The hands on your man to the right are even bigger.
We’re all related with big hands and big feet.
Was he any good as a player ? .
That one is class. 
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I saw a lovely roasterish incident yesterday in Castlebar. Myself and the old man had arranged to meet the rest of the family at An Sportlann (the Castlebar Mitchells clubhouse which is beside McHale Park) before the match to get some food and watch the Ireland match (democracy is a curse). There was already a decent crowd gathered in the bar at half four.
As I was silently willing the French on, I noticed there was a trio of elderly men sitting at a table far away from the TV, shouting at anyone who delayed even for a second in their line of sight to the TV. They were weapons grade roasters, wearing wool caps only half on their heads, shit caked farming jackets and home brought sambos on the table in front of them.
People would generally move off whenever the designated shouter made their presence known, but by half time the crowd was swelling. Their shouts became more frequent. Then an obese beetroot faced fella, painted in to his faded check shirt walks in and finds a standing spot which directly eclipsed their view of the TV, and brings his wife to heel beside him. The familiar call of “Will ya move there, will ya” comes, and he looks around and then goes back to looking at the TV. His wife tugs at his arm, but he stays focused on the match. The old boys call again “Here you, will ya shift, we cyaaant shee the telly”. He gesticulates around the bar as if to say there’s no where else to stand. They continue to bark at him, getting angrier and angrier, until one of them makes the mistake of leaning over and pulling his arm. Well he fucking explodes at them “WILL YE FUCK OFF YE IGNORANT BASHTARDS AND LAVE ME, THERE’S NO WHERES ELSHE TA SHTAND”, eyes bulging and arms thrown to heaven. The lads meekly withdraw and spend the rest of match silently straining to see through gaps in the crowd. The wife was proper mortified, quitely admonishing him as he stared straight ahead, muttering fuck off at her.
Classic roasterish thickheadedness, Bernard Flynn thought it was gas (he also had no fucks to give about the rugby, fair play to him).
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Classic MacRoaster.
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That never happened
#TeamRoaster
Rural Ireland can be a frightening place.
A few outstanding candidates here.
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The sunglasses on Mary Kenny in the car
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Dropped the Mrs off at the train station this morning. There’s a walkway up the side for pedestrians. This beaut was walking up the middle of the road holding up traffic. Dark blue jeans, presumably wrangler, shiny blue jacket, light brown shoes and sporting what looked like a new haircut gelled in a mildly successful attempt to darken the ginger hue. Obviously going to Dublin as his gait was giddy. Nervous too because he took a bit of a jump when he realised he was holding up the traffic. I muttered “look at this fucking roaster”. I had never used the word “roaster” before but my mrs seemed to know what I meant. She replied “he looks like he’s never been on a train before” cue laughter as he seemed to waltz through the gate without a ticket.
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A thoroughbred Tipp Roaster
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Big time. What a mixture - from Tipp, a former Garda, a GAA man, a bad shirt wearer, and now a county Councillor. Mega ROASTER.
Hard luck. Your Limerick hurling fishing expedition did not catch any bites
Huh? I knew well Lynch was a fellow Tipp man. I even had a conversation with him at one stage about Tipp hurling you weirdo. If I recall correctly, he’s a Loughmore man originally.
I stopped at Junction 14 the other night on the way home from my trip away to Berlin via Dublin airport …
The biggest roasters in the world were on show… big fat beetroot heads on them and they scoffing on supermacs like it was their last meal ever.
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