Wednesday, 30 September 2009

Random Rubbish again

"ONE pound a week will supply water for an entire village in Tanzania", says Oxfam. So how come Welsh Water charge me twenty pounds a month for my four bedroom semi? The fleecing bastards.

How come rap artist Dr. Dre can use the 'N' word on his multi-million selling albums and win a MOBO award, yet when I used it at my Daughter's football match I was asked to leave the park? Once again, it's one law for the rich and another for the poor.

I was shocked to hear Home Secretary Jacqui Smith say that Britain's prison population has been ballooning for the past ten years. My God, has the world gone mad? Those people are there to be punished, not to be given 'thrill of a lifetime' experiences that most law abiding citizens can only dream of.

What's all this nonsense about that 66-year-old Romanian woman being the world's oldest mum? My mum's 77. Beat that!

Why is it that pubs won't serve me if I'm drunk, but McDonalds continue serving them fat fuckers? It’s hardly fair.

The person who coined the phrase "as different as chalk and cheese" obviously hadn't tasted Tesco's own cheddar.

They say football is a game of two halves. Not for me it isn't. I regularly down eight or nine pints whilst watching a live game on Sky TV in my local.

If, as Freddie Mercury claimed, fat bottomed girls make the rocking world go round, isn't it about time that the city of Newcastle received some recognition for its contribution to astrophysics?

Davina McCall says that dangling off a helicopter over the Grand Canyon on a 700 foot bungee rope was the most terrifying and dangerous thing she has ever done. She must be forgetting that she went out with Stan Collymore.

Avoid arguments with the missus about lifting the loo seat by simply pissing in the sink.

Housewives: When nipping out to the shops, remember to carry a stiff broom in the boot of your car. Use it to sweep the broken glass to the side of the road every time you have a minor accident.

Monday, 28 September 2009

Never leave home

Without your wallet, watch and wits. Can't remember who told me that but they should have added mobile phone as well.
Sunday before last I'm sitting in my local with a couple of mates watching Man Utd v Man City. It's 3-2 in the dying minutes and I make the brave statement that Man City would equalise. This was met by a few snorts of derision and a "fuck off". So. I reach into my pocket and pull my Mobile out. Except it wasn't my Mobile it was my Wifes.
One of my mates asks what I was going to do with the phone so I explain that I was going to put my money where my mouth was and lay Man Utd. Unfortunately, as this wasn't my phone I couldn't because my Wife isn't a degenerate like me and doesn't have Betfairs number on speed dial. I then went on to explain that Man Utd would probably be trading at 1.1 which meant that I could lay Man Utd for £50 to win £500 if Man City equalised. One minute later they did.
After the laughter subsided one of the boys asked if I would leave the bet as it stood. I then went on to explain that I would now lay the draw for £100 to guarantee a profit. By this time we were in the 94th minute and the odds would easily have been 1.01 which would have got me £400 for the draw and £10000 for Man Utd or Man City.
For those that don't know, Man Utd scored in the 96th minute to win 4-3.
I've been on life tilt ever since.
So, to recap, never leave home without your phone. You can thank me for this piece of advice by sending donations to
In other news my Internet has been down for a week after my wife kindly downloaded a virus which has killed everything. I'm off work with the Flu which my Daughter has kindly given me. I've spent the last half hour trying to catch a mouse my cat has kindly brought home.
Will catch up with everyones blog tomorrow, promise.

