A whiff of rugby.

Here’s a curious thing.

I just happened to hear some Welsh rugby ‘gurus’ (I’m still trying to work out how ancient Hindu spiritualism has found its way into the rather tawdry realm of media populism), discussing the esoteric complexities of one fellow lobbing an inflated pig’s bladder over to another fellow, indeed these informed and erudite commentators, seemed to be getting all lathered up about this particularly complicated exercise in sporting prowess – I must point out here, that I remain utterly mystified as to how grown men can spend hours discussing the ins and outs of throwing a ball around a field, but there we are, yet again what do I know – anyway, apparently one player, it was remarked, was a shrewd if not profoundly adept ‘sniffer’ ie good at sniffing out a try for those of you, whom like me are sporting zombies.

Well now, I walked away rather confused as the only things I’ve ever seen rugby players sniff, is each other’s arses.



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