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| Drunk on points and pints after a day of Six Nations debauchery | |
| (35 minutes later) | |
| ‘We’ve run out of the adjectives of hyperbole,” said John Inverdale, awe in his voice. For the sports commentator there can be no higher praise. On an astonishing day, full of surprises and basketball scorelines, one familiar truth held fast: you can trust the old enemy. Until the final game everything had been shaping up perfectly. At least, perfectly if you were an England fan and not a stickler for defensive rugby. At lunchtime Wales were winning the championship. By teatime Ireland had it firmly grasped. But the scene was set for England to find a gear hitherto not engaged and do whatever was necessary. Even quite sensible people let hope triumph over their experience. | ‘We’ve run out of the adjectives of hyperbole,” said John Inverdale, awe in his voice. For the sports commentator there can be no higher praise. On an astonishing day, full of surprises and basketball scorelines, one familiar truth held fast: you can trust the old enemy. Until the final game everything had been shaping up perfectly. At least, perfectly if you were an England fan and not a stickler for defensive rugby. At lunchtime Wales were winning the championship. By teatime Ireland had it firmly grasped. But the scene was set for England to find a gear hitherto not engaged and do whatever was necessary. Even quite sensible people let hope triumph over their experience. |
| What nobody counted on was France not only not rolling over by a few dozen points but having the audacity to try to win themselves. Very unreasonable. Still, for those of us in front of the television it would have been churlish to complain about one of the most entertaining days of sport in memory. | What nobody counted on was France not only not rolling over by a few dozen points but having the audacity to try to win themselves. Very unreasonable. Still, for those of us in front of the television it would have been churlish to complain about one of the most entertaining days of sport in memory. |
| We watched the games at the Faltering Fullback in London’s Finsbury Park. It opened at noon. We arrived at 12.03 by which time there were no seats left and one or two lads were on their second pints. It was hard to blame them. After all, the final day of the Six Nations can be an anticlimactic affair, a grand slam processional. This was never going to be one of those days. Matters were finely poised, in a state of High Permutation. Extra trophies had to be brought in specially. Four teams – England included – could still win the tournament. Anything could happen. Nearly everything did. | We watched the games at the Faltering Fullback in London’s Finsbury Park. It opened at noon. We arrived at 12.03 by which time there were no seats left and one or two lads were on their second pints. It was hard to blame them. After all, the final day of the Six Nations can be an anticlimactic affair, a grand slam processional. This was never going to be one of those days. Matters were finely poised, in a state of High Permutation. Extra trophies had to be brought in specially. Four teams – England included – could still win the tournament. Anything could happen. Nearly everything did. |
| To maintain the fragile equilibrium of permutation each team had to do their bit. First up, Wales were obliged to stick at least two dozen past Italy to be in with a chance. In the first half it looked like they might not do it as they huffed and puffed to losing 14-13. But after a quick, restorative suck at the isotonic teats they came back out powered by new and mysterious energies. | To maintain the fragile equilibrium of permutation each team had to do their bit. First up, Wales were obliged to stick at least two dozen past Italy to be in with a chance. In the first half it looked like they might not do it as they huffed and puffed to losing 14-13. But after a quick, restorative suck at the isotonic teats they came back out powered by new and mysterious energies. |
| I wonder at which point during the ensuing debauchery the watching English and Irish players became depressed. Was it when George North scampered through for his hat-trick by the right post? The 50 points coming up? If it were me it would have been the sight of Sam Warburton gambolling free of the defence to flop over for his try. Faltering indeed. | I wonder at which point during the ensuing debauchery the watching English and Irish players became depressed. Was it when George North scampered through for his hat-trick by the right post? The 50 points coming up? If it were me it would have been the sight of Sam Warburton gambolling free of the defence to flop over for his try. Faltering indeed. |
