Resident hack Prison Bitch spent a day with WB Yeats – yes he is deceased, what’s your point? – in a bid to garner the infamous playwright’s take on contemporary Irish sport, and other stuff too…

PB: Well Bill…can I call you B…
WB: I wouldn’t…
PB: WB?
WB: It matters not what you call me, but how you refer to me…

Prison Bitch stares blankly at Mr Yeats, takes a giant swig of his lukewarm pint, inhales a perpetual smog of cigarette smoke and speaks again…

WB: Nope, we don't know how they stayed on either

PB: Listen Yeatsy, I’m no Paul Kimmage, I’ll admit that, but I’m not putting up with your pretentious shite today alright?
WB: As you wish, sunny boy.
PB: Paul Warwick has been a great signing for Munster hasn’t he?
WB: I know little of the Antipodean general you speak of, but one beautiful afternoon I strode hand in hand with Maud towards the pantheon of outer significance, and we watched a spectacle of horrible inevitability as a blood dimmed tide cast a shoal of weary souls towards Hades gulf.
PB: Was that the Sale game a few years ago?
WB: Eh, when are we going to the Abbey?
PB: We’re here to talk sport, that was my understanding… Hang on, was that before or after herself gave ya the elbow?

Yeats makes facial gesture towards yours truly, which suggests he is not best pleased with previous statement…Face bothered??

PB: Too soon?
WB: It’s my round is it?