Hung, Drawn and Quartered.

A thousand words...

A week later and I’m still angry.

Not so much angry that we got beaten, but the manner in which we were. The pitiful, embarrassing way in which we had an apocalyptically abysmal game when we could least afford to. The fact that France weren’t even very good, and we were very, very bad.

I know it’s sport, and these things happen. I know if it was predictable and contests always went by form and rank then there’d be little point watching it. If England had played well but France had pulled out the ‘big’ game that people were expecting and played out of their skins then that would’ve been an easier pill to swallow, but that wasn’t the case, and if we’d played half as well (which wasn’t very well) as we did against Argentina, we probably would’ve won.

Ugh, it makes my blood boil typing about it. It’s probably a good thing I’ve had a week to calm down, and didn’t post what I almost did: an extremely angry (and drunken) open letter to the RFU ranting about how disgusted I was that so-called professionals should perform so desperately badly at such a crucial event, and insisting that they refund the cost of my ticket.

Yeah, I sound like a bitter, sore loser. I’m really not, I’m just disgusted.

And I almost feel too weary to write about it, so much has it been raging through my mind the past few days. I’m rather drained. So I’m not going point fingers at those who might be to blame, or mention drinking or dwarves or any of that, I just want to look forward to attending the two semi-finals with the relief of not being too bothered about who wins.

Although, obviously, I don’t want the French or the Aussies to win. And my Dad informs me that I’m at least a 64th Welsh, thanks to a great, great, great, great grandfather by the name of Evans. Which makes me about 1.56% Welsh.

Round it up to 2%.

Let’s hope they aren’t as embarrassing as the English were.

Smiley happy French people

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England 16 – Scotland 12

 

 

It’s curious, isn’t it, that whenever England come out to play, the locals seem to dig up tenuous genealogical links to ancestors from far-off parts of the globe (well, most places are far-off from New Zealand, but you know what I mean), but none of those seems to be England-born. And true to form there are a large number of Scottish supporters with antipodean accents (not just Kiwis) at and around Eden Park for the Group B clash against our skirt-wearing, deep-fried-everything-eating, mostly-incomprehensible Northern neighbours.

[By the way, I once watched Rab C. Nesbitt with subtitles and it’s actually quite funny…]

However, this time they do have a genuine case, since many of the relatives from back in the 1800s were Scottish, as noted in a previous post. That said, a great deal of them were English too… Anyway, having lost to the Argies, the Scots are going to need all the support they can get (especially considering that so far this seems to be a bad day for teams in blue *cough* France *cough*), so I suppose that levels the playing field somewhat.

Cookie Monster Love Rugby!

Speaking of the field, this is the biggest venue we’ve entered thus far. In fact it’s the biggest of the tournament, and the venue for two quarters, both semis and the final itself. Disappointingly, I find myself in the upper echelons of a temporary, open-air stand, upon which the Heavens have decided to deliver a round of suitably British weather. To add to my woes, I’m mostly surrounded by Scots (see photo), and since due to unfortunate ticketing I’m at the opposite end of the stadium to my sibling, I hunch under my hood and hope even more that England win.

The less said about the match itself, the better. “I enjoyed the last 3 minutes” would be a good summary, along with side-dish comments like “Why do we always have to win the hard way?” and “What the Hell is up with Jonny Wilkinson?!” (To see a video I made of how to successfully convert a rugby ball, admittedly not in front of a 65,000-strong crowd, click here.) I have to ask the English chaps behind me if there’s any way we can come 2nd in the group – thus setting up a quarters match against the hosts – but am assured it’s unlikely, which at least made the threat of loss less worrying.

A last-gasp try by Ashton seals the win, and an excellent kick from Flood makes everyone wonder why he wasn’t on about 60 minutes earlier. Either Jonny is supremely confident that he can kick them, or the voice in his head is saying “You always get these. You missed the last one, so you’ll surely get this one!”.

But hey, it’s a win, England top the group, and bring on France – preferably the same team that lost to Tonga.

