Developing Global Sports Players
This book is based on real-life foul play throughout my Rugby career, filled with tales that will leave your concussed cerebrum wondering, “What the hell is going on in the insane world of rugby union”?
Strap on your athletic cup as we tunnel through the escapades and exploits that make rugby a hilarious and unforgettable experience for the daring souls who embark on them.
Welcome to my rugby stories that have stayed on tour, until now.
In a rugby-crazy world, whispers circulate about an epic tale known as ‘the tall glass’. This saga unfolds during the late 90s, sparked by a series of mishaps that lead to an unforgettable night for both me and my buddy, Buster.
But Buster was no ordinary guy; he possessed balls of steel—literally. His massive nuts were rumoured to have the power to alter the orbit of the moon, but on this occasion, it was Buster’s nuts that were captured, not the moon.
From the depths of my memory comes a tale of housing choices that were, let’s say, less than ideal. It was a saga that began with a dodgy landlord and cheap rent but almost ended In hypothermia.
Our abode, a testament to thriftiness, became a communal battleground against the elements, where the cold chill of consequence was an uninvited guest.
The lads at 58 Thesiger street huddled for warmth, while I contemplated how long the prank should continue.
Picture this: a historic gem in Cardiff’s crown, standing proudly for centuries, now facing its doom by fire. Not just a flicker or a flame, but an all-consuming beast of a blaze that seemed eager to make history itself ash.
And the origin of this fiery fiesta? Oh, it’s a tale of woe and folly, a comedy of errors where poor judgment was the guest of honor and the most spectacularly misguided decision.
As I witnessed the wrath of fire, as it danced its destructive tango across timbers and tiles, I couldn’t help but think—this will make one heck of a story, assuming we could run faster than the bouncer.
From the annals of my past, let me recount the tale of a particular drinking challenge that got out of hand.
It’s a simple recipe: take one part cider, one part rugby, and a generous helping of mates who went beyond their limits and then add a prop forward called Byson.
The nights blurred into a montage of cheers, jeers, and beers, each more raucous than the last until the tenth pint, and then things turned strange.
In this second rugby tale, adversity takes center stage.
Myself, Timmy and Micky stared down fate, and declared, “Screw it” !
We forged ahead, undeterred by obstacles, fueled by camaraderie. Together, we embarked on an adventure that exposed our deepest fears—each twist and turn yielding surprising outcomes.
But it all culminated in a hilariously awkward moment where I found myself naked, stripped of defenses, and perhaps regretting my culinary choices.
Goldie—though that’s not his real name, was a former royal air force veteran, a man who’d seen more skies than a stargazer on steroids.
Our misadventure unfolded across three cities, aboard a lone bus—the kind that smelled of regret and questionable decisions. We had a porcelain pig of dubious significance, and a war chest brimming with over 2000 pounds of drinking money.
Things were going lovely until midnight on the second evening, and the landlord of the guest house realized that we were not the oxford old boy’s chess team
Ah, Paris! The city that whispers sweet nothings of love and lights up with the glow of a thousand romances. Or so they say. But let me tell you, the ‘City of Love’ takes on a whole new meaning when you’re rolling with a band of Welsh rugby lads, each one brimming with more testosterone than a bull in a china shop.
There we were, twenty-eight strong, not on a quest for moonlit kisses by the Seine, but for the kind of mischief that only a rugby tour can bring. The streets became our playing field, the bistros our locker rooms, and every unsuspecting Parisian our audience to the mayhem we were about to unleash.
Paris might have been the backdrop for countless love stories, but for Buster it will always be a city where his sexuality came into question.
What on Earth were we thinking?’
It all started innocently enough in a quaint Essex pub, just two mates and a couple of cold beers.
But as the evening wore on, those harmless beers morphed into a series of shots that would make a Russian bartender blush. And then, in a twist that defies logic, those shots sprouted wings, turning into flights—not of fancy, but actual, bookable flights.
Before we knew it, we were no longer in Essex; we were touching down in Helsinki, Finland. How? Why? Questions for sober minds, surely.
So, draw near as I recount the adventure that left us with nothing but memories, a hefty overdraft, and a single, tattered travel document as a souvenir.
In the hallowed halls of Cheltenham, there stands a pub not just of bricks and mortar, but of legend and lore—The Tivoli. This wasn’t your garden-variety watering hole; it was a veritable wonderland of the whimsical and the wild. A place where the ale flows like a river of dreams, and the air buzzes with the electricity of impending escapades.
As a local, or should I say, a seasoned patron, I’ve seen The Tivoli’s walls embrace the full spectrum of humanity. From the weary townsfolk shedding the day’s burdens to the wide-eyed wanderers seeking the spice of English nightlife.
And yes, even the boys in blue have waltzed through its doors, though not always for a pint.
Mischief here isn’t just a possibility; it’s the currency. The Tivoli was a haven where the outrageous was celebrated, the ridiculous revered, and the line between debauchery and delight was as blurry as one’s vision at closing time.
As the year drew to a close, we were all set for an evening of revelry. The plan was simple: feast like kings, sip on the nectar of the gods, and bask in the company of the finest mates one could ask for. But as fate would have it, our local pub became the arena for an unexpected showdown.
When the Math’s Football team took us on in a bar room brawl a quiet pint turned into a full-blown tactical exercise.
There we stood, suddenly thrust into the role of spartan warriors, the stakes were high, and the spirits even higher, but no one expected Santa to intervene.
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