: Get a fucking hair cut Al!As we are now well aware – Ferg has too much time on his hands, and rather than doing what he’s supposed to (Uni work – things don’t change), he’s blogging like he’s never blogged before. Three blogs in four days, - maybe he did actually blog more than that, he just didn’t want the world to know about it.
I too could be spending my time a little more productive. I could try and tame the forests that weigh down my brow – the joke like mono that makes me look like a cross between a grumpy, fat James Nesbitt with Bert and Ernie. Yet, I thought bollocks to it – I spend a few hours a day on a train with stinking, toothless, hairy tattooed people (and that’s just the women), so I thought I’d vent some anger at a couple of pricks that a destroying Rugby for me, and try to ease some strain on my furrowed brow.
Time, my friends, is a fickle thing. One moment we are running down the pitch, the next we may worry that if we fart it could follow through. From spending money each week on hair styling products, to now investing in the latest technology in hair thickener or weigh up the option plugs and surgery. A “quick pint” of yesteryear that lasted three days, now really is a quick pint now that we may struggle to finish.
As we get older, the laws of the game we love are gradually changing too. Days are gone when you had to catch the ball while sticking your arse out like you’re appearing on Strictly Come Dancing, stamp a heel on the floor while simultaneously shouting, “Mark”. Guidance on the ELV’s on rucks, mauls and lineout’s have kept several branches of the Citizens Advice Bureau in South Wales venues open (so, butt, Ida can’m hit’m when lineout jumper hits em grounds?), and when some of the older members of the coup were in their prime (Andy Nunn)– tries were 3 points.
Even though a student of the blind school could tell you who, how and why a front row is going down quicker than Gaddafi’s popularity, ref’s still haven’t got a clue. I also find it worrying that referee Wayne Barnes seems to welcome scrum time, just so he can take a fucking eternity with “Crouch, touch, pause…” and the “engage” part sounds like he may have done himself a mischief in his shorts.
We see sporting stars develop, hit the headlines, and retire. Or, they shag celebrities and retire (not Chez), shag celebrities and emigrate (Chez), shag celebrities move to another club because “oh, well, the boys and the banter – I don’t think my orangeness could cope with it”(possibly Chez again).
These days, more technology and analysis goes into rugby than Bush and Blair put in to trying to find weapons of mass destruction. Charles Darwin’s’ possible missing proof of Evolution is Andy Powell – a man from the past, George of the Jungle on steroids crossed with Master Blaster from Mad Max 3 - after swinging from trees, humping bollards and shitting in caves he borrowed a modern day cart because, as he put it, “me dum hungry”.
I too could be spending my time a little more productive. I could try and tame the forests that weigh down my brow – the joke like mono that makes me look like a cross between a grumpy, fat James Nesbitt with Bert and Ernie. Yet, I thought bollocks to it – I spend a few hours a day on a train with stinking, toothless, hairy tattooed people (and that’s just the women), so I thought I’d vent some anger at a couple of pricks that a destroying Rugby for me, and try to ease some strain on my furrowed brow.
Time, my friends, is a fickle thing. One moment we are running down the pitch, the next we may worry that if we fart it could follow through. From spending money each week on hair styling products, to now investing in the latest technology in hair thickener or weigh up the option plugs and surgery. A “quick pint” of yesteryear that lasted three days, now really is a quick pint now that we may struggle to finish.
As we get older, the laws of the game we love are gradually changing too. Days are gone when you had to catch the ball while sticking your arse out like you’re appearing on Strictly Come Dancing, stamp a heel on the floor while simultaneously shouting, “Mark”. Guidance on the ELV’s on rucks, mauls and lineout’s have kept several branches of the Citizens Advice Bureau in South Wales venues open (so, butt, Ida can’m hit’m when lineout jumper hits em grounds?), and when some of the older members of the coup were in their prime (Andy Nunn)– tries were 3 points.
Even though a student of the blind school could tell you who, how and why a front row is going down quicker than Gaddafi’s popularity, ref’s still haven’t got a clue. I also find it worrying that referee Wayne Barnes seems to welcome scrum time, just so he can take a fucking eternity with “Crouch, touch, pause…” and the “engage” part sounds like he may have done himself a mischief in his shorts.
