Deja vu - again!

Reports are emerging from the All Black camp that a Heimlich manoevre specialist has been called into the squad to work with a team already being labelled the biggest chokers since the Boston Strangler.

The shock defeat in Brisbane this weekend has forced team sponsor Browning to rush out it's new range of shotguns 6 weeks early. The guns are available in 1/4 choke, 1/2 choke and All Black.

In the past 10 days the much vaunted All Blacks faced a ten man game - South Africa, and a fifteen man game - Australia. On both occasions they have gone down like a 5 dollar hooker.

The doubt is there, etched into the faces of many of the squad. The coaching team must loathe the phrase deja vu - again.

Injuries to Keiran Read and Adam Thompson may rule them out of the competition. How Grim Henry must have been hoping that a similar fate befell Guilford, Muliaina and Woodcock.

And it's no use the NZRFU claiming these two defeats came at the behest of Adidas who felt a more open tournament might benefit global replica jersey sales.

But one thing's for sure. What 3 months ago was a done and dusted NZ victory is no longer the case. South Africa smell blood. So do the Aussies. Even England will fancy a go at the All Blacks right now.

So it's game on - 48 games on, in fact. And the smart money is on New Zealand playing in less than 7 of them.

Wow! Williams Wins!

Victorious Caddie Steve Williams has paid tribute to the role played by golfer Adam Scott in his amazing comeback win at the WGC Invitiational at Firestone this week.

"I couldn't have done it without Adam" said an obviously emotional Williams after Scott had helped him to victory with a birdie at the last. "No caddie is complete without a golfer who hits the shots - they may not be the glamour partner, but you have to acknowledge their work"

Wiliams, without a win for nearly 2 years and written off by many after firing former partner Tiger Woods, was clearly elated. He punched the air several times, punched two fans waving cameras near him and acknowledged the applause of the crowd surrounding the 18th green.

His 48 minute acceptance speech may have been too long for some purist golf commentators but it clearly came from the heart. Twice during his Phillippic he generously reminded listeners of the role played by Scott, and took time to indulge in a few digs at his former employee, Woods.

"I didn't see much of him during the tournament, but then I never look backwards" cracked the Kiwi. " I just focussed on what I do best, what I felt I needed to do to win, carrying a bag of metal around and doing what I am told to".

Williams next event will be the US PGA, the final major of the year, and he will be keen to add this to his growing total of Majors as he chases jack Nicklaus' record of 19. Once again he will have Scott on the clubs, and in this sort of form he must rate a better than even chance.

Open Sesame

At a time when our days grow darker, our life force ever more constricted by economic, political and social woes, it is left to sport to inject a rare glimmer of the candlelight of excitement and happiness.

This week four extraordinary days of golf were played out on the Kent cost, culminating in a victory by one of the most deserving men we have come to know over the years through the medium of the small screen.

Platitiudes abound when such heroes are born, but truly there was not a dry eye in the house when the Irishman sank that final putt.

Our acquaintance with him may be based on no more than what we read and what we see, but his gentlemanly deportment, his cheerful demeanour and his wild weather golf par excellence make him a man of immense popularity. His endurance too of extraordinary personal hardship, his resilience to the fickles fates of golf and his unsportsmanlike fondness for fags, booze and a burger or two do nothing to diminish his appeal.

You sensed that even his closest rivals over the final 18 holes were glad to see him win.

His victory speech too showed his tactful grace. Many expected an emotional dedication to his beloved Heather, so cruelly taken from him 6 years ago, yet with new fiancee Allison looking on this would have been decidely difficult. One suspects he will, in an alltogether more private moment, have a much more enduring and endearing conversation with she who is lost too him.

It was golf at times at it's most brutal, on a course which embodies the purity of the game once played by its founding fathers. It reminded one of a particularly hard fought Grand National, one in which so many fell by the wayside, reputations left in tatters in the open ditches.

After leaving the winners enclosure he was seen pulling his mobile phone from his pocket. It is in a way sad that due to recent upheavals we may never know what he was saying, or to whom. Sic transit gloria mundi and all that.

