A Viscount Speaks

Another corrupt performance by Nigel Owens...

What ho, honest Englishmen!

Good heavens, is there any limit to Nigel Owens' corruption?  Are there no depths to which this snivelling pansy will not stoop in his desperation to help his Irish boyfriends to victory?  His performance today was almost as shameful as his infamous display at Croke Park for Ireland-France last year when, incredibly, he didn't penalise Ireland until the 74th minute.

Today he was at it again.  In fact, it was a textbook performance in how not to referee.  Thus Nigel found somewhere else to look when Jerry Flannery took out Neil Best off the ball; ditto when Horan stepped a mile offside to charge down Dickson; then during the crucial second half period, Nigel chose wilfully to ignore the new instruction on giving the ball carrier some leeway at the breakdown, thereby giving O'Gara a crucial pot at goal; he then chose to award a bizarre scrum put-in to Munster after an advancing Northampton maul collapsed; and he even, comically, allowed Ronan O'Gara to boot the ball out on the full after the ball had been passed back into the Munster 22.  Practically every bit of Munster pressure in the second half can be traced back to rum decisions by Owens.

This is the problem with rugger.  I can't think of any other sport where referees are routinely the difference between winning and losing.  You get the odd bad decision in footer, but it rarely affects the result.  Television replays in cricket and tennis have made those games relatively immune from official incompetence.  But rugger remains utterly susceptible to the terrible decisions of the man in the middle.  And thus a Munster team playing anti-rugby - hoofing the ball in the air during the first half and then hoofing it into the corner for the second -  somehow scramble their way past a palpably superior outfit on the back of refereeing corruption.

The Sky cameras somehow snuck into the Saints dressing room before the match to hear Dylan Hartley's team talk; let's hope they stick around afterwards to film Paul O'Connell rewarding Owens with his showers beasting.  It's about time someone exposed this girlie man as the charlatan he is.

Yours, etc
Viscount Crouchback

P.S. Wondering what Owens might have against Saints?  This might provide the answer.  Homosexuals tend not to forget that type of thing. 

It's time the SAS was dropped into Johannesburg

What ho, colonists!

I say, chaps, what a frightful mess South Africa has got itself into since we British departed the scene.  We left that place in damned fine fettle.  The natives were treated well, the Dutch chappies were kept in order and, quite naturally, the English-speakers ruled the roost in benign and benevolent fashion.  And now look at it!  Murderous Nazi lunatics are rampaging around the streets of Ventersdorp; a little mini Mugabe fellow named Malema is doing his damnedest to incite a racial war; and presiding over everything is an incompetent buffoon of a president who is more interested in boffing the Zulu girls and tending his cattle than he is in running the country.  

Your average South African would now give his eye teeth for a chap like Sir Alfred Milner to step in and whip the place into shape.  Even those Dutch lunatics up on the veld would happily bow before the Union Jack if they thought we'd get rid of Zuma for them.  But is it likely?  Not remotely.  Oh, we produce the chaps for it, don't you worry!  The SAS could take the Witwatersrand tomorrow.  And Simon Mann would make a superb governor of Cape Colony.  No, the problem lies with the lily livered defeatists in London who prefer to spend their lives apologising for the Empire when, if they had an ounce of sense, they'd jolly well be doing their damnedest to restore it. 

Vladimir Putin famously observed that the collapse of the USSR was the "greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the 20th century".  Complete rot, of course.  But how much more apt are those words when applied to the decline of the Empire.  Just think of all those poor fellows in Africa who languish under brutal and corrupt regimes.  Their fathers and grandfathers lived much happier lives when the Union Jack flew over Salisbury and Lagos and Capetown and Kampala and what not.  

Perhaps tomorrow we'll wake up to a sane world in which British troops no longer fight Mohammedan savages in the wilds of Afghanistan but instead patrol the streets of Rhodesia and Cape Colony to protect their kith and kin.

God Save The Queen!

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Truth and daffodils

What ho, colonials!

