Beer dispensing staff at notable Parisian drinkeries have been instructed to leave a quarter inch space at the top of every pint pulled this weekend, in order to allow room for England rugby fans’ tears. French unions are debating the move, once they’ve finished having sex with each other, surrendering and puffing foul smelling cigarettes.
“Makes a change from weeing in our glasses I suppose,” remarked Toby Carruthers-Smeltch, a stereotypical English rugby fan. “Like Johnno and everyone else at Team England, we’re all rather au fait with the idea of avoiding spillage when confronted with French collisions, but cocking your clientele over for a few extra centimes is beyond a joke. I’m as xenophobic as the next chap and his lady wife, but this just isn’t cricket.”
Eddie Butler meanwhile, is talking again – so shhhhhhushh: “I’m looking forward to laughing my big Welsh arse off as England trot out a brand of rugby even grimmer than the Brothers Grimm playing “who’s fart is the smelliest” with a couple of old corpses. The Italian game promises to be an altogether different encounter. Intriguing… Helping Italy develop means helping rugby develop but if you lose to them it still means you’re shite. I’ve put a tenner on Wales to self-destruct before half-time, but not before we’ve chucked it about a bit first and felt the wind in our hair.”
Over in Croke Park (or is it Murrayfield – who cares?) no-one seems to care whether Ireland will win the Triple Crown or not. Certainly not Ireland who have picked a team so old, the teamsheet on the dressing room door is a stone tablet etched with runes. Fresh from his side’s exciting draw against the Aulde Enemy, Scotland coach Andy Robinson is refusing to get involved in mind games: “They get to sing two songs instead of one, have you ever noticed that? I’ll tarmac my own drive thank you very much – you know what I’m saying.”