I'm all angry about these modern day so-called rugby players, I know why they have gone all soft - It's because of poncy names. That's what it is.

Remember in the old days, when players chucked round a ball made out of ten pound of clay stitched inside a steel-reinforced leather shell with laces made out of piano wire?


Well, in them days players could only survive the rigors of the game because they were called things like Albert, Arthur, Bert, Gareth, Bill, Dai, Ken, Jack and Tommy. Tough names for tough men, them was.


And what do we have now? Jonah, Oliver, Rory, Gavin, Jamie, Johnny. Tarts' names, they are. Great big puffs. No wonder the ball's like a balloon and socks are made of silk. And pads! In the old days you never saw a Carwyn James or a Tony O’Reilly with puffy little tampons on their shoulders. Shoulder pads in them days was made out of library books, and socks was made of flour bags.


Same with the jerseys. Bloody shirts with holes in now so they can breathe.
Yes, so that little Jody's hairless chest can breathe and doesn't get a chill. Piss off. Ken Jones used to jink round New Zealand's finest wearing a circus tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob suit. Aye, he did. No wonder players fall over all the time whenever an opponent comes anywhere near them.

Follow up:

And they never used to show their arses at one another either. Can you imagine what might have happened if Serge Blanco had flashed his ring at Andy Irvine during a France-Ireland game? He'd have got one of them size 10 hobnails up his bastard chuff.


Therapy for stress my arse! Richard Webster slaps his missus about and he takes three seasons off with stress counselling. What the hell is that all about? In the old days it was expected for footballers to belt the old sow about a bit, specially after a bad defeat.


And the women used to expect it, and so they should have. They was lucky to be married to rugby footballers. Ha! Marc Cecillon dropped some lead in the back off his wife and was out of action for three month. Soft twat. Archie McShitt of Samoa got run over with horse and cart one Friday night and he still turned out against Tonga the following day.

And he scored two tries. That's cos his name wasn't "Marc". Good old Archie. Broke his hip, both his legs, murdered his wife and buried her under the patio and still made the Samoan team for the Polynesian Internationals. Did he have any "stress counselling"? Did he bollocks!


And drugs? There was none of that in the old days. Oh, no. In them days it was a quick shot of morphine before kick-off and you was lucky if you got that. By half-time it had all but wore off so they pumped you full of laudanum. None of this steroid ingesting and shooting up class A narcotics.


Try celebrations? Don't talk to me about try celebrations. Crawling on the floor and thrusting their hips at the crowd. Huh! I'd like to have seen Cliff Morgan do that after breaking through blind side and feeding Bleddyn Williams the match winner. Handshakes...and that was all you got. That and a wank in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper wank...all man stuff. None of these puffy wanks between blokes that you get nowadays with players like Gavin Henson and Johnny Wilkinson. Allegedly. In them days, there was nothing wrong with it cos it didn't mean nothing.
They used to say there was a "gay atmosphere" in the dressing room after the match. But it didn't mean nothing mucky. Just a bit of harmless spanking the plank among healthy young sportsmen. Aye, I know, me dad told me.


Hundred grand a week! Ha! I wouldn't pay 'em tuppence. Two bob boot money John Dawes used to get...a month! And David Duckham still worked as a plumber four days a week when he was playing for England.

It's true, you know, bloody is. Players had to work 2 jobs them days just to make up their money. Not like today. Clive Shell had to clean sewers and doubled up as Aberavon’s bog cleaner. He had to go off during one game because some bastard had built a log cabin and blocked the U-bend. And that Jean-Pierre Rives was a male model...though he never liked to talk about it.


So I say we start calling kids real male names again. If you're having a kid, don't even consider puffy names names like what people call their kids these days. Otherwise what we gonna get in twenty years' time? The National team full of players called Keanu, Ronan, Ashley and bleeding Chesney. Sod that! Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred and Wilf. And let's get the puffs out of the game once and for all.