Irish Fall Prey to Rampaging Tigers
Welfare Road felt like a cauldron, and the fecking superb Tigers fed off it like their animal kingdom namesakes, feasting on a friggin’ slaughtered corpse. They were hunting in packs, and completely dominated in all areas of the field.Fair play to the Irish for giving it a fecking go all the way to the final whistle, even as the scoreboard registered a right mauling of a 40-8 defeat. Maybe a friggin’ game too far for a side that has completely shat in the fecking faces of the pundits who had predicted another ‘R’ word struggle.
This now sets up a rather juicy final, with the champions Sale Sharks versus the ravenous Leicester Tigers. Teeth will be bared, along with the cream of this seasons Premiership, as second plays first; a fitting match-up.
From the off, this game was being moulded by a Tigers outfit who seem to be hitting their straps at the business end of a long, fecking hard season. After a try by Tuilagi during sustained pressure on the visitors’ try line and the howitzer of a boot from that fecker, Goode, started the points gathering the home team were after.
Hodgson hadn’t helped LI’s cause by getting himself binned after attempting to remove the ear of the impressive Ellis. Still, even with fecking eighteen on the paddock, the Exiles would still have struggled with the ruthless play being offered by the Tigers.
After the home side were reduced to fourteen, when Kay was found to be a constant infringement fecker, the Irish bagged what was to be a mere consolation try. From solid lineout play, the huge Feau’nati weaved a magical trail towards the whitewash, before popping yet another offload into the hands of the onrushing Magne.
The Tigers took this badly, having shown the good grace not to issue a winning score early, which their previous efforts probably deserved! Off the feckers went, back up the field and laid a siege on the LI line, the fecking size and ferocity has not been displayed since Jericho, but without a trumpet in sight.
Irish had scrambled the ball away from danger, only for the fecker, Ellis, to do an Ojo and turned possession into a precession as he paved his way through the flailing Irish defence better than a Charlie ‘Hideous Tits’ Dimmock garden trail.
Ellis had an awesome game, and proved to his knockers that he is starting to look the real freaking deal. His pace and power was evident all day, making the best from the domination his pack had inflicted on the exiles. Fair play, the front row of Irish was where the game ended, but without the fecking massive Rautenbach, Collins and Coetzee to call upon, Rowntree, Chuter and White were always going to win this friggin’ battle.
Moody was another fecker having an awesome game, winning the pill in the contact area as well as coming from nowhere to defend the Tigers line. The Exiles back row fellas were feeling the strain of a fat feckers line going backwards. Only hard work by Danaher, Magne and the every improving Leguizamon kept the half time score at a tidy 20-5.
The second period started and settled into a routine of huge defence from Tigers, turnover and then field position in the visitors patch. The Irish, for all their hard work, seemed less likely of a score as Graham Rowntree at a singles bar, even with the women having Stevie Wonder’s sight infliction.
Then the floodgates opened to a greater mass than the dams of Germany after a Barnes Wallis created fecking. Off went Varndell, who had a shoite-fest of a game, and on came Lloyd.
Tagicakibau had shown great defence to help Varndell feck the proverbial ‘open goal’ with solid pressure in the first half, but had to watch Lloyd’s butt cheeks disappear away from him after he had bagged a Catt speculative pass.
More fecking huge tackles were banged into the Irish, but certainly not in a homo way, as the home side continue their onslaught. Another Lloyd try followed to put the cherry on top of the cream, which happened to be on top of the fecking cake, with the words ‘Fecked the Irish 14/05/06’ decorated upon it.
Then the mercurial Murphy, the Irish wizard, completed the five-try haul of Leicester, to cement the ‘Favourites’ tag around their necks for the final. His little chip into his own hands at full pace was sheer fecking class, and just about summed up the day for the Irish.
London Irish must not beat themselves into a tourette’s-fuelled frenzy. This has been one feck of a season for the lads in green, with a top three finish in one of the most competitive leagues in the world. The team turned in a fighting performance, but came up short against an awesome Tigers side. This midland unit are venting their spleens to win something, having left their cabinet as bare as Pandora’s fecking huge cleavage, over the past number of years. This situation is not good enough for their fans.
Supporters of this fine London Irish club should be proud of the adventure shown this season as well as the entertainment provided. A big hand all round to the players, staff and management for their efforts, as well as taking a deserved place in the play-off semis.
A couple of days rest and then Brain Smith can try and lift the lads for the Gloucester game in the Challenge Cup final at the Stoop next Sunday. A shiny thing would top one feck of a year, one that sees Irish go into the HC next time around.
As for the Tigers, well, best of fecking luck to them in the final. They were the best team on this day, and if a replication of this form is shown, a win at HQ will be assured.
London Irish: Armitage, Ojo, Catt (capt), Feau'nati, Tagicakibau, Flutey, Hodgson, Hatley, Russell, Skuse, Casey, Roche, Danaher, Magne, Leguizamon.
Subs: Paice, Kennedy, Murphy, Tiesi, Everitt, Willis, Warren.
Leicester (20) 40
Tries: Tuilagi, Ellis, Lloyd 2, Murphy
Cons: Goode 3
Pens: Goode 3
London Irish (5) 8
Tries: Magne
Pen: Catt
-- Master Scribe