The moment that Killian and I found out that I had beaten him. Zelda is clearly on my side with this one.

On the positive side, I ended up fifth. I beat Killian. That was a sweetener in a sour situation. While Killian is one of my favourite people, nothing feels better than beating him. It’s a weird dynamic. Of course, like we were all expecting, Paul Fennessey won the league, by a margin of about a billion points. Colin Scally’s 119 afc came second, Matt Gregg’s Matt United came in third, my second favourite team Fun Laoghaire Pirates came fourth under the guidance of our editor Catriona Laverty, I came fifth, Stade Parfait with Killian came sixth, Gav Reilly’s The Absolutelys came seventh, with Quinton O’Reilly’s Loughbawn Celtic coming in last (sorry Quinton). It’s been a fun run. While my result wasn’t the desired, I can’t deny that I’ve had a great time attempting to come first.

However, I must admit that I have been negligent of late. I’m an instant gratification type of woman, sad but true. I only really take pleasure from things that make me feel better about myself. I don’t mind working hard at something, but the minute things start going rough, like the weeks in which I was scoring lowest, my morale dips and I lose interest. It didn’t help that I was bombarded with finishing up the paper, preparing for a massive job interview, completing my final essays and studying for my last undergraduate exams. I just lost my way. Stopped caring a bit. I began forgetting to change my team from week to week. I guess the only person I have to blame for all of this is myself.

Despite all of this, it’s been fun. While my result left much to be desired I’ve learned an awful lot. I (sort of) understand

Yeah, it may hurt Rooney, but man up a bit with that money that you're being paid.

the offside rule, I know who plays for what team and I’ve validated my belief that they’re paid far too much. For men that are paid hundreds of thousands a week, they seem pretty reluctant to actually play. Someone (possibly Zamora?) on Catriona’s team had man flu or something for like a month. I had to sell Rooney and Fabregas. These men are more pampered that a UCD student who lives in Sandymount and whose dad works in banking. Ridiculous.

I will hopefully be taking part in a league next year cos it turns out they’re gonna let me edit the paper. Hopefully there’ll be even more interest and we can have even more fun. I’ll also be doing a football players of the league countdown once I figure out who’s actually hot in football. Funnily enough, rugby is full of delicious men, but football is lacking, so I’ve got quite a job ahead of me.

So, for the last time, despite my recent apathy and bitchiness, I’ll say GO TEAM NEWS! It’s been fun, but now it’s time to think up next year’s team name.

And so ends my Wire experiment for this year. Sadly, despite my best efforts, I have failed to reach that elusive 500 mark and the prospect of arriving at Season 5 Episode 10 remains as distant as ever.

I started off with noble intentions. Over the years, man has built bridges, travelled to the moon and then did nothing for a bunch of years… Yet man has never undergone the gargantuan task of analysing each episode of The Wire individually – except for The Guardian who had to use a whole team of writers for this endeavour (losers!).

Anyhow, I was all set to alter the course of mankind when, after writing about two episodes, the novelty kind of wore off and the length of time which this task would require actually sunk in. Woopsies.

It was then that I realised that on top of writing about The Wire, I would also have to allocate time for: doing readings for my course work, writing essays, giving presentations, studying for my exam (I only had one this year), writing a 20,000 word thesis, typing these exact letters, writing other articles for this newspaper, writing for another website that shall remain nameless (and no, it wasn’t Playboy.com), doing actual work that I get paid for, going to see obscure foreign films, doing podcasts, staying up for 35 hours waiting to do podcasts, brushing my teeth… you probably get the picture if you haven’t stopped reading this by now.

Anyway, despite suffering the ignominy of not even reaching the preliminary stages for the Smedia Awards Blog of the Year nominations (damn you Fantasy Girls!), I still enjoyed myself and learned some valuable lessons. Sort of like a Scrubs episode if you were to discount the enjoyable element.