Friday, 18 September 2009

A short story for you all

Dave was your average 40 year old guy. Married, Daughter, decent job, mortgage, liked his Friday nights out with the boys and watching sport on a Saturday. He also liked his holidays.
He wasn't particularly enjoying Egypt though. 120 degrees in the shade was slowly wearing him down. Mustapha, the tour guide from hell, was absolutely killing him. There was obviously some race on amongst the tour guides as to which one could drag a pack of Westerners around the Valley of the Kings the quickest. Mustapha was determined to win in Dave's view as that was the only logical explanation for the speed they were going at.
His group were currently in a tomb with hieroglyphics on the main walls from the ceiling to the floor. Dave marvelled at the colours and the workmanship that had gone into producing something so spectacular. Mustapha was having none of it and was herding people on to the next room. Dave hung back and when the last person disappeared breathed a sigh of relief.
Quickly taking a bottle of water from his rucksack, Dave sat in the corner of the room and studied the drawings. The main wall was estimated to be over 3000 years old and the attention to detail was incredible. How did people from that civilisation ever create such fantastic artefacts Dave wondered.
A young boy walked in, maybe 12 years old, smiled at Dave and sat next to him. He pulled a sketch pad out of his bag and after studying the wall for a few minutes started drawing. Dave took another sip of water and offered the bottle to the boy who took a drink and carried on drawing.
Curiosity got the better of Dave and he peaked at the boys drawing. Whatever it was it didn't resemble anything on the wall. The boy carried on drawing so Dave tried to engage him in conversation.
"Hi, I'm Dave".
The boy looked at Dave and smiled, "I'm Frank".
Dave smiled back, "What are you drawing Frank?" Dave inquired.
Frank stood up and held the drawing to an area of the wall which had what appeared to be 4 slaves raising somthing off the floor using sticks with 2 cobras watching them. What Frank had drawn was a series of strips which resembled helicopter blades. Dave shrugged, "Can't see that sorry Frank" he replied with a degree of honesty.
Frank smiled again and sat back down to continue drawing.
And draw he did at a furious pace. Pages upon pages of intricate drawings, none of which resembled anything on the wall in front of them. Finally, after an hour or so, he stood up and showed Dave the drawings in the pad. They were of an incredible standard, something a Draughtsman or Architecht would come up with. Dave looked at them all in awe. Finally he asked, "What is it Frank?".
Frank smiled yet again, "It's a time machine".
Dave's jaw dropped an inch and for a second he was speechless. And then he laughed.
"Nice one Frank, you had me going then".
Frank grinned, "No really it's a time machine, can't you see it?". And he held the pad against the wall pointing at his drawings and the hieroglyphics but Dave couldn't see it. Not at all. Frank smiled yet again and handed Dave the pad.
"For you" he said and with that he turned and walked away.
Dave sat there for another few hours looking at the drawings and then at the wall but he couldn't fathom out how Frank had come to interpret them the way he had. Finally, Dave placed the pad in his rucksack and left.
Fast forward two weeks and Dave was back home. He'd spent the remainder of the holiday thinking about Frank and the sketch pad. Everything about Egypt would make sense if time travellers or aliens had been there 3000 years ago. Dave was fortunate to work for a Manufacturing Company. He had started out at the bottom and ended up as the Production Manager. Luckily this meant he knew how to operate all the machinery. With sketch pad in hand, Dave went to work on Saturday when no one was in and started making all the pieces from the drawings. Some were easy, straight lengths of Stainless Steel which he could shear on a guillotine. Others he had to program on a Turret Punch and manufacture out of Titanium. Others had to be folded on a Press Brake. Finally after 28 hours of non stop work Dave had everything done. Every drawing and diagram Frank had given him was complete apart from the last drawing of all which showed the completed machine. Dave loaded the Company lorry with all the gear and drove home.
It took another three hours to get everything into his garage after which Dave decided to have a rest before assembling it. Dave lay on the settee and imagined what he would do. A trip back to Egypt maybe but this time Egypt 3000 years ago so he could watch the pyramids being erected. Possibly a quick jaunt back to the beginning of the Universe to see if there was a big bang. Or even Christ's cruxifiction or would that be a bit to gross. Finally Dave realised he wouldn't get to sleep so he headed back to the garage.
Everything slotted together perfectly. 1000's of pieces of metal effortlessly joining without a screw or nut in sight. Dave imagined it was a bit like doing a 3d jigsaw. After only 30 minutes the time machine was complete. Dave sat in it and hundreds of little circular components, a bit like washers, merged together and formed an instrument panel in front of him. Dave pressed one and another hundred odd pieces floated out and formed into a replica of the Solar System. After a bit of playing about Dave managed to comprehend what most things did and finally after another hour he was ready. Dave turned the time settings back one day and quickly checked he had some money in his pocket so that he could go down the bookies and place a twenty team accumulator on the previous nights football which would net him a cool hundred grand. Just as he was set to go he looked up. Directly above him was one empty space, cog shaped, about 2 mm in Diameter. Dave glanced around the garage but couldn't see any components left. Dave shrugged and pressed the button and a gentle whirling sound started. Strips of Stainless Steel started spinning around in a arc and the garage became a blurr as thousands of Galvanised plates twisted at incredible speeds. Dave held onto a convenient arm rest that had popped out and just at the split second when he imagined the machine was going to transport him back in time there was a massive clank and within another split second he was sat on the garage floor surrounded by 1000's upon 1000's of mangled pieces of scrap metal.

