Trevor Brennan 2

I see the Teenage Mutant Hero Gobshite that Trevor thumped is pursuing a criminal case against him through the French courts. He’s also taking a case against some newspapers for libel.

As I mentioned in a previous post, the slithery wee fucker, Patrick Bamford, is an accountant, which should explain a lot.

Obviously, Trevor didn’t hit the smarmy little prick hard enough.


Trevor Brennan 3

Trevor Brennan

Food & Drink

It’s Such a Perfect Day

OK. This is better. I’m finally beginning to recover from the annual Invasion of the Welsh Fuckers. I went for a walk today with Jimbo and the dogs (his and mine), through the University and down by the river at Plassey. Lovely. The water level has receded a good bit since the flooding and the old canal on the Clare side is a distinct waterway again instead of simply being part of the general wetness.

I was surprised that Jimbo didn’t appear at our other pub of choice on Sunday night, after the match, and I said so.

I was surprised you didn’t appear at our other pub of choice on Sunday night.

Are you fuckin crazy? he said. I walked into a fuckin mad-house. Welsh fuckers dancing on tables. John ‘n’ Murty playing Tom fucking Jones, for fucksake. Drunken fuckers everywhere. People laughing and hugging each other. It was horrible.

Yeah, I said. I could see how that would repulse you.

No, seriously, he said. I was sober.

Suddenly, it all made sense.

Sober? I ventured.

Stone cold, he confirmed.

Jesus, I whispered in admiration. You walked into our other pub of choice sober? On Sunday night? After the rugby match? Against Wales?

Yes, he replied. Yes, yes and yes.

Jesus, I repeated.

I know, he reassured me. I could see you and the Vulva Painter at the bar.

Yeah, I said. We were hammered.

No shit? he said.

Yeah. We went out to see the game and we just didn’t make it home.

I know, he sympathised. So you’ve been in bed ever since, I suppose, like any sensible human.

Ehh, no, I had to concede. You see, Scunthorpe were on the telly last night.

Scunthorpe? On the telly?

Yeah. Sky Sports. They were playing Bristol City. Fuck it, I had to see the game and the only place I thought it might be on was the Bank.

So you went to the pub again, right?

Right. What could I do?


I called the Vulva Painter again, and he came in. We watched it together. It was great, and Scunthorpe won a thrilling encounter and Billy Sharp scored his 21st goal of the season on his 21st birthday. Isn’t that great? I even cried.

As you would, said Jimbo. So how do you feel now?

Well, I replied, Are you familiar with the works of Lou Reed?

In a passing way, he acknowledged.

Do you remember the Blue Mask album?

Yes, he said. I hated it.

Good, I replied. There was a song on it called Waves of Fear.

Yes, Jimbo nodded.

Waves of revulsion, sickening sight.

That’s right, said Jimbo, but Lou Reed is well known for hating rugby and soccer.

True, I agreed.




Plassey House

kick it on

Bock's People Favourites Humour Media Our lives Rugby Sport Stories World

Limehouse Dick comes good again

The ivy on the wall outside my study window is ancient and gnarled. It offers excellent hand- and footholds and has seen the clandestine arrival and departure of Ambassadors, Heads of State, Cardinals, even a Pope once, in need of my help – a delicate matter involving a Jack Russell / Pontiff cross and a female American blogger. It is said that Josephine Baker once clambered across the entire face of the Bockschloss by clinging to the ivy, while wearing only a ring of bananas. They say that Kurt Weill and Berthold Brecht, while staying at Bock Towers, smoked some of the same ivy and came up with the Threepenny Opera that very night – every word and note of it. John Lennon tore a swathe of it from the wall and used it for his bedding. The Marquis deSade, a dear friend of an early Bock ancestor, is said to to have taken away great cartloads of the stuff – for what purpose I cannot imagine.

But never has the ivy on the wall of my study borne a more welcome weight than it did last night.

Let me tell you. I was up late, contrary to my usual custom, though of course you know this already. I was completing a monograph on the curious probity of chicken-legs when viewed through a shotgun wound, and though it had led me a merry dance, I was at last done with the damned thing. The police would be grateful. My pipe was filled, and Scrotum, my wrinkled old retainer, had laid a fine fire and poured me a glass of the best madeira. Suddenly, there came the rat-tat-tat upon my window and as I glanced up from my escritoire, I could vaguely discern the familiar simian features and frantic terrified waving of an old acquaintance. He was swinging from the ivy, oscillating slowly in the late evening breeze, the moonlight picking out the beads of terrified sweat on his ape-like brow.

Why, I started, is it – can it be -?