I seem to have roused the anger of some of my Australian readers.  They seem almost as loathe to accept objective criticism as the backwoodsmen of Munster.  Perhaps they ought to toddle down to their local bookshop - still no Amazon in the colonies? - and purchase a copy of Sir Max Hastings's brilliant "Retribution: The Battle for Japan 1944-5".  Sir Max is one of the world's most eminent military historians and a cracking chap to boot:

AUSTRALIAN soldiers refused orders to attack and were on the point of open mutiny in the final year of World War II, according to a new book by noted British journalist and historian Sir Max Hastings.

In Nemesis � The Battle for Japan 1944-45, Hastings writes that "the last year of the war proved the most inglorious of Australia's history as a fighting nation."

Hastings accused Australian soldiers of disobeying orders to attack, saying many soldiers were "embittered" and even on the edge of open mutiny.

He said regular volunteer troops felt bitter towards those who did not volunteer to serve and scorned conscript militia sent to New Guinea and Bougainville.

He points out that the number of Australian dead was fewer than the number of prisoners captured in Malaya and Singapore who died, and only slightly more than the number of US Marines killed on Iwo Jima.

"It seemed perverse that, having won so much honour far away in the Mediterranean, Australia's share of the Pacific War ended in rancour and anticlimax," he says.

I think that says it all, chums.  And that's just the battle for Japan remember.  The less said about Singapore, the better.

Now listen here, Australians, no one is saying that your chaps were all cowards or that you weren't damned good sports for fighting alongside the Mother Country.  Rather, I am suggesting that there is a strain of Australian culture - mostly the fault of the convicts and those hideous Fenian types whom you imported in excessive numbers and have since permitted far too much influence - which tends towards yellow bellied behaviour and selfishness.  Thus, whilst you have some cracking specimens from good, honest, Anglo-Saxon stock - say, Robert Menzies - you also, I'm afraid, have some frankly vile types such as the Lizard of Oz, Paul Keating.  Worse, after very sensibly keeping the two breeds apart for most of your history, you have (since about the 1960s) permitted them to mix and inter-marry.  It's a most regrettable development.  

You'd also have a bit more credibility if you stuck your chaps into harm's way in Afghanistan instead of confining them to base where they spend most of their time attending discos and drinking beer with fat German "soldiers" from the Bundeswehr. 

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Brock James is bad colonial stock

What ho, chaps!

I thought no one would ever surpass Chris Malone for wobbily colonial ineptitude in the face of adversity, but Brock James somehow managed it tonight.  Malone, you might recall, was the fellow who bottled a series of kicks at goal for London Irish against Leinster in January; actually shirked an attempt at a winning drop goal; and then, after Rob Kearney kicked the ball straight back to him and Malone found himself with no option but to have a crack, the yellow bellied coward promptly shanked it wide and disappeared down the tunnel.  

It was deja vu all over again tonight.  This time the pusillanimous Australian fly half was Brock James.  He kicked about 30% of his penalties and made two comically bad attempts at a winning drop goal.  By the end, James was wandering around the pitch with a thousand yard stare, a visibly broken man.  Indeed, I think it no exaggeration to state that a rabbit under a thousand watt bulb would have shown more pluck and phlegm than he displayed tonight.

But this type of rank cowardice crops up again and again in Australian history.  For such a bumptious lot, they have a nasty habit of disappearing when the going gets tough.  In Darwin, they started looting and killing each other when the Nips bombed from the air.  Not exactly the Blitz spirit, chaps.  In Singapore, the Australian units deserted and fled, leaving the British to fight on alone.  And, of course, in '95, '03 and '07, the Australian rugger pansies crumbled when confronted by fifteen stout English yeomen.   

Churchill would not have been surprised by tonight's events.  He stated many times that the Australian came from "bad stock" and therefore could not be relied upon.  It's the recessive convict gene, chaps.  The Australian is happiest when he's mouthing obscenties from twenty yards away in a non-contact game, safe in the knowledge that the recipient of his abuse can do nothing.  Stick the Aussie in a war or a contact situation and old Bruce hot foots it back to Wagga Wagga faster than you can say "daffodil".*

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

* Daffodil: The term of abuse applied by British officers to Australian troops at Singapore.  Beautiful to look at - but yellow right through.

