Of fists and men, of Schlampe, tries
And noises, wakeful nights and days
Sing muse, before the music dies
And toilet humour fades, abeys. Tell then of our ill-omened time
That Friday fast at three
When our depleted regiment
Met sober, somberly. Then mourned we for our comrade's cru-
Shing blow, a disappearance
In nature hoped less permanent
Than Hastings' bitter vehemence. No Norman Yoke, but Breton woe
We sought to trail behind us.
Upon the boat 'twas gimp's fine arts
In mission to remind us. But thence to bed, where spirited performances were rated
By M. and A., whilst stormy seas
Most others had deflated. About about and toss and turn,
How fragile landsmen's bowels did burn
Chav chundered, Slug did slog it out,
His honour went quite green about... What men at six the bell invited forth,
Led by the skips, his daisy breath
Showed that an ageless stomach has its worth
(And the ability to sleep like death) In ranks we'd formed
When finally temptation's victims caught us
We had returned aboard the bus
To join the choir boys' chorus. In there a log had pride of place,
A double seat, chain, keeper.
We would have called it 'shit 13'
But there to keep the lav pristine
Was one most active leaper! The dawn-dark road to Lorient
Endured most admirably.
But one, you see, so missed the sea
He brought it up again for free. At Lorient our satnav broke,
The routemaster first floundered;
We sought a clinic, fixed the hitch,
Then at L'Auberge we grounded Discovering our Latin pal Belgrano there before us
With wounded ankle, as he later said,
Before he sank without trace, disappeared,
What hushed hispanic with a stranger shared. The baggage dropped, the baguettes popped
We made our preparations:
A silent prop, yours truly dropped,
And speedo perorations.
We ventured for our first game forth
Whilst two jags coolly puffed away
And Two-Zds sought to make our day
Of multiple libations. For us twin warriors, the lesser war
Against the long-haired lassies in the field
Of Little Britain, Dafvdd and his porn
Our preparation stiffening, them to yield... But strengthened by a generous gift of men
Our first opponents came at us again and again
And the merry still sore, from the long night before,
Watched Forrest fuck them over and score. | What jollies followed, fondu paddles,
Pastisse, love shack bawdy,
Bretons aplenty, lardy lads
Who wouldn't be leaving shortly And virgins, only boys they plead,
Upon their first debauch
With dancing marbles,
Sleepyheads could never keep a watch. A sabotaging in the night
Was all too unexpected:
Sick notes demanded, clubs or not
In rugby terms convicted. What constant grunts from those who slept like cattle.
Only the insomniac fury of their chums
Tempered by unified battle remains
The stress and strain of touring never wanes. No Hollywood, nor grim reprive,
For those the next day weakened.
A morning wander, without leave
Bookmakers and beers beckoned. Then, after lunch, to Lanester
We thought. Alas, they were not there...
A shamed return, nearly to where
Our hostel loomed, and bed; but air, Fresh air should do the world of good
At least for rugby capers.
How could he drop it, El-Tel did,
One of the court's escapers (at time of writing). The harsh conditions tried our team
Though forwards never floundered.
The plumbers came to cheer us on,
The dripping stopped and Sweatie sprung
A shoulder, but he carried on
Whilst Chris winged it and grounded. With Bubba and the pie-faced back
To bulk our lines, we drew away;
Though opportunists in attack
Our heavies mastered through the fray
And grim determined won the day. Not so for England, losers sore
On penalties to Frenchmen.
Though, to be fair, the wound was raw
For we remember back when... Now these our merry Breton friends
Were fools for dirty drinking.
They even drank the punishments
Our villains should be sinking! Town beckoned us, a parting meal,
Time for further horseplay.
Back then for another snore-filled night
Before we took the long way Bound once again for England,
Civil inebriation,
We drove away, with much delay,
As though no destination Like video were needed then,
No entertainment welcome;
Brittany ferries gave us some
We would have thrown it back at them
If sharp were indignation. But tired hearts long straight for bed,
And, after bridge, much wearied
For fast I settled in speed's stead
Till homeward had been carried. |
