I’ve become worryingly domesticated over the last few Saturday and Sunday mornings. I’ve emptied, scrubbed and cleaned the cat’s litter tray; I’ve dismantled and washed his water fountain (and put it back together without losing a crucial small plastic part down the sink); I’ve swept the kitchen floor; I’ve hung out the washing without getting myself too tangled up in the airer and the damp clothes; I’ve put the powder and softener in the washing machine and loaded it; I’ve even been to the supermarket for milk and bread before the crowds started to arrive.
Usually, I’ve done all this before 10.30am and before Mrs W and the cat had roused themselves from their beds.
I’ll only be doing it for three more weekends, though; it’s not a habit I intend to fall into.
Even those of you with only a passing interest in sport have probably realised that this is all tied in with the Rugby World Cup, currently taking place in New Zealand.
I would describe myself as a rugby fan from a moderate distance. I played at school, but only when I really had to and before my dodgy knees ended any hope of a sporting career; I took an interest during 15 years on the sports desk of The Birmingham Post, when specialist knowledge of Worcester, Moseley, Coventry, Birmingham & Solihull et al was a crucial part of the sub-editor’s job.
I was a regular follower of the club game on television, before the Rugby Football Union dived into the money pit which is Sky Sports and deprived a huge proportion of the population of proper coverage.
I watch the Six Nations on the BBC every year and promise myself that I will visit at least one West Midlands ground each season, something which I signally failed to do in 2010-11.
But the 2011 World Cup has reignited my serious interest as, of course, the rugby authorities want it to.
I determined before the start of the campaign to watch every England game, then developed a sort of vicarious Irish-ness as I realised what a decent team they were (something which I can entirely justify through Mrs W’s roots in Counties Leitrim and Donegal).
I have yet to rise at 4am or 6am to watch Wales but, as the tournament reaches its’ business end this Saturday and Sunday, I plan to watch both quarter-finals on both days, with any luck leaving the other residents of the house sound asleep.
How do I think the four matches will go? England have developed that priceless habit of playing desperately poorly at times yet still winning, while an equally disjointed France squad seem to be enjoying themselves about as much as the England football team at their World Cup last year.
It should be a win for Martin Johnson’s men, then, but their inability to play convincing attacking rugby is going to tell at some stage and Jonny Wilkinson is a shadow of his former self; I don’t believe the ball he’s kicking is to blame.
Of course, if England do win, then there’s the possibility of a semi-final against Ireland, something which would stretch domestic relations at Warrillow Towers close to breaking point. ‘Herself’ might even join me in front of the television for that one.
I think Ireland will see off Wales, something which will not endear me to at least three close friends while Argentina, who face the hosts, have surely gone as far as they can and South Africa should beat Australia.
Here we go, then; the alarm is set for 5.45am, the tea, coffee and toast is on hand and, all being well, I will be sufficiently awake to complete domestic business at half-time and between games.
If I don’t, getting out to see Tamworth v Lincoln City tomorrow afternoon could require some delicate negotiations.....
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