Disciplined approach? You must be joking
An Englishman, a Scotsman, a New Zealander and an Australian walk into a bar.
‘‘Ouch,’’ says the Englishman. ‘‘What’s your problem, pal?’’ asks the Scotsman.
‘‘I just walked into a bar,’’ says the Englishman.
‘‘That’ll cost ye. Four pints of heavy,’’ says the Scotsman.
The barman pushes four pints across.
‘‘Posh pal’s payin’.’’ ‘‘Pray, what is heavy?’’ asks the Englishman.
The Scotsman head-butts him. ‘‘Me.’’
‘‘Red card, bro. Law 9.12. Physically abusing a player by striking them with his head,’’ says the New Zealander.
‘‘Jeez,’’ says the Aussie. ‘‘Meet the Kiwi who knows the rules of rugby.’’
‘‘Laws.’’
‘‘What? What you on about? Hey, have a captain cook at this.’’
The Aussie takes out his mobile phone and replays the halftime interview with Blues assistant coach Alistair Rogers during the weekend match against the Highlanders. Rogers is saying: ‘‘We’ve just got to work on our discipline a wee bit. That’s letting them back into the game. And keep control of the ball when we’ve got the ball.’’
‘‘Reckon he was speaking a bit too fast for Sonny Bill. What a stupid bastard,’’ says the Aussie.
‘‘Here we go. Another Sonny Bill hater.’’
‘‘Naw, he’ll be right for the Roosters next season. No rules in footy, mate. But rugby’s way too hard. Sonny Bill couldn’t spell discipline.’’
‘‘You spell discipline.’’ ‘‘Hang about. You see the match? Ref blows for second half and Sonny Bill gives away two penalties in a minute. Pretty ordinary. Highlanders score. Then throws a pass that would be forward even in footy. Highlanders score. Discipline, couldn’t spell it, mate. Ha ha. What do New Zealand rugby and Cher have in common? They’ve both been screwed by Sonny.’’
‘‘SBW’S all right,’’ say the Englishman and Scotsman.
‘‘If you’re a Lions supporter,’’ says the Aussie.
‘‘Or an All Black. No worries about Sonny here, bro. He trains the house down. Shag loves him. And Sonny’s got faith. He’d sooner be set upon by a dozen hookers than drink a beer.’’
The Aussie looks at his pint. ‘‘Me too. We got a choice?’’ ‘‘God, you’re as dumb as Scott Higginbotham.’’
‘‘Say that again.’’
‘‘I said, you’re as dumb as Scott Higginbotham.’’
‘‘Who’s he?’’
‘‘He’s the Reds captain who got sent off in the season opener for a shoulder-charge to the head. What a dag.’’
‘‘A New Zealander by the name of Pickerill sent him off and quite right too,’’ says the Englishman. ‘‘Although in my opinion Mr Pickerill would not have sent him off were he a Kiwi.’’
‘‘Whatever he were, mate, it’s a man’s game,’’ says the Aussie.
‘‘Are you Brad Thorn in disguise?’’ asks the New Zealander.
‘‘Yeah well, our posh pal is on the money,’’ says the Scotsman. ‘‘No Kiwi ref would have the baws to send off an AB. And tell me this, Kev, cos I saw that other game, how come Michael Alaalatoa didn’t get sent off for malkying Mckenzie.’’
‘‘Who’s Malcolm Mckenzie when he’s at home?’’
‘‘Malkying. Hitting. Look, I’ll show you pal.’’
‘‘If you’re hard enough – he didn’t send him off cos Mckenzie was ducking.’’
‘‘Thank you for your counsel, my learned friend,’’ says the Englishman.
‘‘And so, Lee Harvey Oswald, you are free to go, the president of the United States was ducking,’’ ‘‘Four more pints of heavy.’’ ‘‘Anyhows, what about your countrymen?’’
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘Scotland the brave. That fellow Ryan Wilson scratching round our number eight’s eyes.’’
‘‘Nothing to see. Ref sorted it oot. Stop yer greetin’’’
‘‘Yeah, well, Owens is as bonza as a box of blowflies,’’ says the Aussie.
‘‘Well said, my friend. Taffy was a Welshman ... ‘Oh my goodness me, England are about to score – come back, come back, blow whistle, penalty to Scotland.’ You do not have to tell me,’’ says the Englishman. ‘‘I’ve seen straighter New Zealand lineout throws.’’
‘‘Best ref in the world,’’ say the Scotsman and New Zealander together.
‘‘Best arbiter on God’s earth? And I also suppose that yob Wilson has never been arrested for snotting a man’s eye socket?’’ asks the Englishman.
‘‘Yer snot a nose, not an eye, loser. Wilson’s a sassenach. Born and bred,’’ says the Scot.
‘‘Reckon that’s why he had a stoush with Farrell in the tunnel, then,’’ says the New Zealander. ‘‘Probably got Ben Stokes on speed dial.’’
‘‘Mr Stokes is one of yours,’’ says the Englishman.
‘‘So’s most of the players in the Six Nations.’’
‘‘Here we go. Gordon Bennett.’’ ‘‘Even with half the Pacific in the team, can’t see your lot beating the All Blacks in November. What’s with that bloke Care. More like Care in the community. We’ve got 12 better halfbacks.’’ ‘‘When big Billy comes back …’’ ‘‘He’s smashed, mate.’’ ‘‘Yes, well the best of British in keeping 15 men on the pitch. I read about that All Black fellow who said back in 1905 that you chaps would do anything to stop the oppo
scoring and ‘throw the whole moral burden on the referee’. I believe not so very much has changed.’’
The Scotsman picks a fly out of his pint and starts shaking it. He sees the others all looking at him.
‘‘Canna waste beer. Och, a wee toast to the Calcutta Cup. Oh, flower of Scotland. An’ if I get drunk, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you. An’ if I haver up, yeah I know I’m gonna be ...’’
‘‘Haver? Give us a clue, my old fruit?’’
Ahorse walks into the pub. ‘‘Must be a Broncos supporter.’’ ‘‘Hey, ask him, ‘Why the long face?’’’
‘‘You ask him.’’
The horse walks over. ‘‘Eish bra, this some sort of jol. You see the Blue Bulls? Gave those Canes a gud snot klap. Ag, drink you guys under the table.’’
‘‘A talking horse.’’
‘‘A South African talking horse.’’
‘‘I do believe it may be time to depart this house of brew.’’
‘‘With you there, bro’.’’