The following are some of the consequences of my 220 Days of Wire (God, that pun is so dated): 1. I have created the church of Omar. That man is now literally a God. 2. I never want to hear that Godforsaken bass-line (i.e. the one that plays over and over for the DVD options list on the season 1 discs) ever again. 3. I have acquired a compulsion to refer to the gardaí as the Poh-lice, to say ‘sheeeeeeit’ whenever misfortune befalls me, to always refer to my house in Dundrum as ‘the motherfuckin projects’, to study economics intensively so I can be more like Stringer Bell, to constantly make reference to ‘the game’ without ever really knowing what this means, to drink nothing but Jameson and listen only to The Pogues, to wake up every morning and immediately say in a suitably wry tone of voice: ‘I still wake up white in a city that ain’t’, to regard all poh-lice as inherently corrupt and to presume all criminals are really quite amiable and fun-loving – not to mention super intelligent, to constantly refer to my Observer colleagues as ‘ma niggas’ and finally, to automatically describe anyone who criticises me or my religion as a ‘punk-ass motherfucker’. 4. I have decided to stop writing about The Wire because frankly, this behaviour is beginning to disturb me like the ghost of Stringer Bell (Ha! I warned you there’d be spoilers).

But before I go, I’d just like to thank my fan for all his support, Catriona and Gav for letting me write the blog (and for picking such terrible fantasy teams – PS: please don’t edit this), Santa for buying me all five seasons of The Wire on DVD, those legions of irritating people who originally kept telling me to watch The Wire and making me feel as if suicide was the only other option, Stringer, Bunk and of course, Omar for being awesome, Rhonda for being awesome and sexy, McNulty’s ex-wife for being sexy (though not particularly awesome), my head for not exploding at the sheer thought of having to write on all 5 seasons of The Wire, that one image (pictured above for the umpteenth time) which I was continually able to rely on, The Sopranos for helping me get through my post-Wire withdrawal symptoms and Michael McSweeney for leaving a negative comment on the blog despite admitting to only having read ‘one paragraph’ of it (all publicity is good publicity).

Anyhow, my moment of true disillusionment came last Friday when I saw Stringer Bell talking to that epitome of effortlessly hip and cutting-edge television, Jonathan Ross, in a rubbish English accent, while showcasing some incredibly turgid looking drama in which he is now starring. Oh Stringer, you used to be cool.

Rant over.

In short, it was brilliant. Killian tagged along and we had so much fun. Sure, the rugby was good, but the overall atmosphere was what really made it for me. We were sitting in press overflow and I couldn’t believe how good the seats were. It was made even better by Catriona meeting her friend’s boyfriend, who was working as a steward and who got us tea. Tea and rugby! It was brilliant.

So regal and billowing.

When the teams first came out, I was stuck by Adam Jones. Having talked about his wonderful hair for months, actually seeing it was just incredible. It billowed in the wind like a majestic flag and I almost wanted to start supporting Ospreys. However, we were surrounded by die-hard fans who had paid fifty euro to sit in the good seats. Catriona and I decided that cheering for Adam Jones would not have been a good idea.

The people we were surrounded with turned out to be as entertaining as the match itself. The highlight was the family sitting in front of us. Elegantly coiffured Mum, enthusiastic Dad, three shrieking, rugby mad children and a nanny. In short, the children were hilarious. The screeched with the passion of football hooligans, but in children’s language. “REF YOU’RE A SILLY DUMMY!” was a clear highlight. They were hyped up on sugar and the atmosphere and wanted everyone to be as excited as they were. When one of them noticed that their mother wasn’t screeching, he demanded to know why, and she replied “I am cheering, darling. I’m doing it mentally.” This is clearly the best response to your crazed children. In the furore, one of the kids then lost a tooth and started proudly showing off the bloody socket to his brothers. Then the two other brothers decided to start kissing each other. I’m not really

A dramatic reconstruction of the child at the match

sure why, but the father’s reaction of total mortification was hilarious. At various points throughout the match, he kept turning around and apologising for his children, which was needless because they made the match.