Friday's Beefcake of the Week

What ho, burger boys!

After last week's regrettable choice, I thought it best to select a more traditional beefcake this week.  No more oddly featured German-American oarsmen, just good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon rugger men!  But by Gad, I asked myself aloud, who boasts beef, pluck, rosy good looks and a certain divilment?  Lady Crouchback (who is rather a rugger fan herself) piped up: "Surely it's obvious, my dear Plum, you must pick the young Northampton fellow, Dylan Whatshisname".  And I'll be deuced if she hadn't hit the nail squarely on the head!  Hartley, the cheeky young colonial from New Zealand, what a splendid choice indeed!  The picture beneath tells a thousand words.  Just jolly well sit back in your offices and have a good old gawp at the sublime form Anglo-Saxon manhood can take.  I wonder which lucky Munsterman will be on the receiving end of this self-same pose tomorrow night!

(My dear Gemini, I do hope you can control yourself until luncheon!)

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

"English scum" enter the lair of the beast

What ho, rugger buggers!

So the Heineken Cup returns this weekend.  The pride of the English shires, Northampton Saints, travel to the wild bogs of the west of Ireland to take on Munster in the Quarter Finals.  It is a fearsome proposition.  Munster are a profoundly mediocre team - would a single Munsterman make the Saints XV? - but they do have one factor in their favour: home advantage.  Saints will encounter a strange breed of backwoodsman in Limerick: homo munsteriensis.  Or let us call him Seamus. 

This strange, dishevelled figure lives in the thick hedgerows of the rural parishes, emerging only for rugby matches and occasional trips to Mass.  His visits to Thomond Park are the highlight of his existence.  (Understandably, for there is precious little else to do in Munster.)  Seamus is squat, dark, and red of complexion.  His few remaining teeth are yellow and stubby but he happily exposes them by gurning for the Sky television cameras. 

Seamus gets ferociously excited when he steps into Thomond Park.  His cheeks grow even redder.  His barbarous accent grows even more incomprehensible.  He swigs poteen and howls at the moon from the terraces.  He waits for an opposition player to get within hearing distance during the warm-up and then shouts "English scum!  Leave our women alone ye Tan feckers!"

After kick-off, Seamus will take great delight in putting off opposition catchers, but equally great pride in keeping an ostentatious silence for opposition kickers (until the opposition look like they might win, in which case all bets are off and Seamus will happily go berserk at every kick).  He will frequently burst into teary-eyed renditions of the Fields of Athenry.  Clasped in one hand will be an enormous flag reading "IRISH BY BIRTH. MUNSTER BY THE GRACE OF GOD". 

Irrelevant, you might think.  Saints have far too much class for that backwoods rabble, Seamus or no Seamus.  Well, yes, but there is one further problem: the mincing Mr Owens.  This preening showpony is Munster's favourite referee.  Witnesses attest that Paul O'Connell rewards Nigel with one showers beasting for every ten penalties he awards to the team in red.  It is a longstanding agreement that neither party has yet broken.  The solution?  Ask Neil Best to make Nigel an offer he can't refuse. 

It should be a splendid contest.  Saints ought to win if they play as they can.  Munster's tired, ageing pack was never especially powerful even at its peak.  It all seems perfectly set up for Hartley, Murray, Dowson & Co to mete out the mother of all rodgerings.  Let's hope that Nigel Owens isn't the only Celt rubbing his arse on Monday morning.  

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

An horrendous Easter at Crouchback Castle

What ho, Christians!

Gosh, what a frightfully disappointing weekend!  One’s alma mater dished by the Tabs in the Boat Race; one’s church humiliated by Old Beardie on Easter weekend; and then one’s wife caught in flagrante with a Nigerian stable hand named Adebayo.  All in all, a profoundly depressing few days!

