It wasn’t meant to be like this. How can it be that I, the Small-Faced Chaos Machine, have been reduced to packing down in a scrum with Andy Powell’s massive idiot head placed firmly next to one of my butt cheeks? No wonder Sale has a shit scrum – instead of concentrating on pushing like mad, all I can think about is that the great galoot’s moustache might jump off his face and burrow its way somewhere unpleasant. Apparently people get us mixed up from afar, which is the most insulting thing I have ever heard.
It was all going so well. All that time spent in the Stretch-o-Matic when I was a kid, like what they did to that boy in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, was starting to pay-off. Rave reviews in the Rabo, and for Scotland. ‘Best lock in the world’, they said. ‘Nailed on for the Lions’, I was told. Ha! Now people are picking Geoff Parling ahead of me for their Lions teams. Geoff Parling! The man looks like a proper teuchtar. He should be in some horribly incestuous 1970s family folk group, where even the wife and daughters have beards. At least I have style. And a small face. How can I fly like an eagle when I’m surrounded by turkeys?
Mr Diamond promised me that Sale would bring in some quality, with me as the star player, but what did I find? A coaching hokie-kokie. Powell. Dickinson. Richie Vernon, who still looks like a stick insect pretending to be a No 8. And fucking Cippers! I spend all my time running around doing his tackling for him. I miss Glasgow. I played with some hard men in that team. Tough as teak. Big Al wouldn’t have taken any of Powell’s shit, no siree. If Danny Cipriani had flapped at a tackle like a little girl in training with the Warriors, Mike Cusack would have sat on him ‘til he said sorry. Which would have been pretty quickly. The rolls of chub on that man are a thing of beauty. At least Frazer MacKenzie is here to keep me sane.
Sometimes, if I’m feeling lonely, I’ll go round to his flat and we’ll lie together on his bed, spooning, and thinking of the Old Country. Speaking of Scotland, things are bad up there too. Not just because, with my departure, the people of Glasgow now have no interaction with a tall, well-nourished human being. No, wins for our teams are getting as rare as rocking horse shite. We even managed to lose to Tonga. Fair play to the Islanders, they were terrific, while we were guff. Absolute keech. They were of course assisted by not having Nick de Luca on their team – even I’m not tall enough to catch some of his passes. A rumour has reached me that he may have actually completed a scoring pass recently. It can’t be true – such a thing would only take place in a world gone topsy turvy. I’d sooner bet on Alex Salmond losing weight than NDL doing anything useful on a rugby pitch.
So, basically, it’s all turned to shit. The only thing I’ve got to look forward to is playing against Ireland in the Six Nations – hopefully Rob Kearney will run away from me again and I can get my career back on track. If I’m lucky I’ll get a ticket on the Lions trip – I’m already getting texts asking me if I can get Mike Cusack to sit on Howley from now until late summer so we actually have a chance of beating the Aussies. I’ve passed on the request to The Coo, who seems strangely keen. These McYorkshiremen are a weird bunch.
Anyway, I’m off to buy more hair dye. I’m thinking of turning my beautiful locks into some sort of purple colour, just to make doubly sure I don’t get confused with Andy fucking Powell ever again. Cheerio.As hastily copied out of Richie’s diary very quickly by Chek.