Frank was sat in a office with his Mother and Father. In front of them was an empty table and chair. An elderly guy walked into the room carrying a huge file which he slammed on the table. He sat down and opened it, flicking through a few pages at a time. Finally Franks Father, who was also called Frank, spoke.
"Why are we here?".
They guy looked at them with undisguisable contempt. He slammed the file down on the table yet again and spoke.
"Do you know what Frank did two weeks ago? I'm guessing you don't so let me fill you in on recent events. Frank has broken just about every law imaginable"
Franks Mother, who was also called Frank, started to cry.
The guy, ignoring her, continued.
"Firstly Frank created a worm hole to the planet Earth. Have you any idea how catastrophic this could have been?"
Frank Jnrs Father, Frank went to say something but the guy waved a cursory hand at him and went on.
"The last question was rhetoric. When on Earth he then passed to an Human Being" he literally spat these words out and just to emphasise how much he hated Humans he spat it out again. "An Human Being, of all creatures in this Universe, your boy Frank gave one detailed diagrams on how to construct a time machine".
Franks Mum, Frank, started to sob hysterically at this notion.
"Do you realise the implications of this? A Human with a time machine which incidentally was also a space transporter, would cause unlimited damage to the Universe as we know it. In no time at all countless planets would be at war. Entire Systems would implode. Humans would try to take over everything. The Galaxy as we know it would be finished".
Frank Jnrs Mum fainted. Frank Jnrs Dad buried his head in his hands. The guy continued with his rant.
"When the worm hole was discovered we dispatched personnel but they arrived too late. The Human, whose name was Dave, can you believe that?"
Frank Snr shook his head.
"Well this Dave had actually managed to assemble the machine and had fired it up".
Frank Snr started to tremble.
"He didn't use it did he?"
The guy shook his head.
"Fortunately young Frank had left out the transjigamondo which as I'm sure you are aware meant the Time Machine not only wouldn't work but actually disintegrated. Our personnel stole the diagrams back whilst the Human was sat on his arse scratching his head and I think it's fair to say, saved the Cosmos."
Franks Dad nodded, Franks Mother regained consciousness and young Frank breathed a huge sigh of relief.
"You do realise what this means though don't you?" the guy asked Frank Snr. Frank Snr nodded as did Franks Mum. Young Frank didn't have a clue what it meant.
"As your Sons Headmaster and also career advisor I must advise you that Frank is a retard and his career options now seem limited to B & Q or Ikea".

Yes you've guessed it. Spent three hours trying to put a chest of drawers together for my Daughter only to find that the fucking thing hasn't got any runners for the drawers with it. Fucking bastards.

Wednesday, 16 September 2009

Favourite things cont.......

Here's a couple more of Mo and my favourite things.

3. I'm a constant dayreamer. From the moment I wake I'm away with the fairies. Take today. Wake up and stand in the kitchenete making a cup of coffee while studying the trailer park. Of course I'm dreaming about gazing at the great pyramid of Giza or surveying the statue of Zeus at Olympia or marvelling at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff. Quick shower where I pretend I'm standing under the Dunns river falls in Jamaica or the Angel falls in Venezuela or even the pissing down rain in the Brecon Beacons.
Quick wander down to the bus stop avoiding the chavs and tramps whilst dreaming of sauntering down Sunset Boulevaud or meandering down Magnolia Way or strolling along Swansea Bay. Bus journey, front seat taken by gimp couple in matching Japanese Emperor outfits, to work takes me past Council Estates with burnt out cars and boarded up kebab shops. How I long to take a bus past the Taj Mahal or maybe a boat trip past the Lighthouse of Alexandria or even a rickshaw along the river Taff.
Work sees me at my daydreaming peak. Today, for some strange reason, I've been singing Catatonias "International Velvet, Every second of every hour I thank the Lord I'm Welsh", to myself.
On the way home I dreamt of hiking in the Himalayas and safariing in the Serengheti and even snowboarding in Snowdonia.
My Wife has just made Welsh rarebit for tea which seems quite apt although I haven't a clue why?

When you list your favourite things you have to include porn dont you? Okay, I know I'm married and everything but that's the reason why. I believe sex is a bit like custard. I had 90% of my lifes custard intake by the time I left school and I think I probably had 90% of my lifes sexual experiences before I got married. That's not to say my Wife and I don't get all hot and horny anymore just that the gaps in between seem to get slightly longer each time. That's why porn is one of my favourite things.