On the Masters

They say nowhere produces a fairytale like Augusta (although curiously no openly homosexual golder has ever won) and 2011 was no exception. Charl Schwartzel, a man who comes from such a poor background that his parents couldn't even afford his entire Christian name, came from behind up the straight (does that count as a fairytale?) to win by 2 shots and achieve riches beyond his wildest dreams. Perhaps now he will be able to acquire a more appropriate looking wife, along the lines of the delicious Mrs Immelman (remember her?) It was a final day played out with more drama than a 6 dvd pack of Judge John Deed. The late charge by Tiger, the abject collapse by Macillroy, the phlegmatic insouciance of Choi, the abject collapse of Macillroy (so bad it is worthy of two mentions) and the runaway success of John Daly's "Wild Thing" clothing stall situated just outside the main gates in Magnolia Lane. Was it a great Masters? Perhaps. Certainly it kept one on the edge of ones seat. But in the history of a tournament that has produced so many amazing finishes, such a range of emotions, it will fade quickly. Remember Jack in at 86? At 46? Faldo's victory over Norman? Zoeller's chip in the play off? Phil's victory when both wife and mother in law (swing and roundabouts spring to mind) were gravely stricken? Those were great Masters. This was just a great golf tournament. And the big question: is Tiger back? He left the course shortly after completing his round to keep a date with a rather nice girl his caddy met working in Hooters in downtown Atlanta. So yes. He's back. Whether than will affect his golf or not remains to be seen.

The World Cup runneth over (and over and over)

Anyone who believes match fixing is dead in the ranks of Pakistan cricket must be feeling somewhat red faced after witnessesing Kamran Akmal's facile misses off the bowling of Shoaib Akhtar last night. Ross Taylor, who went on to score a matchwinning ton, was dropped twice in the most absurd manner. Whilst Afridi and Akhtar looked on in horror, Akmal remained expressionless - presumably to busy dwelling on the 6 billion rupees Mohammed Bung would be paying him to worry about the impact on his team mates. Good on him - he looks like a nice lad.

Elsewhere in this oh-so-fascinating tournament, which I gather concludes in June 2019, bad news for England - Stuart "does my short hair make me look less of a shirtie" Broad has another tournament ending injury. Aparently the ECB are scouring the ranks of country cricket for any likely replacement with the name of O'Brien.

At least Broad's looks genuine - unlike KP who is cleary going home with one eye on his IPL contract.

It is, of course, an entirely superfluous event. The only cricketing contest of any significance remaining is the Ashes - every other match played is merely an appetiser for the most crucial of battles. England hold the Ashes, by the way. Not Australia. Again.

It may be that Australia claim this World Cup. Good on them, the old Aussie battlers. In the greater scheme of things it's a bit akin to 4th place in pin the tail on the donkey at a 4 year old birthday party. But some consolation, nonetheless.

But really, who cares? The only real moment of interest so far was when the Barbados Chronicle misleadingly reported that everyone on the West Indies bus was stoned after their game against The Bangles, thus giving the erroneous impression that there are times when Chris Gayle and Suleiman Benn are not stoned.

You know a tournament is too long when it's duration exceeds the average length of a marriage in Birmingham. Playing one or 2 games a day, when you have 605 venues, 400 billion potential attendees (and that's just in India) etc is ludicrous. All in the name of money!

Commentary on Commentary

Andy: Fuck me, I think I'm turning in to a shirtie - that wee assitant ref's giving me a boner

Richard: It's alright, it a she

Andy: Yer fucking jokin, big man? A wee lass running the touch line?

Richard: Yes, and I'd like to touch her line

Andy: Aye, right enough. I bet she'd be a good header

Both snigger

Richard: Is she wearing a bra?

Andy: Dunno, but look at the Bristol Cities on her. Man, they're fuckin huge. She could blow my whistle any day

Both snigger again.

Richard: It's more like the FF cup than the FA Cup.

Andy: Spot on, wee fella. She'd be better off in the Euraper League.

Richard: Good thing you turned of the mic, Andy

Andy: Turned off the mic? Aw, no, we're fucked.....

Now that might have been enough to get these two football icons out of a job. Might. Light hearted banter at worst. Nothing you wouldn't hear the female version of on a hen night.

But for these two paragons to be pillaried from pillar to post in the way they have is downright wrong. The world has gone mad. We need to regain our sense of humour, and harden up. A lot.

In memoriam crickitus crimulus

Since the conclusion of the fifth Ashes test, NOSF has been insomething of a reverie. One could liken it to the opium enduced trance in which Coleridge penned Kublai Khan. Or not, depending on your perspective. But jolted, and rudely awakened by the improbable victory in the first one dayer, I feel compelled to arise from my torpidly pleasurable state and put pen to paper.