Now, back to the rugby. No one really famous played. Jamie Heaslip was there, as was Shane Horgan, Gordon D’arcy and Cian Healy, but I wanted to see Rob Kearney and Brian O’Driscoll. Despite this, the match was excellent. I admit that I had to ask which side Leinster were scoring at, but once I got into it, it was really fun. Isa Nacewa was really good. He darted in and out of the Ospreys and was able to run really, really fast. I know this sounds simplistic, but that’s the kind of thing I noticed. I’ve never been someone who was interested in sport, but the atmosphere and the teams getting down to it, really sucked me in.

There were low points. Catriona and I went in search of the press area for the mythical free soup, but were lead around in circles. Each steward we asked led us in a totally different direction. Eventually, we trudged back to our seats, minus our free soup. Killian demanded to know why there was no free soup and then got freaked out that we had humiliated him in the press area, which he had warned us not to do all week. We had our free teamsheets, programmes and tea, so we didn’t mind so much about the soup, but tormenting Killian with our mythical adventures in the press box seemed like the best idea. At dinner afterward, Catriona told him that I had tripped in the press room and fallen onto Gerry Thornley’s lap with my skirt flying up. She then told him that she’d mentioned both his name and the paper’s and the look of horror and upset on his face was so awful that we had to tell him the truth.

The second half was as fun as the first, but Catriona got offended when I made a joke about Dan Biggar converting his own try (“it’s just getting Biggar and Biggar!”). I had to let Killian explain that the ball needs to go out of play before the game could end because I honestly could not understand why they were playing over time and why there was no injury time. According to Killian, because rugby is more stop/start, they pause the timer when things stop instead of adding on injury time the way football does. In the end, Leinster won 20 – 16, but Ospreys put up an excellent fight. We were sitting beside Ospreys’ coach, who got super shouty toward the end, but I didn’t mind, because he had a beautiful new Macbook that I fell in love with.

Oh hai Bridget and Catriona.

The end of the match proved to be a highlight for one simple reason. Mike Phillips. We had resigned ourselves to Tommy Bowe not coming on, but when we heard that Phillips was on the bench, Catriona and I got quite upset. However, when Phillips came on, in his lovely white jersey and tight shorts, we both were cheered up immensely. I’d like to think that he did it especially for us. Catriona is going to move to Swansea and marry him.

It was fun to finally experience live sport and I will definitely be back to the RDS to cheer Leinster on, as I’m sure Catriona will be. The closeness of Donnybrook means that you can get dinner before or after. We opted for Tenors, which was delicious and excellent value. The atmosphere really made it and there was as much going on in our seats as on the pitch. There’s nothing like it, even if I was afraid the rugby ball was going to smack me in the face. I was that kid in school. You may think live sport isn’t for you, but, trust me, if I can do it, so can anyone. It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages and I’ll definitely be back, with my urban family in tow.

“We are of the other America or the America that has been left behind in the postindustrial age. We don’t live in L.A. or go to their parties; we don’t do what we do to try to triumph in the world of television entertainment by having a bona fide hit, and meeting the pretty people and getting the best table at the Ivy. Shit, the last time George and I went to the Ivy on a road trip, we waited forty-five minutes for a table and then were announced as “The Pelican party.” We don’t belong there and we don’t need the kind of money or the level of zeitgeist required to belong there.”

An underlying bitterness, as reflected by David Simon’s statement above, has always been noticeable in The Wire’s subtext. This bitterness stems from the rather harsh circumstances in which many of its characters feel they have been forced into living.

Detective Rawls is perhaps the shows most vivid incarnation of world-weariness. When one of his subordinates inquires if he is being ‘f*cked over’, on account of the characteristically severe treatment which Rawls dispenses, the cantankerous detective responds with a venomous riposte: “When I f*ck you over you’ll know. You won’t need to even ask the goddamn question,” he states caustically.

It is therefore ironic that – despite the multitude of characters who come from impoverished backgrounds and often represent the most virulent forms of criminality imaginable – it is Rawls (a white, middle-class law enforcer) who arguably possesses the most abundant disdain of humanity of all the show’s characters.

