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With a middle name of Brynley, and good Welsh blood in my veins,
You’d really think that rugby would be up there in my games.
When I had a one-off chance to play, I thought I’d take a crack,
In the hands of Gavin Lewis, ex-Llandudno Running Back.
This Welsh relief games master quickly formed us in a ring;
He said, we’d have a game and run the ball, and do the ‘passing thing’.
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Then suddenly his whistle blew, and I’m down for my first scrum;
And I thought it cool to form a wall, and crouch to push as one.
Then just as I bent low to ground, and braced in solid huddle,
A flash of pain – my lights went out – and brain spun in a fuddle.
Seems some ‘shite’ on the other side had swung from underneath,
And kicked me hard full in the face and loosened up some teeth.
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Now, I’d found that I could take a dig when boxing as a lad,
But I’d pay it back with interest; I’d been taught well by my dad.
So sod the game where sneaks can get to hide amongst the bunch;
I would rather play a proper game and see who throws the punch.
But big guys have to play a game, if football’s not for them,
And I understand it fills a need – a sport for ‘mental men’.
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I feel that rugby is a mug’s game and requires such little skill;
Come on, it’s charging round a football pitch with ball shaped like a pill.
It’s really just a ‘Satchel Dash’ – a playground bully’s game,
Where kicking touch’s considered skilled and running’s much the same.
So stick your game for gentlemen where your sons will never shine,
You can keep your ‘cauli ear-holes’; you’ve got yours and I’ve got mine.