4. Pubs. I love pubs. I could sit in them all day and quite often do on weekends. I have a couple of local pubs which I frequent. My favourite is a big Footie pub. It's awash with characters and there's never a dull moment.
After the game on Sunday I'm sitting at the bar reading the paper and one of the locals turns to me and says "What's it like to be able to read"? I thought he was joking but he wasn't. He then went on to tell me about how he left school at nine! His Dad made him work with him in a scrap yard. When his Dad died he got various jobs as a labourer on building sites all around Britain and now works on the roads. He's a superb guy and a great laugh.
And that's what I love about pubs because where else would I meet someone like that.

Another dinner time, another pub.
That's the best thing about a pub. They're not like your Wife where you get married and overnight become a one Woman Man. You can have a local pub but you are allowed to whet your appetite elsewhere.
Today I was in the Shotgun and Pellet. Dave the barman looked up from his wank mag and stretched a welcoming hand towards me. I declined to shake just in case he had declined to wash and pondered whether a bottle might be the best option. I settled for a cheeky little Babycham for starters and sat at the end of the bar.
"Long time, no see" Dave offered as an opening gambit.
He was quite correct, it was.
I'm lucky enough to work in an area with 126 pubs in a 200 yard radius. This allows me to visit each one twice a year. And that is the crux of the matter, pubs are not my favourite thing, stealing from them is.
"I think I'll have a pint of Stella and six shots of Tequila please Dave" I replied.
Dave shot a quizzical look, "all six for you Guv"?
"Yes please Dave and can I have them in those quaint Tequila glasses you have on the top shelf".
Dave reached up for them and placed them in a row infront of me. I could sense him eyeing me suspiciously. Could he possibly remember the last time I was in and half inched the yard of ale? I glanced about and spotted a sickly looking Yukka plant not two feet away from me. Quickly, I opened my laptop case, sans laptop, whilst fumbling in my pocket for my mobile. Dave finished pouring and stepped back to get a better view of proceedings. What he failed to spot was me dialing the bar phone number. The phone rang and Dave turned to answer. Quick as a flash six Tequilas acquainted themselves with Mr Yukka and six glasses acquainted themselves with the inside of my laptop case.
As I marched through the side door I could hear Dave shouting "hello, hello" into the phone. "See you in six months sucker" I silently mouthed as I walked next door to the Stripper and Tissue.

Tuesday, 15 September 2009

Favourite things

The biggest tease in blog land, Madame Nikki, has asked Mo and I to list our seven favourite things. Mo, who is now down to posting one day a week because he’s a wimp, has asked me to do his for him. I’ve agreed because he’s bribed me with some beer glasses he’s stolen from one of his drinking holes. Here they are. Guess which ones are Mo’s and which ones are mine.
1.Without a shadow of doubt my Daughter is the favourite thing happening in my life. Every evening when I get home we have a conversation that goes something like this:
Me – Alright babes, what’s happening?
Daughter – nothing.
Me – What you get up to in School today?
Daughter – nothing.
Me – So what you’re saying is nothing happened in School at all today?
Daughter – Well (pause for deep breath), Mrs Davies gave us a surprise Maths test and I scored 20 out of 20 in it and Joe and Daniel had a fight and Daniel was crying and Emily isn’t speaking to Sasha who isn’t speaking to Megan who isn’t speaking to Bethan and Chris isn’t speaking to Josh and Debs Mum forgot to pack her lunch so I shared mine with her and we’ve got a School trip next week to St Fagan’s and Sophie and I have to do a project on the big bang theory and did you know there’s a Lab in Helsinki that has an Rhodium bar that is kept at absolute freezing temperature which is -273.15 degrees and it is the coldest place in the universe unless there are aliens that are conducting the same experiment and I was voted onto the School council today and they’ve stopped Spanish class so I’ve started to learn French and Eve had to see the Head Master because she swore and we’ve got a special assembly at Llandaff Cathedral next week and what’s for dinner, I’m starving?
Me – Oh!

