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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Damn Mrs Bishop and her ridiculous ways for teaching me the rules of rugby and making it possible for me to sit in a pub in North London surrounded almost entirely by English men, and sit screaming at bulky men in green jumpers to RUN FOR FUCK’S SAKE, PASS IT, PASS IT! COME ON! like a goon. I couldn’t breathe for the last ten minutes of the Ireland/England game, when our lead could so easily have been taken off us and the whole Six Nations dream go up in smoke to our - in sporting terms at least - worst enemies. But it didn’t, and we won, and I clapped and screamed and cheered, and then remembered where I was and who I was surrounded by, and instead sent many a bleary message to Mrs Bishop and her crazy rugby brain.

Shouting at men in shorts while they run around on television is just a brilliant way to pass a day. Doubly so if your chosen team win, obviously.


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