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23 March 2010


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I won't be happy until Dylan Hartley's smooth scrotum is rocking violently up against the inside of Parra's thighs. Nobody will hear Parra’s pathetic snivelling cries because Hartley will have gagged him with his token red sweatband. When Dylan's done, John Hayes will have a go. Just before climax the bull will start to cry, just like he does when he hears the Irish national anthem before a game, and the tears will run down the exhausted and now subservient Parra's back.

The frog needs to be beasted my Lord. He needs it and he deserves it. In fact, the great game of rugby requires it.

That is all I have to say on the French at this time.

Flutey had a poor tournament, and should not be playing rugby for England any more than Brian O'Driscoll should be anyway. His lack of English grounding was badly exposed in Paris, when he was the one player in white who lacked the innate phlegm to stand up to the boisterous, garlic-swigging locals in blue.

Gemini - steady on.

Yes, good heavens, Gemini, I like beastings as much as the next man, but this isn't Quentin Queer's Fantasy Corner!

Apologies all. That Poitín is vile stuff.

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