Leinster Lattés

I forgot to post this after Munster’s annihilation of Leinster last week….. 

But just for giggles the Leinster fans next to me were happy to pose with their shades and lattés…   not stereotypical at all 😉

  One Reply to “Leinster Lattés”

  1. Ross
    May 18, 2006 at 9:14 am

    THERE’S only one way to get over the disappointment of a day like last Sunday, roysh, and that’s to get out there and get your David Soul. We decided . . as in, me and the goys . . . that it was going to be one of our Go Early, Go Ugly nights, so we hit Dandelion, where I ended up chatting to this bird who was a ringer for Sonia out of EastEnders, except worse, if you can imagine that. She was also madder than a box of frogs, roysh, which I suppose should have been my cue to bail out of there, but of course it’s, like, easy to be wise after the event?

    Truth be told, roysh, I was enjoying the attention, having slipped into the conversation early on that I would have been on that field today, roysh, except that Michael Cheika seems to have a problem with my lifestyle. I knock back another shot, which Christian put in front of me, then throw half a pint down after it. “Your lifestyle?” she goes. “That’s like, Oh my God!” and I’m there, “You’re damn roysh it is. I think the real issue, though, is he doesn’t want any seriously goodlooking goys in the team. I suppose he’s scared of that whole ladyboys tag.” She’s like, “Oh my God, I bet they are SO regretting leaving you out now,” and I’m there, “Well, I’ve had two missed calls from him in the last hour. Haven’t rung him back. Pride is a big thing with me, ” and then, without batting an eyelid, I go, “And so is beauty, ” and Slick Mick here puts his hand on her leg, roysh, and I know I’m in like Corey Flynn. Fifteen minutes in the place and we’re heading back to her gaff, roysh . . . casual sex and whatever you’re having yourself . . . and it happens so fast the bouncers on the door even offer me my money back. I’m there, “No thanks . . . I got what I came for, ” and they’re looking at the bird, roysh, and they’re obviously thinking, ‘I
    would have thought someone like him could do better than that, ‘ and of course I could, roysh, but after that debacle this afternoon, I’m not in the mood for any lengthy chatting-up scenarios.

    She lives in a gaff up in Christchurch, this bird, and with no Jo Maxis around, it involves trekking through focking Calcutta to get there. As we’re walking, we’re, like, looking at all the poverty and the dirt and the deprivation and she turns around to me, roysh, and goes, “It’s when you see this that you realise that Dublin really is two cities, ” and I’m like, “Yeah? Thank fock I live in the other one then.”

    We’re, like, a couple of hundred yords short of her gaff, roysh, when up ahead we see the Feds pulling up in a cor and two coppers getting out. They stort talking to this rickshaw driver, who’s standing next to these three muck savages in Munster jerseys. From what I overhear of the conversation, roysh, it seems one of the boggers threw a cheeseburger at the rickshaw dude.

    Now I probably should have stayed the fock out of it, roysh, but as far as I was concerned this was an opportunity for payback for this afternoon. Before I knew what I was doing, roysh, I turned around to one of the Feds and went, “I saw everything, officer. That man there threw a burger at this man here, ” which was total bullsh*t for all I knew. I was like, “It was a good job it wasn’t a turnip or he could have blinded him.” The three bogmen are denying everything, of course, but who are the Feds going to believe, three Limerick s**t-shovellers who are off their faces or Enrique Iglesias here? So one of
    the cops is whipping out a notebook and pen and he’s going, “Are you prepared to appear as a witness?” and I’m like, “Anything to keep the streets clean of this scum, “really laying it on thick. Having our orses kicked by Poc and Rog suddenly didn’t hurt so much.

    It put me in cracking form as well and she certainly enjoyed the benefit of that. I’m not one to, like, kiss and tell, roysh, but she turned out to be one of the most imaginative slappers to ever wear out a mattress. So I was thinking, this might even go the full halfhour when all of a sudden, roysh, I hear, first, the front door slam, and then, the three words that every goy who fancies himself as a player dreads . . . “S**t! My boyfriend!” Now I’ve been around the track more times than an electric hare, roysh, and over the years I’ve developed the skill of getting dressed while running into an ort form. In fact, if Getting Dress While Running was an Olympic event, I’df well, actually, I probably wouldn’t turn up . . .I’d be off somewhere throwing one of the judges’ wives a bone. Anyway, roysh, cut a
    long story short, this goy moves like Denis Hickie, because I’m out on the first floor balcony, throwing my Leinster shirt over my head, and at the same time wondering if it’s too high to jump, when all of a sudden, he’s in the bedroom behind me and I hear him go,”Who the fock is that out on the balcony?” and I turn around, roysh, and see him through the french doors and the old Ned does a quick somersault. He’s a focking giant!

    So what does the bird do? She storts screaming, roysh, that real high-pitched sh*t and the goy goes, “Quick, ring the police, ” and as she’s doing that he opens the doors and, without saying anything, hits me the kind of punch that would have put Paul O’Connell on his orse. I was just a bit winded, of course. When I got my breath back, I was like, “Look, I’m not a burglar. If you must know, I was in the process of scoring your bird when you walked in, ” which doesn’t come out quite the way I intended it to. The bird, roysh, she goes, “You’re a liar! I’ve never seen you before in my life, ” which is when I realise that she’s focking madder than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. The goy goes, “What’s her name, then?” and I’m thinking, ‘sh*t! That’s one question I’m going to have to stort asking.’ I’m there, “We didn’t actually get that far, ” and he decks me again and probably the only thing that saved this beautiful boat race was the arrival of the Feds, who bought their story and hauled my orse off to cop shop.

    “An hour in the drunk tank will do you the world of good, ” one of the cops goes. And as he brings me into the cell block, I can hear all these voices singing the Fields of Athenry. So the cop turns the key and opens up this humungous cell, which is basically full of bogger types, arrested for overenthusiastic celebrations. And yeah . . . you guessed . . . three who were arrested for, of all things, throwing a hamburger at a rickshaw driver. Have these cops nothing better to do. The goy just pushes me in, slams the door behind me and goes, “Be gentle with him, boys.”

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