Rugby Stories

Munster vs Saracens: Heineken Cup Semi-Final


Many of our people are already in place at the Ricoh stadium, and I’m receiving communications from Coventry by the minute.  There are 5,000 Saracens.  There are 20,000 of us.

Here in Limerick, a group of highly-trained special forces drinkers have taken control of strategic pubs with large screens and the logistics effort has swung into operation in earnest.  A band of public-spirited and entirely selfless taxi drivers have made the ultimate sacrifice and now, right across the city, are ferrying the red-clad home supporters to their stations.

Our boys in Coventry won’t be found wanting.

We won’t be found wanting.

Come what may, this is it.  Lose and we’re out.  Win and we’re back to Cardiff to meet the old enemy, Toulouse.

We’re ready.



Munster won.  Holy fuck, what a game.  I thought I was going to have a coronary, except my doctor already told me my heart was perfect.  I thought I was going to have a stroke.  I thought I was going to have a conniption.

What does this mean?  Well, this means that the Bullet and myself are going to Cardiff again at the end of next  month.  This means we’re up for another road movie.  This means the Munster toon army is on the move yet again.

Look forward to photos.  Many photos.

Bock’s camera will be busy.



Heineken Cup 2008 – Pictures
Bock and Bullet Safe. Home Tonight.
Heineken Cup 2008 – We Won!!!
Heineken Cup Final 2008 – Cardiff
Heineken Cup Final: Limerick On The Move
Heineken Cup 2008
Heineken Cup Final 2008 – Munster vs Toulouse



Oh Yes, He’s the Great Zucchini

The Stringer try

This is it, boys, this is war

Jock Hunter

Favourites Religion Stories

Saint Bock’s Gospel


Another shell slid into the breech of the Roman-built MkXIII Praetor assault cannon.

KLANKK! The noise echoed off the cold stone walls of the cave.

Too loud.

Goddamn ! Jesus bit hard on his cigar as he squinted through the crack where the huge round stone blocked the cave’s entrance. Behind him, his hijacked Roman flat-bed Quadriga jeep rumbled menacingly. Jesus had had to take out three elite legionaries to get this baby. It had a rapid-fire, gas-powered, self-loading, recoilless ballista mounted in the back and a pair of forward-aimed high-output Scorpio machine-crossbows above the headlights. The powerful engine (a full CDXXX cubic unciae swept volume) could out-pull a well-fed mule train or an African elephant.

Outside, the Roman motorised cavalry revved their engines, ready to move out, their job done. Or so they thought, Jesus told himself with a wry smile.

His hands and feet ached like hell and he had a gash at least VI unciae long, but apart from that he was in good shape. He hefted the Praetor and looked along the sights, lining it up with the big red-faced centurion in the lead wagon. Jesus recognised him: this was the guy who’d laughed as he stuck him with the spear three days ago. Long Johnnius, the troops called him.

I could blow you away right now, motherfucker, thought Jesus, but that wasn’t the plan. Later, there would be time for pleasure, but this was strictly business.

The Centurion raised his arm and the column began to move. OK, Jesus muttered. Show-time!

He jumped behind the Quadriga’s wheel and gunned the engine. The stone moved a little, and then a little more. He risked another push and the gap opened to a couple of pedes. OK. Enough. The Roman column rolled by, truck after truck, their pennants fluttering in the warm Springtime breeze, and Jesus counted them down. X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV! Go go go! The Quadriga’s engine screamed as Jesus slammed his jeep straight against the huge stone, rolling it into the road right in the path of the last truck. The Roman driver swerved to avoid it and slewed to a halt in front of the cave, but it was to be his last move. Three heavily-armed apostles appeared as if from nowhere and with a deft stroke, the big bearded one killed the soldier where he sat.

Rocky! laughed Jesus. You didn’t let me down.

Christ, no, Boss, boomed Rocky. You ok?

Jesus shrugged. I’ve been worse. What the hell went wrong?

Don’t know what the fuck. It all looked ok. That night in the bar? When you told us the plan?

Jesus nodded. I told you, get me inside and I’ll do the rest. I’ll capture Pilate, blow the communications and we’ll be out again in an hour.

Well, Rocky went on, all the boys knew their jobs. Everyone done it right. Judas was great – had ’em believin’ you was unarmed. That guy, he oughtta get an Oscar. So what the fuck happened? That’s what I wanna know. I get my hands on whoever blew it? He’s dead.