Click to Enlarge (it looks much better, trust me)

Out into the street we all slowly file, and whilst waiting for my brother I try to console a depressed Scot, slumped on the step next to me, flag draped around him. It’s funny, you can never say “Unlucky” to a Scotsman after they’ve lost to the Auld Enemy. No matter how genuinely you say it, they always take it badly….

Ah well, time for more beers.

Winner

Coda:

The morning after the night before. My head hurts.

In the bar after the game, we get chatting to a few surprisingly-friendly ex-pat Scots. One wife gets a bit over-friendly, despite her hubbie being a yard away. I drink more in the hope she’ll leave me alone (she definitely won’t get more attractive). We go back to theirs, fortunately she passes out, and us three lads play pool in his impressive pad until 4am. I wake up with red and white warpaint still on my face (and the pillow), in a bed with a Twister duvet cover (I’m beginning to think they’re swingers…) Mark, meanwhile, spends the night in the pink-clad bed of a 9-year-old girl. We stagger back to the campsite just in time to be kicked out, and head South.

All is good.

The Inbetweeners

After the ‘Oh-my-god-don’t-do-this-to-me!’ tension of the Argentina game, come the relatively stress-free occasions of two games against Georgia and Romania, before the climax of the Scotland match on the 1st October. Without doubt they are the minnows of Group B, but as somebody will surely point out, there are no easy games nowadays!

According to late Mediaeval texts, the Georgians are labelled such because they especially revere St George. This would explain why their flag is very similar to ours, but the similarities pretty much end there. They aren’t great at rugby, and their names are like someone’s taken 12 letters out of the Scrabble bag, arranged them in any old order, then added -ze to the end. The poor old commentator has a more difficult time than Johnathon Ross reading the ‘R’ section of the phone book, but I’m sure the Georgians expect that.

Crouch, Touch, Pause, Collapse.

I’m sure they also expect to get beaten.

But they certainly don’t show it at first. As the Otago stadium ripples with red and white flags, the opposition make a good fight of it. In fact one might be mistaken for thinking they’d stumbled upon one of St George’s own crusades, with men regularly falling, battle-injured, medics running to their aid.

However the superior skill and firepower soon overcomes the opposition, and we return to the green and pleasant land of the Dunedin Holiday Park with the satisfaction of a 41-10 win, although not thoroughly convinced by it.

The scrum still looks dodgy, we conceded too many penalties (again), and the backs need to step it up a gear or three, but thankfully we have another ‘warm up’ game next weekend, so hopefully a marked improvement will be seen there….

Lovely English Weather!

And so, a week later, us English fans – and an equal number of Kiwis who seem to have discovered Romanian roots – file back into the same stadium for the third Group B match, and frankly I want and expect nothing more than a crushing win for England.

In fact, their highest ever win came over today’s opponents, a try-a-minute rout of 134-0, and while I’m sure that will not be re-enacted today, I would hope for about half that. However, the sad fact is that we could put 200 past the Romanians today and the headlines would still be focusing on Zara and Mike, about whom frankly I could not give a fuck of the flying variety.

From our seats behind the goalposts, my brother and I can see several photographers, their over-sized lenses aimed not at the large patch of grass in front of them, but about 45 degrees to the left, towards a certain royal grand-daughter. That doesn’t especially upset me, no. It’s the fashion in which the British media seem intent on destroying any hope we ever have of winning any major sporting event.

Romanians are Evil

A nothing story about the Captain messing around with a ‘mystery’ woman – who is in fact a good friend of both he and his missus – is blown out of all proportion, and one can’t help noticing similarities to a familiar story involving an England football captain and a minor fling. The press should be backing our boys, not trying to bring them down. But whereas sackings of skippers and all that may have had a detrimental affect on the minds and game of the football team, I can’t see the rugby squad being affected by it.

If anything, rumours of boozing and throwing of vertically-challenged people seems to fuel their fires, and they find a gear or two more, spinning the ball around with conviction and putting a satisfying score past the Romanians. But while it’s fun to watch, it doesn’t really give us any clues as to how we’ll fare against a recently-improved Scottish team, in what will be a must-win match for our auld chums from the North.

And North is where The Rambling Rose now heads, back past Christchurch to the Interisland ferry, up route 1 to Auckland, and Eden Park.