Sometimes I just DOMINATE too hard. This was clearly the case in Dublin, where I thought I’d show some hitherto unsuspected co-ordination to go with my muscular glory. We were easily winning anyway, through the cunning tactic of “let Ireland have the ball until they fuck it up”, so I though I’d cement my place in the side for the foreseeable with a bit of deft footwork; some rapier-like skill to match the sheer DOMINATION we were laying down. Sadly, the ref didn’t see it like that, and sent me off to DOMINATE the naughty step for 10 minutes.
It was horrible. Horrible. As I told the journalists, my whole life flashed in front of my eyes. I was being DOMINATED by a little dipshit with a whistle and a coloured card.
And what a life. From recent triumphs in a white shirt, through terrorising animals by DOMINATING them with a shotgun in Kiwiland, the raw fish debacle in Japan and my early glory days, everything was wonderful. Or was it…
You see, I may be a battle hardened warrior with GUNS of steel and a forehead that can stop a bullet, but it wasn’t always this way. I have, and not many people know this, Douchephobia, which is a debilitating fear of Tennis coaches. Not only is tennis barely a sport (and if it is one, it’s only for young nymphets or middle-aged MILTDBTS (Mothers I’d like to DOMINATE between the sheets), not for REAL MEN), but I’m permanently scarred by them.
The other horrible memory, although the world needs to thank Miles St. John Smythe for this, was back when a young HASK first tasted domination. Picture, this, me, THE MIGHTY HASK, DOMINATOR OF CELTS, DESTROYER OF ITALIAN DREAMS, standing there in my short trousers on my first day in school. In front of me is the largest, meanest, boy I’ve ever seen.
He looks down upon me, and snarls, well, I can’t remember what exactly, but I think it went along these lines: “Remove yourself from my presence, oik, lest I smite down upon you with furious vengeance”.
For the first time, I was struck dumb. Who was this Goliath, and how could I be just like him?
Then he introduced me to WORLD CLASS BANTER™ by flushing my head down the toilet.
This was the first day that I ever ventured into the weights room. In future, I would not be the DOMINATED. No, I would overcompensate by DOMINATING twice as hard and twice as long as Silvio Berlusconi on a Viagra binge. Madame Whiplash would have nothing on me.
And so it came to pass…
Nevertheless, I do sometimes still wake up in the middle of the night glistening with a cold sweat, with the smell of stale urine in my nostrils and the feel of a mighty hand wrapped around my most sensitive areas.
That’s what I get for taking supplements before bedtime.
On the weekend, hopefully I’ll be starting again, but it’s the bloody French who are madder than a box of purple giraffes so who knows what they’ll do.
One thing, though, while I hold no fear of the French, I do not ever want to be reliving that moment again, as THE HASK fears only his own weakness (bought home to me due to the utter DOMINATION I’ve received from a virus. A fucking virus! It’s not even got a backbone for me to snap), and so I promise to behave on the pitch this time. Once my temperature goes down and I come off the bench.