Missing the End of the Six Nations? What REALLY stopped it?

The Valley of the Trolls


“How do I look?” asked Britney Mutton


Her equine-faced friend squealed in a high pitch fashion, loud enough to shatter a glass of Prosecco.


“Absolutely Flabulous , don’t you just love it when great minds think alike?!” said Shakira Lamb making a Freudian slip.


The pair were 45 years of age, both divorcees and each ready to Sumo wrestle some unlucky drunken rugby reveller into submission in a Cardiff lane around 11.00pm tonight.


Each had the IQ of a Sun reader.


They were both ‘dressed’ in red n white spray paint all over, with their melon breasts coloured brown and made to look like rugby balls with their armpit hair combed neatly over to look like laces.


The only genuine authentic lace was that of the ‘Next’ G-String the pair wore for modesty.


Not that modesty was a word the two women really understood. 


Wales V France at home in 2020 in the Rugby Six Nations was once again providing two women from the Merthyr Valley with an opportunity to ‘pull’ a man.


The deadly duo were soul mates and had become joined at the hip replacement, since they ditched their partners and finally got their great-grandchildren off their hands.


Britney & Shakira had led parallel lives, both had to leave school at 14 due to pregnancy, both got a  House from the Council as soon as they reached 16, both kicked out their physically abusive fathers of the children inside a year, then entered a brand new toxic relationship with a different Dappy lookalike from N-Dubs, who then went to prison for a two stretch, and when both role models came out from Cardiff Prison – they discovered that both Britney and Shakira were pregnant again by different men and kicked off again- only to end up back inside.


Valleys’ History tended to repeat itself.


The only thing that ever changed was the quality and number of their tattoos.


Britney  now had more love hearts on her love handles than confectioners Swizzles Matlow .  


All with different men’s names thereon.


Most of them would only appear at low tide from beneath her flab dunes when she lost weight, after a fad diet. 


Shakira was almost her identical clone, except that she had a long horse-looking face and long front teeth.


The pair sat in the bedroom of Shakira’s house, applying their curling tongs in tandem, affixing their fake nails and their fake eyelashes with cheap superglue.


Optimism was something the pair ‘weren’t’ short of.


To them, when they looked in the mirror, they didn’t see Vanessa Feltz meets Beth Ditto, they saw potential Love Island contestants.


They were under the illusion that they were the most beautiful girls in the world, a fact confirmed by their runner-up prize certificates for Glamorous Great-Grandmothers at the Porthcawl Elvis Convention.


They considered themselves to be oil paintings.


In reality, they had more in common with a Peter Paul Ruben’s subject than a L S Lowry one.


With Haddaway’s ‘What is Love?”, blaring through their mobile phone speakers, the pair were not preparing for a night at the Roxbury but a night on the Town in the big city of Cardiff.


Tonight, was their big opportunity to snare another man and have another ‘benefit baby’ before their body clocks rang the alarm bells and closed their DWP production line down for good.


Whenever Wales played so did the other Whales.


‘Free Willy’ was their sole purpose, as the pair looked hard for Moby Dick.


The more drunk the man was, the better their experience.


The big challenge for the women was to try and pull a man from each nation- after all there were male slags in England, Ireland, Scotland, France & Italy- you just had to know where to look for them.


And these girls knew just where to find them.   


International Rugby Days when the drink was in and the sense was out.


Gone were the days when real men ruled Wales, back in the days of the smoking fags in the snug, drinking Welsh Brewers beer, and walking sideways up the garden path to the irate Missus, three hours later than agreed.


Since the days of women’s liberation and the bra-burning era, the emancipation of the female sex had now created more problems than it had solved.


Britney & Shakira were part of the problem.


They were female versions of Harvey Weinstein, but with the casting couch being replaced by a wheelie bin in a Wetherspoon’s Car Park.


Regrettably, the pair had never been to an actual match at the Millennium Stadium, as they were priced out of the occasion, after all there wasn’t much left out of their Universal Credit, after deducting their rent, fags and booze.


Britney did have a tattoo of the stadium spread across both cheeks of her giant arse, but most men who saw it didn’t recognise it until the player’s tunnel appeared.


Shakira had her name tattooed on the small of her back and when questioned as to why- she said it was so that the man would remember her name when riding her.


In truth, she had done so because due to her equine-looking features she had been called ‘Shergar’ by mistake on more than a few occasions.


She absolutely hated it when men asked HER to give them some sugar.


With their transformation complete, the pair left Shakira’s home in Treharris and headed for the train station, tottering on their white stiletto heels as they went.


As they stood on the platform, the pair enjoyed the first wolf whistles of the day from the single lads heading to Cardiff to watch the rugby game- which stopped very suddenly when they turned around to reveal their faces to their new found fans.