I say improbable, because if ever a side was wasting it's time trying to beat England, it is this moribund, motley and mainly crap bunch of Australians. Clearly match fixing of the worst kind has gone on. Obviously the England bowlers have colluded to defraud the betting public. Look at the evidence. Shane Watson passed 60! Michael Clarke passed 20!! Bollinger took a wicket, and if that wasn't enough, the final, irrefutable piece of evidence, Australia won. Skullduggery is too good a word for it.

The remainder of the one day series will be interesting, if only for trying to spot the obvious influences of my good fried Ranjit Bhung of Ladbrookes (Hyderabad branch)

So what of the Ashes?

On the one side we had the magnificent England XI, fit, lean, handsome and herioc to a man. Opposing them, with little gusto or guts, a traditional Australian side of cow faced, moronic, obstreporous and mostly weak willed progeny of long forgotten deportees. Only Hussey, who should surely now be promoted to skipper the side whilst rebuilding takes place, stood out as having any real ticker. The rest were simply pathetic.

Brisbane notwithstanding, this is undeniably the worst thing to happen to Australia in years. It's clearly a direct consequence of having a Sheila in charge. In fact, things could only get worse if, for example, that great Richie Benaud was revealed as a closet screamer. That's how calamitous a state of affairs prevails.Nuff said.

There is one small chink of light. NOSF has it on good authority that a fund raiser will be added to the England shcedule, a match against a World Obnoxious Gits XI. The good news for the Ockers is that they are guaranteed at least 4 representatives in the form of Watson, Siddle, Ponting (skipper) and Johnson. Bollinger may also make the side as despite a lack of cricketing ability, he would clearly be there on merit as the most obnoxious git to play for Australia in the last 50 years.

And so to Caesar, a man whose influence presided over both teams.

Sir Andrew Strauss (I trust I am not letting the cat out of the bag) came, saw and conquered. Alistair Cook and Jimmy Anderson crossed the Rubicon of their careers and Australia endured a caesarean, in that they were opened up and had their stuffing ripped out of them.

And a jolly good thing too!

Here come the Ashes

Once again, the Ashes are upon us and we are burning with anticipation. It will be a battle royal, we hope, riddled with fast bowling, electric catches and in the middle, tons of runs!

England are led by Strauss, a batsman of classical style, who has conducted himself with aplomb and will orchestrate the campaign. Let us hope he waltzes into form from the off, and resists any overtures from Asian bookmakers.

Amongst his armoury he has the potentially potent weapons of Broad and Anderson, not to mention the revived Monty "Frying" Panesar, who will be hoping for more turn than a turban at Sydney.

The extraordinary offer by VB - to buy every adult Aussie a beer if they win the Ashes, will earn them plaudits amongst the average, moronic Strayans, but the intelligencia will both be mindful that this is more likely a comment on their chances being slight.

Unlike the great Australian Elevens of the past, there is the look of a group of players, rathert than a team, about this lot, and when they finally select the side from the preliminary squad of 917, I suspect there will be few who cause a tremor in the England dressing room.

Clarke, who is a shoe in for the number 4 spot, will be told to "Hush, puppy" if he gets above himself.

Ponting will be worried about the collapse of his business empire in the UK, and wondering if he will be able to still do a contra with Center Parcs this year.

The English have encountered a good number of Australian Hussies in their time, but Michael of that ilk is unlikely to fill them with dread (or the urge to buy him 8 Bacardis and shag him stupid)

The bowlers too look weak.

5 tests may be too much for Bollinger who is expected to run out of fizz and will probably fake an injury, howling with sham pain.

The heavily tatooed Johnson will also probably need to go to the Doctor at some stage.

As fo the wicketkeeper, most people have had enough of his endless sledging.

But what of the English?

We can expect to see Trott amongst the runs, the now well-seasoned Cook is always a recipe for disaster, but he will be hoping to roast his detractors with century after century and KP, if he rediscovers his form, could go nuts. If Bell gives himself enough rope, her may finally confirm the ringing endorsements which have always praised his potential.

Broad will shoulder the burden of stock strike bowler, Finn will be fishing for the outside edge and then Swann will ensure the Australian's goose is cooked.

