North Harbour vs Otago Carisbrook, Dunedin 7:35pm, Thursday 14 July 2011
29	46
Tries: J King, C Rei, R Wulf, M Luamanu Cons: B Botica (3) Pen: B Botica	Tries: E Joubert (2), J Hill, B Atiga, TJ Ioane, R Verbakel Cons: G Dickson (5) Pen: G Dickson Drop Goal: T Brown
Halftime: 5 - 24

Nothing quite like brushing off the old Harbour scarf on a rainy and windy Thursday night, popping down to the local to sit by the fire and watch the opening match of the ITM Cup, and downing a soothing pint of Despair with a side nip of 27-year old Agony (not so rare).

We've got to be fair: Otago are nowhere near as shite as they were last year. They've got fresh impetus from a creditable Super 14 showing, they've got a newfound sense of purpose and direction, they've got a large South African captain who happens to be shit-hot, and they've got a new stadium. All of these mean that the dark days should be over for a while.

We, on the other hand, gain nothing - and never have - from the Blues creditable showing in the Super 14 because of our (and Northland's) relative position in that franchise; it's too early to tell whether we have a newfound sense of purpose and direction, unless the purpose is to lose by 20-odd points every week and the direction is down the shitter - let's wait for a bit more evidence before passing judgement there; we don't have a South African captain who is shit-hot but we did once have a South African halfback who was shit-hot but whose papers weren't in order, which was nice; and we once had a new stadium, as full of promise as it was empty of people - except when the Kiwi rugby league team played there - and which is now affectionately known in Harbour rugby circles as, variously, Theatre of Ratepayers' Burden, House of Pain(ful Mortgage Repayments), The Baldy Half-Incher (3/4ths of it has no roof and most of it's completely unused and useless), or The Bottomless Pit.

All was not bad. Like last year, the side played well in patches. Luamanu, King, Wilson, and Wulf in particular looked good. Others like Rei and Raikuna lurched from the excellent to the abysmal, reminiscent of men whose intravenous shots of P only lasted for four minutes at a time. This is the job for Barry and Wilson, as it was for Dowd: to keep producing the P-induced freakery goodness whilst trying to avoid those prolonged spells in which we plummet to the levels of mentally defective four-year olds playing some spasticated version of rippa rugby. Our good is good; our bad needs to be much less bad.