Does anyone play this game here.

The local press had tagged this baby as being a war of the scrums; Kursk, Stalingrad and the worst excesses of the siege of Carthage would pale in comparison to the atrocities that were expected in the front row. The reality was somewhat more mundane. There seems to have been an outbreak of dropsy for the early part of the game and the Puma's managed to get ball back without their hooker doing anything - a minor miracle in itself.Wales joined the dropsy brigade for most of the first half until a clever ruse by the ref, after giving a penalty, fooled the entire Argentinian team into believing Stephen Jones was painting his nails. The cynosure of Jones' attention however was the try line which was winking at him like a girl from Tonypandy on a Saturday night; the intention was clear.He shot off - a man posessed - and threw himself and the ball into the try area whilst the Pumas were debating the merits of Hot Coral Glaze and Moonlight Shadow.The winded Jones recoverd in a trice and converted to put him squarely into the Welsh pantheon that will never buy another pint. Such an accolade will also go to Shane Williams who scored a further two tries - one of which confirms that he favours Einstein over Pythagoras in that the shortest distance between two points is in fact a curve and not a straight line.

Forever to be known as the match that was as flat as several miles of linoleum. Wales were worse than indifferent. The All Blacks were poor but it was nothing compared to the Taff. Fantastically inept they threw away a chance to beat the opposition for the first time in er 56 years. Reputations - such as they were - were ruined.

It's nineteen thirty five again.Or is it fifty three?It could be five past seven.Time's troublesome to me.To win again?It's not to late.The Blacks are back.But not too great.Let's hope its not a seventy eightRemember Andy Haden.

The All Blacks are here.1978 is in the air and hyperbole runneth high; the ghost of Andy Haden throws his misbegotten soul out of the lineout once again.But it is the nature of man is to forgive ( tempting Von Clauswitz's assertion that "To forget history is to be condemned to relive it.") and so we trudge to Cardiff in our droves in the hope eternal of a 'fair' game.Oceans of booze will be consumed before we reach Tonypandy and much merriment will ensue with the usual pessimistic murmurings that we haven't beaten them since 1953.The All Blacks are here.

Here's something you may have missed. Ferndale is a small village in thr Rhondda Fach. It is an a typical Welsh mining village with a history of coalmining. The local council decided to commemorate and celebrate the village's past by erecting a statue in bronze. Of what I hear you ask. A miner and his family? Winding gear or some other mining paraphenalia? That would be too easy. So they decided to erect a statue of a bronze cow. Yes that's right - a bronze cow.

To AutumnSeason of mists and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.IIWho hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers:And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.IIIWhere are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble softThe red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.JOHN KEATS

Thanks people.:)