Rugger Buggers & Slappers

While most other bar denizens can occur both singly or in packs, the two above categories of inhabitant are, like quarks and Dublin buses, wholly herd animals. Further, though a wide gulf may separate these species, culturally and sexually, their behaviour is remarkably similar; therefore, we shall treat both together.

Rugger Buggers sporting their magnificent plumage

Origins

Rugger Buggers: The spawn of South County Dublin uppper management types, rugger buggers are nurtured in exclusive fee-paying boarding schools situated down the country. These dreary, draughty piles, modelled heavily on British public schools, are usually run by one of Ireland's many psychotic religious orders whose theories on education revolve around the three R's, interminable hours spent on rain-drenched marshes euphemistically termed pitches, and plentiful cold showers to douse any incipient homosexual ardour. After five or six years of such a regime, one could almost feel sorry for the poor bastards. Almost.
The Leaving Cert completed, our larval rugger bugger embarks on a degree in business or marketing at UCD or Trinity-- the good Lord forbid that these gods among men should attend a mere technical college. Then, a cushy job at Daddy's company or the company at one of Daddy's cronies.
Slappers: The office block 'round the corner. Slappers are generally from working class backgrounds, though given enough alcohol or a hen party to attend, any sufficiently large group of Irish females can display overt Slapper behaviour.

Age

Late teens to late twenties for the most part; generally, there is at least one "alpha" male or female in any given herd of Rugger Buggers or Slappers attempting to recapture their lost youth by being more boisterous than the rest put together.

Natural Habitat

Both species will naturally gravitate towards the point in the bar with the most traffic passing through it (e.g. around the bar itself or the main route to the toilets) and proceed to block it with their own hulking, shrieking forms as well as a fearsome collection of handbags, coats, evil-smelling gym bags, etc.; this is in order to pass loud remarks about as large a number of members of the appropriate sex that have to elbow through the herd as possible. Presumably they are on some sort of quota system. Or they're just pig-fucking ignorant. You decide.

Appearance

The Rugger Bugger: Great, wobbling piles of man-lard, crudely shaped into human form and allowed to settle under their own weight and the sweltering pub-heat; not ones to behold in a crowded room with drink taken. Tiny heads perched atop meaty shoulders like a goldfish bowl on a shelf, piggy eyes glaring out suspiciously from beneath sloping brows, their faces scarred like a welder's bench from the time someone tried to score a conversion with their head. Bald or skinhead for the most part (if your hair is of grippable length, you're likely to get your head torn off in a scrum), as they get older and play less, they may affect the forward-facing haircut of the Celtic Tiger cub, whose ranks overlap with their own. Attire: Rugby shirts stretched taut over swollen torsos like skin over a pustule. Jeans and deck shoes ("Daddy has a yacht").
The Slapper: "Classy" individual that she is, your average Slapper will dressed like one of those icons of Slapperdom: the Spice Girls. Especially favoured are mongrammed choker chains and articles of clothing coloured the shade of pink usually reserved for sex toys (which many Slappers will actually be carrying if their coven is together for a hen night). Be prepared for much flesh on display; alas, this is Irish flesh we're talking about, and no matter how much a Slapper tries to dress like she's largin' it in Ibiza, there's no getting away from the fact that most Irish flesh is not of exhibition quality. The average Irish complexion tends towards the pallid, like the belly of a bottom-feeding fish, and will turn lobster red at the merest hint of sunshine, before weeping and peeling like you swapped your Body Shop All Over Muesli Exfoliant Scrub for oven cleaner.

Conversation topics

The Rugger Bugger: So, yah, babes, hoise it going? I play for Belvedere, did I say my Daddy has a yacht?
The Slapper: So, I says to to Jacinta in Accounts... Jaysus! Na'lee, how's it going? Deadly, deadly, yeah, not three bad now. Wha'? def'nitely, cool. God, that top's gorgeous where'd yeh get it? All right, see yeh... Jaysus, I hate that wagon! Well, I says to Jacinta, I says... Here! two Bacardi Breezers and twenty Johnny Blue, pa-laise. Thanks, love... Yeah, cheers, yeah, I says to Jacinta... Hey, mister! Me mate wants to shift yeh! Jaysus, would yeh look at the head on him?! The tide wouldn't take him out! So I says to Jacinta...

Drinks

The Rugger Bugger: Beer. Lots and lots of beer. The brand is irrelevant as each pint downed in a single swallow while his mates gather around chanting, "you mad bastard!". The glass thus emptied, it is placed ritualistically on the head before he belches a rendition of "The Good Ship Venus" while his mates moon the rest of the pub. Once the joys of beer have been thoroughly explored, the Rugger Bugger will switch to some frightening cocktail like vodka and toilet cleaner snakebite or whiskey and dog shit to prove his manhood. The sorry truth is, the Rugger Bugger doesn't actually drink to enjoy himself, but to prove what a mad bastard he is. It's a spectator sport for the poor devils, though I doubt you'll feel much sympathy for them when they start this carry-on in a pub you're trying to have a quiet drink in.
The Slapper: Oh dear. Our halter-topped harpies are responsible for a litany of drink crimes. Alcopops. Gin 'n' Tonics. If any of them drink beer at all, it'll be some ghastly, imported effluent. Once they get merry, they'll wend their unsteady way down to Happy Hour at Heifers to buy sickly-sweet cocktails with stupid risque names like "Hairy Ballsack" and "Throbbing Man-Gristle", cocktails that would pole-axe a grown hippopotamus if Dublin nightclubs didn't water their spirits.