I adore Public transport. No. I’ll go one further and tell you all that I love Public transport. Be it a train or a bus or even a tram, nothing can beat sitting amongst fellow Human Beings, taking in the sights and sounds and even the smells. Let me expand.
Today I caught the number 36. I eagerly scampered up the stairs hoping to take my normal seat in the very front row of the double decker. Nothing beats sitting in the front row, day dreaming that you’re actually driving the bus, flicking an imaginary indicator, honking the horn at some pathetic excuse of a taxi driver, carving up some old dear in her Citroen CV 1. Not today though. Two gimp teenagers had beaten me to it.
The Male was dressed head to foot in camouflage gear. Why does every other Male in London dress this way? Is everyone living out some desert storm enactment and I haven’t been informed. The Girl was dressed like a slut.
Across the aisle from me was an elderly Japanese guy dressed in full World War 11 Rear Admiral ensemble. He was furiously speaking into his mobile phone. My ears pricked as I tried to eavesdrop but I couldn’t fathom out if he was speaking in his native tongue or some form of pigeon English. It sounded very much as if he was saying “white devils on the starboard bow, dive dive dive”.
One stop away from my final destination the gimp couple decided to leave. Typical. I watched in awe as the pair of them sauntered off the bus and straight into the Groucho Club.
A tramp barged past me as I stood up to vacate the bus and fell into the front seat. He was dressed in a German Oberstleutnant uniform and looked like Richard Burton in Where Eagles Dare. He vomited on the floor before curling up to fall asleep.
God I hate public transport.

2. I love sitting in a pub people watching. Today found me in my favourite haunt, The Flick Knife and Crowbar. An hour for lunch only allows six pints maximum, I was on my fourth, casually reading the problem page whilst glancing furtively around the bar. There waas maybe a dozen people in there although there could have been a few more in camouflage gear that I hadn't spotted.
A young couple shared a joke over a bottle of Cotes Du Rhone. She elegantly flicked her hair back a wide smile engulfed her glowing countenance. He gazed lovingly into her piercing blue eyes.
Three skinheads guffawed over some joke, their Cider splattering the marble effect bar.
Two old fellows, their gleaming war medals pinned to their jackets, sipped their glasses of stout, their tutting and furtive glances towards the skinheads telling its own story.
Two professional types sat by the window. They swilled their Gin and Tonics around in their glasses as they quietly discussed some deal or other.
Four Secretarys skipped in giggling amongst themselves. They stood at the bar and ordered spritzers. Dave the barman expertly poured their drinks, sharing a joke with them. They looked at each other and started giggling like pretty Hyenas in lipstick and Prada. They took seats next to me and started talking about Dave. Their skirts rising up to mid tanned thigh. One adjusted herself in her seat giving a tantalising view of stocking top. I could take it no longer. I casually leant across and spoke.
"Oi will you four fuck off, the stripper is on in a moment and you're in my fucking way".

Rugby is the greatest sport ever. Rugby tours are even better. My personal favourite is Dublin and guess where I'm going next March. Yes, another tour to Dublin. I could write for hours about all the trips I've been on and maybe I will some day. My favourite though was 1998. First off our hotel caught fire and we were stood in the middle of the street at five in the morning in just our boxers. The firemen wouldn't let us back in so we're freezing our nuts off and this Woman appears from nowhere and invites us into her place. Spookily her place just happened to be a brothel. God, you just have to love Dublin.

More to follow tomorrow.

Tuesday, 8 September 2009

Is there something wrong with me?