Abuse would inevitably follow even if the pair had perfected their Medusa the Gorgon stares over the years.


Sober they had no chance.


After twelve pints of Dark they started to look ravishing.


Confirming that once the drink is in the sense is out.


Even adding Brains doesn’t help some.


As the pair were so big, they had to lie across the two plastic disabled area seats of the Valley Line train to be comfortable.


No-one dared ask them to move, as the duo had the presence of Tyson Fury with double the fury and twice the chins.


Even the conductor didn’t bother checking their tickets, as he didn’t fancy his chances single-handed against these trolls.


They may be slow but they were powerful and there is nowhere to flee to on a train with only four carriages.


None of the women shoppers dared look at the ridiculous pair, with their fake foreheads that made them look like Klingons from the Star Trek movie franchise, fake eyebrows that had been drawn on with a brown permanent marker pen shoplifted from W H Smith and more chins than a Chinese phonebook.


Britney Mutton had copied her friend Shakira’s style, so she truly was Mutton dressed as Lamb.


Fortunately, despite the train being congested with passengers, as it was still February, so it was not too hot, so that the body spray paint didn’t rub off on the seats and ruin other people’s clothes.


Not that the Treharris’ Trolls would have cared anyway.


The pair didn’t move for anyone.


Not for the elderly, not for pregnant women, not even for one ex-miner with only one leg after a colliery accident.


Stations came and went at Abercynon, Pontypridd, Treforest, Radyr, Llandaff, Cathays and finally Queen Street.


A journey of only twenty miles but that took over an hour to reach Cardiff City Centre.


At each of these stops, more and more colourful fancy dress costumes appeared, women in full kit rugby attire, men dressed as traditional Welsh women complete with stove pipe hats and shawls, pregnant nuns and of course the occasional Welsh Red Dragon.


As they spilled out into Queen Street, the Welsh supporters and shoppers mixed and mingled with various French Napoleon’s, Asterix & Obelisk, stripy beret wearing onion sellers, as well as Alexandre Dumas’ three musketeers, busy fighting with French-stick loaves as swords.     


It was easy to tell which one was Aramis, as he was the one wearing the cheap cologne.


The French invasion was the largest since the Norman Conquest, as they had the ‘Gaul’ to assume they could beat the Welsh at home for the first time in a decade.


Britney & Shakira could enjoy the occasion in full knowledge that in around six hours there would be lots of Sacha Distel lookalikes staggering around the streets of the Welsh Capital celebrating or consoling each other with cheap red wine from Le Tesco or Le Aldi. 


They clearly weren’t put off by body odour, given their love of Roquefort and Vieux-Boulogne cheeses.


The Frenchman only had to display a sign of weakness and the Whales from Wales would be on him before he could say NON.


The pair were partial to a Roman nose and the bigger the conk, the more satisfied the gruesome twosome became.


Many a foreigner had woken up pre-brexit to the disturbing sight of a Britney & Shakira sandwich having realised last night that they had unwittingly provided the filling. 


And worse still having to explain to their wife back home in Ireland/Scotland/Italy or France that whilst they had not achieved the Six Nations Championship on the pitch, that that red genital rash that would not go away was evidence of a different kind of Grand Slam off the pitch.   


It is a little-known fact that the word Chlamydia is multi- ‘cultural’ being the same in Welsh, as it is in Gallic, Gaelic or Italian. 


Whilst in Scotland, Billy Connolly would tell you it spells D.I.V.O.R.C.E


As the pair (fresh from illegally drinking Co-Op own brand lager on the alcohol-free train down from the Merthyr Valley) staggered up Queen Street arm in arm, the new myopic Cardiff Council CCT camera operator feared that there was an escaped hippo and a horse about to run amok in the City Centre, but was persuaded from pressing the panic button by his more senior colleague -as that at this time of year there were a lot of migratory ugly women from the Valleys in the Capital that made even the New Zealand Rugby players look pretty.


Britney & Shakira had that 5- star Welsh Egon Ronay establishment, ‘Pillars’ first on their agenda.


It was a must for Valleys people, almost as if their fake Welsh Rugby Union Rugby shirts from Rheola Market mystically drew them there.


Britney nor Shakira were familiar with the word queue and went straight to the front and demanded their food order.


No-one would argue with either of the Sumo Gods and just let them squeeze between the pillars for service.


As they plonked their wooden tray, with chicken curry rice and chips slopping over the sides of their plates, Shakira clocked one of her hated love rivals from the Rhondda Valley.


Louise Lurtz from Treorchy, sitting on her own- gnawing on a bone.


