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

Shalom! Gliz, Blue, Charlie, OF; from the corners of the finance common-room to the back rooms of spring weeks GCs, these names have been whispered relentlessly over the last two years, and rightfully so. Whilst to us he is just our humble CC, (his bitch ain’t gay) the past 2 seasons have seen Oscar amass a turb CV of accolades that would hardly fit the EB Garamond,size 11, single spaced, A4 template that he is so accustomed to. First yr saw performances the street long won’t forget; many fondly remember when a tuns table looked at him funny, and was made to pay, or when at a Pancake Day networking event at MOS he secured 9 conversions! (no returns tho :( ) Second yr brought new refinement, buses expertly booked to the bogs of Essex,Sussex and other clearing hotspots of the south east + pitches eventually sorted in regents (he only promises a 9-week span of attention to detail per year). Whilst our little boy from sunny Bournemouth promises to keep a tight ship this coming season, he’ll have his work cut out getting his social secs to socials, his freshers to not do a Titus, and his captain to smile. Just don’t get on his bad side, or you might find urself homeless (NBFBR). Who knows what this seasons will bring. God it’s gonna be fun!

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.

END OF THE DESCRIPTION IN COMMENTS

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, that is of course apart from that Ugandan Silverback’s bush a few fortnights ago.

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.

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

“Hey Girlie”, said the modern day LSE Casanova, revered by mid to semi-attractive feems by surname alone: (Alexander) Pama as your first team captain. A penchant for scrambled eggs, raw chicken, and women with low self-esteem, Pama prowls the streets of London, driven by only a love of the game and an Oedipus complex. On the pitch, one witnesses the same Freudian fire in his eyes. Standing at 6’3 and 110 kegs, Pama has taken more names than prime Paul Pot. A jack of all trades, he can play centre, he can play prop, he can play your girl (tip: don’t join squash, Fraiche). Nevertheless, Pama’s true strength lies in his eloquence; his South-East London MLE GM slash Old Pauline accent is rather unique, and to experience this in its glory is unequivocally worth a trip to his bunk bed in Marylebone, ladies. All in all, this teddie bear man mountain will no doubt lead LSE to the heights of division 5 rugby and a long-time coming varsity victory.

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

Loro Piana loafers, a diamond encrusted c**k ring and terribly variable chat is all that JT needs to manage the most finance rug club in the world. After all, a man who watches Andrew Tate montages before bed and handshake how-tos is to be taken seriously. But behind his tough, callous, cold, empty exterior, Jack is a social animal. A lover of cat food, plus-size lingerie, and street rodents, JT has put his life and his most prized possession, masculinity, many times on the line(s?!) for this club. Purportedly a Londoner, you will only find this chap in Bristol or one of his five European shagpads, yet sadly no longer the Chiltern Firehouse, since a rather incendiary incident between him and the pre-Brexit staff. A fan of house music and North-West London rappers, it is no wonder Jack has popped his shoulder more times than he can count (and subsequently his defensive record is worse than Lily Phillip’s boyfriend’s). Yet ultimately, ladies and gents, LSE rug’s coin is in safe hands, with Jack boasting a cornucopia of self-earned, entirely self-earned internships, just don’t ask who his godfather is.

Lads, lasses, and lost causes — in their infinite wisdom, the club has chosen Falcon to run Varsity. That’s right: a man found more often propping up the pub than a library desk, whose idea of “hard graft” is opening a fresh pouch of Amber Leaf, is now somehow in charge of the biggest events of the year. So, with that being said — meet Falcon.

And not just one Varsity. No, this year we’ve handed him two: the colossal clash against those Imperial tossers, and another against Kings — the glorified poly. Truly, the apocalypse has a project manager.

Falcon’s personality can be boiled down to three things: rollies, surfboards, and his stupid bloody curls. Retired from the pitch after popping his shoulder one too many times, he now puts the same energy into popping other things like he’s in Dancing with the Stars.

And then there’s the French horn. Jesus Christ. What in the beg is that about? Nothing screams “I peaked at Year 9 band camp” quite like Falcon, red-faced and wheezing into brass like he’s trying to summon Satan through spit valves. You haven’t known true horror until you’ve watched him butcher « Ode to Joy » while his curls bounce like a malfunctioning t***k.

And Prague. Ah yes, the pilgrimage. Naked in an airport and screaming at security that he was “ready for the frontlines.” That was a war crime. Prague tour was far from a holiday for Falcon, it was a biblical plague in human form. He arrived sober, left naked, and in between managed to turn an airport into Chernobyl with p**s stains.

And now, the gremlin is steering Varsity. Expect Varsities planned with the reliability of Oscar’s right foot at Varsity 2024 — in other words, absolutely fu***ng none, all hype, and pure comedy. Expect chaos, expect fun, expect shoulders popping like bubble wrap, and Falcon himself grinning through it all like a demon on work experience.

He is not a bird. He is not a man. He is Varsity’s final boss — and unfortunately, he’s in charge of two this year.

Pray for us all.

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!

Bonjour Mesdames et Messieurs,
Our first exec: Vadim “Le Wanquer” from the merde-stained streets of Montpellier for Outreach Officer.
Please don’t ask if he has that French joué (he does not). His lack of rugby ability (think post-tour dyspraxic amputee) paired with his ability to kill any joke makes him a gem of the club and the ideal Outreach: no play, just business. Some may argue Vadim had a tough first year (Monda had his fun) but we all know everything he did was for the love of the game. Regularly courting sub 4s unsuccessfully in sway and begging for a phall at all club dinners shows the true values of the club. Vadim after all is a charitable man: please DM him personally for slops (free OF link in bio). God he is a money machine. Outreach is in safe hands with Le Wanquer: expect flare posts and banger team sheets.
Oh and, a message from the man himself: “Bonne chance, fraiche😉”

Congrats to everyone who got into LSE!

Kicking off uni this September? There’s no better way to throw yourself into campus life than with LSE Men’s Rugby

All levels welcome, from seasoned players to total beginners. Whether you’re here to smash tackles, get fitter, or just join the most social club on campus (🍻), there’s a spot waiting for you.

Freshers’ WhatsApp link in bio
DM us with any questions, we can’t wait to meet you!