And essentially, the core reason behind Rawls’ endless frustration lies in the perpetual fruitlessness of working in a police department without making headway in criminal cases. His frustration undoubtedly mirrors similar feelings experienced by Messrs Simon and Burns in their previous jobs, where they worked in journalism and policing respectively.   

Stringer Bell – the show’s criminal overlord – contrasts with Rawls in several ways that viewers would not initially assume. In another savagely ironic twist, he appears to be quite well-adjusted and psychologically at-ease in comparison with Rawls and many of the show’s other less immoral figures.

For instance, one scene depicts Stringer as an academic achiever. He receives the results of his college Economics exam, in which his professor congratulates him on an impressive A- grade. In another scene, Stringer is shown in dialogue with D’Angelo’s ex-girlfriend (Donette). The two are shown to be engaged in a lust-driven relationship, unbeknownst to the incarcerated D’Angelo.

Donette is clearly besotted by Stringer. Yet this feeling is by no means mutual. It soon becomes apparent to the viewer that Stringer is manipulating Donette in order to acquire information pertaining to D’Angelo, who has unwisely elected to confide in his ex. Consequently, the situation amounts to a dual double-crossing in which Stringer’s callousness prevails.

Therefore, Stringer exudes a disarming level of intelligence and charm – thanks in no small part to the adroit acting skills of Idris Elba. These two traits alone, Simon implies, are enough for a person to thrive in this tragedy imbued Baltimorean society. This status, whereby morals are devalued, is what makes the society so flawed and what causes Stringer’s ignominiousness to be overlooked. Thus, a framework is in place for unsavoury individuals such as Stringer to thrive.

Ultimately, for all Rawls’ anger and bitterness, he is at least palpably human. Stringer’s sheer apathy for human life allows the character to embrace a laid-back, guilt-free lifestyle. In other words, Stringer leads a lifestyle which all people – to some extent – secretly covet.

Hence, Stringer is invariably cited as people’s favourite character, as viewers are unwittingly seduced by a combination of all the aforementioned factors. This scenario which Simon – ever the moral arbiter – presents and paradoxically protests, is one that he ultimately accepts as inescapable. 

Random Facts:

1. The character of The Greek is not actually of Greek origin.
2. Paul Schreiber who plays the character of Nick Sobotka has also appeared in films including The Manchurian Candidate and Lords of Dogtown.
3. According to David Simon, the character of Ziggy is based on a real-life stevedore who, according to legend, also took his duck to the bar and had a penchant for exposing himself in public.
4. Cheese Wagstaff, who appears in this episode for the first time, originally was given the name Calvin before it was subsequently changed to Melvin.
5. Additionally, Wagstaff is played by the acclaimed rapper Method Man.

Best Quote: “Yo dickhead, where you been at?” Not an especially significant quote in isolation, but one which serves to re-familiarise the viewer with the playful banter that encapsulates Herc and Carver’s relationship – an always welcome element to the show which had been sadly lacking in season two up until this point.

Best Scene: McNulty smirks wryly as Omar refuses to co-operate with the lawyer – he just cannot help being enamoured with the affable vigilante.

New Characters:  Cheese Wagstaff and Frog.

 WTF Moment: The incredible attention and interest which Stringer’s men display as he teaches them the intricacies of the economic knowledge that he has acquired from his college course.

You may be wondering what I’m doing here, but she totally said I could hijack guest star in her blog, and it’s my paper anyway so there.

I had to come on and give all the gossip for the weekend, mainly because my team, the FunLaoghaire Pirates, are riding high in third place. Bridget will likely be storing up her ire to be released on this page relatively soon since Team News have slipped a couple of places to sixth. I’m not sure if she knows yet, so be gentle – especially about the part where Stade Parfail are moving up the table.

I really didn’t see this coming, and I feel bad for telling her that Fabregas is so last month and Lampard is the new April. I don’t think it’s a sign though, I firmly believe that Team News will be soaring above us all in a couple more weeks – this is just a blip.

