Conquerors, finally. We went to Dublin and beat those fucking bastards who’ve been knocking us out of this trophy every year since forever. I, of course, was fabulous. The star of the show. 23 points. The little general. And so on. Whatever. Adoration is boring.
To kick off the first of my very occasional Les Mots, I’ve decided, rather appropriately, to discuss words.
In the past I have been pilloried for some verbal contretemps with our rival Irishmen. Apparently this one went down really badly. For a nation that is simultaneously so tiny as to be nearly pointless, yet which has won so many Nobel Prizes for literature (first winner a Frenchman, by the way, albeit not myself, or anywhere near as drole) and is famed, above all else, even drinking and fighting, for their wonderful understanding and use of words and language, to miss the point so completely is surprising. The truth is: they do not understand les mots.
One must question what lingual communication is set to achieve. Surely to view it merely as a way to list facts, hamstrung by truth, or even as a method of genuine self-expression (vomit), is unambitious. What I realised as a child was that talking, like everything else, is a cause exercised for effect. I want to score a try? I set the ball over the line. Kick a goal? Swing my foot at a ball rested on a tee. Unsettle weak-minded fools ahead of a big game? Open my mouth and let my tongue dance as I exhale.
So, this week I’ve again been “hating” the Irish. Next week, who knows? I never look at our fixture list. I go to press conferences and throw subtle pieces of sweetcorn-filled shit at our coming opponents, whoever they are. Sometimes I also talk into the microphones, answering questions, et cetera. But mostly I fling the pre-prepared turds of Cudmore and Hines.
It backfired once ahead of a fixture against Biarritz. A well-aimed Zirakashvili phaal residue, which had to be velocitated with a ladle, was eaten by Serge Blanco. He did not even flinch. Perhaps he did not even notice. But it fucked with my head completely and that absolute voir vous Mardi prochain Yachvili had my number all game.
There is a good chance we will have to play an English team in the quarter finals, apparently. It will be at home and therefore we will win regardless but I, with my world-class service, will launch faeces anyway; I’m a professional. No words other than the necessary. The effect is caused. With Saturday comes victory.
Now, with the H-Cup, and the possibility of English opponents – I feel sorry for them. We two nations, neighbours and former Imperials, have long emphasised the few differences between our cultures, but are really far more similar than either would like to admit. However, they are very ugly.
Like France, les Rosbifs also have an extremely intelligent, sharp-witted silver tongue, the same height as me, with the same colour hair and the same favourable attitude to a good side parting. He also looks, in many fundamental ways, just like me. However, as we see below, he is a human outlier, an accident, an extremity, a mistake. I am most of those things too. He, however, is an ugly freak; I am a handsome bastard.
No doubt I will declare this louder and more publicly should it be confirmed that we are facing any English stars, like Stevens, Warburton or North, in the quarter-finals: for every English man, there is a superior, better-looking French equivalent.
Again, I say all these things because I want to win, not because I mean them (whatever that means). For clarity, this also does not mean I do not mean them, simply that when I speak it is to make something happen. All actions are thus. Most people are just far too arrogant and stupid to realise. They think they should share their inanities with the rest of us. My counsel will always remain my own.
I don’t know why the HASK asked me to write this column, though I see he is aiming for rugby writing from around the world. I have my views on the website but will not share, that is not for what words are intended. I only agreed because I feel sorry for James. The world is not suitably well-organised to deal with him. Whatever the circumstances of his conception and birth, it’s a near certainty that his muscles-to-brains ratio – or GUNS-to-HEADGUNS, as he would say or, probably, drool – is simply too high for him to be viewed as human. He is more chimp.
I like animals; I write this article. You will never know me. I will not allow it.
Readers, I hope and trust you can look under the net of language and find the reality therein.
Until next time, adieu.As Hacked By LarryMilne