LSE Men's Rugby

Eyes down looking lads. Here’s the squad chosen to absolutely dismantle our first (real) opposition of the season, Royal bloody Holloway. Led by a ruthless mix of seasoned 3rd-years and hungry 2nd, three freshers heave earned the honour of their first LSERC start (such good boys). They’ve been waiting all preseason to get their hands on some royal nyash, and now’s their chance. The front row’s built like a fortress armed with our titanium Argentinian tank, while the backs are moving faster than p*nts in a fresher’s hands. Our white boy Ricky is out there wondering what the f*ck a KM is, but all we know is he runs like ICE is chasing him.

Our mighty captain AP3 leads a side ready to make Holloway regret ever picking up a rugby ball; and our gods captain will make sure the only thing they’ll be hearing from the sidelines is the roar of steps-hardened fresher’s voices singing their fellow Turbman’s glory. We’ll leave everything on that pitch, blood, sweat, and probably a few functioning brain cells…if all goes well, the lovely UCL netball girls can patch us up later.

Let’s rip into ‘em, lads. LET’S F*CKING HAVE IT
NBFBR

Lucas. F*ucking. Farmer. What are you farming, exactly, mate? Bad decisions and chlamydia? Perhaps a plateau of STDs from the girls at Caviar? Now to be clear, Lucas has never been a rugby player - not once, not ever. The man took one knock to the head and hasn’t stepped on any pitch since.

Instead of rugby, Farmer grew up rowing. That’s right, rowing: the noble art of bending over, clutching a long stick, and gazing at another bloke’s arse while whispering “one more stroke, lads.” He’s tall, he’s lanky, and he struts around with all the confidence of a Poundland Abercrombie model who’s just discovered creatine. Now, add in his occasional micro-dosing of ayahuasca (don’t ask him about Prague 2025) and he is living proof that evolution occasionally just gives up…

So what does this t***k of a man spend his time doing? Well, he loves shooting things. Anything, everything. Birds, bunnies, blondes. Snow bunnies, literal bunnies, if it twitches, he pulls the trigger. His idea of “conservation” is mounting the evidence above his bed like some deranged Tinder trophy wall. The one animal Farmer can’t kill, stuff, or mount is the one he embodies: the cheetah. Rapid, twitchy, and forever on the chase — but never quite caught out. Always lurking, always prowling, always one poor decision away from sinking his teeth in. A predator, yes… though more Poundland zoo escapee than Attenborough marvel.

And then there’s the mining obsession. Lucas digs. Always digging. Deeper into holes, deeper into regret, deeper into the sort of existential caverns that make Nietzsche look like a children’s bedtime author. Though this year, he’s pretending to be a ship broker. Which, frankly, is perfect: because if there’s a man guaranteed to broker your ship directly into an iceberg, it’s this gentleturb.

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LADIES AND GENTLEF**KS!

There is a new c*nt in town - Kameni D.

I mean - what sort of wa**er has three names? Spencer. Pedder. Davies. Oh, do shut up. I’d have gone for ‘squat’ and ´pasty’. Is he a man?? Or a fu***ng undercooked croissant? Regardless, you will worship the boy, else face the the torment of flesh and spirit that he promises to inflict upon our incoming band of FRESHHHHHHH

To pen that the bastard has dreamt of this executive position for years upon years - would be a drastic understatement. I know a sick t**t when I sniff one. Davies has spent thousands of miserable hours stroking his ´Kenyan’ pickle to the thought of 2025s monstrous social calendar. C**k in one hand, dumbbell in the other - muscular symmetry is everything. In fact, any freshers reading this chop something right now and plank for the next five minutes. F**k you.

It’s not often that a frenchman produces an original thought, but to his credit, Kameni has an array of these cerebral fu***rs lined up. He plans to introduce an annual old boys club dinner, field trips such as paint-balling and ball-painting, Eastern Europe fives and a myriad of amusing new dr*nking games. I can’t forgive him for being a white Kenyan, nor can I deny that he’s France’s most useless export to Africa since syphillis. However, I’ll admit that he’s got me bleeding excited for a flipping large year of FUN.

Alas, freshers, FEAR NOT. What is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose; this baguette bwana does practice what he preaches. On a Wednesday night you should find our Spenny waddling around Sway, bright red in the face, like some sort of dribbling handicapped piglet, sweating and gasping, ‘getttttt it down, you Zulu warrior…’ and ‘internationallllllll…’

I’m feeling silly, so shall end with a poem:

Whose soul is filthier than a Parisian w***e?
Who spoke to 0.0 birds on the club’s last tour?
Whose mind is darker than the Masai’s stew?
Who forces freshers to chop through fish?
Oh Lord – please tell me, who is in charge?!
Oh why it’s Bwana Spenny F*ucking Davies

Introducing the Gods captain for the year, The Punjabi prince, Tazticle. Where do I start with this special little neurodivergent. Taz is one of the most unique cases around, on the one hand he’ll know more about your course than you, have problem sets he’s doesn’t even need and be giving you unsolicited application advice, but on the other he’ll go on about how “everything looks like Roblox”, scream “its fent” and promptly vomit all over the stage in Prague’s most exclusive strip club and you’ll likely be carrying a tearful Taz back to a hostel. He’s also the only person I know that has poisoned himself with electrolytes. But I don’t know about you, but this is exactly the kind of man who I’d want skippering the Gods.

On the pitch Taz is a machine, a turn over maestro that brings the power, work rate and finesse that you would expect from the Pocklington 2022 most improved player. In Pama’s words “if he was 6’3 he’d actually be really good”; shame he’s 5’11 (with some assistance). He loves to mention his first team caps most can only be described as s**t or pointless, one was actually okay. However, it’s always fun to watch him run around like a dog in a scrum cap.

On a night out is where Taz really comes into his own. He loves a p*nt of Guinness and “actually has a really good chop”. Sadly this is where the normality of his night’s out stop. A couple of the places u might spot the fella are, parading around a Lass that has been unfortunate enough to get with him in Sway, in the shakies toilet, not pi***ng or chunning but rinsing the chilli powder off his c**k in the sink, on the streets crying and convinced he’s going to die, or tucked up in bed with one of his conversions (always the same one).

REST OF THE CAPTION IN COMMENTS

Armed with the physique of a double-decker bus and the philosophical depth of a Love Island contestant, Mik is this club’s newly anointed secretary. Notably known for having a hard-on while chopping through a fish (zo*****ia??) and for burning his ar****le just for likes, Mik has shown how much of a good boy he can be this past year. They say fortune favours the brave, but this man is neither - he’s terrified of birds talking to him, and he spent his last dime on an AI girl who said she loved him. Thankfully for us, that gives him time to dedicate himself to the difficult task ahead - will he succeed in keeping the bus driver driving the fun bus while his fellow turbmans sing the club’s glory? will he secure the lily philips sponsorship (photo shoot incoming)?
Although Mikolaj sure has his faults (he slept in a hotel room while on tour??), he’s a glimmer of hope for this club, and will surely inspire (force) freshers to take him as an example. On the field, the bloke can play any forward position and destroy your best fat boy…sad to mention his terrible allergy to scoring tries: he once told me he’d rather f**k james charles rather than get in the try zone. Behind that toughness, Mik is also a man with a big heart who loves admin. He now holds all the sacred documents of LSE Rug…god help us all!