So on paper, this Ashes series looks done and dusted. Arise Sir Andrew, and Rocky Ponting will doubtless be sacrificed at the Fosters Cathedral in Melbourne.

But this is Australia, the self procalimed lucky country, and you never know!

Sports Results (upcoming)

The decider that will be played between England and Pakistan tomorrow morning was won by England, who triumphed by 1 wicket after the final over bowled by Mustapha Bung went for 29 runs, mostly in no balls.

The match was overshadowed by the news that, just before the toss, Ladbrokes had dramatically cut the odds on Paul Collingwood hitting a six off Umar Gul on the 4th ball of the 7th over, clearing long leg and being caught in the crowd by a heavily bearded man in a blue shirt with his left hand, after a series of heavy bets.

A number of Sky Sports commentators were then caught on camera muttering into the cellphones and taking the 3-1 that had been freely available about such an eventuality, and it went to post at 6-4 on.

Pakistan, who won the toss, posted a relatively innocent looking 233-8 off their allocated overs, and when Strauss and Davies came out to bat, a good match appeared likely.

Quickie Mohammed Aamercheet opened the bowling, curiously electing to forgo his usual left arm pace for some innocuous right hand leg breaks, and a grateful Andrew Strauss duly posted 36 off the first over.

England then lost 6 wickets off the next over, before the surprisingly recalled Andrew Flintoff struck a rapid fire 100 off the next 5 overs, facing every ball bowled in the process.

Flintoff, who had publicly backed himself at 250-1 for a recall for this game, was seen handing over what appeared to be some photographs to Geoff Miller, chairman of selectors, just before the game.

On reaching his century, Flintoff then called for a quick single, raced to where he had hit the ball, and displaying the sort of agility reminiscent of his glory days, turned and threw down his own wicket to be run out for 100.

England need 28 off the final over, and as 17 of them came on no balls courtesy of Bung, the target was actually achieved with 9 balls to spare.

Andrew Flintoff was named Paddy Power Man of the Match for his heroics with the bat.

For those wishing to watch the game live it takes place tomorrow morning at 11.00am.

On a Masterly performance

How very appropriate. A gentleman won one of the most important events of his chosen sport. He did so in the face of enormous personal adversity, by showing grit, true grit.

Hi victory was characterised by brilliance, daring, humility and grace. The man he beat shared these sentiments and characteristics throughout.

Somewhere down the field was the player, a snarling, bitter and ungracious loser who's promise to conduct himself like a gentleman lasted 2 rounds, before he reverted to type. Perhaps it is this inability to control himself that has kept his wife from returning.

If ever anything will serve to remind Woods of what he has forsaken, it will be that hug between the brave Mickelson and the far braver Mrs Mickelson on the 18th green - a moment of romance in sport, and sporting romance of the kind that will keep us watching top class international sporting action late into the night, and late into our lives.

The Masters, much maligned by those who do not understand it (fans), rarely fails to produce great sporting drama - it stands alongside events such as the National or the Darts at Lakeside as pure sporting theatre in which all the actors are Giulgud.

Today we witnessed both a right result, and the right result. Bayete Phil, a true legend.

On the Masters - part 1

The below copy has come from a colleague of mine who runs a golf manufacture busines.....

A friend of mine was in Augusta today, and had a long conversation with Mr Waters, who is 80, and owns Bonaventure Golf. This store is fantastic, and has been in existence for 40 yrs. He owns all his inventory, has NO receivables, and yes, he does business with us.

Some of his customers during the 3 weeks of the Masters.....one week prior, the actual week, and one week after, include, Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Gary Player, Johnnie Miller, Tom Watson, Angel cabrerra, Camillo Villegas, Sergio Garcia....get the message.

Well here is the kicker.

Tiger has been in Augusta since this past Sunday.

Monday shot 74

Tuesday shot 75

Wednesday said he wanted to play like it was the Masters...shot 72-77. 36 holes.

The caddies were saying, as he hit every shot there were 10 golf carts surrounding him, with 2 armed guards in each cart.

Where the ball was expected to land, be that the fairway off the tee, or the green, an additional 5 golf carts, with 2 armed guards in each were waiting.

On holes that border Augusta National, an additional 6 golf carts were positioned on the fence side of the hole. 2 guards, both armed.

All this with NO ONE ON THE COURSE!!!!!!!!!!

