The rugby, the French

I don’t follow rugby. I don’t like rugby. But today I was glad we beat Australia because there have been a lot of smug, arrogant funkwits clutching inflatable kangaroos mincing around Bordeaux lately, and it will be good to think they that on this occasion their sporting arrogance has not paid dividends. Haha, fuckers, we propelled the backsides of our burly lard sacks with more power than you did yours – may your flights be non-refundable and the weather shit for the rest of your stay. (sorry about that, but it seems that every conversation I’ve had with an Aussie lately has taken a turn for the sport against my will, with the same cocky, head-tilting air of condescension pushing my normally dormant national pride button every time).
I was hoping the French would get theirs tonight too, but unfortunately they won. Which, among other things, means that at the moment half of them are driving around honking their horns like a bunch of toddlers with real cars. It is quite alarming. They do this at weddings too, but we warned them off at ours (“no, no, you must understand that this is England, and if you beep your horn repetitively for a few minutes people will either assume that you are in a) dire need of assistance or b) dire need of a kicking” they understood).
This French victory also means I’ll have to put with a week of Brit baiting at work, which I’ll have to painfully react to until after the England V France match. please let us win that one, which would at least cut down the madness by a week and also take that annoying spring out of old Frenchy’s step (he is not the most graceful winner, our Mr Frenchy).
Anyway, enough nagging from me. I’m off to dream a dark sleep and plan the undoing of a certain bike mechanic with expensive taste in brake discs. This list just keeps getting longer – perhaps I need a holiday….but there is travel on the horizon – The Wirral and the dirty great Mancunian mass await. Come on smokeless pubs that smell of piss (this is a new one on me), fat girls with their bacon belts hanging out, vodka redbulls served in fish bowls. These things I understand. Partly.