I was chatting with a French fella this morning over coffee. Well, I was having coffee while he was skulling back a pint of disgusting pale lager. A local French guy, I should clarify, not some character who came over for the match, though we bumped into a few of them last night too.
Come here, ya bollix. Them fuckin Frogs can’t play rugby for shit!
So anyway, when he stopped laughing and picked himself up from the sawdust-covered floor, and regained his seat, and took a slug from his pint and heaved several deep, rasping, phlegm-choked gasps and wiped the tears from his eyes, he regarded me sadly and said
French rugby, I said. We’ll fuckin hammer â€˜em.
Ah see he said. Zheust lack ze last nine times you sayed you would feukeeng hammeur us? Yes?
We’ll do it this time, I said. You beat us in Croker by a fuckin fluke.
A feukieeng fleek? You refeur perraps to ze fleek where Monsieur Clerc has cut your deefonss in smull pisses and make you leuk lack ze big feukineeng fulls? Zat feukeeng fleek?
Fuck you, I riposted with as much panache, verve and flair as I could muster.
Hong hong, he honged, a bit too Gallically for my liking. We will keek your fuekeeng arsees yet agann zis aftairnun. Hong, hong, hong.
Fuck you, I replied.
That shut him up, let me tell you.
Ireland 30 â€“ France 21
Now where is that French fucker? It’s not that I want to gloat or anything. It’s just that I want to â€“- well, all right then, I want to gloat. What’s wrong with that?