I know. What a load of shite. I know. It’s the blog equivalent of putting on Alice’s Restaurant and fucking off for a smoke, like Ronan Collins used to do, before they took the afternoon away from him and gave it to the Nicest Man in Ireland. It wouldn’t be hard to be the nicest man in Ireland with all the aggressive drunken skobes we have, but don’t get me started on that or we’re here for the night.
What did you think of the rugby? Do you think we deserve to have won the Triple Crown? I don’t. I think Horgan’s first try was dodgy. I think the ball touched the line and the flag should have gone up. In just the same way, I think Italy beat us, even though the score line didn’t reflect that fact. We were credited with two completely invalid tries in my opinion, and gli Azzurri deserved to take away at least one good win.
However, win or no win, surely the man of the season has to be Jerry Flannery. No? To come from nowhere, collect a Triple Crown (or at least a half-crown), and to be looking forward in two weeks’ time to meeting Perpignan in the quarter final of the European Cup. Now, that’s not to diminish Titans like the great Paul O’Connell or The Man Eddie Forgot: Anthony Foley, who might well have gifted Ireland with a Six-Nations trophy if only Eddie had the imagination to use him. Or, indeed, any of the other greats, including the Bull, who comes in for a lot of stick. Or Peter Stretcher, whom I myself have slagged. Anyway, who gives a fuck? That’s the Ireland thing over for another year, and now it’s down to the real business. Come on Munster!!! Although, to be honest, I greatly fear that Barry Murphy’s injury could be a fatal blow to our chances.
Great news about Scunthorpe United. In a shock result, the useless bums beat Chesterfield away to drag themselves up to eleventh in the league. They don’t deserve it, of course, being for the most part a useless shower of drunkards, goose-milkers and heron-stranglers, apart from young Andy Keogh. We should see Andy on an Ireland bench before long if there’s any justice in this world. If only Billy the Fish hadn’t broken his ankle they might even have had a chance of promotion again.
I must tell you about Scunthorpe some time. There isn’t time now to describe Scunthorpe with any degree of accuracy, except to to say this. Last time I went there with the Wrinkly Romeos, a female taxi-driver wouldn’t believe we were visitors. “You what??? Visiting Scunthorpe??? What???” I’m talking incomprehension here, my friend. It’s the only place I’ve ever gone to where people apologise for its existence. “Sorry about the town. Try to enjoy yourself . . .” But in fairness to them, they have the best Indian restaurant I have ever had the pleasure of eating in.
Talking of the Wrinkly Romeos, I hear they’re gigging at the Kilkenny rhythm ‘n’ roots festival. We’ll have to go to that. When I say I hear they’re gigging, what I really mean is that they phoned me and begged me to bring people. Well actually, they promised to return the negatives if I brought a friend. Let’s see now. A friend. Well, that could be a small problem.