Augusta Police have called in extra security for the 7 days of the Tournament.

All the vacant houses that had not been rented have been snapped up by Puliitzer Prizewinning Organisations like TMZ, The National Enquirer, etc etc. The Caddies that are walking the course are saying.......60-40 he wont make the cut. 95-5 say he cannot win Drives not too accurate, and short game not up to par.

Putting....not even close.

It makes for interesting reading - as will the interview with Woods - should he condescend to give one, if he fails to make the cut.

The thrill of anticipation is in the air!

On a dark and despairing future

That glorious monument to open, attacking rugby, the 6 Nations, draws to a close this weekend.

What an extraordinary tournament it has been. England playing dull, forward dominated rugby, Wales showing skills aplenty and ticker in absentium. The Jocks, dour and downtrodden, plucking defeat from the jaws of victory. Who'd have thought it?

Contrast it, if you will, with the Super-Duper 14, a showcase for the modern world, where tries are scored by the hundred, tackles (spearing excepted) are forbidden, and each starting 15 has an average of 1.3 criminal convictions per man - St Dan Carter excepted.

Each hemisphere pours scorn on the other, siting their game as all that is wrong with rugby in the modern era. Worryingly, it may be that both are right.

Since turning professional, rugby has struggled, both with it's identity, and it's bank balance. The hemispheres have become polar opposite in their attempt to find a solution.

Critics of the south will point to the fact that sevens is a game best played by seven a side, whilst in the depths of Dunedin and the warrens of the Waikato, sturdy, ruddy faced farmers will point out that they prefer mud wrestling when the combatants are naked and nubile ladies, not 30 big, ugly men.

The answer, of course, is that rugby should have never turned professional - it should have remained a jolly, amateur game played by Ex public schoolboys, doctors, policemen and clergy-in-training. But these are far off hills to which we can never come again.

The game is in a terrible state. No two matches are played under the same rules, all referees are blind incompetents, stadia are half full, and Wales greatest try scorer has outed himself as a screaming knobgoblin.

Passes are all forward, scrum feeds more crooked than MPs expenses, a little bit of "argy bargy" gets reported to the Scuffers, and rugby jerseys now resemble the sort of thing you'd expect to see in a Village People video.

Of the 80 minutes nominally played, a good half is wasted in resetting scrums, the field is constantly populated by waiters bearing trays of isotonic sports supplements, and all the players can talk about in their insightful post match interviews is "composure". Bah! Composure is best left to Beethoven, Mozart and other highly questionable mittel Europa types.

Streakers have been outlawed, high tackles effectively endorsed - we don't want big hits, we want big tits. Bring back Erica Roe, I say.

In short, rugby union is in a mess.Sadly, and NOSF says this with a heavy heart, there is a solution at hand. It's currently played by the whippet-buggering burgers of Burnly, the roo-rooting Brads from Queensland, and a motley assortment of heavily tattooed Polynesians masquerading as New Zealanders.

I speak of course, of none other than rugby league. And it is the future of the Union game.

On the comeback

Like an over pampered rock star, waiting until the audience have screamed themselves hoarse begging for more, Tiger Woods has finally announced he is back for an encore.

Or could it be that, fearing he was about to slip entirely below the radar, his advisers have forced him into a return for golf?

It is news which provokes more questions than it answers:

Will bully boy, the universally loved Steve "3 wise monkeys" Williams be on the bag? And how will he cope with the inevitable drunken heckling of his boss that is so typical of the lively Augusta crowd?

Will anyone within a hundred mile radius be able to get a cocktail, as thousands of pneumatic, blond and highly intelligent waitresses descend on the hallowed turf of Augusta and scream "get in my hole" every time Tiger gets his hands on the shaft of his driver?

Most importantly of all, will he win?

NOSf hopes not. No man should be bigger than the game itself, and a facile victory would instantly return Woods to the bad tempered, arrogant man he has been since he first (dis)graced our screens in the Masters. I for one have had quite enough of that sullen, spoilt demeanour.

Woods is a man to be admired for his results, but precious little else. So let's hope big Phil can beat him down the stretch. That would be poetic justice indeed.

On the greatest show on earth

If the sincerity of the Tiger Woods show was reflective of his own personal stance, then his promise to reform probably lasted as long as it took him to bump into the rather nice blond production girl lurking just behind the mysterious blue curtain through which he exited.