The unexpected arrival of this ruffian meant only one thing. The disreputable old footpad had somehow contrived to purloin a pair of tickets for the forthcoming football game. The one at Flintstone Park, between the blasted garlic-stinking Frogs and our own fine warriors. I flung open the casement, forgetting that Limehouse Dick had, at best, a tenuous hold on the foliage, and he fell with a dull Phrrlakk! onto the flagstones three storeys beneath.

Dammit I muttered. What a bind!

Returning to my escritoire, I drew down the speaking-horn and blew into it. Scrotum’s ancient voice instantly responded.


Ah, Scrotum, I entreated him. Be a good chap and take a look outside, will you? I think you’ll find our old chum Limehouse Dick lying in a state of disarray by the library window.

Very good, Sir.

And, Scrotum?

Yes Sir.

Scrotum, would you reach inside his greatcoat and remove what I believe will prove to be a fine brace of tickets to the forthcoming rugby football game at Flintstone Park? There’s a good chap.

Very well, Sir.

And, one last thing, Scrotum.


Call a hansom cab, would you, and sent the poor beggar to the hospital. Make sure to put a bag of sovereigns in his pocket would you, and if he’s conscious, tell him I send my thanks. Chop chop!


Previously: Limehouse Dick


Steve Staunton: Genius

Steve Staunton has called Andy Keogh up to the Irish international squad.

I suppose Andy was no good until last week because he was playing for Scunthorpe, but this week, now that he’s with Wolves, he must be brilliant. Of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that the great man, Mick McCarthy, manages Wolves and thinks Andy is very good. Steve is absolutely the boss in Irish soccer. He told us so when he took the job: “I’m the Gaffer.”

Yeah, Steve, that’s right. You’re in charge.



I’ve been a bit remiss with the reports on Scunthorpe United lately. With all the rugby and the drunkenness and everything else, sometimes it gets hard to maintain the regular level of service that my readers are entitled to. (The ones who aren’t anonymous, that is).

Times have been turbulent at Scunthorpe United in recent weeks. Andy Keogh joined Wolves for an initial fee of £600,000 plus another £250,000 if they’re promoted. In doing so, Andy deprived Scunthorpe of a fine striker, and he also deprived me of yet another illusion: the illusion that Andy has a brain between his ears. Here’s what he said about the move:

“I’m delighted to be here – I’m absolutely buzzing and cannot wait to get stuck into training. The manager (Mick McCarthy) really did not need to sell the club to me at all, his presence meant a lot because he is a great man.”

Eh, hello? Mick McCarthy is a great man? Oh Andy. Andy, Andy, Andy. What are we going to do with you at all? Mick McCarthy is a great man? Oh dear God.

Apart from that, they threw away two great chances to storm ahead at the top of the table in the past couple of weeks. They could only manage a one-all draw against Cheltenham who sit at the bottom of the table, and then they threw away a two-nil lead against Doncaster for another single point. Even though they lead the field now, following a comprehensive destruction of Millwall today, they’re vulnerable. Both Bristol City and Nottingham Forest have two games in hand and could overtake them. However, on the positive side, Bristol’s next game is against the Scuns, so all is not lost.

The three of us are heading over there shortly for the Rotherham game. Rotherham are second from the bottom, but that means nothing. Our beloved Scuns are well capable of losing to them.


Trevor Brennan

What about Trevor Brennan? For those who don’t follow such matters, Trevor is a six-foot-five 220-pound savage, a former Ireland international rugby player, latterly of Leinster and now with Toulouse.

Trev played exactly thirty seconds of rugby for Toulouse against Ulster on Sunday. First, he charged into the crowd and beat the shit out of an Ulster supporter, although in fairness to Trev, the same supporter was a smirking shifty little cunt who deserved a good beating just for looking like an unshelled tortoise. Apparently, Trev claims that the Ulster supporter, Patrick Bamford, made disparaging remarks about his mother, which is a thing that will get you going every time.

I remember once playing a soccer match and this bollix on the sideline kept shouting things about my mother.

Oy, Bock! he screamed. Your mother never changed the engine of a tractor!

Fuck you, I thought to myself, but said nothing.

After I’d nabbed a nice in-swinging floater from Mebbs McCarthy and nodded it into the back of the net, the same fool had another go.

Your mother is older than you!

Again I let it pass.

Then, right on the button of ninety minutes, just as I latched onto a sweet pass from Knackers McGonigal, your man piped up again.

Oy, Bock. Your mother couldn’t boil winkles in a big winkle-boiling thing for winkles.