We see sporting stars develop, hit the headlines, and retire. Or, they shag celebrities and retire (not Chez), shag celebrities and emigrate (Chez), shag celebrities move to another club because “oh, well, the boys and the banter – I don’t think my orangeness could cope with it”(possibly Chez again).
These days, more technology and analysis goes into rugby than Bush and Blair put in to trying to find weapons of mass destruction. Charles Darwin’s’ possible missing proof of Evolution is Andy Powell – a man from the past, George of the Jungle on steroids crossed with Master Blaster from Mad Max 3 - after swinging from trees, humping bollards and shitting in caves he borrowed a modern day cart because, as he put it, “me dum hungry”.
Below: Wanted - One nasty old dwarf to sit on Andy Powells shoulders in order to help him think
Worse than all of this, is the retired sports star becoming the commentator. Don’t get me wrong, some players have the thought and brain power to think “well, I can’t chase eggs forever, what will I do when it all finishes?” League players have converted to coaching in Union, some sign contracts for Sky or BBC – which finally brings me to the point of this rant. Statler and Waldorf (pictured) have had their personality removed (exactly) and taken human form while “commentating” rugby. Ladies, Gentlemen and Love Chickens - please give a two finger salute to – Eddie Butler and Brian Moore.
Many Love Chickens have probably spent more time playing against international stars than Butler did – so what the fuck does he know? He played in the early 80’s – but, didn’t everyone play for Wales in the early 80’s?
They were hardly the cream of the crop in the 80’s were they? – you piss the Red side of the Severn Bridge and you’re handed your first cap. I’m sure for one international, the blokes selling dodgy merchandise outside Cardiff Central – “one peeeound ya hat’s, ya scarves, ya badgieeees” – actually included a Welsh Cap for £5.
Butler has worked for The Guardian newspaper since the early 90’s, and writes like Taz on a good day. And although at least he has time to get someone to check and re-write his copy, no one can alter or advise the tripe that comes out of his gob when he talks – you can get more sense out of Big Will after 20 pints and a kebab. The one that really sticks to mind is Wales v England, 1999. Our “home” game at Wembley – because we beat them by a couple of points, Graham Henry was declared a God, and every player was given permission to shag every any female in Wales they wished. I’m unsure if Gareth Thomas accepted that or he had a clause in his contract – Shane Howarth was unable to fulfill that either as he wasn’t Welsh.
Now I’m sure you all had copious amounts of alcohol before, during, and after that game – thankfully the most interesting parts can be viewed on Youtube so we can say “yeah, of course I remember it”. Despite Tim Rodber’s “tackle” shattering Colin Charvis’ cheekbone, blind Butler had the stupidity of saying it was a “bad decision” by the ref?
“When you go in for a tackle like that…” but it wasn’t a tackle Butler.
“Ah well it’s a dangerous game…bad decision ref, bad decision.” Butler really should the Golden Kick in the Bollocks award (if there is one?). Also among his irritating lines…
“That’s the power of…”
“That’s the speed of…
“And there is the strength of…”
Those comments wreck the highlights of Wales’ last Grand Slam – along with every other syllable that comes out of his mouth.
Which brings me on to his partner in crime, Brian Moore.
Brian Moore – with an irritating face, only surpassed by that constantly-smiling Prof Brian Cox (are you an arse bandit pop star, or are you a star-gazing arse bandit. Make your mind up – Cox). Brian Moore’s big (arrogant, ignorant, prick facing, blind fuckin’) mouth challenge – can they just gag the useless prick? His mindless ranting style of commentary might as well be replaced by Richard Keys saying “Smash it”, “Would you smash it”, “Have you smashed it” or “(insert players name here) is hanging out the back of it” every so often. It’d be more entertaining and probably more accurate.
If those pricks are destroying this weekend’s match (that’s before Wales get on to the pitch, play for 10 minutes, for Ronan Prick Face O’Whatsit slots yet another drop goal to win), I’ll be watching it on mute, getting pissed, and watching the highlights on YouTube again.
Uni-brow
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