Some kind soul just emailed me this priceless piece of poetry. If anyone feels offended by this, then please tell someone who gives a sh** and try to develop a sense of humour.

Ye come up here tae paradise,
tae beat us at your game,
Aw ‘wind and piss and full o’ sh**,
Yer aw the bloody same,

Ye caw yersels the champions,
the nations most elite,
Scotland are the champions,
Coz yuv just been f—— beat.

A game that wis invented,
fur English gentlemen,
No Highland Jocks we tartan frocks,
well bliddy think again,

A baw that’s shapit like an egg,
it’s jist a stupit farse,
A suppose it maks it easier,
tae ram right up yer ar**.

So git back hame an lick yer wounds,
yer a bunch o stupit fools,
It’s time fur you tae cheat again,
And change the f—— rules,
Rugby, fitba, cricket tae,
yer jist a shower o chancers,
Stick tae whit ye dae the best,
you f—— morris dancers.