Away With You
Well, that went really well! My Predictions for the Premiership this weekend were up there with Hitler telling his army that Russia was nice this time of year. I said it was a brave call to pick 4 away wins – it wasn’t so much brave as monumentally stupid – away wins aren’t as rare as hens’ teeth but you wouldn’t want a career as a chicken dentist. Only one away paid off – and Saints made hard work of that. If you are expecting a detailed summary game by game then you are going to be pleased because this will be fairly short – bit like my temper as I watched the Tigers getting mauled on Saturday afternoon. There is little point in a full analysis here, since it is now Tuesday and anyone who hasn’t seen the results or read the ‘proper’ press reports is either in a coma or had a blindingly good weekend on absinthe. I did okay in the first three games and was 3 for 3 before the kick-off at Kingsholm. Bath had stopped the Saracens’ juggernaut with an outstanding performance at the Rec – it would have been even more comprehensive if George Ford had been on target more often. Bath were briefly on top of the league until the Saturday games. First Harlequins did away with London Welsh – pushing the exiles’ points conceded above 50 per game again. Saints laboured to a victory at Madejski with Luther Burrell scoring the only try. From then on, the wheels on the bus came off! I had expected Tigers to come back from losing two on the bounce but then I also expected them to have a couple back from injury. The Leicester team line-up before kick-off gave me pause and had me wondering if it would be close – it wasn’t – Tigers were lucky to come second. There were a number of players on the pitch who looked like international players – Freddie Burns wasn’t one of them. So I had my first loss. Still 3 out of 4 going into Sunday wasn’t a catastrophe – but Sunday itself was!
Sale stopped the rejuvenated Wasps’ side and although Wasps were still in it with a few minutes to go a late try by Sale’s Tom Brady denied the visitors even a losing bonus point. Danny Cipriani keeps sending signals to the England coaching set-up and seems likely to figure, at least to some extent, in the autumn internationals. Exeter travelling to Newcastle was, I thought, a banker – it wasn’t on TV but I followed it online expecting to end up with 4 out of 6 for the weekend. After all Falcons hadn’t won in 20 in the Premiership. Chiefs scored three first half tries but, unusually Steenson missed the conversions and they only led 15 – 14 at half time. They were still up 24 – 17 with 15 left on the clock before two late tries gave the Falcons a great win and poured even more misery on London Welsh.
Bath 21 – 11 Saracens
Quins 52 – 0 London Welsh
London Irish 12 – 19 Saints
Gloucester 33 – 16 Tigers
Sale 25 – 14 Wasps
Falcons 29 – 24 Chiefs
Aviva Premiership Rugby
To further add to my embarrassment I also did really badly in my score predictions in Rugby United competition – I suspect I’m only still allowed to play as cannon fodder, in order to make Rich and the guest players look good. My selection for this week will appear later and this time I will probably really use a pin to pick the winners – things can’t get worse (can they?)
Well, possibly not – looks like my luck is in today –
From: Mr. Moussa Oumar [mailto:firstname.lastname@example.org]
Sent: 07 October 2014 09:14
Subject: URGENT ASSISTANCE IS NEEDED
I need your assistance to validate your name in our Bank System to enable the Bank transfer the sum of $10.5Million unclaimed fund into your nominated bank account to your account for onward investment ( Hotel industries and Estate building management) or any profitable business in your country and I will give you 40%, for your assistance.
To commence this transaction, I require you to immediately indicate your interest by a return mail for more details.
Mr. Moussa Oumar
Executive Director, Africa Development Bank, Bank,Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso.
Will probably stop doing this stupid blog when the cash arrives and I can retire with my new friend in Burkina Faso
Chris Ashton picks on the wrong bloke to hide the ball from - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmt6S5gxMmU - and Leota sends Ashton off to find it for him.
Getting your togs off and running across the pitch at rugby games seems to be becoming more popular again. Personally, I’m all for a nubile Doris pole dancing up to the cross bar or trotting around between the 22 and halfway line without her kit on. But I’m less chuffed when it is some hairy bloke trying (unsuccessfully) to replicate that coloured chap in the ditty from the ‘Bawdy Ballads’ song book. You could never accuse my stuff here of being very politically correct but those lyrics are less PC than Lord “shove the kettle on dear” Rennard. The latest bloke to ‘swing his hampton’ actually caused something of an all-out ‘handbag session - http://www.smh.com.au/rugby-union/union-news/pipesmoking-streaker-triggers-allin-brawl-20141006-10qp71.html I have no idea what he did to spark off the contretemps, perhaps they were intimidated by the size of his todger and felt the need to demonstrate they were hard!. Of much more interest was Erika Roe who generously got her equally generous boobs out for the boys at Twickenham. This caused quite a stir (nudge nudge) on an impressionable young lad, although I was actually 34 at the time!
Names of..Types of
The heading today is also the title of a drinking game, although that’s not what this is about in fact. If you want to learn more about some incredibly stupid pastimes just type ‘drinking games’ in the search box above. Just for interest, ‘Names of’ is one that requires a bit more thinking and one at which I was incredibly shit – especially during a session (which is when these things tend to be introduced). Harro knew how crap I was and always took great delight in suggesting it and making me drink things like Guinness mixed with tomato juice or advocaat when I inevitably fucked up. He’s a really good mate is Harro! The question of names however, is more to do with how the hell my e-mail address is being passed on to a lot of blokes who are trying to flog me stuff. Admittedly some of the offers are both relevant and welcome – penis enlargements, Viagra special offers, how to lose ugly body fat and of course, the opportunity to share several $ million with Generals or widows in West Africa
Two more arrived in the last couple of days – not just to ‘undisclosed recipients’ but direct to my inbox and began ‘Dear David’. I mean which bastard is giving out details about my private life? I hope to fuck I’ve been hacked by some newspaper – I could do with the pay-off and wouldn’t need that bank loan. Of course I do get some that are not right for me like a free Alzheimer’s pack – although I can’t remember now if I need this or not. Also the odd short and pithy, but nonetheless enigmatic notes –
I need your help
I’m thinking of publishing a book with all these stupid e-mails in –which would be a piece of piss as I only have to copy them and send them off – the title would be something like ‘Letters to a Twat’. You might laugh – if they can publish junk by those idiots in TOWIE this could be a best seller, no danger. Obviously e-mail means that they do know who you are and have got the right address - otherwise it bounces back as ‘undeliverable’ – I know, I’ve sent a number of complaints to ‘georgetightbastardosbourne@smugminster’ and surprisingly not one has got through to him. This is a major fault of electronic communications and one that doesn’t happen with ordinary letters.
When I was at Brooke Bond I once got a letter and brochure from an ad agency wanting to pitch for our account. The name on the packet was addressed to ‘Mr Shite’ – this caused quite a lot of hilarity in the department and I put it down to a typo by the secretary (i being next to u on the keyboard). However, the enclosed letter was to ‘Mr Shite’ as was the personalised card on the brochure. You would have thought that someone at the agency would have maybe said “are you sure this bloke is really called Shite?” We did get them in for a creds presentation just for a laugh – they didn’t get the business - their work was really shite.
I am not known as a fashion victim, as my good mates Airdy, Harro and Farrelley frequently attest to and which is accompanied by great guffaws and descriptions of my penchant for old T shirts and jogging bottoms. This constant piss taking extends to my son, daughter and daughter-in-law too – and I expect the grandchildren to join in as well, sometime soon.
The truth is, and much to Terry’s despair, I don’t really give a fuck about ‘dressing up’, much preferring to simply be ‘comfortable’. When I am forced into buying new stuff, it inevitably gets dumped, with the tag still on, in the wardrobe - which then ends up looking like a sort of posh jumble sale. There is one area of fashion, however, that gives me endless pleasure. Every week in the Sunday Times they give you a free magazine – it’s called Style. It is a source of endless amusement to me and is loads funnier than a Viz magazine. I have featured it here a couple of times in the past – Posh Spice’s handbags and ‘distressed’ trainers both of which have price tags sufficient to feed a small African nation for a couple of weeks. This week’s copy was a cracker – a nylon dress (yes nylon!) for a bargain £8,900 and a £1,600 scarf. Although, to be fair the scarf does look like it is quite long - so only about £150 a foot then. It is part of an ensemble which, with the dress and jacket comes to an altogether reasonable £5,600. The whole outfit would look rather splendid on a good night down the pub (ideally one where throwing bitter is not de rigeur). It would probably be shown off at its best in the stupid wine bar that has just launched a cocktail costing just short of nine grand (see one of last week’s posts). A drink price which actually makes the entire costume look like an absolute stonking result. The mag usually features a ‘skinted’ and ‘minted’ piece which shows what the plebs pay compared to wags and bankers’ wives. This week there was a dress from Debenhams at £80 and a virtual copy (although it was probably the other way round, I suspect) from something called Nina Ricci at £3,195.
I can only imagine that Nina’s number was knitted by some several hundred virgin silk worms lying around on exotic snakeskin beds being fed lobster wrapped in gold leaf by unicorns. Otherwise it would be a bit of a rip-off wouldn’t it?
“I’d like to Thank…..”
Yesterday Warren Gatland deservedly picked up a gong at Windsor Castle from the Duke of Oxbridge (or somewhere posh like that anyway). It was for services to rugby and he generously paid tribute to all the people who have helped him in his career. Top bloke, for the Lions anyway – bit worried about how good Wales might be in Group A next year though! I once bumped into him (literally as it happens) on a narrow footbridge leading into Darling Harbour, which is a real place not a piss take from Black Adder. At the time he was coaching Waikato Chiefs (well not on the bridge, obviously) and the conversation went something like -
Me” Oops sorry mate”
Him: “No worries”
Hardly the Gettysburg Address (just off Lincoln Avenue I think) but memorable none the less – as my factual retelling here confirms. As we (Terry and I – Warren had wandered off by then) entered the harbour area itself there were several Chiefs wandering about (they were in Sydney to play the Waratahs in what was then the Super 69 (or something – it’s a lot bigger now with teams from Burundi, Qatar and Scunthorpe rumoured to be joining in).
Mils Muliaina and I also chatted a bit-
Mils; “Yeah” (or he may just have nodded – this was 8 or 9 years ago)
Me: “Good luck tomorrow”
Obviously he was a lot more chatty and verbose than Warren.
I’m not making any of this up and I suspect they both still use our encounter in after dinner speeches recalling the time they ran into Shutey and telling everyone just how fucking witty I was.
This is all a roundabout way of saying that I am expecting an expensive embossed letter from the Palace myself any day now. It won’t be for services to rugby despite the fact that this junk has now had more than 23,000 visits and been read in 70 countries. I’m something of a realist here – you can reckon that about 21,000 arrived unexpectedly whilst surfing for ‘Whips & Wellies’.com – I use that just as an example really, it covers a plethora of sites promoting the range of unhealthy (but exciting) hobbies of my accidental readers. Knock out the 150 or so Askeans who I played with over the years – and assume they have each read bits of the blog say 8 times (mostly trying to make sure they weren’t subject to any defamatory, but nevertheless true mentions). .That leaves something less than some 830 who actually meant to read ‘rugbyoldbollocks’. So, in all honesty, I’m not expecting my contribution to rugby, or indeed, joined up scribbling to get me any sort of coveted recognition.
Ta Dah – this e-mail is why I anticipate having to make up some tripe about me ‘feeling terribly humbled’ and thanking shedloads of hangers on, who let’s face it, have contributed absolutely fuck all to my anticipated and none too soon acclaim.
Dear GOD Elect,
It's my pleasure to have contact with you, based on the critical condition I find mine self, though, it's though I don't know you, and my contact with you was not by mistake, but by devine favour of GOD.
I am married to Mr. Mohammed Ibrahim who worked with Tunisia embassy in Burkina Faso for nine years before he died in the year 2008.We were married for eleven years without a child. He died after a brief illness that lasted for five days.
Since his death I decided not to remarry, When my late husband was alive he deposited the sum of US$ 2.2m(two million two hundred thousand dollars)in a bank in Ouagadougou the capital city of Burkina Faso in west Africa Presently this money is still in bank. He made this money available for exportation of Gold from Burkina Faso mining.
Having known my condition I decided to hand you over this money to take care of the less-privileged people, you will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct herein. I want you to take 30 Percent of the total money for your personal use While 70% of the money will go to charity" people and helping the orphanage.
I don't want my husband's efforts to be used by the Government. I grew up as an Orphan and I don't have anybody as my family member, just to endeavour that the name of GOD is maintained.
As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the bank in Burkina Faso and I will send authority letter that will prove you the present beneficiary of the money in the bank that is if you assure me that you will act accordingly as I Stated herein. Hoping to receive your reply. Reply in my alternative email address (email@example.com ) for confidential
Mrs. Sabah Ibrahim
Waheyyy – seems I’m now ‘God Elect’ apparently, so, in fact the palace bods should probably bow down to moi, s’il vous plait! (I know they are really Germanic in origin but I only know the odd bit of French – apart from the obvious, obviously)
I’m not sure when I start to become a proper deity and drop the ‘elect’ bit, but you can be sure I’ll be smiting quite a few of the bastards who’ve given me some aggro over the years. So watch yourself anyone who ever donned a Sidcup shirt, or late tackled me or took the piss – no, better cancel that last one it includes too many Askeans. Right gotta fly (literally quite soon I imagine) and try my hand (and most other bits) at being omnipresent, also have to fix it so the World Cup is a shoe- in for us next year. I’ll be taking requests soon, so get your orders in tout suite (pretentious moi? – don’t fucking push it or I’ll send down a plague of mutant badgers on your house). I think I’ll also start a new ‘boat race’ team – am thinking Ollie Reed, Richard Harris and Jeffrey Bernard – with a toss- up between Jesus and Bob Noble in the anchor role.
Losing Touch with Reality
You may have noticed if you’ve been here before, that I tend to watch a lot of rugby on TV – especially at the weekends. In fact I think I’ve managed to convince Terry that we can only get the sports’ channels from 7 pm on Friday through to Sunday afternoon. I’m not sure that she actually believes me but seems quite happy to let me laze on the sofa and gobble pasties so long as I don’t bother her whilst she’s discussing getting the bedroom painted with one of the local painters. I would have thought she’d got a final quote by now, but then I know bugger all about redecorating. This would, as it happens, qualify me to be on the latest reality TV bollocks that is now on air. What this involves is one very stupid couple giving their front door keys to a complete stranger so he (or she – realty is at least gender neutral in making people look idiots) can redecorate their home. The clever bit is that the ‘decorator’ has absolutely fuck all ability to do it – see, I told you I could do this.
Martha:” Here, they want us to be on TV”
Arthur:” Yeah? Why?”
Martha:” I met a TV bod at my séance - we just let some bloke re-do the living room and then they show us looking at it”
Arthur:” Are you bleeding nuts?”
Martha: ”I’ll give you a blow job”
Arthur: ”Okay then”
The screen fades and then we see them leaving – Arthur has a silly smile on his face.
Smarmy Presenter :”What Martha and Arthur don’t know, is that Sebastian is colour blind and has the IQ of a gerbil – I can’t wait”
The couple return
Sebastian: “I got the idea when I was hunting for used paperclips at the land fill”
Arthur: “What the fuck?”
Martha: “I quite like the dustbin motifs”
Presenter: “Next week see how June and Jonathan like their open air roof and having an alligator pond in the bedroom”
Sounds perfect for one of those obscure channels that you never quite get to when you scroll down doesn’t it? Wrong – it’s on BBC 1. Yep – it’s paid for by the licence fee – I find it hard to believe that the Corporation is always having the piss taken out of it.
Einstein said “Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” – well, it doesn’t come much more fucking persistent than the reality rubbish we get every single day on TV, Albert – you can stop spinning now mate, you’ll get a headache.
The idea of cinema verité or ‘fly on the wall’ documentary, is that you are supposed to see real life, unscripted and as it happens – it’s incredibly boring, but it is, at least, real. The junk now on TV is contrived, set up and anything but real. If you want ‘real’ get the sports’ channels pal. Having said that, I sometimes wonder if Terry isn’t making some sort of documentary with all those painters.