Everyone loves a rugby man

I make no apologies, this post is just an excuse to get some pretty arses up on my blog. You ready? Good.

Milla (her again!) has questioned why women think rugby men are good looking. I feel it is my duty (and, I cannot lie, my pleasure) to use words and photos to explain the attraction.

Compelling argument one: variety is the spice of life

No matter how you like 'em... tall, small, chubby, thin, there's a rugby man for you out there somewhere. The diversity of the positions means that there are a huge range of different body shapes and sizes playing.

Compelling argument two: Real men

Unlike other sportsmen, rugby men rarely feel pain. They can carry on playing with head injuries, broken fingers, toes, ribs. This makes them manly. Fact.










Compelling argument three: they're not footballers

They don't fall over and pretend they're hurt. They don't argue with the ref. They don't get paid far too much for doing bugger all. They don't play football.

And surely that's reason enough?

There are obviously lots of other reasons:

They're generally all aminable chaps
They tend not to get involved in orgies
The game stays on the pitch
All problems in life can be solved by a beer

I'm slightly biased, I must admit, since N is very much a rugby man. However, having once dabbled with the football playing fraternity I can honestly say that a rugby man makes a much better boyfriend. For me. I'm not saying that all footballers are bad. I'm not saying that they don't make good boyfriends. I am saying that I can't imagine spending that much time with someone who obsesses over the wrong shaped ball.

Out of order

Nuttycow can't come to the blog right now. She's too busy feeling sorry for herself.

Normal service will be resumed soon.

I know it's tres gauche to blog about what people search about to find your site but I've seriously had a couple of randoms recently which makes me wonder exactly who it is out there on the other side of this computer screen.

Too much Dulcoease? Make your way here.
Want to play rugby in a salsa dress? I'm your cow.
And, naturally, if you want to know about lovely men's bottoms... I have the monopoly on them too.

Banana, speedboat, constipation, erect, jumping up and down, telephone, dip his nib in my ink, swirly chairs, lick...Sorry... just trying disappoint people.

Respite

The cold wind whips the cobwebs tangled in my brain.

A head rush from the hastly snatched cigarette.

An aching body from Sunday's exertions.

It's been a bit of a strange weekend but I think we've sorted it out. It's not something he can just get over. But we're talking about it.

And I'm grateful it's not me making him feel like this.

My weekend in statistics

City travelled to: Dublin
Girls on trip: 12
Hours away: 50
Hours spent in airports: 10
Hours spent in air: 2
Rooms stayed in: 2
Hangovers: 2
Bloody Marys consumed to counteract hangovers: 7
Rugby matches watched: 3
Rugby matches remembered: 0
Scotsmen met: 10 million
Passports lost: 1 (not mine)
Phones lost: 1 (again, not mine)
Average price (in Euros) per drink: 6
Things I never thought I'd see, seen: 3

Ah yes, the weekend was grand. Expensive beyond belief but grand none the less. Despite being delayed, having a plane break on us and staying in a cardboard box room with a wooden mattress I think a good time was had by all.

It was strange though, Dublin has a reputation for being a friendly city, welcoming to all. However, all members of the girlie group commented on the fact that there were a couple of periods when we felt damn uncomfortable being there.

It surprised me that people were openly hostile towards us, because we were English. If we were, say, football fans, largered up, fists at the ready, I might be able to understand it (although I would never condone violence). As it was, 12 rugby girls on a mission of fun is hardly your likely target for animosity, is it? Members of the group were called "bitches", "whores", "bloody English sluts" and a hand was even raised on one occassion.

It didn't stop us having fun of course but I just wonder where this hatred has come from or, was it always there and I have just been oblivious?

To be sure, to be sure...

... and other Irish stereotypes.

Every year, the celtic ladies of the rugby club go on a pilgrimage to foreign lands to watch the Scotland - Ireland 6 Nations game. This year, Dublin.

I will be attending as an outside observer to ensure that we don't get arrested or similar.

Any recommendations for suitable venues for a good craic welcome.

The attack of the killer ducks

Look, I know they don't look that vicious and it's also true that some (well most) aren't actually facing me but believe me when I say that these ducks were after me.

With their slightly rounded beaks and flappy feet they were formidable opponents indeed. I did what every sane person would do in my situation, I hid behind N.

And how to I come to be in the path of these blood-thirsty (surely bread-thirsty - ed) anatidaes? We took a road trip to Summmerrrrzet. It was N's birthday so, in a fit of "I'm a lovely girlfriend"-ness, I booked a night in a little hotel and bought some front row tickets to see his favourite band. Hell, any excuse to drink zzzider and talk with a funny accent.

