Well, it’s no secret that not only do I DOMINATE Rugby, Fashion and international diplomacy, but I’m also a ladies man of some renown. Why, only last week a minor interchange I had made the international press. I am, actually, a true silver-tongued cavalier, a throwback to the days when men would spread cloaks over puddles to stop women’s feet getting wet. So, it’s with some pleasure that I get to share my romantic advice with “Cyrano”, a poor bedeviled soul struggling to form meaningful relationships with members of the opposite sex.
Please help me, for I have no-one else that can possibly assist.
I recently left a long-term relationship when I discovered my partner watching something called “Football”. This simply wouldn’t do, as I rightly expect any woman lucky enough to spend time between my black silk sheets to follow rugby and worship at the altar of DOMINATION.
Sadly, however, since then I have been in the most unspeakable drought. Women just don’t seem to understand me, and run screaming terrified when they see the life-size HASK blow-up doll I have in the sitting room (to practice my DOMINATION on when nobody else is around).
Unfortunately, this has sent me into a spiraling depression and I have put on some serious weight. Luckily, my club the Old Wanktonians, have already moved me from the back row to Loosehead Prop, so I can still make a meaningful contribution on the pitch.
However, it pains me that I’m no longer making a meaningful contribution with the female of the species, and the situation has reached such a point that I’m starting to worry that my testicles are nearing critical mass. The only relief in sight is extended solo sessions in front of the Stade Francais calendar, but this lonely hobby can’t continue forever as my right GUN is almost as well-defined as yours.
Well, Cyrano, you made a wise choice in coming to me for advice on this matter. Why, only the other day I was having this very conversation with the lads.
There are a few problems that I can see. Firstly, while I can appreciate that worship of THE BIG BRAND is an all important facet of modern life, it is only understandable that any female would be mortally intimidated by a facsimile of myself in full glory. I suggest that you move all your HASK memorabilia into a shed, where you can properly appreciate a true temple to DOMINATION.
The second problem I can see is that you’ve let yourself go. While the fat bastards in the front row have a use (and I’ve got all the time in the world for Dylan), there’s no real comparison between the rotund devils and a dashing officer of the back row such as myself. The requirements for being difficult to push (i.e. fat) are totally different to those for laying down the DOMINATION. As such, us back row specialists are perfectly honed human beings, the next evolution of the species, if you will. Therefore, I suggest that you get yourself down the gym sharpish, lay off the pies and get into a strict training regimen. And for Christ’s sake don’t exercise your right arm until the other one has caught up. This may require a change in technique, but some experimentation with a water wing, a sofa, and some vaseline has convinced me that one-armed press-ups using your left arm are not only a great form of exercise, but also a hugely enjoyable one. It may sort the blue balls problem as well.
Thirdly, get yourself sartorially equipped. There are many hair products out there for the modern man (I asked the backs) and better than that there are many fine suit-makers out there. Nothing (outside of maybe a speedo) impresses women as much as a well dressed studmuffin. You’ll thank me.
I also think you’re lacking in WORLD CLASS BANTER TM. This is essential for wooing the ladies. I, personally, find an honest and direct approach (i.e. asking for such things as an Aussie kiss or a Cleveland Steamer) will usually lead to pretty quick results even if in the case of the latter you may not like it.
Follow my advice and you’ll soon be fighting them off with a shitty stick, and will be back on song with the bedroom DOMINATION. On a personal note, however, it has become apparent to me that the presence of video cameras isn’t so much an aphrodisiac as a repellent.
Still, keep plugging away and always remember that a restraining order is just another form of “I Love You”.