Tough Being Irish

Sometimes it's tough being Irish. We have a shite soccer team who couldn't kick doors on a Halloween night. We have a shite manager who would be out of his depth in a car park puddle and the whole shitting shooting gallery being lorded over by a punctured faced cunt with a head like a burst colon. Will we never learn?

On top of the soccer woes our much lauded and talked up rugby team struggled to beat two of the lesser rugby nations, though you wouldn't think them lesser on our performance. I've applied more pressure passing wind than our players managed in two games. Where is the pride and passion that was talked about? Maybe the poor lads can’t breathe in those S&M jerseys they now have to wear. The Bull John Hayes must be fucking wrecked after getting poured into his. It must take a half an acre of cloth to cover his vast bulk. Whatever the reasons or excuses, and there have been plenty of both, our lads need to cop themselves on and get a good dose of wake the fuck up if they intend beating France. I hate losing to France, the dirty talking frog eating surrender monkeys; it’s almost as bad as losing to England, almost now I did say almost.

Would You Get This Cab? Taken On Dawson Street.