It’s been a long time since I’ve penned a few words of wisdom in my journal. To be honest, after the Rugby World Cup I was a bit trepiditious, as it appears that I made somewhat of an arse of myself.
Nevertheless, I’ve been building up to it slowly through frequent posts on the mighty internet DOMINATING medium that is Twitter. I did have a bit of a blunder here when I accidentally auctioned my balls for charity. I meant Rugby balls, but the great unwashed understandably wanted the HASK’S MIGHTY LOVE SPUDS, possibly for some sort of cloning exercise. Before I knew it, the bidding had reached £47,000 and I was sweating bullets about having to go through with it. Luckily, DHL told me that I was OK as there isn’t a plane in history big enough to haul my luggage to the lucky winner. Phew.
Before my travels, it struck me that Twitter the perfect marriage of form and focus, being able to display my MIGHTY MENTAL MUSCLES in a measly 140 Characters. However, since being in Japan, I’ve been studying Shinto, and my Sensei says to me that true focus will come from mastering the longer form and urged me to resume my journal.
Furthermore, I see that there is movement afoot for my beloved England. Dark Overlord Jonno has departed (thank fuck for that, my arse has never been the same since he crushed me into waste paper bin) and there’s some new chap called Lancaster running the ship. Obviously, as I was away throwing Tai-Chi poses in Japan, I couldn’t be selected for the 6N, but the man knows his stuff as he called me straight up to South Africa on my first tour. He clearly needed my motivational prowess.
It’s a very different atmosphere here at camp. There’s none of the WORLD CLASS BANTER that appeared on other tours. Personally, I think this is a bit of a shame, as there’s nothing wrong with a bit of consensual midget launching. Even Chris has toned it down a bit; apparently he’s got a reputation for being a bit of a cunt, and wants to put it all behind him. As such, I’m at a bit of a loss, and feeling very lonely. It is worth noting that I’m totally misunderstood being not only a fucking magnificent physical specimen, but since I’ve immersed myself in THE WAY OF THE GUN SHOW (I effortlessly DOMINATED Zen Buddhism in about half an hour) I have got in touch with my sensitive artistic self as well. There’s been many an hour spent here in South Africa where I’ve passed the time by finger painting some of the local wildlife. I’m very pleased with the results, and have sent photographs of them to the Tate Gallery. I’m sure they’ll pick it up.
Anyway, regarding the selection, I’ve been picking splinters out of my arse for the last two weeks. This was a cunning plan, because it’s primed my pump something fierce, and I can’t wait to lay the DOMINATION down on that cheeky Bok fecker that tried to perform an impromptu bollockectomy on me the other week. Couldn’t believe I got banned for that, incidentally. This is rugby, a punch in the chops is fair dos but don’t be feeling another man’s wedding tackle. Well, not without permission anyway.
So, he’s picked some bloody yokel who plays for Exeter (Where? When did this become a place, let alone a rugby team?) in my position. I went up and tried to set this Lancaster chap straight, but he had some harsh words for me. He said “James, son, this is the new England. People were mortified at your behaviour and deeply disappointed in your lack of success. I’m trying to breed a new culture, a less blunt and more sensitive one. We can’t be offending the Celts and our opponents anymore.” Well, bollocks to that. I briefly explained to him that the history of England is the history of DOMINATION, and who gives a red one what those whiny sheep bothering fuckers care about. He sadly shook his head and sent me away to read a Danielle Steele novel. Fucking boring it was too, there’s no shagging in it whatsoever, and no pictures either.
Well, I wasn’t having this, so I did a bit of research, and if we’re going to get physical with the Boks, then we’re going to have to think like the Boks. After spending a morning prancing around in the long grass dressed as an antelope (I had an unfortunate encounter with a local lion, but that’s another story. Let me tell you, though, he won’t be picking on impala again any time in the near future) I abandoned this idea and went to the internet. I went back to see him armed only with my brochure for this splendid sounding place called Kamp Staaldraad, which seemed to me to be just the place to put some beef into our bodies and have us bond as all men together, and I was particularly enamoured with the idea of us all climbing into a naked foxhole together. Or is that climbing into a foxhole naked together? Either way, sounds like a splendid idea. Lancaster, astonishingly, wasn’t as keen on the idea as I was and took my laptop off me.
Still cometh the hour, cometh THE HASKELL. It’s time for me to be launched from the bench like a perfectly sculpted flesh torpedo and to smite down with great vengeance and furious anger on all those in my path. As is usual before the spectacle of intense DOMINATION takes place, journalists have been seeking out some sage wisdom from Sensei Hask, and I’m more than happy to oblige. I do wish that they’d stop misquoting me though. This time around, the culprit was Right Wing lunatic asylum The Telegraph. What I’m quoted as saying is:
You can get in a bit of a fog, get a drowning feeling against South Africa teams, something like being in a washing machine, You want to put the opposition in there and not get put in yourself. You’ve got to get stuck in but you’ve also got to be clever.
Whereas what I actually said was:
You have to drown in a fog of red rage when playing South African teams. They’re a bunch of fucking primitives out here who train by head butting Rhinos and if you let them get a head of steam up then it’s like taking on a horde of angry barbarians armed only with a toothpick. While this isn’t a fucking problem for me, there are 14 other pansies on the side, and I can’t do it all.
Fuck knows where this nonsense about washing machines came from, because in all honesty, I’ve been a bit scared of them since I sat on one and it gave me a tingling in my naughty place. Anyway, I do my laundry by hand, there’s nothing like DOMINATING the skid marks in your undies to make you feel in touch with your inner man. I did, I hate to say, mention something about being clever, but I was thinking about where to get myself a steak the size of Lesotho. Nothing to do with Rugby, that, and I’ve no idea why Cleary included it.
Still, it’s been a cracking tour, and it’s good to see the new blood flowing so strongly in the Red Rose. We’ve got one game to go, and this is going to finally answer the question that has stumped the greatest thinkers for decades (I DOMINATED it in a morning): What happens when immovable object (The Bok pack) meets Irresistible Force (Me)?
Well, my young padwans, the answer is that the Irresistible force DOMINATES the immovable object leaving eight large Neanderthals in green shirts crying for their mothers.
I can’t fucking wait.
P.S. You despicable pit of lefty vipers, I hear that you think you’re going to be neglected over the summer while Kitson and Rees go to Torremolinos for their hols (I hope Rees remembers to feed that badger on his lip). If you’re very lucky, I may open up my diaries for you again.