Tries: K O'Neill, C Laulala
Cons: B Blair (2)
Pens: B Blair (3)

High foreheads, exaggerated sideburns, brown hair with prominent ginger streaks, simian ear canals, freckles, intense-yet-distant eyes. In isolation, any of these features signify little other than God dealing us an awkward hand - irritating, but you can still fold before minor disadvantage becomes major handicap. In concert, however, these features make for a terrifying beast and their embodiments, clad in red and black scarves and jesters' hats, were out in force on a sunny day at the Theatre of Ratepayers' Burden. Like their poorer cousins from the Waikato, and their much poorer mumcousins from Taranaki, Canterbury fans' passion for rugby comes with the kind of nervous twitch just above the left eyebrow that rumours at sinister pasts and obsessive presents. When the dusty October nor-wester drifts in across the plains to signify the onset of another hot summer of drought and blistering buggery, it's easy to see why the locals will do everything possible to support their side and prolong the winter. With our moral-victory-three-tries-to-two draw, we may have provided a minor fright to their travelling faithful (and to a few million ewes for whom those distracted winter months provide not a little respite from the love-that-dare-not-speak-its-name) but they know that with the probable resources at their disposal later in the competition, the top four is still but a formality. We, on the other hand, can watch the arse-end of the two points we missed out on winging its way to Canterbury's NZRFU-funded palace because we spurned about 5 out of 8 shots at goal.

Coach Pollock got it half-right in his selection: an audible sigh of relief from those in the know when George Pisi's name was read out instead of Andrew Whiteman's; then, as is usually the case with supporting Harbour, equally audible groans as Pisi the Elder was named at fly-half and we perfunctorily kissed goodbye to at least 8 points through shit goal-kicking. Then the normally-reliable Jon Elrick came on and picked up Pisi's cue, missing two from two including one that Frano would have farted over. Meanwhile, Ben Blair slotted everything as only a one-dimensional limited Cantabrian can. (Speaking of one-dimensional Cantabrians, Andy Earl was at the ground raising cash for infertile folk who want to have babies. Honourable cause indeed, although I would have thought that there were more pressing sexual dysfunctions down Geraldine way. It wouldn't take too much money to send around a flyer informing mainlanders that copulating with livestock does not a baby make.)

After conceding a soft early try, we rallied to spend most of the half in the Canterbury 22. The forwards fought like dervishes and Pisi rewarded their efforts by missing a couple of shots at goal and punting positional penalties sixty rows back into the empty open stand for 5 metre gains. Except for the first one when he missed touch completely. While Tusi worked his magic, Tuitavake was unleashing some frustration by launching targeted crucifixions on hapless Canterbury runners, Caleb Ralph coming in for special attention so that by the second half he looked lost, scared, and useless, which is strange because he's normally really good. Following some good work by Tuitavake and Waqaseduadua, Tom Harding went over in the corner, before Nick Williams threw their halfback the ball 12 metres out and watched them score. In fairness, our scrum looked like a '66 Lada at a wrecker's yard, and was being systematically destroyed by men who obviously haven't humped anything human in quite some time. Despite this, Williams, Harding, and Wilson still managed to gain metres and turnover some frankly impossible ball; and with everyone spot-tackling like their anal virginity depended on it, we managed to make the imposing Canterbury forwards look almost human which of course they are. Almost human.

The second half belonged to Tuitavake and his hard-hitting compadres. Every Canterbury attack was snuffed out by the kinds of tackles that large brown men from Massey seem to learn in the womb, whilst the large white men from the more affluent areas of our fair union settled for turnovers and driving defence. Both complemented each other and served to demoralise the visitors, who proceeded to let Tuitavake stroll through them twice. I think. Or did Rua get one? Anyway, we hit the front before letting them sneak back again. Then it was left only for the ref to get another urgent call from the NZRFU instructing him not to award us a penalty for their collapsing our attacking maul ten metres from their line with time up on the clock - an instruction with which he duly complied under Law 26, section 3, sub-section 4, paragraph 1 (revised):

"Non super-12 franchise bases will kiss our hairy testicles before they get so much as a sniff of a match-winning penalty against a super-12 franchise base. And after they have, they still won't. And hand over all your good players, too, and don't fucking complain about it you unpatriotic whingers, coz it's for the good of the country. Another job well done for the good of rugby. Where's the sherry and the whores?"

Two points that we wouldn't have expected but then another two that we thought we might've got and then didn't.