NEWSDESK: Sporting media questioned the All Blacks’ decision to conduct today’s press conference solely through the medium of break dance. Asked about preparations for Sunday’s world cup final, lock Ali Williams performed a series of wild airflares, followed by a toprock reverse airbaby off a table. Asked to expand on his response, Williams performed an elbow chair.

“I turned up expecting some real insight before such a crucial match, not some guy laying out lino and spinning around on it. It’s unprofessional,” said rugby  journalist Fred Sauce-Tie. “It’s the worst press conference since John Eales did rhythmic gymnastics in Brisbane that time.”

Breakdancing, a popular style of street dance that was created and developed as part of hip-hop culture among African Americans and Latino youths in New York City is generally considered a non-traditional media relations channel. However, it proved popular among French media, who tapped their notepads rhythmically while Sonny Bill Williams pulled off a difficult handglide freeze. Reserve first five eighths Stephen Donald did not participate in the breakdancing, performing only light Parkour at the press conference’s conclusion.

This edition of ‘Ending a Nation’s World Cup Heartbreak’ is starting to read like some kind of sick Hollywood script. Carter OUT! McCaw INJURED! Plucky would-be redemption-guy Slade OUT! Arguably-should-have-been-there-in-the-first-place-guy Gear IN! Old pro Mils CRYING! Jane ON THE PISS! Donald WHITEBAITING! It’s a huge change from the ‘sleep walk through pool games / lose / everyone argue a lot’ scripts we normally get, but it is no good for the nation’s nerves or sense of proportion, team.

The most impressive thing for me about Cruden, Donald and Gear coming into the squad is that they’re fit and ready to go. Faced with sporting rejection and with many, many high class rugby matches to watch, sportreview.net.nz is sure sportreview.net.nz would have spent the last few weeks on the couch, enjoying a diet of pistachio nuts, beer and crying.

The hero of this particular script is, of course, Piri Weepu, the pint size and width Hurricanes half back that does it all – goal kicking, backup first-fiving, beard leadership and dragging boozing team mates out of north shore boozers. He’s an unlikely candidate for world cup saviour in fairness, having suffered a horrific leg injury this time last year, refuelled a lot over the off season and been one of the absolutely positively stroppy Hurriances. The All Blacks haven’t tried the folk hero approach since ’95 with Jonah Lomu – it’s going well so far, but as all Warriors fans know, banking on a wave of emotion to get you there is a risky strategy at times.

Even so, despite going into a semi final with the dastardly Australians with the country’s 43rd pick first five on the bench, I feel strangely calm, in a ‘really quite drunk, but unconcerned’ fashion. Fact remains that even with Slade Cruden, not Carter, we still have backline the envy of any team – even sportreview.net.nz could play between Weepu and Nonu and appear competent*. I am also heartened by the clichés being rolled out about the All Blacks being stronger as a group for having our star player in the stands and our captain on one leg. If we win this world cup, it will be as a group that’s been tested and triumphed – not as arrogant favourites that fucked it up. It’s worth a try, hey?

Dan!
The thing I love most about Dan Carter is he always looks half asleep. Running straight through a Wallaby defence. Goal kicking. Hanging out on someone’s wall. Farting about wearing only a pair of jocks. Tormenting the Lions. He always seems so relaxed, he’s kind of like your brother’s dodgy mate you suspect smoked a joint before showing up at the 21st. In a country where most males use Marc Ellis as template for manhood, Dan from Southbridge is pretty comfortable being himself, a shit hot rugby player, an obviously loved and respected member of the All Blacks, or an underwear model. Whatever. And so last Tuesday, he did a remarkable job of addressing a hysterical media pack who’d made his groin front page and lead-the-bulletin news. Suddenly he was guidance councillor to a nation, telling us to get over, um, him. It’s debatable whether signing Dan up for a further four years is good for NZ rugby long term, but there’s no doubt the man himself is all class. Heal well, fella.

Of course, in all the semi final excitement, let’s not forget the tournament’s minnows – I would like to pay tribute by publishing one of Haydn’s photos of Troy from Tampa, who didn’t let a little detail like a BROKEN NOSE he got playing rugby stop him coming to New Zealand, wearing an appalling hat and getting farkin’ wasted. Here’s to you, minnows, you have showed us how to enjoy rugby again. Let’s hope we remember that over the next couple of weeks.

