Download Lawrence Dallaglio: More Blood, Sweat and Beers by Lawrence Dallaglio, David Trick PDF

By Lawrence Dallaglio, David Trick

In additional Blood, Sweat and Beers, global Cup-winning rugby legend Lawrence Dallaglio stocks his favorite tales from his time at overseas rugby's maximum match. With razor-sharp wit and stable humour he shall we the reader in the back of the closed doorways of the event, to determine what occurs off and on the pitch while the cameras aren't having a look.

All the good names are right here - Blanco, Lomu and Pienaar between them - and in his time Dallaglio has shared pints or blows (or either) with all of them and has lived to inform the tales.

Funny, frank and completely loaded with quick-fire banter those are the easiest of the simplest stories of the legends of the overseas level.

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Additional resources for Lawrence Dallaglio: More Blood, Sweat and Beers

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Apart from the fact we had our pre-match meals there, it was a handy place to go after training for a sandwich or bar snack and had the added attractions of snooker and darts. One particular lunchtime I saw George Miller – he was the pencil-slim left-footed dynamo from Dunfermline – sat in a corner scribbling away on scraps of paper. I sidled over with my sandwich and sat down. ’ I inquired nosily. ’ I was a bit of a gambler myself in those days, but I could not understand why he had so many bits of paper.

We had no problem finding Coven, but where on earth was this place called Brood? We finally gave up and went in a pub called the Ball, at Coven, for a drink. It was a really gloomy pub but I must say the beer was second to none. I asked the landlady the whereabouts of the Oakley Country Club and it gradually dawned on me that the signs I had seen which read ‘Brewood’ were the signs I should have been following. To this day I have never been able to fathom why the people of Wolverhampton pronounce Brewood as ‘Brood’!

A new signing asked me to accompany him to town and show him where the building societies were. ‘Come on, we’ll go in this one,’ he said when we reached the town centre. ’ When the cashier asked him how much he would like to open the account with, he answered ‘£6,500’ and promptly opened the briefcase he had with him before pouring the amount in notes onto the counter. I do not know who was more amazed, me or the cashier. £6,500 in 1965 could buy you three nice houses. Sitting in the office on Boxing Day 1964, waiting for the forms to be typed up, I was puzzled.

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