The Secret Diary of James Haskell (IQ 25 1/2). Date: 30th September

The time for battle is nearly upon us. The swarthy band of unwashed miscreants from North of the Border are waiting for us, and I can tell you I can feel the DOMINATION lust rising in every fibre of my being. Little James is, as I type this, standing quivering to attention and every sinew in my being is twitching with a need to get involved at close quarters with the dirty Scots.

Sadly, I see Australian Scot Dan Parks isn’t playing, and they’ve picked some foetus who has an inexplicable name (Ruaridh? How the fuck do you even pronounce that? It looks like it should sound like your clearing your throat of a massive lump of phlegm ready to gob in Jonno’s coffee as some WORLD CLASS BANTER TM). I’ve had a word with Big C, and he’s going to dish out a mighty power teabag to Richie Gray. That’ll fuck their plans up.

In moments like this, I often feel contemplative, and I’ve penned some stirring poetry to declaim in the dressing room before the match to make sure that everyone is properly focused and we bring a storm of DOMINATION down on our opposition:

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and giving away stupid penalties,
If you can stand strong with your brothers,
Just  make no allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, by filthy Celts and kiwi press,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
for we are ENG-ER-LAND, and we shall not stress:

If you can dream – of BRANDS and DOMINATION;
If you can’t think – make working out your aim;
If you can remember that you are the pride of your nation
And treat those wendyball impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth the HASK has spoken
Twisted by smart arses and made to look a fool,
Or watch such things as anger monkeys broken,
Heads torn off with bare hands as the tool,

If you can make one heap of all the jocks
And DOMINATE from the toss,
We shall not lose to those sweaty socks,
We’ll send them home to cry about their loss;
If you can develop your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so DOMINATE on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: keep on!’

If you can crush Dan Parks beneath your studs,
Become a global BRAND with the common touch,
if neither Scot nor Taff or Convict can hurt you,
If your forwards count with you, but none too much;
If you can read the whole games flow
Given no penalties and make sure it’s won,
Then is the time to pull out THE GUN SHOW
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

Fucking WOOF!

Make me Poet Laureate.

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