It’s been a trying time for us Fantasy Premier League managers, we all lost Rooney and now quite a few have lost their Fabregas as well. Luckily, I had no idea who Fabregas was when picking the FunLaoghaire Pirates, and so never bought him. I did have Wayne though, and his silly sprained ankle left a very hairy-chested, big-eared Wayne-shaped hole in my eh…front row. Whatever it’s called, Rooney is no longer in it, and since he’s probably not going to be back for a few weeks, I cut him loose.

Then I brought some of my tactical thinking from the world of fantasy rugby into the world of football. As it turns out, they are not the same sport and just because Toby the Tiger can kick doesn’t mean I can play him here.

Worse yet was that Chelsea were playing Man Utd. I honestly hadn’t a clue which way that game would go, and I decided that since I already had Malouda and Evra, bringing in a Chelsea striker wasn’t a good idea. I think it was a good plan, especially when Man City were playing Burnley.

Poor Burnley by the way. I mean really, three nil down within seven minutes is just sad – way harsh Man City. On the plus side picking Tevez as captain banked the FunLaoghaire Pirates a very nice 24 points. And unlike Bridget, I couldn’t care less if he cheated on his wife – morals have no place in fantasy sport.

I’m very happy with the Pirates at the moment, most of you wont know them really so let me introduce you. In goals we have Sorensen, he’s come back swinging in the last fortnight after I rested him a few weeks ago. Then in defence we have Evra, Dunne and Baines. Corluka would be there too but he’s injured himself, and Insua mainly sits on the bench keeping it warm. The midfield consists of Milner, Malouda, Etherington and Bowyer. Yes I have Bowyer, I was going to get rid but I couldn’t afford it last week and then he scored so he got one more chance. Milner didn’t play this week for some reason but he’s been one of the Pirates most consistent players. Up front then are Tevez, Bent and Zamora. Tevez as we know netted himself and the Pirates 24 points this week, while Zamora is whinging about Manflu. For some reason the fact that he didn’t play doesn’t bother me as much as when one (or four) of the Beards didn’t play, even though I only have one eligible sub and he came on for James. Maybe I’m not as invested in the Pirates as I am in the Beards, I guess we just didn’t bond from the off. Anyway where was I, ah yes Bent. He would have scored as many points as Tevez were it not for missing those two penalties, and really what were Spurs at? I’m asking you Paul Fennessy, where was their mental strength on Saturday?

Which brings me to my most niggly of niggling problems: since selling Wayne I have a 4.3 million surplus in the bank and I want to use it soooooo bad. It’s the itchy trigger finger rearing its ugly head again, I have a transfer for this week and I have the cash to spare so why not right? Wrong.

No thank you

I like the Pirates as they are (this week) and even though Fulham and Stoke have a double game week, I don’t really want to sell any of my current players to bring in a new one. But seeing that money just sitting there is ever so slowly wearing my down. And that means that I’m going to do something stupid like waste eight points trying to rearrange the team to fit Lampard. I don’t want Lampard, and we don’t need Lampard thank you very much.

So, does anyone want 4.3 million imaginary pounds?

Just a bit... blah

Now that Fabregas is gone, I had to find someone amazing to replace him. Of course, I decided that I wanted Frank Lampard and I wanted him now. Sure, he’s dating Christine Bleakley from The One Show but beggars can’t be choosers. She’s one of those people that I just cannot like, even though she was quite good on Strictly Come Dancing, a programme that Catriona and I watched religiously last semester, and she water-skiied across the British Channel for dying orphans or something. Frank Lampard has always seemed a bit dodgy to me, for reasons unknown. All of this paranoid disliking of people is clearly painting me as some sort of psycho.

Anyway, back on track. I was chatting to Catriona in a post-sixth-place depressive state. I had already used my free transfer for the week getting rid of Rooney and needed to sell Fabregas and Dawson to get Lampard and a random defender. I really couldn’t afford to take the eight point hit that would come with making this change, but I really wanted Lampard.

