Saturday, 17 March 2012

Grand Slam

I was up early this morning.  Well, 7.40am, which is early for a Saturday.  And fairly early for a week day, if I'm honest.  What dragged me out of my cosy bed was a rugby match: Wales v. France.  On one side: a team whose playing ability is matched only by its strategic genius and natural talent.  On the other: the French.  If Wales won, they would claim the Six Nations Grand Slam (that is, beating everyone) for the third time in eight years.

Well, they did, because some things are pre-ordained.  It was a brutal match of high class, with the crunches of the tackles picked up on various mics and broadcast.  And no, they don't wear padding.  75,000 people were in the stadium to watch, with many millions outside, the countless angels in heaven singing, and probably St Patrick too, who I just learned was actually Welsh and kidnapped by Irish raiders at 16!

In many ways, it was like the time Haas played Stanford...


Y ddraig goch a ddyry gychwyn!


Almost like being in the stadium...