A Viscount Speaks

A Royal gypsy wedding?

What ho, monarchists!

Can this be true?  O'Driscoll?  The pasty spud-muncher who captains the hopeless Irish rugby team and who last made an outside break in 2004?  I refuse to believe it. 

If it is true, then it serves as defining proof that the young Prince is very much his father's son.  I have long thought that there is something ill-definably wet about William - his time in the army was suspiciously short; and his future prole wife is a tad frumpy for a red-blooded young thruster in this day and age - and this ghastly news clinches it. 

No doubt the silly people at Clarence House have convinced the poor child that he needs to "reach out" to various unfortunates in life.  Expect all manner of oiks and degenerates to feature heavily at the wedding.  It's a wonder they have even permitted Harry to act as Best Man and not some gay Somalian asylum seeker who would have better added to the "modern" vibe.

Frankly, I think the whole thing is shaping up to be a bit of a sham.  But for the grievous insult it would be to the Queen, I would happily reject my invitation without a second thought.  As it is, I shall go along ...  but if the Palace expects me to converse with plebs all day long, then they should be aware that my Amazon Kindle - a most wonderful invention! - will be in my pocket and I shan't be shy of dipping my snout into some Livy if they position me next to an oik.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Ireland beating England in cricket . . .

What ho, Englishmen!

I note the recent cricket match has stirred up some debate.  Thank you for the blog link, Dizzy.

I'll be honest, chaps: I don't believe the match was kosher.  111/5 to 329?  A 50-ball century achieved by a fat ginger leprechaun knocking our crack bowling attack around the ground like the reincarnation of Sir Donald Bradman?  The same bowling attack which won the Ashes at a canter?  I just don't buy it, chaps.  It's an awful thought, I know, but I honestly believe that Strauss and the lads chucked the game.

As you read this, I suspect there is a bookie wallah somewhere in the Delhi bazaar, foolish enough to have offered those infamous 400/1 odds on Ireland at one point of the match, who is now in hock for a very large splodge of wonga indeed.  I daresay the poor blighter can barely digest his chicken korma such is the horrendous knot of fear in his stomach. 

Of course, no Englishman would ever chuck a match for money.  That sort of vile behaviour is best left to greedy little Boers like Hansie Cronje who will happily sell their honour down the river for a second-hand leather jacket.  But a pukka chap like Strauss chucking a match for mere moolah?  Preposterous. 

So why then?  Possibly because the dangerous men who run the illegal gambling industry in India threatened brave Straussy and the lads with physical bodily harm if they didn't comply with this nefarious plan.  After all, if the underground fixers are prepared to bump off Bob Woolmer, then they will hardly balk at knobbling Straussy and the chaps. 

It's a rum business, no doubt, but it affirms two central truths of life:

• Pyjama cricket is best ignored; and
• Never, ever trust an Indian

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

 

 

Jean-Claude prepares to bend over . . .

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

The bully boys are back . . .

What ho, chums!

Rumour of a conversation heard in Heaven last night . . .

God: Gabriel, what the dickens is going on down there on Earth?  Egypt in chaos, the Iranians about to build a nuclear bomb, the Chinese hell-bent on world domination - shouldn't I step in and do something?  Have a word in George Bush's ear perhaps?  What about Tony?  Has he still got the hot-line to Heaven installed in his pad?

Gabriel: Indeed, Lord.  Things are rum.  But I would not intervene just yet.  And certainly not with that pair.

God:  But why ever not?  The place is falling apart down there!

Gabriel: True, sir, but there are a few promising signs that things are returning to normal...

God: Oh yes?  Such as?

Gabriel: Have you heard of a fellow named Max Boyce?

God: Welsh singer chappie I brought into being in 1945?

Gabriel: That's him.

God: What of him?

Gabriel: Well, Lord, he once spoke of rolling back the roof of the Millennium stadium so that You could watch Wales play rugger.

God: Wales?  The bottlers in red?

Gabriel: The very bunch, sir.

God: Go on, Gabriel...

Gabriel: Well tonight they did roll the roof back - and I was able to watch something decidedly reassuring occur...

God: (perks up) Oh yes?

Gabriel: Oh yes, Lord.  The bully boys in white meted out a good and proper spanking to those lippy Welshmen.  The poor Taffs were puffing and panting like Silvio Berlusconi on a viagra binge.

God: You mean... England are back?

Gabriel: It seems so, sir.  Back with a super-strength cane no less.

God: (settles back and lights a cigar)  Well thank fuck for that, Gabriel.  If England are back beasting the Celts, then that means the world is sitting nicely on its axis once more!

Gabriel: My thoughts precisely, sir.

Exit to the sound of angels singing hymns in praise of the Great Johnno . . .

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Saxons...

Saxons!

Rouse yourselves, Englishmen. The resting season is over. Leave your womenfolk by the hearth, for it is time to joust once again. To our west sits a band of dark, belligerent trolls. They offer us lip from beyond the safety of Offa's dyke. Most rudely do they treat our pack leader, Sir Dylan. Most shameful are the beastly words they toss in their vile sing song voices.

In earnest, Saxons, the fair isle of Britannia has never known a more impudent band of savages than these brutish Welshmen!

A salutary lesson awaits these pygmies, and a lesson they shall receive. The men of Wales strut like giants but know not that the real giants prepare themselves in Wessex. The pants of poor Alun Wyn will turn brown indeed when the shadow of Simon Shaw looms above his head. Poor James will empty his bowels when Big Ted grabs him by the throat at the first scrummage.

These poor Welshmen, they talk so well but fight so weakly. Such strut, such pomp, such boasting - and such measly returns! Remember, Saxons, their singing voices are so marvellous because their balls are so small.

There is but one boss in these isles. But one boss, I say. And the boss goes by the name of JOHN BULL. Yes, John Bull, I say. And when John Bull spots a cheeky Welshman, he does not humour him or parley with him or invite him for tea.

No, my fellow Saxons, when John Bull spots a Welshman, there is but one thing on his mind - and that is to mete out a good and proper beasting to the errant little scamp. To beast Dai so brutally and so savagely that the scummy little Taff quietens down for the next ten years at least.

There will be fifteen Dais in Cardiff on Friday. Fifteen Dais in need of a damned good spanking. Fifteen Dais almost begging for we gallant Englishmen to show them the error of their ways.

And men of Saxony, I trust that we shall not be found wanting.

God Save The Queen!

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Poor old Bruce!

What ho, Englishmen!

By jove, chaps, doesn't if feel marvellous to be an Englishman?  We whipped those colonials like dogs!  Or to be more precise and borrow a Corenism (marvellous chap, old Giles, for a Jew-boy!), we whipped them "like mangy, stinking, girly dogs"!

In fact, Coren's piece was so bloody brilliant that I feel like quoting some more:

All Australians are bad losers, which is surprising really, considering how much losing they now do.  

Perhaps they will improve. Perhaps they will become nicer people.

There is no reason why they shouldn’t. It is not an open and shut colonial thing.

New Zealanders are painfully polite and terribly gracious in defeat. And even the South Africans, once a pretty scary bunch, are as quiet as lambs these days.

I suppose it is because they have been chastened by the years of shame over apartheid and are now just desperate to be liked, in a way that Australians (who have done so little to atone for their own racist sins against the country’s aboriginal population) simply are not.

So let’s not feel bad about the drubbing we have dished out to Australia this Christmas. Let’s be glad we have given them the chance to set aside their sporting dreams, to look deep into their hearts, and to think about becoming better people. Much as it is against our British nature to do so, we must gloat. For the more we gloat, the more we can help the Australians to improve themselves.

I only wish I had the sort of job that brought me into contact with lots of Australians I could gloat over. But I’m a bit old to be a barman.

Naturally Giles is a little hard on our colonial friends but goodness, chaps, he's bloody funny nonetheless, what!

Well done, Straussy!  Well done, England!  God Save The Queen!

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

The 3rd Test

What ho, chums!

So the 3rd Ashes Test starts tonight at the ungodly hour of 2 AM.  It is a ridiculous time to be playing a cricket match.  Why on earth can't these colonial johnnies play sport at a proper hour?  The bolshie oiks seem quite determined to assert their independence from the ways of the Mother Country, no matter how ridiculous it makes them seem.

I and all England have been chewing over the bowling situation.  Oakham's Broad is out for the series, so Strauss will have to choose one seamer from Bresnan, Tremlett and Shahzad.  In normal circumstances, one would opt for the chap from the leafy southern shires over the northern prole or the uppity immigrant.  However, fast bowling is slightly unusual in that it favours the type of rough, big arsed, northern character (often from a mining background) who is happy to toil away whilst the rather more pukka batsmen loll around in the field.  It is said, moreover, that Tremlett is a slightly yellow character, so I would be inclined to opt for Bresnan.  He is just the type of beefy specimen we need to get stuck into the Australians.

The colonials, meanwhile, are in complete disarray.  Their hopeless captain, Ponting, confessed this week that his man management is so terrible that he no longer goes near his bowlers for fear of putting them even further off their game.  It was an astonishing admission from a man who is quite patently not officer material.

It seems to me that this Australian outfit lacks brains and breeding.  There are, amazingly enough, a few decent schools in Australia, mostly in eastern Sydney - and the Wallabies, quite sensibly, recruit heavily from these institutions.  The cricketers, for whatever reason, do not.  I am sure that when Mr Sutherland (who is a sensible chap) comes to review Australia's campaign, he will put 2+2 together and demand that every Baggy Green XI should in future field at least one fellow from St Joseph's, one fellow from Scotch College, and so on and so forth. 

It is really asking too much for a group of proles to be thrown into battle without officers to lead the way.  And in Perth this week I expect Mr Strauss (Radley) to ram home yet again just why Englishmen spend £27,000 per annum on their son's public school education.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Foreigners are undermining the gentlemanly nature of English rugger

What ho, rugger buggers!

I say, chaps, have you seen this?  I don't think I've ever seen anything like it.  This chappie Venter is not only a Boer but a psychopath - indeed, some might say the two amount to the same thing. 

I have long defended the right of the English clubs to hire disadvantaged peoples from the most benighted corners of the globe.  One simply dreads to think what would happen to poor little banana republics like Tonga, Samoa, Ireland and South Africa if the remittances home from their cashed-up rugger players suddenly stopped.  I daresay the IMF would have to step in immediately.  (What's that, Seamus?  The IMF are already there?  Oh golly!)

But frankly, chaps, I think some of these johnnies are starting to take the mick.  Every Englishman learns from birth to: a) Hate the French; b) Love animals; and c) Never, ever, ever criticise the referee.  But it is all too apparent that the Boer types who have infested the Premiership of late have not received the same schooling.  Indeed, some of them seem not to have undergone any civilising process at all.  It would not surprise me in the least to learn that Mr Venter was raised by a herd of wildebeest somewhere deep in the African savannah.  The man is an utter barbarian and is clearly not fit to be admitted into the English rugger fraternity. 

The RFU needs to keep a very close eye on this.  We English are a benevolent breed but we do not take kindly to savages running amok and undermining the very fabric of our sporting order.  If these chaps can't behave like gentlemen, then I'm afraid the RFU will have to boot them back to Boerland. 

Johnny Dutchman - you have been warned. 

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

 

 

Ms Hurley and Warne - surely some mistake?

What ho, boffers!

I say, chaps, I can't quite believe this Elizabeth Hurley/Shane Warne story.  Admittedly Liz is a randy old harlot, and Shane is clearly a boffer extraordinaire, but heavens above, is it really plausible that a pukka English shire filly should drop her knickers for a try-hard colonial pleb like Warne?  Have you seen the fellow's face lately?  He looks like he's spent the past year in Dr Frankenstein's Laboratory of Eternal Youth.

Of course, there is a rather naive sub-section of English fillies (particularly those irritating creatures from St Mary's, Calne) who go a bit weak at the knees where colonials are concerned.  Naturally, no English girl would ever dream of marrying a colonial, but some of them do harbour unpleasant fantasies of being rodgered beneath the southern cross by some tanned, muscled Adonis by the name of Brett or Glenn.

(The reality, of course, is that Australia is now statistically the fattest nation on earth, and the Bretts and Glenns are about as virile and manly as, well, Michael Clarke).

Still, some fillies can be a bit naive.  However, I had rather imagined that Elizabeth Hurley was amongst the savvier of her breed.  Indeed, having read Warne's twitter box page and discovered that the man expresses himself in the manner of a particularly excitable 13 year old Californian girl, it simply beggars belief that Ms Hurley could be so damned foolish.  Indeed, I venture to suggest that she has demeaned not only herself but Englishwomen everywhere.  The whole ghastly episoe is utterly infra dig.

I suppose we can chalk this frightful episode up as 1-0 for the colonials but, thankfully, I shall be venturing down to the colonies myself over Christmas and look forward to redressing the balance.  My chums inform me that one has merely to recite a line of Virgil and the local "sheilas" become putty in one's arms.  I plan to put my walking cane to good use. 

It should be 4-0 to England in Sydney and hopefully 10-0 to Crouchers.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Huzzah!!!