In other thrilling news, I am hungover, again. When I say "hungover" what I really mean is that a very small person did, with malicious forethought, creep into my room and stuff cotton wool into my brain, through my exposed ear. There is nothing else that could account for this fuzzy and full feeling in my head. I very much doubt that it was the cocktail of port, champagne, gin and lager I had last night.

What's the story, Jackanory?

The story of the Rugby Club ladies and the Bath Boys

It was a cold Monday evening, a slight mist was rolling in and hands were firmly in pockets as the whistle blew for kick off. Four ladies from south-west London sat together in a near empty stadium surveying all that was before them. Mostly men's bottoms. Mostly this man's bottom

The game was exciting, thrilling, one sided. As the night grew colder, the ladies started to drink more for warmth (except one, she was driving). The game drew to a close. "What now?" they asked themselves.

"We have to warm down" one remarked, with incredible enthusiasm, since, in all the years she had been with the club, she had never been seen to think about anything but beer after a match.

With all lunges duly lunged, it was time to go home. Now, it just so happened that the ladies mode of transport had been parked just next to the visitor's coach. "Let's stow on board" "No, let's leave a note". The benevolent coach driver beamed down at the ladies. He'd seen it all before.

Then suddenly, before the coach driver knew what was happening, a bra was whipped off and a pen was found. One of the team was elected "writer" and a short message, followed by a phone number was scribbled on the offending underwear. It hung, jauntily from the rear view mirror. Waiting for someone to come and claim it.

Six nations rout...

What a weekend for the rugby. A convincing victory over Wales and a real chance of retaining the title for the third year in a row.

EDIT: quick update on previous post. Ex-housemate did email me in the end and told me I had been accepted into the regional squad. This is exciting.

A (possible scary) blast from the past

Things are a tad manic at work at the moment so I've got very little time to write anything constructive/interesting (plus ca change some might say!)

However, the other day I went for a trial with the regional team and I randomly bumped into someone I used to share a house with at Uni. At Uni we actively avoided each other. I thought she was a little strange* and she probably thought I was a little mad. Hey-ho.

Imagine my shock when I saw her again, after 5 years, in charge of the team I wanted to join. Scary. Not just scary but it led me to think... does this mean I have to be nice to everyone, just in case, someday in the future, they might wield some power over me?

The morally sound part of me whispers "actually, you should probably be nice to everyone, and not just because you don't know what will happen in the future."

The realistic part of me shouts "oh, come on. There are going to be people out there you just don't like. If you're nice to them, that just makes you a two faced wotsit. Don't bother. Everything will work out in the end."

Does it make me a bad person if sometimes, just occassionally, I'm not nice to someone. I don't think so. I suppose we'll see if I get my comeuppance later in the week. She's supposed to call me and tell me whether I've made the squad or not.


*Yes, the same one I mentioned here

We're being blogged about

I have an excuse.

As a good friend blogger pointed out to me today

"If you've got a life, you don't need a blog"

Hey, she said it, not me.

Honestly, I feel bad for the lack of a post over the last couple of days. So, just so as you feel you're completely up to date with my life. Have a quick run down:

• Hours worked: 48
• Cups of tea drunk: 14
• Glasses of wine consumed: 3
• Cigarettes smoked: 40
• Rugby matches played: 1
• Tried scored: 1
• Hospital visits: 1
• Painful painkillers given (don't ask): 1
• Slings given: 1
• Days sling worn before becoming fed up and realising that actually, no one on the train/tube cares if you're injured or not, they'll still wallop you: 1
• Newsletters edited: 25
• Paracetamol popped: 8
• Lusty dreams: 0
• Times been stood up by N in favour of the sound of music premiere: 1
• Covert conversations on gmail: many
• Rants: 3
• Strops: 5
• Genuinely happy days: 0
• Days neck has ached: 3
• Bars of chocolate eaten: 1
• Dreams of packing it all in and leaving: countless
• Mysterious conversations with boss about possible job offer: 1
• Times I have berated myself for not blogging: 0

P.S. 20 points to anyone who can guess the relevance of today's picture

I feel battered.
I was kicked, I was hit.
I was stamped on, I was pinched.
I had my hair pulled, I had my side poked.
I had someone on top of me, I had someone beneath me.
I have bruises on my legs, I have finger prints on my arms.
My neck aches, my side throbs.
There was swearing, there was drinking.
There was singing, there was crying.
People were lost, people were found.
We did win though, 27 - 5.