Unless of course it was Woods himself who was lurking behind the curtain, waiting calls for an encore, accompanied by some mad cheering, stamping and screams of "we love you Tiger"

If indeed it was Tiger? Or perhaps Will Smith, reprising his role as Bagger Vance?

Woods 14 minutes can be summed up as follows:

"Sorry I got caught. Leave me alone. I am the real victim here. I'm not coming back unless you promise to leave me alone. Oh, and by the way, to those rats at Accenture, and the humble mortals pros who dared criticise me, sod you"

Most interesting, perhaps, was the body language of the Nike rep, who was distinctly cold on him. Of note, too, was the absence of self proclaimed best friend and brutish minder Steve Williams, who carries Tiger's bag, although not his baggage.

Like America, Woods finds it hard to believe there are those who do not actually like him. His absolute lack of humility, his extraordinary absence of genuine regret, his unmitigated arrogance in the way he has chosen to reintroduce himself to the world is breathtaking. Whoever directed that sorry little show deserves an Oscar. Best scriptwriter, though, will be going elsewhere.

He would do well to observe PT Barnum's famous maxim that you cannot fool all of the people all of the time - right now he thinks he may still be doing so - a sad state of affairs indeed.

On a big pussy

Not since the Bolshoi Ballet produced Swan Lake for Vladimir Ilyich has the world seen such careful and precise orchestration.

The timing of the Tiger Woods comeback conference is acute. Yes, during the Accenture Matchplay, as a deliberate snub to a fleeing sponsor. No, not during actual hours of play, so he can't really be accused of demonstrating people would rather watch him than other golfers. But the threat is implicit.

It is also condoned, nay, endorsed by Tim Finchem, and that should be a real concern. Tiger seems to have the Indian sign over the PGA - yes, he boosts their revenues, but like any one man band, you must plan for succession if you are to avoid dependency.

Further evidence that Tiger will not tolerate insubordination came very quickly today. No sooner had he announced his conference than his fellow pros turned on him.

3 leading players broke ranks and dared to criticise Woods; within hours they were all eliminated from the Accenture Matchplay - Messrs Els, Ogilvy and McIlroy. Such is the extent and power of the mystic influence Woods exerts over the world of professional golf. Call it coincidence if you like, but.....

NOSF has not been invited to be part of Woods cosy chat; I did request an invite, and submitted a list of thoughtful and insightful questions I would like to ask.

For the record, here they are:

1. Tiger, do you feel that listening to the phrase "get in the hole" ad nauseam on the golf course has in some way influenced your behaviour?

2. Mr Woods, have you had a shag since you wife left you, and if so, how many?

3. Is it true KY have approached you to endorse their products next year?

4. The Swedes are normally quite open minded about sex. Is it true that Elin's anger was mainly because she was not invited to join in?

5. Several of your alleged lovers have said you are hung like a Hippo - the same brand of clubs as used by Ian Woosnam. Are they a potential sponsor?

6. I don't get laid as much as I used to; have you got any handy tips?

In around 12 hours, Tiger many well have answered these questions and more. But I am betting we get a token apology, a return date to golf, a few crocodile tears and a terse now sod off and leave me alone to win some more majors.

And that's what will happen. Because Tigers really are a protected species.

On the great escape

There is an old Yemeni saying that every man has one chance to escape perdition in his life.

That chance may well have been used simultaneously by 22 Welshmen and 3 coaches on Saturday, when Wales, by the narrowest of margins, managed to squeak past a braver, better organised and ultimately hungrier Scottish side.

In fact, it was the greatest escape ever. It couldn't have been greater if Gatland had brought on Gordon Jackson and Richard Attenborough to shore up the pack, and Steve McQueen to inject some pace into the backline.

It is hard to give Wales credit. The Scots were down to thirteen, the winning try came about 2 weeks after time was up, most of the Scots were already in the showers getting ready for a few beers, and even nominal defence coach Sean Edwards had the sort of look on his face at the final whistle that reminded one of OJ on hearing his verdict.

To say "we'll take the win, however it comes", rang about as true as if those same sentiments had been offered by the England cricket team after squeaking home by 2 runs in the final over against the Rotherwick 3rdXI.

It should have been a Scottish defeat on the scale of Bannockburn, but instead it was nearly Culloden.Or should that be the other way around? Who cares.