Let’s start with the Boat Race.  I knew that Oxford were going to lose as soon as I saw those ghastly Winklevoss twins appear on my television screen.  I had been labouring under the misapprehension that these Americans were supreme examples of WASP beefcakery, so imagine my dismay when their monstrous, Herman Munster-like faces morphed into the Castle’s televison room.  These chaps were no beefcakes – they were an horrendous pair of androids!  So utterly hideous, indeed, that only a lesbian like Clare Balding could possibly describe them as “handsome”.  I can only apologise profusely to my readers - especially Gemini, who takes an especially keen interest in these matters - for defiling Beefcake Corner with these characterless pretenders.  It won’t happen again!

And then Old Beardie gets his cassock in a twist on Easter weekend.  Gosh, where to start?  I suspect Williams is right, to be frank, but of course we all know that Paddy Irishman is none too keen on home truths, especially when uttered by upstanding Englishmen.  (Yes, yes, Blondy, I know Williams is technically Welsh, but he's culturally English!)  The instant bleating and whining from across the Irish Sea surprised absolutely no one.  No doubt the Irish will soon find a way of blaming Williams for all the child abuse.  After all, it’s normally the Brits who get the blame when anything terrible happens on that horrid little island!

And lastly, the most crushing blow of all.  Lady Crouchback caught bent over a chair in the Castle drawing room with a randy African stable hand boffing her vigorously from behind.  This, I confess, was a complete shock.  After all the time, money and affection I had invested in my one true love, I really did not expect Adebayo to betray me so soon – and certainly not with that horse-faced bint!

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Friday's Beefcakes of the Week

What ho, beefsters!

Change of tack this week, chaps.  I thought it might be time for some boatie beef.  Boaties have splendid thighs.  They are absolutely terrific thrusters.  Most of the power in the stroke comes from the legs and not the arms.  There are no finer exponents than Oxford's Winklevoss twins.  This Yankee pair are not only Olympian athletes but also successful entrepreneurs to boot.  Sickening, what!  In the beef stakes, they are no Simon Shaws in the upper body, but take some time to gaze in wonder at those hamstrings - magnificent!

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Well said, sir!

What ho, rugger buggers!

Stephen Jones's Rolling Maul is always an entertaining read.  It was even better than usual this week thanks to a superb contribution from one Gus Williamson:

...I do, however, agree with your earlier comments on the timely introduction of a “scrum clock”, but I think we also need a “Pointless Irish Dignitaries Clock” to see just how much time Mary McAleese and Co waste at each Ireland home game. Either Mary is the world’s biggest rugby fan or she’s horribly puffed up with her own self-importance. Either way, I bet the players hate the delay.

Touché, old bean, touché!  Can there be a more ridiculous spectacle in international sport than seeing this irritating woman receive her own special song to walk onto the pitch and then another special song to walk off it and then still another special song whilst she takes her seat and then two bloody anthems to top it all off!  

She is living proof that the more powerless and meaningless a person's position is in life, the more absurd ceremony and puffery they invent to make themselves look good.  But you're not fooling anyone, Mary.  Our own dear Queen Elizabeth attends about one rugger match per decade for the very good reason that she is engaged in solemn duties of state and does not have time for trivialities such as sporting fixtures.  Mary, on the other hand, seemss distinctly under-employed - too few pubs to open in Ireland nowadays? - and has, apparently, attended every single home rugby fixture since 1935. 

The IRFU needs to get its house in order.  Ditch the pantomime dame and instead opt to play something much more dignified, solemn and (above all) brief.  The first verse of God Save The Queen ought to suffice.   

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

"English rednecks"

What ho, chums!

How amusing to read our Australian cousins described as "English rednecks" by no less an authority than Robin Williams.  An entirely apposite description.  But I wonder how Mr. Williams would describe the Dutch-speaking South Africans?  Because by golly, chaps, if the Australians are rather rough around the edges, then the frightful Boers are positively abrasive.  "Dutch degenerates?"  "Boer barbarians?"  "Huguenot hillbillies?"  One's mind boggles!

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback