Rugby Saturday !!
Discussion
! 
Corpulent Tosser said:
I am in Baku so will have to watch Scotland attempt to repeat their wonderful victory of last year in a pub.
There is one here called The Camel Toe which may be showing the game, I think I would like to get in the camel toe tonight
There is one here called The Camel Toe which may be showing the game, I think I would like to get in the camel toe tonight
Having a slurp at the camels toe eh?
derek m5 said:
Corpulent Tosser said:
I am in Baku so will have to watch Scotland attempt to repeat their wonderful victory of last year in a pub.
There is one here called The Camel Toe which may be showing the game, I think I would like to get in the camel toe tonight
There is one here called The Camel Toe which may be showing the game, I think I would like to get in the camel toe tonight
Having a slurp at the camels toe eh?
I certainly hope so 
Yippee, the 6N is with us once again. 
Just waiting for my mate to turn up, then off to the pub for the first of 3 games this weekend. Here's a fantastic piece from Peter O'Toole to get us in the mood:
Just waiting for my mate to turn up, then off to the pub for the first of 3 games this weekend. Here's a fantastic piece from Peter O'Toole to get us in the mood:
Peter O'Toole said:
It's like somebody has turned out the light when the championship ends every season; there is almost a sense of bereavement. Sorry, too strong a word. Loss is better. I will bloody well miss it until next February.....
The ritual on international day in Dublin was always to meet in the Horseshoe Bar of the Shelbourne Hotel, early but not so early as to suggest a serious drink problem or a failure to get to bed the previous night. Let's say 10am, for decency's sake. It was always busy and bustling. In those days if you wanted anything in Dublin - an abortion, false passport, erotic literature, buy a horse or place a bet - you headed for the Shelbourne. It was a unique and much-valued clearing house for Dublin's supposedly respectable middle class. Then it was off down Baggot Street via various hostelries. The temptation was always to linger but I'm a great stickler for getting to the game on time for the anthems - I couldn't abide that frenzied, last-minute rush for the curiously timed 2.45pm kick-offs - so I headed for my doctor's house (he delivered two of my children in Dublin) that was conveniently nestled close to the mighty south terrace. After the match we would retrace our steps, ending up back at mission control - the Shelbourne - for the post-mortem when suddenly we were all very great rugby experts indeed.
Paris is another great weekend. I once did three movies on the trot there and was virtually resident for two years. The ritual was that we would all met at Café Moustache, which was owned by Sidney Chaplin, son of Charlie. Much merriment, of course, but before the morning grew too old there was always a 100-yard challenge race down the tree-lined boulevard for able-bodied males which I am proud to report I once won while still wearing my Donegal tweed jacket. After the match at the old Stade Colombes we headed for Castels, a nightclub in Rue Princesse where all the boxers, jockeys, actors and other reprobates - accompanied by assorted exotic females - convened. Jean was a very dashing figure, an Olympic yachtsman and flanker for Racing Club and Castels was definitely the place to be seen.
Cardiff was another matter, horrific Ireland defeats polluting my memories in the Seventies. I always ended up with a mob of drunken Welsh doctors or medical students - the maddest of the mad, frankly - down Tiger Bay, drinking Brains Skull Attack, eating kebabs, stepping over broken glass and vomiting profusely every hour or so. Then I would travel back to Paddington on a zoo of a train, shoulder to shoulder in the buffet bar drinking neat vodka out of a paper cup, while somebody else was sick over me. Hey ho. I love their anthem, though, it leaves me a weeping, emotional mess but, strangely, I feel a better, cleansed, person on its conclusion. Singing - optimistically in the shower on match morning, in unison at the ground or drunkenly in the pub - is the great cement that binds the championship together.
The ritual on international day in Dublin was always to meet in the Horseshoe Bar of the Shelbourne Hotel, early but not so early as to suggest a serious drink problem or a failure to get to bed the previous night. Let's say 10am, for decency's sake. It was always busy and bustling. In those days if you wanted anything in Dublin - an abortion, false passport, erotic literature, buy a horse or place a bet - you headed for the Shelbourne. It was a unique and much-valued clearing house for Dublin's supposedly respectable middle class. Then it was off down Baggot Street via various hostelries. The temptation was always to linger but I'm a great stickler for getting to the game on time for the anthems - I couldn't abide that frenzied, last-minute rush for the curiously timed 2.45pm kick-offs - so I headed for my doctor's house (he delivered two of my children in Dublin) that was conveniently nestled close to the mighty south terrace. After the match we would retrace our steps, ending up back at mission control - the Shelbourne - for the post-mortem when suddenly we were all very great rugby experts indeed.
Paris is another great weekend. I once did three movies on the trot there and was virtually resident for two years. The ritual was that we would all met at Café Moustache, which was owned by Sidney Chaplin, son of Charlie. Much merriment, of course, but before the morning grew too old there was always a 100-yard challenge race down the tree-lined boulevard for able-bodied males which I am proud to report I once won while still wearing my Donegal tweed jacket. After the match at the old Stade Colombes we headed for Castels, a nightclub in Rue Princesse where all the boxers, jockeys, actors and other reprobates - accompanied by assorted exotic females - convened. Jean was a very dashing figure, an Olympic yachtsman and flanker for Racing Club and Castels was definitely the place to be seen.
Cardiff was another matter, horrific Ireland defeats polluting my memories in the Seventies. I always ended up with a mob of drunken Welsh doctors or medical students - the maddest of the mad, frankly - down Tiger Bay, drinking Brains Skull Attack, eating kebabs, stepping over broken glass and vomiting profusely every hour or so. Then I would travel back to Paddington on a zoo of a train, shoulder to shoulder in the buffet bar drinking neat vodka out of a paper cup, while somebody else was sick over me. Hey ho. I love their anthem, though, it leaves me a weeping, emotional mess but, strangely, I feel a better, cleansed, person on its conclusion. Singing - optimistically in the shower on match morning, in unison at the ground or drunkenly in the pub - is the great cement that binds the championship together.
I was studying form albeit in the shape of Sean Lamont! Fixedwheelnut said:
I thought Harry Ellis would be man of the match, he had an eye for the gaps so quick even the rest of the England team could keep up for support
Good to see Johnny back in the game though.
Good to see Johnny back in the game though.
Agree - Ellis was brilliant. No 10 always has a good view of the game so Wilko was a shoe in but Ellis deserved that I think
Gassing Station | Sports | Top of Page | What's New | My Stuff