Cold Shoulder

There wasn’t enough crying at the national anthems, yeah, the French definitely won the crying contest. (What anthem I hear you hiss, well it’s a celebration of our joint national identity, our nouveaux culture if you will – sorta like it’s a kip but it’s our kip). Oh, and the referee and 800 years of oppression, the Birmingham 6 and an appalling vista. The dice were loaded from the end of the La Marseillaise, us against an unholy alliance of the cry-baby French and the jingoist White. And mon Dieu how monsieur White pissed me off and I quiet agreed with what O’Gara mentioned under his breath.

So Pizza and beer, France and Ireland, Pat the Plank and Jonathon Woss later on a Friday evening, a night for loving couples but our lads got no heat. Fumbling, rushing and panting in the face of the practiced lounge lizard French, we clutched at bra straps never quit getting to 1st base. We looked to kiss passionately, wanted to taste but were repulsed by a French women with le bitter mouth. We wanted a late night caress but were shut out by l’Homme des Caverne. For a city which delivers so much romance, Ireland received the coldest of shoulders.

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