Tennyson ee Hemingway wrote a post a few days ago which got me thinking, is there something wrong with me? Here's the post in question. You should read it before you read the rest of this.
I've read it a couple of times now and also the comments and I'm guessing there is.
Basically, I've probably lived well over half my life (given that I don't take very good care of myself) and have absolutely no Female friends whatsoever. Is this strange?
Before you all answer this let me tell you about my background.
I was born in a small mining village in the Welsh Valleys. My best friend was born next door to me. His Mum is my Godmother. My Mum is his Godmother. I'm his Sons Godfather. He's my Daughters Godfather. I was best man in his wedding. He was best man in mine. I went to a small primary school when I was three. There were ten of us in my class, five boys, five girls. Apart from one boy who moved away during secondary school, I still see all the other boys when I pop home to see my Mum. I haven't seen any of the girls for years. Our school was so small I had to play for the Football team when I was seven. That year we won the school league and I still have the trophy I was presented with.
My best mate and I went to a boys only Grammar school when we were eleven. I played for the schools Football, Rugby and Cricket teams. I was also fortunate to have been brought up next to a Golf Course so have played Golf since I was ten.
During School I also had trials for the Welsh Schools Rugby team and Bristol City Football Club. Needless to say, seeing as I was in an all boys school, all my school friends were male. All my friends I socialised with outside school i.e. Rugby, Football etc. were male.
During my twenties and early thirties I trained four times a week and played Rugby on a Saturday and Football on a Sunday. Spookily, all my friends during this period of my life were Male.
Since I was seven years old, sport has been the biggest single factor in my life. Christ, I even worked for the Welsh Rugby Union for twelve years. I've got countless friends and they're all sport playing, Cider drinking Men.
At this point I suppose you're all wondering whether I've actually talked to a Woman since I left Primary School. And I guess this is the crux of it all.
I'll just point out that I'm not a good looking guy. All the guys from the RTR forum who have met me will vouch for that. But I have lots of qualities that Women like. I'm endearing, generous, witty, intelligent, charming, well read and I have a big dick! I open doors for Women as they walk into a room. I'll listen intently for hours on end about anything they wish to talk about. I'll pay them compliments and actually mean them. I was incredibly good at charming Women into bed. But inevitably after a night or a few days or even a month, I would run out of something to say because all I was really thinking about was who Arsenal would start with up front on Saturday.
And that's why I don't have any Female friends. I'm shallow.
And Men don't mind shallow especially Sports loving, cider drinking Men.
Then one day I met my Wife. I've never worked out why she married me. You'll all be stunned to learn that she is incredibly attractive. She's also very intelligent and has a top job. She's a published poet and an accomplished painter. We have nothing in common other than our Daughter yet we'll probably grow old together, her reading a book, me watching sport until I pop my clogs. She's the only Woman that I've been able to just sit with in silence and not rack my brains for something to say. And if I start talking about sport she nods and feigns interest in the same way that I do when she's talking about shite that I have no interest in. Maybe she's shallow as well? Maybe we're just well suited? Most of you would call her a Saint if you knew us. I count my lucky stars every day that we're together, fourteen years and counting. The only thing I can think of as to why we're still Married is that she must have lost a bet? The one thing I do know is that she's the only Woman I would call a friend.
Anyhow, is there something wrong with me? Feel free to leave a comment. I've got to go out now. I'm meeting my mate Sarah for a pint. I know she's female but she doesn't count because she's Australian.

Friday, 4 September 2009

Random Rubbish

My Daughter started back to School yesterday, her last in Primary School, thank fuck. The last few weeks have been strange to say the least. She’s been having terrible nightmares where she’s gone to School on the first day and found that she’s had to sit on a table on her own. The poor little mite has been waking up crying and all sorts. I must admit it did start to worry me and it does tug at the old heart strings. Anyhow, first day was yesterday and she ended up on a table with her best mate. Unfortunately, she’s also on the same table as three boys which she now lovingly refers to as pigs.
All summer she’s been doing a project on big cats for her final year project. In fairness she’s had fuck all else to do has it’s been pissing down constantly. She turns up on her first day and hands it in. The teacher skims through it and then informs her that as it is her final year project she did in fact have all this year to complete it. Obviously she’s the only one who has done it bless her little cotton socks.
Off out tonight on a stag do. My mate and I started playing five a side a few years back with these guys who all played Rugby for a different club to ours. We've gotten quite friendly with them and now drink with them most weekends. We're all off for a "Gentlemans" do at their club tonight. I'm worried. There's only going to be two of us who haven't played for this club and therefore we're going to get some stick. Worse still, we're going to be on the stage at some point. Must remember to put clean boxers on.
Tomorrow we're having a drink around Cardiff. I'm going to have to try and get them down the bay at some point. There's a big poker tournament on at the Grosvenor and one of the poker bloggers who I avidly follow is down there. Rob "the Animal" Price is one of these guys who hardly ever blogs about anything other than Poker but I am gripped by his posts because of the amount of dosh he wins. The guy is a legend and it would be a shame, seeing as he is in Cardiff, to not bump into him and maybe have a beer.
I seem to have more American Mom readers now than Brit blokes so I'll big this blog up as well. Jessica at Bernthis has done a video for a company which if you visit will donate a dollar to an ovarian cancer charity. If you haven't read Bernthis then you're missing out on some funny stuff although her last two posts have been a bit eeeeeeeeeewwwwwww for us guys. She's also got some great videos of herself which I'm sure will have Amatay and JR reaching for the kleenex as they click on her link.
My favourite blogger Mo only posts once a week now because he's a sap and his Wife said if he posted anymore she'd cut his dick off. Without Mo's regular shite to read I've had to find someone else and luckily I stumbled across this blog. The Japing Ape writes some of the funniest stories I've read. Whenever I'm bored in work I jump on his blog and read his old posts. If you want a good laugh then he's your man.
Finally, one of the first bloggers I ever read and the biggest pervert on the planet is bragging on his latest post about winning his fifth Gatsby award. Well fish, your blog has been running for four years, mine has been going for seven months and I'm on my third (not that I'm competitive you understand). This time next year you'll be putting Ads up for me.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009

