"All praise for the end of the Topsport Ford Telecom Adidas Tri-Nations Super-Conglomerate Grandfelch and welcome to rugby as God intended. I won't miss it. The nationalistic, masturbatory outpourings of mindless middle-New Zealand have largely turned me off All Black rugby - that and the black and white ads with John Mitchell, Jonah, an awkward looking Pinetree and that wee lassie who chows down on her follicles.

Most sports talkback callers should be gassed. Or at least ritualistically shaved and thrown into a very deep hole. Y'know the ones: those who think that the ref's to blame for every loss to Australia and that it has nothing to do with our own team repeatedly losing its bottle in the 79th minute. I recommend to anyone who might be feeling particularly dopey to tune into sports talkback and experience the instant gratification of self-worth flowing back through the brain vessels as a direct result of the diatribes spewed forth by South Island farmers with no lives and internet connections to www.barnyard-xxx-games.com.

(That's not a site, incidentally. We at harbourrugby.com have already checked and been disappointed.)

After all the Kiwi bleating about bad refereeing in the Aussie game we lost, like complaints were strangely absent from our win over the boers. Strange thing this ref-blaming: the Ockers themselves had a legitimate try ruled out and we adopted an odd tactic in the final 10 minutes of kicking the ball down the necks of the most lethal backs in world rugby and watching them carve up vast swathes of open space over about 15 phases at a time, long before MacDonald stuck his mitt in a ruck. And wasn't Mexted - or 'Muzza' to his fans (Nisbo and Smithy, currently) - just a joke when he suggested that that final ruling might have been pedantic? It's a ruck, it's a hand, it's a professional foul.

The South African test was more enjoyable. Big-ups to fat man who ran onto the field. Never have I seen such passion, such commitment and such well-intentioned acts of support for one's team. Clearly the half-time bantu-dogs washed down with Steins of Castle didn't satisfy his elephantine lust for sustenance so he did what any self-respecting jungle-dweller would. The mild-mannered leprechaun had no chance and, as the primordial beast was led from the field I was pretty sure I could hear McHugh screaming, Jonah-like, from that remarkable belly.

Anyway, it's NPC time. I have seen much to hearten me this year. The Poe has dolled itself up so that the average punter might even consider drinking there. The weather has been completely pies and so, based on last year's record, another semi-final spot beckons.

Away trips: to the land of cows and teenage pregnancy and sometimes simultaneously; to the land of bulls and teenage pregnancy and usually simultaneously; to the land of the sweet mary jane, teenage pregnancy and welfare and always simultaneously; and to the House of Satan to mash up some Scum. Mad for it. I'm off to get lubed, greased, waxed and spanked. But I should be done by Saturday."