On that showing, even the Wops will fancy their chances against Wales, and as for the French, well, they'll be smoking Gallois a week on Friday.

Wales undeniably have some talented players, but until they change coach they are doomed. Keen students of the game will recall that Gatland also had an initially successful spell as coach of Ireland, but the Irish, too canny to be suckered, worked out he was there to ruin their chances in the World Cup and got rid of him. Recent evidence suggests he is playing a similar role in Wales - win a Grand Slam, make the job a sinecure until after the World Cup, then quietly but surely baffle the players with illogical selections, obscure gameplans, and ensure that come 2011, they are in disarray, paving the way for the All Blacks to finally win.

So fire the Kiwi Quisling, is the call from NOSF, bring back Ruddock (now Alfie and Henson are gone there's no-one in the dressing room who objects to a ban on make-up) and lets show the ABs that 15 good men from a small part of one island still have the wood on 15 blokes from lots and lots of islands when it really matters.

On the demise of Gatland

Gatland has one match to turn things around - that's the word out of the Welsh camp after a dismal display compounded some extraordinary selections for the English match. Howley will follow him regardless at the end of the season.

Leading the exodus from the Welsh camp this week will be Gareth Cooper, Andy Powell and Tom James. Welcome to the team Richie Rees, Jonathon Thomas and Lee Halfpenny.

Cruelly shorn of two thirds of the Worlds best front row (it's Ok, I laid in a stock of new understrides) just days before the game, and hampered by a halfback who is the slowest passer in the world of either hand, as well as a number six who really puts the blind, into blindside, it was always going to be a struggle.

Abject as England were, and believe me if MJ takes anything other than huge concerns away from this game then he is sadly deluded, the loss of 25% of the Jones boys for 5 minutes either side of half time was just a step too far.

Quite what possessed Alun-Wyn, or Alun EnglandWyn as he was apparently called by one team mate after the game, we can only wonder. Pulling out an M16 and spraying the man with bullets would have marginally subtler. His hitherto unblemished record will be as stained as a schoolboys sheet by this transgression.

Only Hook, through his sheer class, and Adam Jones, who is clearly still on the pies, stood out for Wales. Shane Williams had more chance of being caught in possession of heroin than the ball, and Lee Byrne's diffidence to get involved presumably stemmed from his concerns over whether he was the 17th or 18th welshman on the field.

For the Sais, Borthwick managed to keep his nose from getting cut, Care did enough to keep the far more able Youngs out of the squad, but the rest looked like the journeymen they are.

Perhaps the most interesting performance of the entire match came for Prince William, the second in line to the throne of England, who seemed rapturously, and unashamedly delighted whenever Wales scored. Surely he doesn't really think the Welsh recognise the title Prince of Wales?

So on we go, as the Hollies would say, and the road to the end of the championship may well indeed be a long and winding one.

Wales will be concerned, and rightly on this performance, about a resurgent and positive Scotland, whilst England have only a few days in which to enjoy their false dawn before being cast down into the depths of despair.

On domestic violence

South Wales Police have reported that domestic abuse complaints rise by up to 80% at 6 Nations time.

Well of course they would - after Gatland has let you down again with some dodgy selections, Powell has needlessly given away 7 penalties, England have won by 7 points and you're 9 cans of Brains Dark to the good, well it's clearly all the wife's fault, so why wouldn't you smack her round a bit?

It brings to mind the old saying: "What do you tell a woman with two black eyes? Nothing, she's been told twice already"

Picture the scene.....

Dai Jones is slumped on the couch (no sofas in Wales, and only the really smart set have settees). In front of him Dewi Morris (that damned traitor) is interviewing a victorious Steve Borthwick, whose rather annoying nose cut has flared up again. Wales, who lead 27-0 at half time, capitulated in the face of a Johnny Wilksinson drop goal onslaught in the second half to lose 30-27. In comes the wife.....

"Oh, has it finished, who won?" she says.

"The Sais", mutters Jones, who is struggling with Brains Dark and speech.

"Oh, didn't they play very well then? " she enquires gaily.

"It doesn't bloody matter if they play well when every bloody decision goes against them" growls Dai who is sinking deeper into the mire.

"Oh you always say that when they lose. I expect the English are just a better team"

"No they're not, they're bloody crap, and we are much better, but fate once again has conspired against us and thanks to a blind linesman we had a try disallowed in injury time as well"

"Oh calm down", she says, "are you going to be in a bad mood all weekend?"

