A Viscount Speaks

England versus Ireland

What ho, rugger buggers!

Ah, what delicious timing - no sooner do I arrive back in England than the Irish arrive at Twickers.  Meting out a well-deserved beasting to those barbarous wretches is one of the Englishman's essential duties in life.  I well remember the enormous pleasure it gave me to watch Johnno take the Fenian turf at Landsdowne and force the ghastly "President" McAleese to bow the knee to English yeomanry!  Jolly well played, sir!

The Irish, of course, are a famously sly breed.  Back in the day, Johnny Fenian rarely met the Englishman on fair terms; instead, he spent his time skulking in the hedgerows and ghosting through the bogside mist, emerging only when the honest Englishman's back was turned.  The modern Irish rugger man operates on similar lines: rather than play week in and week out like our stoical English chaps, he prefers to cower in the massage room, oiling his muscles in preparation for the few occasions in the year when he actually takes the field.  It is knavery of the first order, but one expects nothing less from that mob.

Fortunately, however, the RFU has finally seen fit to give the English chaps a well-deserved rest in the run-up to big games.  The Irish will therefore no longer enjoy an unfair advantage and we can all heartily anticipate a resumption of normal service at HQ tomorrow - that is, a damned good thrashing of the men in green, followed by a shell-shocked press conference in which the Irish captain (formerly Keith Wood; tomorrow Brian O'Driscoll) struggles to convey his sheer horror at the comprehensive rodgering he and his men have just received.

I demand utter ruthlessness from England tomorrow.  I demand that Steve Borthwick takes on the role of Lord Protector of English Rugby.  I demand that the Irish try-line is besieged like Wexford in 1649.  I demand that every Irishman leaving the Twickenham turf tomorrow be reminded of the essential fact of life in these islands: that the Anglo-Saxon does, has, and always shall, hold the whip hand over the inferior Celtic breed.

No excuses. 

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Hello again!

What ho, proles!

Gosh, I've not written for yonks.  You see, I've been wintering in the West Indies with Lady Crouchback and our daughter, Henrietta, who recently broke off her betrothal to Prince Fakhry of Malaysia.  We've been attempting to keep the poor cove's spirits up.  She is most unhappy - and I'm afraid it's rather my fault.  I had to put my foot down after encountering Prince Fakhry in person and realising that he was rather duskier than I had been led to believe.  I am no racialist, but goodness, there are limits!

So yes, we hopped off to the Bahamas and I have spent the past few months writing my memoirs on the beach and occasionally popping into the local bar to watch a spot of rugger on the television.  England two from two, what!  That's the spirit!

Alas, we were this week forced to cut short our vacation after receiving news that 30 unruly employees had barricaded themselves into the Castle's private quarters and were burning my private collection of paintings in protest at my supposed failure to provide them with sufficient heating oil for their cottages.  They claim that one of the cottagers passed away last week from hypothermia and that I, Lord Crouchback, am responsible for his death.

This is utter rot, naturally.  The cottagers know very well that I could not possibly have foreseen such a ghastly winter of snow and ice.  If anyone is to blame, it is God, and not I.  In any case, a few draughts never hurt anyone and I find it hard to believe that this unfortunate cottager did not have some underlying health condition, such as perhaps a heroin addiction or some type of immune deficiency caused by poor breeding.

Fortunately, the local constabulary managed to clear the ruffians out of my quarters before they had done too much damage and the ring leader, an odious fellow named Jason, currently languishes in the Castle dungeons awaiting his punishment.  Which will be wrathful, I assure you.

I trust you are all well.

Yours, etc
Viscount Crouchback