As the witches in Macbeth prophesised: "Fair is foul and foul is fair." They were referring to some Scottish bloke in the 1500s who couldn't just tell his wife, "Piss off, I've got nothing against the old bugger so you just bloody well kill him yourself," but the wizened old hags may just as well have been referring to Harbour's 2001 season opener at the House of Mild, Dull Aches And Test Losses. Our normally foul front row was fair and the normally fair loose forwards and backs were a steaming pile of pants.

Tony Woodcock might just be the most refreshing burst of front row talent our union has produced and (working with ever-reliable Buddha and a large Tongan whose name alone frightens the bejesus out of me, never mind his size) our scrum wiped the 2-Minute-Noodles-With-A-Side-Serving-Of-Cockroach Brigade off the park.

Our backs were an abomination. Even with lawn bowler Willie 'Wood' (thanks Grant Nisbett) in the line-up again (presumably after spending the summer ensuring the bias of his balls was in tip-top shape) we were awful. Although anyone who had seen Willie in the club final should have known his option-taking would only be adequate and his place-kicking the sum total of arse. Which it was.

This was due in large part to our much-vaunted loose forward trio who played so well last season with little support from the tight five but who have obviously been spending too much time at Rodney Wayne's paying big bucks to look like 1970s pop/lounge/disco crossover star Leo Sayer (touring New Zealand next month with all your old favourites like, 'You Make Me Feel Like Dancing', 'When I Need You' and 'Why Can't I Preserve What Little Dignity I Have By Just Going Away Quietly?'). The loosies were completely outplayed by three large men of dubious parentage, which meant our backs received little ball of genuine quality.

Pick and go; drive and blow over; suck in the forwards; give it to the backs; backs score many tries in keeping with the obvious talent we have.

For all the rules, it's actually a pretty simple game.

And what's with this 'House of Pain' crap? Nothing but a self-fulfilling misnomer. It was doubtless invented by some retarded student who, bellyful of Speights and cell-less of brain, probably stapled his scrotum to the terracing in a "Win-An-Hour's-Supply-Of-Rice" competition on the radio. It's certainly got bugger-all to do with the rugby there. They're just lucky we were more awful than them.

Cow-Mounters with Six Fingers coming up this weekend and, after their demolition of the hordes from Pukekohe we may well be in for a tough day at the office.