Then I remembered my wildcard. I hadn’t used it yet, even though the Premier League is over in about a month. I told Catriona defiantly that I was using it, it was dead to me. Her response was “No. No, actually, do!” We were both in agreement that Fabregas needs to man up, like I’ve told him to so many times. He doesn’t seem to understand that this isn’t just about him. There’s so much more at stake here than his stupid leg. I don’t care anyway, now I have Lampard and Drogba. My new Fabregas and Rooney.

When I sold Dawson and Fabregas, I bought Gael Givet. I know, I have no idea who he is either, but he seemed to be the

So French and so cleansheet hopefully!

best value and he has the same name as the delectable Mexican actor Gael Garcia Bernal. Of course, I went to Google Images to check him out and he’s actually quite cute. And French! I think. He plays for Blackburn, who I don’t have any other players from, so the change in jersey further adds to the rainbow nature of Team News.

I’m hopeful for week 33 but I’ve noticed something funny. With the binning of Rooney and Fabregas and the buying of Givet, Lampard and Drogba, Team News have changed their main jersey colour from red to blue. The Team News strip is pink and purple, but the jerseys on my team sheet are all nice and blue. I’m hoping that this is a metaphor that my new, switched up team will bring me the calm and serenity that blue connotes, instead of the fiery stress of red.

Here’s hoping…

I arrived back in the office, sweaty and red-faced, after a couple of hours energetically (lazily) distributing Issue 11 in the rain with Catriona. What awaited me on my lovely News Mac was a print out of the league. I am now not even fourth. I’m sixth. Behind Stade Parfail. I didn’t think I could even sink this low. Sixth? I didn’t even know that this position existed from my lofty heights. It’s true though, Team News have sunk lower than ever before. Depression has taken hold, but I swear that this isn’t the end!

He poses for Team News now

Rooney is out for four weeks, and because I’m ruthless, he’s been swiftly cut. I have no mercy, despite all he’s done for me. I’m sixth. Desperate measures must be taken. I have drafted in Didier Drogba and he has the distinction of being the first player in a long time that I haven’t had to Google Images because I already knew who he was. He’s been put as my captain for the time being, but we’ll see how this week goes.

I wanted to sell Dunne, but Killian convinced me that he’d just had a bad week. I’ve decided to trust him, but if I see minus points by his name again, he’s dead to me. Fabregas, or Bridget’s Toby Flood as I have now christened him, will always be a member of Team News, even if someone snaps his leg off mid-match. I must also say that Craddock has been exceptional for someone I just bought as filler. Similarly, Pienaar has been amazing for someone that I chose solely because I thought their name was funky.

Team News will be back on top, mark my words. I will not be receiving a wooden spoon. I’m too awesome for that sort of carry on and so are my team.

As a quick aside, my fellow Fantasy Girl and rugby fanatic Catriona was forced to hang up her scrum cap this week as

Craddock has truly been my port in the storm

the Six Nations ended. Her blog has been wonderful and hilarious. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it. But, fear not! Fantasy Girls never say die! I have asked her to continue to blog, just on her own fantasy football team, the Fun Laoghaire Pirates. She’s been a great colleague, writing partner and boss throughout the year, so I couldn’t very well let her go homeless. So, now I say, go Team News and Fun Laoghaire Pirates!

In other and better news, Fantasy Girls has been shortlisted by the lovely people at Oxygen for Blog of the Year at the Student Media Awards. Fingers crossed, because then we’ll have truly beaten the boys!

5. Thierry Dusautoir

The first of the French men to make the cut, Thierry loses out on a higher spot by virtue of his name. No one will ever be able to cleanse the name Thierry in the eyes of the Irish, so the only hope for his nibs to move up the table is a deed poll. Might I suggest Jean-Luc, like that other captain? He looked very thrilled when collecting the Six Nations trophy in Paris, not that anyone watching it on RTÉ would have known since there was an ad for 11850 on at the time. But I saw it Thierry, I see everything you do. (I don’t mean that in a creepy way, just that I google him a lot.)

