I’m in a rather good mood today, as I’ve had a bit of time to ruminate on the squad selected for the Romania game on Saturday.
They say at this level that there are no easy games, but if I can’t DOMINATE a bunch of ex-commie amateurs, then I’ve really got think long and hard about my training regime.
Jonno was in a filthy mood this morning, as he wanted to give Easter a slapping and put him on the flight home, but he still can’t find the bugger anywhere. As a result he’s been forced to tell the press that Nick has a back injury. I don’t think the journalistic corps are particularly convinced by this attempt at spin. Where the hell is he anyway? Seriously, I’m almost starting to become a bit concerned as we don’t want a repeat of the 2003 fiasco where we accidentally fielded 16 people, and I wouldn’t put it past the sneaky bugger to just tag on to the end of the line on to the pitch.
Still, that’s enough space devoted to him, this is my diary and I want to talk about my favourite subject: myself. I think this is a chance to put to bed forever the notion that there is anyone else in England fit to wear the Number 8 shirt. Not only do I, THE BIG BRAND, lay down the DOMINATION on the opposition from the back of the scrum and rumble in the loose like a Rhino with severe bowel problems, but I am also more than willing to lay the DOMINATION down on my own pack when they aren’t meeting the high standards that I set. It really is about time that Jonno just faced facts and made me GRAND HIGH FUCKING OVERLORD of the England Rugby Team. Or at least Forwards Captain.
It’s scandalous that it’s taken this long, really, especially when you take into account that, I, THE HASK, am a gorgeous hunk of love muscle; a highly trained physical specimen just ready to be launched at the opposition.
Still, I don’t know a lot about Romania, apart from that it is where Dracula comes from, but it doesn’t really matter. DOMINATION is not limited by national boundaries, and I’ll lay the hurt to them, their neighbours Wales or any other team that wants to buy a ticket to THE GUN SHOW.
Well, best go, I’ve got to finish watching The Seventh Seal. It’s in bloody Swedish (Do they even play Rugby there? There is some Viking in my gene pool, so I suppose they must do), and all they seem to do is play Chess with Death. If that were me, I would not have been calmly moving little stupid horses round a chequered board, instead I’d have taught him the meaning of DOMINATION by jamming two pieces into his eye sockets then whacking him on the back of the head so hard that they are launched with enough velocity to plough a fjord across the Pacific Ocean in Norway.