"The Great Moffet"
by F. Scott Fitzgerald-Jones
In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me a piece of advice which I have been turning over in my mind ever since. "Whenever anybody else is being criticized," he told me, "Just remember that all the people in the world know less about rugby than you."
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he
meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I always knew what was best for Welsh Rugby and acted on my instincts, a habit that has opened up many
curious natures to me and also made me the worlds' leading expert on central contracting. The abnormal organisation is quick to fumble and
attempt to mimic this quality when it appears in a normal person.
"The Roger"
by J.P.R. Tolkein
In a hole in the ground there lived a Roger. Not a nasty, dirty, wet
hole, filled with the ends of second rows and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry,
bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to scrum down with or to eat: it was a Roger-hole, and that means personal comfort. It had a retractable roof, painted white,
with a shiny yellow logo in the exact middle. The door opened on
to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without
smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with
polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats - the Roger wasn't fond of visitors.
"The Picture of Richie Gray"
by Oscar Williams
The stadium was filled with the rich odour of trophies, and when the light
summer wind stirred amidst the chairmen of the WRU, there came through
the open door the heavy scent of the Top 14, or the more delicate perfume
of the French cash.
"Harry Potter and the Lack of a Competition to Join Next Season"
by J.K. Rowling-Maul
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, finished number four, Aviva Premiership, were proud to say
that they were perfectly happy, thank you very much. They were the last
people you'd expect to be involved in anything poor or disorganised,
because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley
was the tighthead of a club called Gloucester Rugby, which played Rugby. He was a
big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large
mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the
usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of
her time craning over hoardings, spying on the opposition. The
Dursleys had a small centre called Dudley and in their opinion there was no
finer outside back anywhere. The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a neighbour, and their greatest fear was that somebody would let it in the league. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Welsh.
"Faletau, or the Modern Prometheus"
by Mary Scrum V
I am by birth a Tongan; and my family is one of the most
distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many
years flankers and looseheads; and my father had played in several World Cups with honour and reputation. He was
respected by all who knew him for his integrity and
indefatigable attention to smashing the bejeezus out of opposition fly-halfs. He passed his
younger days perpetually occupied by playing for his
country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying
early, nor was it until the decline of club rugby that he became a
husband and the father of a family.
[I wanted to do Frankenstein as a cobbled-together metaphor for the regions, doomed to heartless failure due to the unnatural circumstances in which they were born. But it ended up being about Kuli Faletau. So I'm explaining the idea here. I forgot just how much "or the Modern Prometheus" you have to go through before you get to the "Frankenstein".]
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