It’s rugby season again folks. For Wales fans such as myself, this means six weeks of heartache and frustration, interrupted by fleeting moments of unfulfilled hope. Most Six Nations tournaments offer us the joy that is gazing upon the physique of Scrum Half Mike Phillips, but he’s shacked up with Duffy now and is pretending to be injured while he lives off her royalties. It’s over between us.
Wales lost their Six Nations opener to England yesterday, and my housemates saw a new side to me. Mum said today that she’d made up a new word in her agony (“dickwit” apparently describes Alun Wyn Jones) while I spent most of the 80 minutes writhing on the floor in front of the telly chewing on my fingers. So, this afternoon me and the old gits went to the pictures to watch a rugby match that we knew would have a happy ending; the new Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon thing about the 1995 World Cup in South Africa.
Morgan Freeman has finally got around to playing Nelson Mandela, and it’s obviously taken him so long because the voice coach was at the end of her tether. He just talks like Morgan Freeman, except maybe a bit slower. Matt Damon is surprisingly good, and the match scenes were authentic, but there was this bit where Mandela flew into a training session in a helicopter and this fucking appalling soft rock tune boomed out. It had the clumsiest, most obvious lyrics ever, about being “colourblind” and shit, while Mandela’s giving Matt Damon an envelope of fucking poetry to get him through the tournament. Worst scene in the film. It was only a short blip though, and the rest was actually pretty brilliant, especially a scene where the whole team goes and does a coaching session with some street kids in the slums. You can see it in everyone’s faces that they’re having a real ball getting involved with these tragic little urchins for the day. The kids were having the time of their lives.
Shane Williams and Mike Phillips
South Africa 9
Lions 28
About fucking time too.
That settles it then. Mike Phillips and I have a psychological connection that steers the entire fate of the British and Irish Lions in South Africa.
I went downstairs earlier to warm up another tasty budget ready meal from the Tesco range of over-hydrated rice products, and the Lions were just finished the first half of tonight’s match against the Sharks, part of the South Africa tour. The score was shockingly low, 7 - 3 or something. So then play stopped and I ate some curried rice mush and then play started again and I began to get those funny Mike Phillips flutterings, and then suddenly I was all like swoon and “be careful of his beautiful face!” and then within about a minute he had scored this sweet try. Because I was watching, and sending my I-Love-Mike-Phillips vibes all the way to Africa.
And I’m pretty sure some of them rubbed off on Lee Byrne because he was fucking amazing too, so quick, although that Phil Vickery guy still looks like a cross between a Salford doorman and Crabbe and Goyle from Harry Potter. With some potato genes mixed in too.
The Sharks were sponsored by some dude called Mr Price, so they all had Mr Price written on their shirts, which was super-confusing to begin with because I was surprised to find that Price was such a common name in South Africa. Then I realised my schoolboy mistake and vowed to have the Welsh rugby team in Miss Vaughan shirts by 2020. What? It could happen.
Final score: Lions 39, Sharks 3. Mike Phillips: 10,000 hottie points.
HRRRRNK!!! MAJOR NERD ALERT!
I have discovered Tweetdeck. Moreover, I have discovered the #6nations tag on Twitter. I am now the kind of person who sits in front of the rugby with her laptop on her knee, tweeting about how Martin Johnson looks like a vampire from Buffy, and talking about exactly how many points Wales need to beat Italy by…
My life is officially over.
(Actually, that’s a lie. It’s over NOW. Now that I’m happily watching Hollyoaks stars performing dance routines on the telly.)
But, back to the Six Nations.
Last night was enough to bring hot tears to my enraged cheeks. I’ve no idea what the fuck happened to Wales since they broke through the English defense two weeks ago, but even with Shane Williams back in the squad, they got fucking battered by the French. Battered, like, in flour and lemon, then crushed between a slice of bread and Maxime Medard. (Actually, that wouldn’t be so bad…)
Lee Byrne got a great try in the first half, with French defenders closing behind him like the Red Sea, but then it was just a horrible embarrassment. I went from making involuntary childbirth groans to sitting in stony silence with my arms folded and hissing at my housemate when he said COMPLETELY UNCALLED-FOR things such as “well, that was another fumble” and “that would never had happened in Super League”.
Still, there was always the glistening image of Mike Phillips to cheer me up:
Today, if England had beaten Ireland by a teeny-tiny margin, my mood might have been further bolstered, but alas, it was one yellow card after another for England, and Ireland carried on with their fucking saintly professionalism. I hope someone breaks all their legs.
Not really.
Well, yes, a do wish it a bit, but not so the bones don’t heal properly.
Just so they have to sit in traction with their limbs attached to elastic for a few weeks.
Say, six or seven.
Match Analysis: first day of the Six Nations.
Well, I was kidding myself yesterday.
I was at work until three today, and then as soon as I got home I flaked in front of the first two games of the Six Nations. But it took me less than ten minutes to remember how fucking brilliant rugby union is, and Wales haven’t even played yet.
Inevitably, England beat Italy (boo), although the Italians weren’t quite as embarrassing as previous years. They deserved a second half try, but this is maybe just because I felt sorry for them because they all look so weedy.
France don’t appear to be as much of a threat as in the glory years of Castaignede thankfully, and Ireland held on to a small lead for most of their game. That Irish dude, Ronan something, looks exactly the same as he did last year and the year before, while the French appear to have grown into a much hairier squad than in previous tournaments. One guy (who me and Andy though was called Cheval - Mr Horse - but is really called something else) looked in danger of being scalped at one point, but then later, when he broke for a try, he did this little Gandalf-style move to ward off the opposition; stuck his hand in a guy’s face and you could almost hear him yell “HALT! YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”
And then there was Maxime Medard, who is the only man I will allow to score any points against Wales in this Six Nations.
I have decided that when I marry him I’ll keep my surname though. Megan Medard just sounds stupid.
I should totally join the commentary team for the BBC. You can’t buy match analysis like this.
