What ho, Englishmen!
So this Lievremont chappie has rather put the cat amongst the pigeons, what? Funny little fellow, isn't he? I had him down as a wrong'un from the moment I saw him and his coaching team dressed in matching velvet smoking jackets and polo neck jumpers at his first match in charge.
I said to my gentleman: "Look there, Smithson. Those chaps on the television are either raving homosexuals ... or French. Which do you think it is?"
Smithson pondered for a moment and replied: "I'm not sure it matters, My Lord. Don't they amount to the same thing?"
Smithson was quite right of course. It is damnably difficult to spot the difference between a stark raving nancy boy and a Frog. Quite apart from the obvious shared interest in fashion, cheese and heavy male petting, it is the case that nowadays even the gays are permitted to soldier; hence, if a camouflaged figure suddenly appears over the horizon brandishing a white handkerchief with an exceedingly limp wrist, one cannot be quite sure whether it's a queer or a Frog living up to tradition.
Naturally, a beasting awaits the blighters at Twickers this Saturday. The disappointing thing for us, however, is that the French rather enjoy bending over and taking six of the best from John Bull. They even have a term for it: la vice Anglais. Indeed, I rather suspect that Lievremont's impudent words are just cheeky foreplay designed to make Johnno and the chaps spank harder.
Which rather spoils it for us eh, chaps? It's a jolly good jape to chase after a squealing Celt for 80 minutes and apply the stick to his resentful rump; it's not quite so fun to roar out at Twickers and find Jean-Claude already lying on the turf smoking a Gitane and waiting for his punishment to commence.
Oh well. A win is a win, and a Slam awaits. Let's make it 3 from 3. I have my eye on a certain weekend in Dublin: something tells me that Seamus will not take his Saxon beasting quite so lightly . . .
Yours, etc
Viscount Crouchback
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