I always used to say whenever World Cup fever hit town that I wished England would win it, only so that would shut the Christ up about 1966. Secretly of course, I hoped that some of their players would be killed by accidentally tackling themselves, the pound would crash and that Margaret Tatcher would burst into flames on Prime Ministers Question Time. The same thoughts came knocking today when I prepared myself for Munsters re-match with the All Blacks. Plays, Books, not-so-athletic-anymore ex players, gorging and dining out daily on stories of their victorious past are all vulgar reminders of the provinces unexpected victory over the touring New Zealanders back in the days when the Internet and fois gras didn't exist. Coiny, an ex-workmate and fellow blogger slept in his Munster shirt (and disgustingly wore it into work the next day. And the next) such was his pride. Their arrogance miffed me. And you know that there was no tears shed in Limerick when Ireland failed to beat the Kiwis last Saturday.
Yet, tonight was sporting history. From the Munster Haka, a terrifying war dance that shows that all acts of masculinity need not involve knives, guns and innocent victims, to the arrival of an army helicopter with the match ball, the occasion was truly awesome right up to the final moments. Literally, throwing their bodies on the line after no little skill and one of the great tussles I've ever seen in modern Rugby. Of course, in true Irish tradition, they boasted superiority from a theatre of dreams that is in fact only a half built stadium. And, when they hosted Ireland V Canada last week it played out like it was a neutral venue, the locals even arriving in the red of Munster despite the colour of the opposition. And yes, they all have unusually large foreheads and occasionally scrape their knuckles along the N17, but you can not help but be impressed.
They didn't win, but they nearly did. And lordy mclord o'lord, that's a victory for us all.
I see Fakey says man bags are not gay. You're right Fakester, they're not (I own 5), but they are when you get an erection writing about them.
And finally
Happy Birthday to Mandy, a good friend of mine who also happens to be a colleague. She's had her downs this year, and sadly, slightly less ups, but she still gets to work with me, which let's face it, is like 26 Superbowls. Enjoy your day Mandy, and my present (a Stapler)
14 comments:
Oops, posted before a spell check.. apologies
A half finished stadium...at least it belongs to us and doesn't consist of seats on scaffold arranged around a pony park...ha ha to think this sort of banter used to take place over pints in the local with our gym bags at our feet...
I may be 'sad' for posting about a man-bag or you know, stuff, but you, my constantly dissatisfied, habitually malcontented, moan machine are simply sad.
And that's really sad.
Yikes, a deleted comment!!
It's ok folks, it was just Fakey saying "poor Disgrace, poor, poor Disgrace"
I clicked on Fakeys post, thinking that 'man-bags' was some sort of euphemism for the scrotum.
Grew up in Tipp, so Yay!
Oh and Fakey, Moaney is the new cool.
Tipp...grrrrrrrrrrrr...up the banner...
Coiney: Hey, I've no beef with you lads, Kilkenny now, that's a different deal.....
I think we can all agree on that one...
Great to see Westys obsession with the ball-sac spilling over onto the net. He has kept that obsession to himself for way too long. This could be the start of something very, very wrinkly.
At least I have a toilet big enough for me to defacate in without my legs having to spend the duration al fresco. It's the little luxuries like these which separate man from beast.
I'm blessed with long legs Westy, what can I say. At least I don't 'do it' into a bag.
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