* Total lie

This post is my entry in Hadyn’s Field Theory: Rugby World Cup stories competition.  I’m unsure what category ‘smart arse behaves immaturely at world cup’ fits into, but here we go. I *did* warn him my entry would be largely about getting shitfaced.

This was the 1999 world cup of John Hart, new jersies and All Black front-row painted jumbo jets, not to mention hubris, over-confidence and pride before a fall. I was living in London at the time and had the ‘pool pack’ of tickets for NZ v Tonga in Bristol, the match versus England at Twickenham and NZ v Italy up at Huddersfield. We were a group of five chaps, mostly from Hamilton, all fans of rugby, travelling, drinking and average behavior. The match against Italy was a jumping off point for a couple of days away in northern cities.

Our bus from London took us along some of the most boring, scenery-free motorways known to man to Huddersfield in West Yorkshire. Alfred McAlpine Stadium is a charming stadium, situated in the middle of a charming business park – you sit nice and close to the action, and we cheered and carried on as the All Blacks racked up 101 points to poor old Italy’s 3. Cullen, Lomu and Osborne ran riot – even Dylan Mika got on the scoresheet. It was arguably the peak of the All Blacks’ 1999 campaign – next up was a lackluster quarter final against Scotland and THAT match versus the French. Anyway. Rugby is not really the point of *this* story.

Our little group moved straight out of the stadium to the business park tavern to watch Wales v Samoa on the telly. This was the accumulation period, in cricket terms, where a solid base of fizzy lager pints was laid down, while cheering the Samoans on to their second win world cup win against the Welsh. We weren’t feeling much pain at full time, and it was just a quick stagger to the bus to the train station, stopping only for a quick photo-op with a passing Glen Osborne.

The blogger with Glen Osborne. Companion’s identify concealed to protect the drunk.

I soon found myself wandering alone around a Huddersfield train platform, having lost my companions for a while – they were in the station McDonalds loading up before the night ahead, they told me much later (Cheers! You bastards). Having regrouped, we boarded a train bound for Leeds. This being the UK, it was dark when we got there, and we were soon slipping down Leedside streets fruitlessly looking for a pub – on the way we spotted a huge, flash-looking bus outside a flash hotel. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if that was the All Blacks’ team bus?”someone said. Cue Twilight Zone theme.

We ended up in the Leeds equivalent of a Lone Star, thoughtfully offering a two-for-one happy hour, where more accumulation ensued. From there it was on to a dodgy nightclub, an upstairs, no-windowed affair. Our group was busy being loud witty in a fashion you can only be after 16 pints of lager, when we noticed a group of improbably wide-shouldered guys in matching polo shirts and pleated pants making their way in – it was only the bloody All Blacks! Imagine their surprise, having carefully chosen accommodation away from Huddersfield and getting out to a wee nightclub to unwind away from the glare of a rugby mad public, to see us in our All Black gears with a slurry welcome.

We bowled over to the group of seven or eight players, seemingly lead by Josh Kronfeld and Jeff Wilson, to say g’day. Kronfeld was the friendliest, happy to pose for photos and accept any drinks on offer. Wilson was happy to talk, but seemed to have trouble relaxing, weirdly answering any questions as talking to a post match interviewer. I made a great faux pas, asking Greg Feek, who towered over me by about seven feet, who he was. “Greg Feek,” he said helpfully but sternly, before stalking away.

I was pretty impressed with some of the All Blacks players’ own accumulation, considering this was the middle of the world cup. If you remember, John Hart took the team away to the south of France (the next day, as it turns out) for  ’frolicking in the surf’ photo ops before heading to Scotland for the quarter final. I can’t remember if we left first, or them, but we were soon on our way – I remember thinking “Won’t it be great when we get home to New Zealand, we can say we were on the piss with the All Blacks when they won the 1999 world cup!” Ahem.

From there, we were back to Leeds station, to get the last train to Manchester, where we were staying. Just to add to the surreality of it all, we found ourselves sharing the lift up to our hotel rooms with Begbie himself, Robert Carlisle, and two lady-friends. “You’re Robert Carlisle!” I said. “No I’m not,” he said. It bloody was, you know.