Never play sports when you're pissed

I was reading Amatays blog and there was a comment likening him to Teddy Sheringham, he of little pace but quick mind. It reminded me of this.
Picture a cold, wet November Sunday morning. Yours truly had been out all Saturday watching Wales play Australia. A few drinks had turned into a massive session. Our last port of call in those days was a bar run by a mate of ours. At two in the morning we had headed into the downstairs bar to watch the boxing. I can't recall who was boxing but we left at five in the morning and ended up in one of my mates' house where we sat up all night drinking cider. About 10.30 in the morning my phone goes and it's the captain of the team I play for.
"Where the fuck are you Rubbish, we kick off in half an hour?"
My heart sank. I'd totally forgotten I was playing in a charity game that morning. And not any old charity game but one against Welsh Accademicals.
For those of you who know fuck all about Rugby, Welsh Accademicals is a side made up mainly of ex International players and students who play charity matches raising money for various organisations. I've included a link which shows just who has played for them.
I told the boys I had to go to play against the "Accies" and they all, to a man, spat their drinks everywhere.
"You're fucking bollocksed, you're not serious are you?" was the main response.
I went home to grab my boots, all the boys in tow who were busily calling everyone to come and watch, knowing I was going to fuck up big time.
I got to the changing rooms where everyone was already changed and warmed up and stood under the shower for five minutes before throwing up and getting changed. This wasn't actually a rare occurence, in fact it was a weekly one in those days.
We walked onto the pitch on that aforementioned cold, wet November Sunday morning and my heart sank a little more. The "Accies" team had Gareth Davies, Mark Ring, John Deveraux, Gwyn Evans, Adrian Hadley and, opposite me, Robert Jones. Rob Jones had only just retired from Intenational Rugby and had been on two Lions tours. I had been drinking for 24 hours solid. That was just the backs. The forwards had a few Internationals in it as well. There was also a crowd of a few hundred people there, most of them waiting to see me do something stupid.
We were playing on a parks pitch and the rain was coming down in sheets. The sky was eerily dark for eleven in the morning as if God was sharing in my ritual humiliation by setting the perfect apocalyptic scene.
The Accies kicked off and our prop gathers the ball. A ruck ensues where someone comes over the top and the Ref awards us a penalty. I'm stood there with the ball in my hands and the Accies, to a man, turn around thinking I'm going to kick. I think "fuck it", take a quick tap and am gone. I incredibly avoid a couple of tackles and find myself in open space. The crowd rise to their feets as I hog the touchline. I can hear my mates screaming "go on Rubbish" as I cross halfway. Gwyn Evans, another Lions player, was full back and I could see him covering across. Gwyn was probably in his late fourties and probably the oldest player on the pitch.
I pictured in my mind what I was going to do. Gwyn would have me by the twenty two yard line so I would ease up and then accelerate when he was five yards away, leaving him grasp thin air and me stroll over the try line to the acclaim of the hundreds of fans there.
I accelerated at the right time. So did Gwyn. He hit me full tilt, shoulder to shoulder, and sent me flying about ten yards into the crowd who were dispersing a lot quicker than I was as they could all see what was going to happen. As I slid through the mud I could hear a huge cheer. I lay there for a moment struggling to catch my breath and could hear one of my mates shout "Fucking hell Gwyn, you've killed him". A deathly hush fell about the pitch as I was helped to my feet. I slowly walked through the crowd and back onto the pitch where Gwyn was standing. He held out his hand and as I shook it he said, a bit too loudly for my liking, "you know what Son, you're very deceptive. You're a lot slower than you look!"
The crowd erupted in laughter as did the players from both sides. Walking back off the pitch to throw up didn't exactly endear me to the crowd either.
We got absolutely stuffed but it was a fantastic day. Not many people get a chance to share a pitch with their heroes and even though I was pissed out of my head I can still remember all the match. I'm guessing Gwyn instantly forgot it. Can't blame him.