Waikato defensive coach Cletus Kowphuker

They're bred harder in the country, raised on a diet of steel wire and early mornings when the city boys are still tucked up in bed. Rugby reflects this, binds a community together, gives a point of commonality to all those provinces that provide the backbone to this great country, enhanced further by the loyalty to their own particular provincial beers which - with the benefit of advertising campaigns that draw futher distinctions between the hearty country and the soft city - serve to embellish these truths. Except that these truths are, in fact, bullshit. The provinces are narrow-minded havens of high-foreheaded slack-jaws, and the mighty boys from the country's fourth-biggest city sent them off packing in a display that evoked the days of yore.

To a man we fronted and shoved their sad misapprehensions of masculinity and semi-final aspirations back down that soggy shit-hole they call a river. As if Luke strolling through unopposed to unlock the floodgates weren't enough, Little Byron then limped off with a stubbed toe to compound his own miserable season. He waits around for years for Marshall to piss off, then when Marshall finally does, Little Byron injures every imaginable part of his greasy frame and lets Piri Weepu take the mantle of top halfback. Tuitavake, bound for who Hamish MacKay called 'South Harbour' (Otago) next season, scored a brace and killed some people; the mighty Noble stormed around like a demented ape and took some time to mock the Mooloo's limp attacking prowess and throw a ball in one of their number's simian face; Zar Lawrence had his best game in a Harbour shirt and made his opposite number look decidedly average - apparently Sivivatu is supposed to be good but, frankly, our number 14 seemed streets better: he has the 'nads to take players on on the outside, and he always seems to be enjoying himself. George Pisi shows the sort of commitment that his older brother has - except that George's commitment is to catching the ball and making dangerous runs, whereas Tusi's is to miss easy shots at goal and to kick the ball out on the full from advantageous attacking positions. Skipper Rua led from the front, captured perfectly by a Herald photographer who snapped some ugly-jerseyed retard getting a faceful of Rua's fist. (Wherever you go in the world, you'll see some dim-witted Waikato fan grinning inanely with a faraway look in his eye, wearing that hideous jumper like it's the King's gown, rather than some putrid rag of shit thrown together as part of a Trade Aid patchwork-duvet-for-peace contribution.) And our forwards. Our brave, mighty forwards. The work of these men can perhaps best be summed up by Tom Harding's try. We made stupid arses of guys who are meant to be stronger, gruntier, and more committed to the cause.

A truly great Harbour performance, and one that led some old Waikato loser moan about the ref despite our being penalised about a hundred and twelve times in the last 15 minutes. Go tell it to yer heifer's arse, mate, coz we don't care. Part-time, wannabe Cantabs. Hate them. They're shite and they know they are.

If we are a union in revolt, let the treason have free rein, I say. And on that cryptic note...