The sport itself is grand. Like all sports it appeals to some & not to others, no bother. Although any field game where kicking the ball off out of play gets applause is questionable really.
Its the wankification around it that's so amusing. The wankification around Saccerbawl is understandable....working class, poorly educated, tabloid types are easily influenced and in plentiful supply. They'll follow whatever tripe is spoon fed to them on Sky Sports 24/7. Blissfully living week to week to devour hot chicken rolls, lathered in ketchup, at 9am on a Saturday morning 'bate from gatt' waiting for Jamie Carragher to ignite their limited imagination (when he's not spitting at children) and wash it all down with a can of Monster. " 'appy days my son, 'appy days indeed".
Conversely the interminable conundrum for Rugby is that it is an unashamedly upper class, Public school attending, broadsheet reading, Brown Thomas touting sport. Now heres where the fun starts. There are far more " 'ave it my son" types knocking around than "ohhh lovely take" merchants. Yet the IRB need bums on seats and jerseys on backs in order to pay for the grain fed, organic free range goose and Chateaux Neuf Du Pap served at half time in Temple Hill every Soshurday lonch toime, after all the Fiachras, Oisíns & Fionns do boshle at the breakdown in the U12 Audi S Line Cup.
So, in order to achieve commercial success, Rugby needs to engage with the very type of nere do wells that the sport was invented to isolate and keep in check. The lowly, working class cohort, whose sole purpose in life is to make the Ski Holidaying; Evoque driving; Gant wearing elite feel good about themselves as they drive past mahon point bus stop on their way home to Rochestown. Quite the predicament.
Hence the proliferation of so many naively aspirational 'wantaway from the ghetto' charlatans, destined for a life in a socio econmic purgotry (or Glanmire as i like to call it). Close enough to see the lights on Marybourough Hill, even smell the cigar smoke from Hayfield Manor on Sunday afternoons. Yet too far away to have even the remotest chance of acceptance.
Discarded on the LIDL & ALDI dungheap to waffle insufferable shite about being dyed in the wool Rugger heads. Their mere existence an unfortunate, barely palatable product of hard nosed commerce.
They are the mere pond life in Lions Jerseys. Their blissfull ignorance about the subject matter negated by the fact that they've bought the new Munstershire 3rd strip in Lifestyle sports (for half their yearly salary). The poor innocent gombeens, intellectual reflections of their poor tennement farming forefathers who were another necessary inconvenience to their John Bull overlords.
Instead of grass juice dripping from their mouths the 'modren-day' Rugby peasants regurgitate the inane wafflings of footman turned Butler types like Alan Quinlan & that Joe whatever his name is with the poxy glasses on 'Off The Joe Bible Ball Sport with Paddy Power or Whoever else will Give Us Money to Talk Shite' Show.
The irony is thick, highly amusing and the source of an infinite supply of ammunition to ridicule the pseudo RDS types, with skidmarks on their Pennys jocks & budget tyres on their Dacia Dusters.
Stand Up and pretend.....like hell.
Its the wankification around it that's so amusing. The wankification around Saccerbawl is understandable....working class, poorly educated, tabloid types are easily influenced and in plentiful supply. They'll follow whatever tripe is spoon fed to them on Sky Sports 24/7. Blissfully living week to week to devour hot chicken rolls, lathered in ketchup, at 9am on a Saturday morning 'bate from gatt' waiting for Jamie Carragher to ignite their limited imagination (when he's not spitting at children) and wash it all down with a can of Monster. " 'appy days my son, 'appy days indeed".
Conversely the interminable conundrum for Rugby is that it is an unashamedly upper class, Public school attending, broadsheet reading, Brown Thomas touting sport. Now heres where the fun starts. There are far more " 'ave it my son" types knocking around than "ohhh lovely take" merchants. Yet the IRB need bums on seats and jerseys on backs in order to pay for the grain fed, organic free range goose and Chateaux Neuf Du Pap served at half time in Temple Hill every Soshurday lonch toime, after all the Fiachras, Oisíns & Fionns do boshle at the breakdown in the U12 Audi S Line Cup.
So, in order to achieve commercial success, Rugby needs to engage with the very type of nere do wells that the sport was invented to isolate and keep in check. The lowly, working class cohort, whose sole purpose in life is to make the Ski Holidaying; Evoque driving; Gant wearing elite feel good about themselves as they drive past mahon point bus stop on their way home to Rochestown. Quite the predicament.
Hence the proliferation of so many naively aspirational 'wantaway from the ghetto' charlatans, destined for a life in a socio econmic purgotry (or Glanmire as i like to call it). Close enough to see the lights on Marybourough Hill, even smell the cigar smoke from Hayfield Manor on Sunday afternoons. Yet too far away to have even the remotest chance of acceptance.
Discarded on the LIDL & ALDI dungheap to waffle insufferable shite about being dyed in the wool Rugger heads. Their mere existence an unfortunate, barely palatable product of hard nosed commerce.
They are the mere pond life in Lions Jerseys. Their blissfull ignorance about the subject matter negated by the fact that they've bought the new Munstershire 3rd strip in Lifestyle sports (for half their yearly salary). The poor innocent gombeens, intellectual reflections of their poor tennement farming forefathers who were another necessary inconvenience to their John Bull overlords.
Instead of grass juice dripping from their mouths the 'modren-day' Rugby peasants regurgitate the inane wafflings of footman turned Butler types like Alan Quinlan & that Joe whatever his name is with the poxy glasses on 'Off The Joe Bible Ball Sport with Paddy Power or Whoever else will Give Us Money to Talk Shite' Show.
The irony is thick, highly amusing and the source of an infinite supply of ammunition to ridicule the pseudo RDS types, with skidmarks on their Pennys jocks & budget tyres on their Dacia Dusters.
Stand Up and pretend.....like hell.