4. Tommy Bowe

Oh Tommy, with your dulcet Monaghan tones and lovely singing voice, you exude cheekiness with every move. We love how you scamper down the pitch with ball in hand. We love how you look so delighted with yourself when you score, like a puppy who dug up the dead pet cat. We love how you play with your gum shield.

We love you T-Bo.

3. Mike Phillips

You were a revelation on matchday five Mike Phillips, and although I initially disliked you for usurping Richie Rees and costing the Big Gay Beards precious points, I couldn’t stay mad for long. The rugged Welshness is the most obvious factor, and combined with the accent, there’s really no hope for anyone bumping you from the list. You’re safe here Mike, so why do you never call?

2. Clement Poitrenaud

Featured prominently in a previous editon of Rugby Fantasies, it was only natural that he make the final grade. He narrowly misses out on number one spot, but that doesn’t mean anyone would say no should he tweet. Well, unless he tweeted in French like Chabal. Even so, who cares what he says as long as there are pictures? And there are a lot of pictures – he models part-time to make ends meet you know. Sadly most of them unsuitable for a family blog like this, so here’s one of him reading the paper. He can read too!

1. Johnnie Beattie

Crystal wear!

Where have you been hiding John Beattie? Yes the Killer B not in the Beards is the one to top the list here, I stand by my initial selection of token Scot, but if we could have 16 players like Ospreys, Johnnie would be the one. He wouldn’t be allowed do anything obviously, couldn’t risk the face. If only News Editor and I had paid closer attention to the Scottish team we might have made an effort to hang around Croke Park after the Ireland match. Alas his discovery was tainted by the shock of losing – but hey, we got over it. Who wouldn’t?

The play opens to the rhythm of The Beatles She Loves You, accompanied by the inimitable sight of Kelly’s dancing and air guitar, all under the watchful eye of Captain Picard’s cardboard cut out (a curiously underused focus in the play considering the title). The set is simple – its armchair, rug, table and book blend into the background as the story of obsession and fallacy unfolds in a rift of humorous monologue. The opening proves believable, and does what any such scene must, draw in its audience. I am sitting in the third row from the back, but feel as if there could be 30 full rows behind me.

As laughter filled the auditorium, Kelly grew increasingly comfortable on stage in his role as a sort of Ferris Bueller in reverse. A bell dings and the spin of a bicycle wheel announces the entrance of bicycle girl, the object of guy’s fresh born ‘love’. An excellent spout of swearing immediately endears the character to the audience, which only proves testament to the performance of McDonough for engineering a reversal in the audience’s opinion of her character as the plot develops. The character does what it must without ever reaching the heights of her co-conspirator.

Reminiscent of many ‘romances’ we have all at some stage lured ourselves into believing existed, guy proceeds to make the grandest of grand speeches to win the heart of the girl on the bike who cycled towards him with destiny in her eyes. Many of us have been caught up in similar tides of unrelenting optimism and hope, just as we have all been unceremoniously dragged from such heights, often by a few simple words. In the case of guy, the bullet comes in the form of one word “boyfriend”, spoken with the casual ignorance that is often know to crash upon us, revealing our own foolishness.

Losing the girl we’ve never had, believing what never was, living in unconscious ignorance of the feelings of others. The play may be delved in humour competently carried off by the actors, however, a message lingers when the dark rows of the theatre have been left behind – Pity and Fear. In the final monologue, a broken guy cries, “you can’t just turn the hot water off… you don’t treat people like that.” Perhaps we are being treated in such a manner; perhaps we are treating others just in this way. The short plays heavy lightness is what sets it apart.

I won’t lie and say I’m not disappointed – I am. I had a vision, you see: a vision of rubbing victory in the faces of all the boys in the Observer office. Yes I am that person, and what of it?

