Great big hairy non-steroid shrunken balls. How did we let this happen?
Of all the bloody nations to get DOMINATED by, we had to go and roll on our backs with our legs in the air for bloody Wales. I am almost inconsolable in my grief.
The omens, to be honest, weren’t good. The PE teacher had what can only be described as a brain fart by picking Twiglet Croft, fresh after a massive 3 games back, instead of me.
The back 3 is a disaster area as Ginsters still can’t find his misplaced mojo (I have a solution for that: withhold his pie allowance until he’s back on song), and we played so appallingly against Italy not showing any of our usual beef that it appeared that the wheels really had fallen off the wagon.
I can’t even find a way to blame the backs for this one. Well, I can, because they were just totally out-muscled by their opponents (even Manu never got his SMASHY SMASHY going), but it is a bit unfair.
No, this was a cock-up made in the coaching book.
And you know what’s really frustrating (aside from not starting me)? That the last time we got this close to a Grand Slam we were outrageously stuffed in Dublin by the Irish, and we swore that we wouldn’t let it happen again.
Well, so much for that promise. I just hope that the PE Teacher, Poppa Faz and Big Graeme don’t panic and “pull a Dark Overlord Jonno”.
Now is not the time for the faint of heart. We’re improving by the year, and it will be ours soon. Or at least it had better be. As I have a feeling my days are numbered. Such a thought is utterly and completely incon-fucking-ceivable, but yet…
I find myself raging against the dying light. Lancaster seems to have some bloody funny ideas about DOMINATION in the pack, and seems insistent on fazing me out. Does he not understand that I’m entirely essential? That not only do I provide the GUNS of the operation, but I’m also key for the WORLD CLASS BANTER™, and the promotion of TEAM ENGLAND as a brand by tying it in with myself, THE BIG BRAND?
And I won’t even be able to say that it’s better to burn out than fade away with my 50th cap appearing in a piss-poor effort like that one. Not ending so much with a bang as a violation.
In times like this, I usually try to take solace in great poetry. Except nobody has ever written a poem to provide consolation when you’ve been given the Valley Sheep treatment.
And after a performance like that, we can just kiss goodbye to Warren picking any of us to go on the Lions. So, it’s off to Argentina for most of us. We had best lay down a proper marker; show them England is not to be trifled with as I hear the dirty buggers are making noises about the Falklands again.
I sign off for this 6 Nations a suitably chastened HASK.