My Red Jock Shame by Donners.

Whats apparently red, arrives when it wants and completely fecks ya? The curse. The Munster curse. No laughin' matter, boys.

I am not a superstitious fella, normally. Well, I am, actually. And why wouldn't I be, with what happened to Tomas, and Fla, and of course Quinny. I said it to Paulie and he told me that the only curse I should be worrying about would be the one I'd be screamin' when his foot connected with me arse-bone. He's a bit of a materialist, is Paulie.

I worried away about it for a few days, when I remembered, I was probably immune. I had me own lucky charm, haven't failed me yet. Me red jocks. Normally I put them on before the game, but just in case, I've taken to wearing them all day every day. This means I've had to hand wash them every night before I go to bed and let them dry on the radiator in the bathroom. One night Tommy arrived in lookin' for some of my teabags cause him and Stephen Jones had used up all theirs, even the poncey ones you get in these flash hotels, and he heard me at it. Hammered on the door and told me to stop chokin me chicken. Told the whole team about it too. The rugby men of four nations skittin' at me like children for the last few days.


Now, I wash them every night using a toothbrush.

Tommy's.