Shakira despised the woman with every sinew of her body- and boy that’s a lot of sinews- after she had stolen a drunken Italian stallion away from under her nose or whatever body part he was under at the time.


She walked over and confronted the Rhondda-ite.


“Well, if it isn’t Lousy Louise Lurtz, the woman that puts the Orc into TreORChy!” said the Treharrisarian.


Louise looked up from her meal and snarled.


It was not the best time to confront a woman from the Rhondda when she is eating.


“Where’s that other Lord of the Rings ‘Shagrat’ character friend of yours?….Two Tonne Tessie of Tonteg? “ asked Shakira belligerently.


“Behind you!” said Louise with a mouth half full of chicken.


As Shakira turned her head, she had it straight in the horses’ mouth, with the first sound she heard was her nose popping, as she was headbutted by Tessie.


Shakira’s legs buckled, as she collapsed (like King George’s horse Anmer at the Epsom Derby in 1913) to the floor and was promptly given a good fake Jimmy Chooing by her rival.


They say that it is preferential to have your foot stepped on by an elephant rather than the downward pressure of a stiletto heel.


Poor Shakira now had both.


Seeing that her friend was in trouble, Britney calmly finished eating her mouthful of chicken curry and rice before setting off into the fray bentos.


Bingo wings flew, as Britney tore into both Tessie and Louise, picking up a side lamp as a weapon and giving her opponents some real Flack.


The young student waitresses dared not intervene, as the three combatants had a combined body weight of over 70 stones.


Shakira now came around after the ‘Tonteg Kiss’ and bravely hung onto Tessie’s tree-trunk legs like a mahout riding a rogue bull elephant.


Tables overturned, food flew everywhere as both horrified shoppers and rugby fans alike shrank away from the Godzilla Show.


Louise had Britney in a headlock and her botox-enhanced forehead kept switching sides.


Britney in turn had hold of Louise’s hair extensions and was tugging for dear life.


Shakira had now brought down Tessie to the floor in a tackle reminiscent of Shane Williams on Jonah Lomu.


But unlike another Jonah, she was trying her best not to get swallowed by the Whale.


Her trout pout lips had been punctured by her opponents coca cola ring-pull knuckle duster  , so she no longer looked like Dead or Alive singer Pete Burns but she had lost one of her fake eyelashes and both of her contact lenses in the melee.


Her body paint had now become smeared and in the four- way tag- wrestling contest struggle she had caught her own friend Britney in the eye with her cold hard nipple-ring.


The Duty Manager rang for the Police but still kept the food queue flowing to maximise profits.


The heavyweight contest then turned into the Welsh version of a Greek Wedding- as plates were thrown at the combatants by neutrals chanting ‘Cat Fight, Cat Fight’, which mutated like the Coronavirus into ‘Fat Fight, Fat Fight’.


Two Hobby Bobbies arrived to witness the carnage and promptly called for back-up.
Innocent people caught up in the fracas fled for their lives.


The Community Officers then made a cordon of upturned tables as impromptu Orgreave riot shields in case the fighters tried to make a sharp getaway.


The fight was not over, as Britney landed an uppercut on the third chin of her opponent and Louise sailed across the room, splintering tables as she flew.


Tessie on the other hand was now sitting on top of Shakira, using the dark arts of the front row busy gouging at her heavily mascaraed eyes.


Britney broke a metal-barred chair over the head of Shakira’s tormentor in a scene straight out of WWF.


Not the World Wrestling Federation but the White Whale One.


The Police turned up and Shakira was terrified she would now been deported- as she was in the Country illegally.


She had her own version of Windrush.


“Haven’t you ever been grabbed by the Fuzz before?” asked Britney.


“No, but I have been swung around by the tits a few times!” replied Shakira.


It took four coppers to put the handcuffs on the concussed but angry Tessie.
One nearly suffocated in her flab.    


With an extra 20,000.00 Police Officers added Post-Brexit to the Principality’s Police Force, they seemed to all turn up together outside Pillars with blue lights flashing.


However, Police Chief Brody wasn’t sure if the solitary Black Maria outside was suitably equipped to tackle the size of the brawlers, given its limited axle weight.


He turned to his assistant Quint, who was also staring at the bout from behind the safety of the thin blue line, waiting for the remainder of the Super Heavyweight fighters to tire themselves out before ordering the baton charge in their gilets jaune.


“With those ‘Orcas’ you are gonna need a bigger boat!”


Quint nodded and then asked his superior officer

“What offence do we charge them with Boss?


“Breach of the Greenpeace?”


“I see this every home game of the Six Nations- only one piece of advice I can offer you ….said Brody getting ready to take cover…..aim for the blowhole!”