A conversation in a bar about mauls

Five guys in a bar were talking about rugby the other day.

Spiro Zavos, Nickoldschool, Victor Matfield, David Pocock and Michael Hooper.

Here’s the unofficial transcript:

Spiro: “Who wants to see rolling mauls? Most of them are illegal nowadays, anyway.”

Victor: “I like mauls. Bakkies mauled a lion one time. The lion had started to maul Bakkies first. This big cat was scratching and tearing Bakkies. But then Bakkies mauled him back. I studied this maul. It is the basis of my World Cup plan. I mean Heyneke’s.”

Pocock: “Nobody talks about the victims of mauls. Not just physical harm. The emotional lacerations, the scratches at the soul, the savage tears of many of my little friends in many orphanages I’ve built and funded with the money I make from scoring at the back of mauls. I maul, but I feel guilty.”

Spiro: “David, it’s not the same when you score three tries from a maul. Let’s focus on the blight on the game that is the illegal, almost criminal South African rolling maul.”

Victor: “Bakkies mauled this lion so bad. I was a little sad for the lion. He reminded me of you, Mike.”

Spiro: “A maul by the Bulls or the Boks reminds me of a Saturday night at the topless bar in Kings Cross.”

Nickoldschool: “Anglo Saxons, hear me. The word ‘maul’ is from the Latin noun ‘malleus,’ meaning a hammer, and it transmogrified into ‘mail,’ in Old French, also a hammer, and then when we invaded England and subjugated the natives, they corrupted it into ‘maul’ because they couldn’t spell so well.”

Spiro: “I received faxes from the vice presidents of ARU, New Zealand Rugby Union, and SANZAR at 1:15 am, 1:16 am, and 1:17 am this morning, when I came back from Hyde Park from a walk, about this topic. But I received nothing from SARU. Coincidence? I think not. And let me add that Craig Joubert is the best referee in the world, but at times, he seems to be the only honest man in South Africa.”

Hooper: “Who gets faxes anymore?”

Spiro: “That’s the only way Lyndon Bray communicates with me. Faxes in the wee hours. He always draws little faces, too. Hee hee!”

Victor: “Ha. Another round on me! Hey Hooper! Are you OK?”

Hooper: “I’m the fastest forward in the world, I am an extremely young captain, and to me, a maul is destructive to the hair. My tactic is to disengage. I disengage from scrums, mauls, rucks, and anything that involves binding. I don’t like to be bound. Unlike you, Poey.”

Pocock performs mock applause, using little-known East Timorian sign language.

Spiro: “That’s not the point, Mike. I got a fax at 3:21 a.m. last Tuesday after I left El Topo Basement bar, and it was from Lyndon, talking about disengagement and he says disengaging from mauls is against nature, and is a very, very negative tactic, and so you’ll lose the World Cup if you are using disengagement. The English break the rules, like the South Africans, except Craig Joubert, and so you need to pay attention.”

Victor: “Bakkies gave me a stuffed lion’s tail for a birthday present. I’m not sure if it was the same lion. I use it to give Pierre Spies a hiding.”

Nickoldschool: “So, the maul isn’t French, it’s a bastardised perfidious corruption of a perfectly good word for a hammer into this strange rugby tool for ramming, crushing, and driving wedges in defenders.”

Pocock: “I don’t like negativity. I like inclusion. To me, a maul is a symbol of inclusion. Anyone, even slow guys without ball skills, can score tries at the back of a maul.”

Spiro: “Ah, here’s the beer. Cheers, everyone. So, what I am saying is a constant competition for possession of the ball is the foundational principle of union. How do you contest a well-constructed maul? I was faxing Lyndon the other night, at 11:23 p.m., right before I went to Freda’s, and asked him that. What do you say, possible Wallaby captains?”

Hooper: “Disengage. Pull your socks down and fly. Run alongside the maul like an angel. Jump. Hop. Avoid binding.”

Pocock: “Dig in. Clamp down. Absorb the pain. Keep your head and shoulders above your hips. Personally, 95per cent of my tries come from mauls. I agree, Spiro, that the rugby elites of South Africa are the centre of all that is wrong in the universe, but I think of myself as a shepherd. I am David. Victor, you are Goliath. I slew you in 2011, with my five pebbles. I am Bam Bam.”

Victor: “Ha! Yes! Let’s drink to that, men! Let’s drink to hammers and Bakkies and lions and sledgehammers and longbows and crossbows and trebuchets and all old weapons that don’t work in modern times!”

Nickoldschool: “You are my drinking role model, you big professional, hard-working part-Kiwi Huguenot.”

Hooper: “Five seconds per drink! Use it! Use it! Use it!”

Spiro: “Drink up! This is a drinking maul! If you want to join this drinking circle, you must do so rom behind the foot of the hindmost drinker in the maul. If you are not drinking, you must retire behind the offside line. Rejoin alongside the hindmost drinker! I’m going to fax everyone I know tonight at 2:05 a.m. about the rules for maul drinking, after I get back from Ivy’s!”

Pocock: “But if you only fax your friends, won’t the others feel excluded? If you only fax like-minded people, you never grow.”

Victor: “Mike, you’ll grow someday!”

Nickoldschool: “Let’s maul right now!”

Spiro crumpled up one of his latest faxes, fashioned it into an oval. He played hooker. Victor shouted seven guttural sounds, the fax was spiraled, and Nickoldschool and Pocock lifted big Vic high in the air. He turned in the air, and assumed the maul position. They all waited for Hooper to take the transfer.

“Hooper!” they all shouted.

But he was running around the bar, his aerodynamic hair streaming behind him, disengaged.

Ed’s note: This conversation was completely and utterly fictional – but that isn’t to say it would not happen in real life.