That did it. In one fluid motion, I volleyed Knackers’s ball past the keeper while at the same time producing the trusty old Colt .44 Magnum I always keep in my knickers, and plugged him straight between the eyes.

I’d say it was the same for Trevor. Here was this cunt saying bad things to him, and Trevor decided there was only one thing for it. Jump into the crowd and pummel the living shit out of him with a fist the size of a medium ham. As you would. Anyway, the pounded one is an accountant and he’s wearing a stupid Santa hat at the end of January. In France, the courts will accept that as a sound defence. Remember, France is the land where Eric Cantona and Zinedine Zidane are national heroes, and fair play to them.

Of course, it didn’t help Trev’s case that he then went onto the pitch and immediately became involved in a full-scale fist-fight with Justin Harrison before being sin-binned. After that, his manager wisely chose to substitute him and he took no further part in the game.

Good man, Trev.


Also here

and here

kick it on


Munster vs Leicester (2)

Me: Well, I suppose you have to hand it to them.

Him: Yeah, they beat us all right.

Me: Yeah, they did.

Him: They killed us in the scrum.

Me: And in the lineout.

Him: Yeah. And they murdered our centres.

Me: Yeah. Halstead is a big loss.

Him: Yeah. And Quinlan.

Me: Oh yeah. Huge loss.

Him: Still, I suppose you have to hand it to Leicester.

Me: Yeah. Fair play to them. They beat us fair and square.

Him: Yeah. Fair play to them. No resentment. Fair play.

Me: Yeah. Respect.

Him: Yeah.

Me: Yeah.

Us: Bastards.

kick it on


Munster vs Leicester

Here’s the big day. It’s damp and grey. All over town, people are kitting up for a trudge to Thomond Park or a skip to the pub to watch it in comfort.

I’m going to [tag]Thomond[/tag] Park. With any luck we’ll be ok, but as usual I’m presuming nothing right now.

It’s bad luck.


Munster vs Leicester

There’s been a lot of replies on the Heineken Cup and I need to acknowledge the comments of people.

I’m inclined to agree with Brendan about Leicester’s out-half position. Paul Burke is good news for Munster. Not only is he too old, but he’s ex-Munster, which is good psychologically for us, and also he’s one of those players who doesn’t want the ball. He’s afraid. I saw this in Twickenham two years ago when he was with Harlequins. All he wanted was to get rid of it when some Munster savage was charging at him.

That doesn’t mean, though, that Leicester won’t be up for it. They’re coming here needing to win, and if our guys get up to the sort of shit they were at on Sunday, we can forget it. What we need on Saturday is a horrible, ugly ten-man game with a beetle-browed low scoreline involving a zero result for the other side, and everybody walking off the pitch stained the same mud colour. Plus a bit of blood on them.

Most of all, leadership is needed this week. If Declan Kidney doesn’t send them out for a single training session, it won’t matter too much as long as he gives them direction. The guys need to be brought back into the fold because at the moment they’re acting like stupid Hollywood heroes and they need to stop. Barry Murphy and Ian Dowling need to settle down and stop the exhibition stuff and it’s up to the older players to settle them. Likewise, O’Gara needs to get with the programme and stop this ridiculous basketball shit he’s been doing lately. He needs to make the long kicks into the corners and pin them down. He can be a superstar all he likes after we win this.

I hope we field Jerry Flannery. He’ll be fit. What’s more, he’ll throw a straight ball and he’ll put in the big hits around the field. Unlike Frankie, he’ll even know where to go with the ball when he has it in his hand.

I haven’t heard what’s happening with Halstead but if he’s still out on Saturday, he’ll be a big loss. Admittedly, Larry Murphy is there, but still . . . all information gratefully accepted on this.

Apart from that, I have no more to say for the moment. You’ll be glad to know that I’ve secured my ticket but unfortunately I haven’t been able to get one for the Bullet yet. We’ll see what happens.


Munster 30 – Bourgoin 27

What exactly was that?

As somebody said in today’s paper, Munster thought they were the Harlem Globetrotters. We were lucky to come away from there with anything the way Munster played yesterday. What did they think they were doing? I know they’re trying to introduce a more expansive game, but the time to do it is when you’re winning by 25 points, not when your back is to the wall.

People in Limerick are speaking of little else today as far as I could tell. Everywhere you go, people are standing around, shaking their heads and muttering what the fuck were they playing at? That’s an awful lot of standing, shaking and muttering.

We can only hope that lessons were learnt and that when Leicester come to visit on Saturday, there will be none of that fanny-dancing. I hope to see a grim, ugly struggle with no entertainment value. 9-0 would be a good result.