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If you can't beat 'em...

We join rugby's mudslinging fest

Inspired by the example set by some of rugby's finest players, our editor has decided to publish a warts-and-all account of life in the Planet Rugby offices.

We begin our serialisation of 'Me, Me, Me, Me' with a few extracts from chapter one…

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is what my lousy boss is like, who in the office annoys me, and all that confessional kind of crap.

Well, that's exactly what you are going to get.

Why? Simply because I'm my own man. No one can change me. I'm that hard.

And Christmas is coming and I stand to make a packet.

I've only been working here for a couple of year so I might not have enough material for a whole book. So what? I'll just flesh out the few minor incidents and sex it all up.

If I'm still a chapter or two short, I'll just make some stuff up.

If you think that is contrary to the so-called 'spirit of the game', tough. Times have changed and I'm a rebel. A big shot. You are just a peasant with £18.99 in your pocket, so just cough up and read on.

I guess I should start by telling you what fun it is to be involved in rugby journalism, but my publisher has advised me against that. Who would pay to read that rubbish?

So let's just get stuck in. First up – Chris Parker, my ex-boss … and a prize moron. He's just your  typical public school boy. Yeah, let's introduce the class war. That should shift a few copies. The toff versus me – the working-class boy done good. Done real good.

Let me talk you through an incident from earlier in the year.

There we were, with a fat contract begging to be snapped up, and what does Chris do? He goes and excludes me from the initial presentation. Me! Can you believe it!

What was he thinking? Everyone knows I am the most talented guy in the office – it's so obvious.

Someone eventually saw the light and I was dragged in for the later negotiations. But it was too late by that time. I'm unusually brilliant, but there was too much ground to make up.

People say that you should move on from disappointments, to roll with the punches and all that. Crap. I prefer to pout, wallow and point my fingers this way and that.

The deal fell through due to Chris's utter incompetence. It wasn't my fault at all. That's the truth. End of story.

By the by, Christopher also has problems in the bedroom department.

Obviously that's none of my business. Neither is it any of your business. Neither is it true. But who cares? It has filled a couple of lines and may win me a plug in the tabloids. Hey, this writing lark is a doddle! I knew I'd be brilliant at it.

Right, let's move on to the theft of my hole-punch from my desk. A cowardly act performed in broad daylight.

I know who did it – it was Tom Uppington and Kev Miller from the accounts department. See the appendix for their photos and addresses.

Everyone saw it happen and I wailed and shook and hollered about it for days. But no-one did a damn thing about it.

These crooks simply swooped in, scooped it up and fled. Can you believe it? Can we really allow this sort of behaviour to sully the world of journalism?

They said they were just doing their job and needed the hole-punch for some admin duties. Okay, but how about an apology? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a squeak.

And there I was, out of the hole-punching game for a whole six months. I'd been done in cold blood and no-one was prepared to bring these grubby thieves to justice.

Why did that happen to me? Perfect me? I wouldn't ever dream of doing anything as dastardly as that.

But I guess I'm just different. Special.

Still, I hope my words will somehow bring light to those dark corners which are void of manners and notions of fair-play.

One other thing that I want to clear up now that I have your attention – the office party.

A lot has been made about that night and I'd just like to say, for the record, that it wasn't my fault. None of it.

People like Chris Collins from the sales department and Mike Willis from IT are really big boozers. Serious boozers, in fact. Alcoholics, I think.

Anyway, they cornered me at the Christmas do and forced me to drink and drink and drink. It was all against my will and I hated every chummy second of it.

Cheryl for the cafeteria was there, looking lovely as usual, and the drunken yobs forced me to go and drape myself all over her.

Of course, if it had been up to me I would have written her a poem or bought her some flowers or something. But it wasn't up to me.

I'm not too sure what happen next, but I am certain that it was Chris and Mike who made me throw up in her lap.

I've taken a lot of stick about that. But don't get me wrong – I'm big enough to take it. Like I say, I'm my own man.

But the truth is that I'm entirely innocent on all counts. If Cheryl is looking to blame someone, she should blame Chris and Mike and the rest of them. My corner of the office smells like roses and always will.

Yeah, everyone loves me at work. I admit that I've got a problem with a couple of guys who cover the rugby in Wales – both of them were born in England. Unreal, hey? What right have they got to cover Welsh rugby?

Obviously I won't ask them that to their faces, it would probably sound like discrimination. I'll just scribble it here for you guys – my fans. But I doubt that they'd mind my question – they reckon I'm a star.

Oh, are you still reading? Strange. We thought your mental capacity would have been exhausted by now.

My publisher advised my ghost writer to keep things short and sharp and easy to understand. Hence the short sentences. Like this one. And the bite-sized paragraphs.

Like this one.

You see, my publishing team's expertise lies in churning out the confessions of failed soccer stars and D-list celebs.

They thought the same moronic formula would apply to rugby because they know nothing about the game. They just assumed that it's a sport played by brain-dead thugs and watched by brain-dead losers.

But who am I to educate the moneymen about rugby's rich history and fabled brotherhood? That's not gonna make me rich. What's the point of goodwill if you can't cash it in?

Next week: How the boys from football365 broke the photocopier – the full gory details

By Andy Jackson


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