Munster vs Llanelli

Munster play Llanelli tomorrow evening in the quarter final of the European Rugby Cup.

We’re going by road, which means that Bullet and myself have to get up at four in the morning to catch the Rosslare ferry. Christ Almighty.

The game is at 7.30 tomorrow evening and on Saturday we’re going to watch Sunderland playing Cardiff.

Don’t expect too many posts here for the next day or two.


Off again

I had just fired my final Magnum 44 round at the last surviving critter and drained the last of the Wild Turkey when the phone rang.

ring ring ring crash!


How’s it goin Boss?

It was the Great Zucchini.

Do you want to go to Wales?


Wales. Do you want to go?

Yeah. It’s nice there. I might go some time.

No Bock. You’re not understanding me. Do you want to go to Wales?

I was beginning to sober up. Apart from anything else, it isn’t easy to sit stark naked on your patio in March, in the Irish climate, even if you are full of Wild Turkey and brown acid. Even if you’re oscillating gently in your rocking chair and firing occasional revolver rounds at your stupid neighbour. Blam! Blam!

Wales? I repeated. You mean – ?

Yeah. Zucchini said. That’s exactly what I mean.


Munster, he confirmed. It’s all arranged. You, me and four of the boys. In an eight-seater. On the ferry. Two nights in Wales.

Um, great, I managed. Count me in.

OK, Zucchini went on. What I want to know is this. Munster play Llanelli on the Friday night. How do you feel about goin to see Cardiff playing Sunderland on the Saturday? We got tickets.

Um, I said. Let me think about it.


It’s a funny old game

You’re a good footballer. Since you were a nipper, you’ve been the best player your mates ever knew, and they still talk about how brilliant you were when you were a kid, dodging past everyone, leaving the rest of them falling on their arses. You were probably the best player your school ever saw, and you were without doubt the captain of the side that won the schools cup. All the girls wanted you. When the combined schoolboys’ team toured South America, there was no contest: it had to be you leading them, because you were the best player your town ever saw. You were fucking great.

And then you joined the professionals, and it began to dawn on you that those guys on the telly, the guys you called wankers every Saturday, were there for a good reason. They were there because they were BETTER THAN YOU!! A lot better than you. (Including Beckham, the wanker).

But you weren’t that bad, and eventually you ended up with Sunderland, and ok you didn’t win much – in fact you won almost nothing, but it’s a living of sorts and it was ok until this morning when your worst fucking nightmare was made flesh with these words:

“Hello there. My name is Roy, and I’ll be your manager for the next couple of years.”