I left you in Starbucks yesterday (official sponsors of this blog from here on in) and I rejoin you in the same place but at a different table. A lot has happened since then. A morning stroll round the fan zone and freshening air take-in down by the harbour, where the spitting rain and high breeze started to concern me ahead of the big game. Back to the hotel to get changed into the war gear, England shirt for those that wondered, and it was back to the Fan Zone to feel the atmosphere build. A couple of beers with another lone Englishman while watching the repeat of South Africa vs Samoa through less jetlagged eyes, and learning of Frans Steyn's cruel injury - he was critical to their chances I believe, and now will have to rely on the ageing De Villiers at centre.
On the O'Hagans at the Viaduct, a kind of harbour-side collection of bars, and this one full to bursting with Scottish and English fans. Greeted by the ever welcoming Nodge and Lorraine of Lochaber and their friends, we proceeded to watch Australia run rampant against Russia in the first half before the Russians showed the promise they have by coming back and scoring three tries. The day was well set-up as we went on our merry way to Eden Park, relying on updates for the France game from France.... the swear words which accompanied the text messages said everything. They had been proudly boasting how they would be eating roast beef this afternoon in the build-up to the Calcutta Cup game, but the Tongan's, who have a formidable size, left no frogs' legs anywhere and came out surprise (?) winners.
Eden Park was a swirl of water as the teams came out, and having bizarrely found myself, completely by chance, 12 seats away from the aforementioned Nodge and Lorraine, I manoeuvred my way across the row of seats and ended up accompanying them through the game. Scotland started with an injury to Jackson, which meant Parks, for whom this situation was made, came into the action early. A turgid first half ensued, with both sides relying on penalties and drop goals to move the scoreboard. However, the once metronomic Wilkinson was far from it, and missed 4 kicks and a drop goal, while Parks nurdled Scotland forward and saw them enter the half-time interval 9-3 leaders.
I must say that, while I could see us losing the game, the 8 point margin never really worried me as I could see enough promise in Foden, Armitage and Ashton when they got the ball to make a difference. Martin Johnson will take stick for the unenterprising way the side played at times, but his selection of Armitage ahead of Cueto was a masterstroke and his pace and additional security under the high ball (he and Foden never made a mistake) were key. He almost escaped at the start of the second half but was nudged into touch by desperate Scottish defenders. When Scotland finally breached the 8 point gap, the noise from Celtic corners was deafening, and England needed to react. React they did with Mr Dropgoal. Wilkinson finally striking one sweetly, to haul the deficit back instantly. A penalty followed, and at 12-9 the stage was set. The next score was always going to be critical, as it would either see Scotland back over the margin, or a drop goal away, or England effectively kill things. Kill things they did. A kick to touch from Flood from a penalty (note to Jonny, if you can't reach, kick to touch). England lost the line-out to the impressive Gray (of whom more later) but turned over the ball and spread it wide where that man Ashton, the finisher supreme, went over in the corner. Flood, with perfect timing, slotted the conversion, and the impending shadows of the All Blacks were obscured as England went 4 points clear, a margin they held until the Final whistle, which was greeted by some incredible relief in most England quarters, and immense deception from the Scots.
Back to Auckland and the party started. 3 beers in a first place where the pretty, and witty barmaid regaled the three of us at the bar with the immortal lines:
"Are you some kind of joke?"
"Sorry?"
"Well, look at yourselves"
So I did... An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman.... Point taken.
A stroll around Auckland streets saw us in some trendy 80s bar for a couple, along with the Scottish second row Richie Gray. 20 years old, 20 feet tall, 20 inches of blond locks. Seemingly nice guy too as he partied away with his mates. Good on him. If you can't let your hair down before you go home, what can you do?
One final bar, with live Merseyside derby at 3am, and live music from a female vocalist who divided opinion, and that was that. A rip-roaring 15 hours in Auckland.
Then you wake up to find that, the one thing the All Blacks couldn't afford has happened. Carter out for the tournament. There will be an ever-growing feeling in England and France that, in spite of everything, maybe, just maybe, this could be the year....
More later folks, I'm off to take solace in the skinny latte before heading somewhere to watch today's marathon of rugby, which involves a mouth-watering Ireland vs Italy later.
PS On the accommodation front, a picture will accompany the next entry, but I have a new premise. Never ever have 100% confidence in an establishment which has the hot tap with cold water coming out and vice versa. As I typed that I got attacked by a tiny bird. I'm sure there's an omen in that, but I'll be buggered if I can work that out.
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