This was the first of a three-day tour up north – from Manchester we went to Newcastle (“Hey, we’re over here from New Zealand, do you know our long lost cousin – his name is Alan Shearer?”) then Edinburgh (“I know, let’s spend the day in this ancient city having a head-to-head drinking championship of the world!”). It was a lot of fun. More fun than the rugby.

Cars with an infeasible number of flags on them. People having fun. Irish blokes at the petrol station. Murray McCully acting like a tool. Campbell Live using their caravan of whinge for something positive. After all the carping and moaning (which some people should get fuck over), we are finally well into this world cup, team.

We’re constantly told we’re a rugby mad nation, and now our real appetite for the egg shaped ball code is being put to the test, with rugby and rugby related material dominating all the channels, all the time. And it’s great. On Sunday of the opening world cup weekend, the conversation at our place went like this:

“OK, so we’ve just watched Australia v Italy, Wales v South Africa is later on… do you want to watch Ireland v USA?”

“Um, yeah?”

“The real question is, do you want to watch six hours of rugby in a row?”

The Tron
I used two of the tickets in my ‘Hamilton’ ‘pack’ to attend live matches. The first was the third of the All Blacks not horrendously injured taking on Japan on Friday night – we had seats in the temporary stands and had an excellent view. The All Blacks played like they wanted to be in the team for next week, mostly. Poor old Colin Slade played like a guy in a Stephen Donald tribute band playing at the Donald’s home.It’s the old cliche, but Hamilton was going off – we had a big night out in a pub right in the middle of town, next to the fan zone, we had no trouble getting to. It was brilliant. Equally brilliant was Wales v Samoa. Where I was expecting our Taro-reared south pacific brothers to put Wales to the sword, smashed-him-bro-wise, Wales tackled the crap out of them – and won it. It was a tense match, with a great ‘atmosphere’, in no small part to two fantastic sets of supporters from opposite sides of the world bought together by the love of the rucking code and the big fucking tournament. Awwwww. My only quibbles were the stadium DJ, of course, who squashed any chance of a sing-song from supporters renowned for their singing ability. I heard the same happened at Eden Park with the Irish. The other quibble is the twats starting Mexican waves about ten minutes into the matches – get over it people, I hear Mexican waves are totally uncool even in Mexico these days.

Public enemy
When you see a battered station wagon with ‘Quade Sucks’ written in electrician’s tape on the door, you know NZ has a new public enemy #1. But I put this to the nation – is Quade Cooper the best we can do? A little chicken-legged bleeder from Tokoroa? For throwing a few handbags at Richie McCaw? Really? It all seems a bit forced to me. Surprisingly, Richie seemed up for it in Brisbane. He got involved where a Colin Meads, say, would have ignored Cooper on the field, before marching into the Aussie changing shed post-game, throwing Quade over his shoulder and taking him back to Te Kuiti to shear him in an unnecessarily rough fashion. Bitch slapping, or indeed shearing, should take place behind closed doors, team.

Other stuff
The star of the cup so far has been the madder-than-a-mad-woman’s-shit Queenstown bouncer, on youtube and outside the Queenstown court. Incredible. More unhinged than a DIY gate I’d have built. Fantastic performance, get him alongside Dobbo or Saviloy.

The rugby world cup Flickr stream is worth a look

If you want to talk opening night ‘debacles’ – Fundy Post is all you need

Haydn is giving away Adidas jerseys with rugby world cup stories – most of mine, unfortunately involve getting shitfaced

Friday night was Hamilton.

Sunday afternoon was Hamilton.

NEWSDESK: All Black coach Graham Henry could not rule out a link between the All Blacks’ injury toll and the full contact jousting sessions that took place in closed door training this week. “People have questioned the wisdom of the boys going 25Ks an hour at each other on horseback carrying heavy lances, trying knock each other off by way of a blow to the head or torso during the world cup,” said Henry, adding: “We did give them shields.”

