This is it, boys, this is war

In the morning, we hit the road for Dublin, me and the kid and about eight million other Limerick people as well. Better make sure the old red shirt isn’t too smelly. I forgot to wash it after the Sale match, and it seems to have become a bit of an eco-system in its own right, but I’ll hang it out on the window-cill overnight, which should get rid of the worst of it. I can always pick away the encrusted bits, or better still, get the Manchurian Skobe-Hound to chew them off. Talking of which, I’m not sure what to do about Satan’s Terrier while we’re away. There’s a policeman living not too far from me. Maybe I could force the dog through his letter-box or, better still, set fire to it and fling it at his bedroom window. If I got to work right now, I could probably make up a replica Roman ballista out of old inner tubes and a stolen park bench and with that I’d be able to fire a hail of burning dogs at the cop’s house. Take that, you guard fucker! Stand up, you’re too comfortable!

Beelzebub’s Micro-Mastiff is not what you’d call a classic rugby fan. However, as a favour to a friend in Bruff RFC, I once sprayed him white and taped his legs to his chest. The dog, I mean – not my friend. When they slipped him into the scrum, he ate the bollocks off the Kilfeakle hooker before they realised he wasn’t the ball.

Tomorrow promises to be good, but it’s a pity it won’t be in Thomond Park. If it was in Thomond Park, we could array an army of killer pensioners with umbrellas all around the pitch. Have one of them, ya Frog Fucker! Poke. Poke. Ya Catalan bastard. Poke. Give us back the 42 Counties!!

We’ll probably get on the move early, cos I want to get rid of the car at Wrinkly Paddy’s house, and get back into town as quick as I can for a drink. I know I’m bringing a young lad with me, but he can’t be sheltered from reality all his life. Sooner or later, he’ll have to observe his father crawling around the floor of a pub and starting fights with strangers. God knows, he’ll be helping me home long enough when he grows up. We’ll catch up with the Wrinkly Romeos in Mulligans, have a good few scoops and watch the Leinster game. I’m hoping to get the young fella langers as early as possible so he won’t be annoying me with questions later. He’s still only fourteen, so he’ll be easy enough to carry onto the Dort.

We were thinking of going to the Tent in Lansdowne, but Wrinkly Paddy just sent an emergency txt, tht thrs nly Mrphs n plstc gls, wch is fkall gd 2 me. That’s ok. We convened in Mulligans last time as well, and it was fine. It was exactly the same as it’s been for the last 40 years: surly bar staff, high prices and filthy accommodation. Pity Regans is gone. At least Mrs Regan would appear out of a secret door in the wall with a plate of sambos. There ye are lads. Thanks MzzRegan. And no charge, unlike Tommy Fukken Cusack of Mulligans, who’d charge you for breathing if he could, the mean little baldy Cavan bastard. It’s a pity poor old John McGahern passed away before he had a chance to write about miserable grasping little baldy Cavan publicans in Dublin. Thank God we’re in Limerick. No Cavan fuckers here, I’m tellin ya.

Anyhow, myself and the offspring have tickets on the goal line at the North end. Row 1. Never been there before, so I’m not sure what the view will be like. I’m hoping it will be busy for one half and boring for the other, and I hope those things will happen in the desired order. Ideally, I’d have liked seats between the 22s but what the hell. At least there I’ll be able to have my umbrella ready, given half a chance. Go back to Canet Plage, ya phuqqer!! Remember Georgi Markov!! Poke!! Maybe I shouldn’t fling the Skobe-Hound at the policeman. Maybe I should secrete him beneath my authentic Munster serape, and set him loose among the Perpignan pack at a crucial psychological moment in the game. This might well unnerve them, as it’s unlikely they’ve seen a dog with red eyes before. A proper Munster dog.

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