|Captain Ritchie McCaw contemplating a dish of Wallaby Stew|
Last night the gallant Welsh were put to the sword by the French. The French! Unbelievable. I've sworn off French Toast for the rest of the month!
Lest there be any misunderstanding, I'm talking about Rugby; real football. Not (shudder) Aussie Rules or that effete deviation common in the United States (the one with helmets and shoulder pads). And tonight New Zealand meets Australia in the second World Cup semi-final.
In the wake of Wales' tragic defeat, and the clock relentlessly ticking down to tonight's struggle between the forces of evil and the black-clad Sons of Light, it was a choice, this morning, between prayer and fasting, or retail therapy. I opted for the latter.
But I'm not sure it's worked.
And imagine - if such a ghastly thing can be imagined - if the Australians did, by some miracle (a demonic miracle) did beat the All Blacks and went on to play France in the finals...
I mean, who could you even consider cheering for?