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.
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.
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.