Eh! I am disturbed. I am shaken to my radici. I come here willingly and free of charge to mix with my fans and what do I find? Shitload of homo-erotic love for the cazzo Haskell. You guys are sick. Sickos!
Beh, I’m here. But not for long. I don’t want to catch nothing. So what language you want? English? Italian? Spanish? East Midlands? Four languages! Who said you had to be un cretino like Dan Cole to wear 3 on your back?
Okay. The Six Nations are dietro l’angolo. What can I say? Love the Six Nations. Love it almost even more than I love a plate of the best Italian food in the Milky Way at this place which – um – I accidentally walked into one day when I was feeling like a plate of the best Italian food in the Milky Way. They even took my photo!
So where was I? Six Nations. Okay – oh, and I had a great bottle of Brunello di Montalcino at that place for only £59, beuuuuutiful wine, bargain price – anyway, so Brunel got off his culo francese and named our Six Nations squad:
FORWARDS: Martin Castrogiovanni, Lorenzo Cittadini, Alberto De Marchi, Andrea Lo Cicero, Michele Rizzo, Leonardo Ghiraldini, Davide Giazzon, Joshua Furno, Quintin Geldenhuys, Francesco Minto, Antonio Pavanello, Robert Barbieri, Paul Derbyshire, Simone Favaro, Sergio Parisse (captain), Ratu Manoa Seru Vosawai, Alessandro Zanni.
Great squad. If Ghiraldini don’t try to claw no one’s eyes out again. Dunno if Brunel named backs. Who cares? They’re all shit anyway. We forwards get ’em the ball, they go backwards, sideways, up their own arses! Porca Madonna!
Okay, forget the useless backs. We do. So now I give you sickos the benefit of Castro’s in-depth analysis of his beloved Azzurri‘s opposition this year:
SCOTLAND – coached by a wig. Beat ’em by 60. Just us forwards.
IRELAND – not enough Connacht players. Beat ’em by 30. Just us forwards.
WALES – got a long skinny streak of pelican shit on the wing that cries a lot. Beat ’em by 50. Just us forwards.
ENGLAND – not enough Sale players plus an ugly stronzo wearing 3. Beat ’em by 20. Just us forwards.
FRANCE – noi italiani taught ’em how to cook. Tutto chiaro. Beat ’em by 10. Just us forwards.
If we had backs good as us forwards we’d shit the 6 Nations in every year. Plus win the World Cup every time. And where would we go to celebrate? I – um – accidentally walked into this place one day when I was feeling like another plate of the best Italian food in the Milky Way. They took my photo too! And Geordan Murphy’s too. He was with me that day looking for the best Italian food in the Milky Way. He’s Irish. Said he couldn’t look at another potato.
Okay, sickos, I’m off before I catch something, but if you want a homo-erotic deity to worship, look no further:
Okay. This time I’m outa here. Got un appuntamento with Sergio in the ice bath.