| Perhaps mindful of their role to play in the permutations Italy didn’t do any tackling at all for the final half hour. It was generous of them to enter of the spirit of the tournament like that and even more so to score the consolation try that kept England’s task later within the bounds of possibility. | Perhaps mindful of their role to play in the permutations Italy didn’t do any tackling at all for the final half hour. It was generous of them to enter of the spirit of the tournament like that and even more so to score the consolation try that kept England’s task later within the bounds of possibility. |
| Next was Ireland at Murrayfield. The precariousness of the points table meant that for once Scotland’s role as the “yes, but by how many?” side was crucial to the outcome. Their own devotion to the gods of permutation led them to invite the Irish to pummel them. When they were level on points difference with Wales, Scotland’s Geoff Cross, and his monstrous hipster beard, was sent to the sin bin. It looked like Ireland might run out of sight but Jonathan Sexton, taking lessons from the Italian defence, kept things competitive by fluffing a few kicks. If Stuart Hogg had remembered to put the ball down rather than drop it, England’s task to come would have been easier. It wasn’t to be. By this point the pub crowd was score-drunk from 131 points in two games. Normal drunk, also. | Next was Ireland at Murrayfield. The precariousness of the points table meant that for once Scotland’s role as the “yes, but by how many?” side was crucial to the outcome. Their own devotion to the gods of permutation led them to invite the Irish to pummel them. When they were level on points difference with Wales, Scotland’s Geoff Cross, and his monstrous hipster beard, was sent to the sin bin. It looked like Ireland might run out of sight but Jonathan Sexton, taking lessons from the Italian defence, kept things competitive by fluffing a few kicks. If Stuart Hogg had remembered to put the ball down rather than drop it, England’s task to come would have been easier. It wasn’t to be. By this point the pub crowd was score-drunk from 131 points in two games. Normal drunk, also. |
| So to the final event at Twickenham. The referee, Nigel Owens, seemingly on the verge of bursting out of his shirt, Hulk-like, seemed extra alert, attuned to whatever weird atmospheric condition was causing the chaos. For five minutes England dreamed; George Ford snuck over the line. It was on. Then it was off again as Sébastien Tillous-Borde and Noa Nakaitaci scored in response. Nakaitaci, perhaps inspired by Hogg, nearly wandered out of bounds before grounding it. “Figuratively, he wants shooting,” said Brian Moore, raising the alarming possibility Moore sometimes has cause to say this in a non-figurative sense. Luckily, there was not much time to dwell on this before the tries started flowing again. France would score and England inched back, the balance ebbing and flowing. In the end it wasn’t quite enough. | So to the final event at Twickenham. The referee, Nigel Owens, seemingly on the verge of bursting out of his shirt, Hulk-like, seemed extra alert, attuned to whatever weird atmospheric condition was causing the chaos. For five minutes England dreamed; George Ford snuck over the line. It was on. Then it was off again as Sébastien Tillous-Borde and Noa Nakaitaci scored in response. Nakaitaci, perhaps inspired by Hogg, nearly wandered out of bounds before grounding it. “Figuratively, he wants shooting,” said Brian Moore, raising the alarming possibility Moore sometimes has cause to say this in a non-figurative sense. Luckily, there was not much time to dwell on this before the tries started flowing again. France would score and England inched back, the balance ebbing and flowing. In the end it wasn’t quite enough. |
| At the risk of Moore’s wrath, by the end I barely cared who won the championship. Ireland deserved it, Wales deserved it, England deserved it. If an absurd day proved anything it was the benefit of watching games on a screen rather than live. Who would want to choose only one out of three matches as entertaining as these? How could you enjoy them without the professionals on hand to navigate the permutations? Hundreds of points, 27 tries, endless entertainment. In the end only one question remained: was it rugby? | At the risk of Moore’s wrath, by the end I barely cared who won the championship. Ireland deserved it, Wales deserved it, England deserved it. If an absurd day proved anything it was the benefit of watching games on a screen rather than live. Who would want to choose only one out of three matches as entertaining as these? How could you enjoy them without the professionals on hand to navigate the permutations? Hundreds of points, 27 tries, endless entertainment. In the end only one question remained: was it rugby? |