At which point the good Mr Jones would indeed be remiss if he didn't stand up and give her the slap she so thoroughly deserved.

If women took more time to understand the 6 Nations, and what it means to their menfolk, then incidents of this kind could be avoided.

And if that's not possible, because you married some bra burning, hairy legged hockey fan, then suggest a trial separation for Feb and March each year.

Because it is about to start, and it is indeed serious business!

On the 6 Nations decider

Right here in that little bastion that is forever Wales, namely 72 Fairview Crescent, Waiheke, the excitment is building., No, not the AC/DC concert tomorrow night, although that too promises much, but in fact the onset of the 6 Nations - and with it, the match of the greatest significance to either side, Wales versus England. Sure, Triple Crowns and Grand Slams are nice, but victory over the old foe, for either side, is what marks a good season from bad.

The enmity between the men of Cymru and the incomers, the Sais, goes back evermore in history, and is, I am delighted to say, as acute as ever.

This years' game has the added impetus given by the Lee Byrne controversy. So, ERC, it's OK for England to cheat at will, but not Wales? Thankfully justice has been done and we can expect to see Byrne trotting out with his team mates in the number 16 jersey shortly before the singing begins.

It should be a good match. Brian Moore has promised to observe 90 minutes silence in honour of Bill Mclaren, which should improve the commentary, and both teams have a point to prove, not least the English who in recent times have finally started to earn some the accolades they have been accused of over the years - boring, unimaginative, staid, pointless, well tryless anyway.

Team divot, sorry, pivot, Johmmy Wilko is primed to kick all day, just to prove that Matthew Tait is no good with the ball in hand, and up front 3 journeymen will compete with the best front row in the world.

Who would have thought it, Wales having the best front row in the world. I'll say it again, it has a nice ring to it. Wales having the best front row in the world. Whoops, time for a change of understrides.

It brings back memories of the great Poolers of the 70's; Charlie Faulkner, Graham Price and the other fellow, what was his name? Something to do with Germany? Ah yes, Bobby Windsor.
And now it's Jenkins, Jones and Rees - three finer Welshmen, and indeed Welsh names, you couldn't hope for. Uhoh, there goes another pair.

The genius of Ryan Jones at 8, the evergreen, well, ginger Williams at openside, and than a back line showing a dazzling array of talent, Lions to a man.....except! The one gaping hole is at scrum half. Cruelly shorn of Phillips, there is a chance to blood Richie Rees - the find of the year. But do you take a chance on Rees in such a vital game where the winner takes it all?

England have little to lose, except the game, which seems to becoming a habit of theirs. Wales, on the otherhand, notoriously slow starters, harbour hopes of the Championship.

It should be a battle royal. Cymru am byth!

On our favourite Scot

Henmania? Who the f**k was Henman? It's Murraymania now, as the tangle haired, foul mouthed but won't-we-love-him-if-he-wins Scot brushed aside Nadal as if he was just another Spanish Armada.

That Nadal was practically in a wheelchair when he retired is of no relevance. The Mint had it won anyway. Such courage, such tenacity, such a shame he's so obnoxious.

But that's why Tiger Tim never cut the mustard when the chips were down. He was too nice, too worried if his girlfriend was watching him.

Little Andy couldn't give an airborne Donald about what people think, he just wants to win, and win he may well.

Only a bloke called Marian (shouldn't be too hard), and the Fed Express stand in his way. It's common knowledge that Swiss Rog is about to be exposed by the National Enquirer as Tiger Woods in a full body suit, which should distract him just enough for the Dunblane Lobber to sneak past him in 4 sets and claim the crown

If he does, the Wimbledon Committee will breathe a sigh of relief, and be able to abandon their plan to ban foreign nationals in 2011 in a effort to bolster the chances of a first British winner since Fred Pterodactyl in 778000 BC.

Of course, Brits holding both the Ashes and the Australian title at one time will only strengthen calls for Australia to ditch the monarchy once and for all, but who cares. Australians have never understood that the whole point of Australia was to get rid of them in the first place.

So Och Aye de Noo, It's a broad brich moon lich, and Cowdenbeath for the Cup.

Come on, let's here it. Murray, MUrray, MURray, MURRay, MURRAy, MURRAY