OK, Jesus said. What’s the point? It’s done. Here we go: Plan B. How many guys we got left?

Hard to tell, Boss. XV, maybe XX tops.

Jesus grunted. It’ll have to do. Come on, let’s get this ammo-wagon back on the road.


Pontius Pilate was in good spirits. The Prefect of Judaea had put to death the leader of the Jewish uprising and he was looking forward to rich rewards from his Roman masters.

Hey, see you Jimmy? he shouted at his Nubian slave. Gie’s that there bunch o’ grapes there, Son. Och, look, just go an’ peel ’em for us there, ya lazy fucker. Aye. Right enough. And while you’re at it, pour us another wee dram o’ that Judaean whiskey. Nae bother.

As he reached for the goblet, a gigantic explosion blasted a hole in the palace wall and when the dust cleared, it revealed a figure silhouetted against the fires in the atrium. Outside, more explosions echoed, punctuated by the heavy klakka-klakka noise of the Scorpios and the deeper resounding thud as the ballista demolished Pilate’s fortress.

Who the fuck are you, Jimmy? Pilate started, but as Jesus stepped through the opening and into the room, a grimace of pure fear spread across the Prefect’s face.

Wha’ aboot ye, Jesus? he greeted. Ye’re lookin’ well for a deceased punter. A thought ye were deid.

Somewhere at the back of the room, a door flew open and someone cursed.

What the fuck – ?

Without a word, Jesus whirled, drawing his short-bladed gladius in one smooth movement and driving it into the chest of the attacking red-faced centurion, Long Johnnius. Jesus smiled grimly. Well, motherfucker, he spat, how does it feel?

Pilate flattened himself against the wall. Ah for fuck’s sake, Jesus. If ye cannae tak a joke, what’s the world comin’ tae? Surely we can work somethin’ out? I mean, you’re probably pissed off, what wi’ bein’ crucified an’ all, but –


Pilate’s words were cut short as another shell slid into the breech of the Praetor assault cannon.

Jesus studied the whimpering Prefect of Judaea for a moment, then spat.

Crucify this!  Motherfucker!


Food & Drink Internet

Blog Awards

I couldn’t go myself, because I had some business to take care of. You know? I’m a businessman. I’m in construction and refuse. Business, ok?

Here’s the boys. I said to them, you go to this Blog Award thing, and you behave yourself now. Don’t go gettin’ into no trouble. Don’t start no fight. Don’t bring no heat down on me, cos I’m a legitimate businessman now and I don’t need no heat. OK.

They’re good guys. I got them from the Ukrainian mob my business associates in the former Soviet Bloc. They don’t speak English so good but they’re stand-up guys.

Here they are gettin’ into the spirit of things.

They met these people cos I told ’em, you meet the Swearing Couple, I wanna know. You tell ’em from me, they got any trouble? With anybody? They just call Bock, cos they’re good people. But get this. The Swearing Couple don’t swear. How do ya like that? They don’t swear! They just spend the whole time in the free bar, swallowin’ huge quantities of free liquor. Free! Can you imagine that? Free liquor. Tell ya this – it wouldn’t happen on my patch, that’s one thing sure and certain. Anyhows, they pass on the message to the Non-swearing Couple and somehow it seems the goons got it right, cos they get real friendly with the nice no-cursing people. That’s good. Here’s a couple shots of Swearing People.

Then they meet this broad. Real cute stuff from down our way. This chick is into the rag trade or somethin’. I don’t know. What the hell would I know? Jeez!

So anyway, in the end we don’t win nothin’, ya know, an’ I don’t mind too much now, ya know, but these Ukrainians? Jeez, they gonna embarrass me, cos they get picked out for havin’ these real sharp threads and you’ll never guess what these gorillas did. Yeah, that’s right. They went and made a speech, and they say how, like, they hafta go back to Bock wid no prize, and Bock’s gonna whack ’em an’ all. Me? I’m a businessman, fa cryin out loud! A businessman.

They meet this other guy at the bar later, guy calls himself Twenty. Or at least, they think they’re meetin’ him, until he leans a bit too far into the bar counter and – get this – his elbow disappears right into the wall. Jeez! Turns out the guy’s one of them hollow grahams.

Hey. Don’t ask me. It’s scientific stuff that means he ain’t real.

kick it on