It doesn’t really matter any more, as I said I didn’t win, nor did I come second, or third for that matter. The Big Gay Beards and I ended the Six Nations in fourth because as I suspected, Paul Fenno-sneak steamrolled over us into third spot. The last day was a triumph of points for most people except my Beards and the long-suffering Ballerinas. Stephen Jones was the undoing of Woods’s attempt to end the tournament in poll position and managed to give Chambers’s Stuart’s Barns quite a hefty margin in the end.

So the Dara O Briain Memorial Cup wont be coming home with me, even though I paid for it. I’m not bitter, just sad. Not only did the Big Gay Beards fall away at the end, but there’s no more rugby for a whole year and I have to put my hand on my heart and say –  I’m really going to miss it.

I learned a lot more than I let on to be honest, I’m just a little wary of looking the fool if I get something wrong so I’ve been keeping my cards close to my chest so to speak. In my quest for justice for Toby the Tiger, I think I learned more about English rugby than any other country, and than I ever needed to know really.

Knowing as much as I thought I did about England, it was quite the surprise when they scored a try in the first five minutes in Paris. I like to think it was down to their choice of fly-half, but I think he was only part of the resurgence (a big part maybe). Otherwise France-England was a bit of a letdown on the fantasy points, only that one try and a couple of kicks, but by that stage my Beards were just playing for the privilege of wearing the shirt. It’s a really nice shirt incidentally, there would have been suitably themed ribbons on the cup had we won but now no one will ever know.

Wales were, as I had long suspected the would be, the final nail in the Beards’ coffin. If James Hook was an inspired choice by Stade Ballet, then Stephen Jones was an absolute gem for Chambers and Fenno. I must confess that I watched the games with our lovely News Editor and fellow Fantasy Girl, and by the time Man of the Match rolled around for Wales, we were poised for further torment of poor Woods. Even though James Hook scored two tries, they still picked Stephen Jones which meant Stade Ballet were consigned to second place – cue much cackling from Bridget and I. By that stage the trophy was beyond the Beards and the might of Fantasy Deity Paul Fenno-sneak had muscled its way into third.

As for Ireland, well what the hell happened there? As I was watching with that impending feeling of dread I started to think back to the last match of the 2009 tournament. If we all felt that bad about losing the Triple Crown, imagine what we would have felt had the same game played out last year? It’s a shame that we couldn’t leave Croke Park in a blaze of glory, or at least a little chip pan fire. Still, it’s on to bigger and better things and I can’t wait to see the new Aviva stadium. The novelty of  the construction has long worn off this weary Dart user, but I was swiftly reminded just what a gorgeous building it’s going to be by two Scotsmen in kilts last week. Bound for Dun Laoghaire, they deliberated at length whether the glass goliath coming up on their left was indeed Lansdowne Road, only to have their suspicions confirmed by the sign on the Dart platform. They were mightily impressed it has to be said, although I’m not sure they were on the money with the idea that the glass might light up green for Ireland home games, it’s worth looking into though.

Lansdowne/Aviva will be a new concept to me, my rugby interest has known only the temporary home of Croker. In a way I’m sad that I never saw Ireland play in old Lansdowne, which I think says a lot for how much I’ve gotten into this crazy sport in the last few months. This time last year I cared nothing of Lansdowne or its redevelopment, not even that it meant no Darts on Sundays.

If I ever manage to get tickets now, I think I’ll feel a little like a cheat, to have followed the team only on the return journey from Croke Park and not the outbound one too. At the start I said I loved a good bandwagon, and this one has had many thousands of jumpers in the last few years, but there’s always that sense that we only got in when the going was really good, and I hope that wears off one day. I never thought I’d get so involved in sport, and I don’t think I would have were it not for the Big Gay Beards. They are my team, not just the local team, but one I picked. And even if they are imaginary, it meant that so much more was invested in each of the games. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand the obsession with supporting a team you have no control over, but my team only exists in cyberspace so maybe I’ll reserve judgement for once.

I'll miss them...

And so the time’s come to retire this particular Fantasy Girl, although she has been invited to guest star in that other sport we write about. The attentions will now have to be switched to the FunLaoghaire Pirates, but the Beards will always have the top spot in my heart.