In a little welsh town called Blaenau Ffestiniog
I was playing the first rugby game in a very long time for beloved Bangor Uni... As i'm in possession of a Shane Williams-esque frame these days, rather than the 14 stone front-row monster that I was in my teenage years, I elected to go on the wing.

"Simple" I thought. "These backs have got it easy, they barely do bugger all apart from run in the occasional straight line."

We were getting ready for kickoff, lining up against the opposition. Standing ankle-deep in sheep shit, I felt a quite surge of confidence.

"They're not gonna know what him 'em, as soon as that balls been kicked i'm going to chase it like a bloodhound."

The whistle goes, the ball flies over to my opposite number standing on their 22. I charge towards the lad, grimly determined to smash him backwards, stealing the ball, and scoring a try. INVINCIBLE. Or so I thought...

The gap closes, I time my leap in the classic spear tackle just as the winger opts to kick it... I dive onto the ball, grasping it in my hands only to catch a tremendous boot in the ribs. CRACK! I go to ground like a sack of the proverbial, the nineteen-stone forwards of my own squad coming to help me out by charging OVER me. Stamping on me in the process.

By this time i'm close to blacking out, lying flat on my back... hearing the ref's whistle I open my eyes to find players of both teams standing over me, looking concerned.

"Fucking great tackle that lad, at least you got the ball!"

I was thusly helped to my feet and very, very slowly inched my way off the pitch...

Length? 4 hours in Bangor A&E to be told "You've got two broken ribs, and there's fuck all you can do about it. Try not to laugh too much."

Not very likely in North Wales.
(Ragathi wants to know where his evil twin is on, Fri 30 Jul 2010, 20:53, Reply)