It’s rare somebody does something that makes their whole family, community and every single one of their friends think, gee he’s a fuc#ing tosser!

My good mate John McAndrews, is a hilarious smartass and was a really good Rugby Union player. He’s now a Hornswood man, but he was born and raised in small-town New Zealand and had the honour when he was just twenty, of playing in their club’s first Grand Final in sixteen years. So pretty much everybody McAndrews had ever known, was at the game, in fanatical Rugby mode.

There was only a minute left in the Grand Final, they were two points behind and had the scrum feed on halfway. The big men packed down into the mass of heaving bodies, stinking of sweat, armpits and scrotums. The forwards (the only men on a rugby field worthy of true respect) strained like their very lives depended on winning the ball.

Behind the scrum John McAndrews eye-balled his opposite fullback, Tapana Tangaroa. They’d been best mates for a decade and Tapana had always been a little bit better than McAndrews at… pretty much everything. McAndrews was really fast, Tapana was just a bit faster. They both played representative Rugby, Tapana played a little bit more. Tapana was getting better marks at Uni, had a car, could complete a Rubik’s cube and was one hell of a dancer.

McAndrews was desperate to overcome his best mate that day.

The hard men in the forwards having done all the work, hated giving their fate over to the glory-boy backs to potentially squander, but with a minute left there was little choice. The half back passed the ball to McAndrews, who sprinted at the defensive line as hard as his fatigued body could. To his surprise, he burst through.

No time on the clock, and a sprinting John McAndrews only had one man to beat.


McAndrews feigned left, then right. Tapana rarely fell for his dummy or his sidestep, but it was make or break.


McAndrews was away. He had forty metres to the try line. The open, Grand-Final-winning try line! Thirty metres. Twenty.

John McAndrews, was living his dream, his parent’s dream and the dream of everybody he knew. He glanced back, expecting to see his opposition fullback about to nail him. But Tapana was on the ground, and he was the closest defender! There was nobody between him and the line. Between him and… immortality.

McAndrews (yelling to the crowd) – “McANDREWS SCORES THE WINNING TRY UNDER THE POSTS.” Still looking backwards while sprinting, he poked his tongue out at Tapana.

The game finished.

John McAndrews was lying on a gurney, staring at the roof of an ambulance. His team’s enormous, facially-tattooed Maori prop captain, was sitting next to him. It’s fair to say McAndrews was intrigued as to what had transpired.

Matui (in full Maori accent) – “It’s your first year Andrews eh? I’ve played for this club for twelve straight f#cken seasons bro.”

McAndrews (feeling terribly woozy) – “I know Matui. You’re a club legend. It’s actually McAndrews… but that’s ok.”

Matui – “This was my first ever Grand Final bro. Didn’t think I’d ever play in one. To win one, was just too much to ever f#cken dream of eh.”

Matui nodded to himself and flexed his ham-sized fists.

McAndrews – “Glad I could do my bit Matui.”

Matui – “What the f#ck are you talking bro? After announcing to the crowd you’re about to score the winning try, because you had your head f#cking facing backwards… you ran into the F#CKING POSTS bro! You knocked yourself out f#cking cold, dropped the f#cking ball and we lost the f#cking Grand Final eh.”

The gargantuan prop took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

McAndrews – “Oh.” That explained the neck brace.

His world tumbled in. He couldn’t speak, which was most unlike him. He wanted to vomit.

Matui – “You’re f#cking lucky you started fitting on the ground bro, a number of the lads wanted to beat you and when you get out of hospital I’m sure they will do just that eh.”

”Your father was too angry to get in this f#cking ambulance eh bro, so I had to do it.”

McAndrews felt like crying.

Matui (in a consoling voice) – “It’s not all bad f#cking news though Andrews. I have started a new award for the club eh bro. It’s for the player who makes the most STUPIED F#CKING PLAY of the season eh. We will call it the ‘JOHN ANDREWS IS A REAL F#CKWIT’ award.

McAndrews – “You mean the ‘John McAndrews is a real f#ckwit’ award?”

Matui didn’t smile.

John McAndrews – “So… who won the award this year?”

Matui didn’t smile.

Thanks for reading my blog, where I put my heart and soul down in words, for you!

What’s new? I love my Sea Eagles, but Manly make it EXTREMELY difficult to be loyal.

Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream to one day make a living as a writer/blogger, I’ve started writing emails for small businesses, to entertain and entice their customers.

Imagine “Hornswood Pool Shop”, who if they exist are probably spamming customers a few times a year. When it comes to catchy writing that people will actually read, Hornswood Pool Shop are good at… pools.

Perfect pH, but their communications though accurate and informative… are also boring and sadly perish, unloved and unopened.

But thanks to me, their campaigns can be worshiped by the people!

Opened. Read! Cherished!! Held aloft, like the Life of Brian shoe or that chubby little Lion King.

At the moment I’m… low-tariff, because I’m just starting (despite often nearly doubling industry open-rates). Know any businesses who could benefit from having wonder and awe sent out to their database? You’ll allow me to continue claiming at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact, a writer.

If you could Like or Share, to help me become famous, would be wonderful. Twitter?


6 thoughts on “RUGBY CAN BE TELLING

  1. Very amusing anecdote. Is it one of those “I know this guy who….” yarns where McAndrews is actually YOU in the Shore Under 14G team back in 1982, Jase?


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