Bastarding rugby
I hate rugby. It's a wanker's game. I was made to play rugby for years at school. I hated it. I was put in the year's 3rd team with the rest of the geeks, losers and quadraplegics. For years I struggled with that bloody stupid game. Because I was wee (then) I got put in the middle of the scrum as hooker. (This does not mean I was a prostitute but I would probably been of more use to the team dressed in fishnets, a miniskirt and baldy-applied lipstick.) They had tried to make me full back but I only tried tackling bravely once. A huge giant of a kid in the first team (who at 14 was the size of an 18-year-old) ran at me. I literally bounced face down into the mud. It summed it all up.

I then was banished to join the mouth-breathing element of the scrum. Because I was trapped in there I never, ever, ever scored a try.

Until one day. I somehow scampered free and ran with the ball towards the line. The line of backs of the other teamdrove me towards the corner but I just sneaked and dived for the line.

Joy. Joy. I had finally done something impressive on the rugby pitch. Maybe I wasn't a completely malcoordinated div. Maybe I could aspire to sporting competence. Maybe the girls would finally...

Then the pituitary case of the PE teacher blew his penis-substitute whistle and, with ill-disguised glee, pointed out the tiniest studmark of a toe on the line. Now, in a proper sport, say football, you can tread on the line as much as you like so long as the ball doesn't go out. But in the bureaucratic wet-dream that is rugby you mustn't touch the line.

Try disallowed. Bastard.

But I have had my revenge, to this day that man is still a PE teacher. Mwuhahahahaha.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Fri 31 Mar 2006, 11:32, Reply)