Dan Carter, Richie McCaw, Mils Muliaina and Israel Dagg are all out injured after taking part in the ancient martial sport that gained popularity in the 12th century, while Richard Kahui, who has a suspected broken face, is bracketed with Zac Guilford. “You have to balance the strength and hand-eye co-ordination benefits jousting training provides with the risk of spraining, crushing and stabbing injuries,” said Henry. “We’re reviewing it.”

Steve Hanson said he had good results with jousting training with Canterbury. “You learn a lot about your team mates when they’re trying to put a hole in you. Everyone wanted to have a go against Justin Marshall for some reason – shit, some of the boys have asked if he’s available now.”

Hanson denied reports Andrew Hore had gone rogue somewhere in Hamilton’s north western suburbs with a mace.

If, like sportreview.net.nz, you work in a modern office and have real difficulty getting anything done work-wise without being told to by a poster, you’re in luck. I’ve produced a set of top class rugby / jingoism themed motivational posters to print out and decorate your place of work.

Download away: World Cup office posters 090811 (350 kb)

A giant rugby ball and flaccid snake have been plonked on the waterfront, Aucklanders are considering  using  public transport and the sun is shining. There must be a world cup on.

We are ready, despite making the basic error of angst-ing for months over what the poor, poor hoardes of flat-cap and scarf wearing northern hemisphere rugger fans will do in little old NZ, when they turn up looking to eat, drink, sing in large groups and ride trains and that. Our inauspicious build up has mostly centred on Waterfront stadiums, armchair commentary on corporate PR shenanigans, Party Central, a shadowy world cup minister, people waiting for up to THREE OR FOUR MINUTES EACH to walk onto a train after August’s Bledisloe test.

Fuck that shit – the world cup, the bloody world cup is here at last, and people are starting to get excited.  John Campbell being cheerfully molested by the Tongan fans at Auckland Airport is the image of the cup so far. RWC CEO Martin Sneddon, who must have been wistfully reminiscing about the carefree days of being carted for 105 from 12 overs v England, is actually starting to smile and look relaxed. People from all around the world are about to arrive in little ol’ here, and will want to have some fun.

Auckland has scrubbed up nicely, with a shiny new Wynard Quarter, tram and bridge installed in time for the cup. Suburbs are adopting teams – my cycle commute through Milford and Takapuna saw a few token French flags (there’ll be more once we waste them in pool play I bet) (ahem). My only slight concern is the special Fan Walk to Eden Park and back – it’s a long way to go! If I can offer advice, after my own experience of walking into town after the third Lions test in 2005 – you are advised to be very, very drunk.

Party Central – road cones for drinking out of and a rugby ball-shaped urinal

Of course the elephant in the room is our losing world cup record since last time it was here. An elephant that’s shat all over the floor, broken the couch with its trunk before charging through the wall and bolting. No tidied up waterfront will help our desperate, crushing expectation that FINALLY, Richie or his injury-appointed deputy will lift the cup at home. I just worry that Fear Of Fucking Up (or FOFU) will diminish Kiwis’ hosting enjoyment – that we won’t relax and get into this world cup until after it’s over. We are not good losers, or winners, and how we handle a world cup triumph or defeat at home will test our very nationhood, frankly. I hope it goes well.

So, can we win it? Of course we can. My personal All Blacks world cup theory is that once we win a world cup again (I really hope it’s this one), we’ll win four or five in a row, until people are sick of it and change the rules somehow. Can’t wait.

NEWSDESK: All Black selectors confirmed they were “pretty wasted” when selecting the team to face Tonga. Forwards coach Steve Hansen told a packed press conference: “We had a few selection headaches, so Smithy brought a box of Woody’s. It all kicked on from there.”

A lightly kebab-stained team sheet revealed the surprise combination of Sonny Bill Williams and Ma’a Nonu, and the inclusion of Isaia Toeava. “I was as surprised as anyone to see Kahui on the wing. Lucky Kronic has been banned, it could have been Mils at centre!” said Hansen.

“We looked at the whole squad, their form, the combinations… then we got fucko. One minute we’re discussing Conrad’s defence vs Sonny Bill’s offload, next thing I’m arguing with a bouncer about the club shutting at 5am. I wasn’t even up for a biggy!” said head coach Graham Henry. When asked if rotating the squad at this stage was dooming the team to repeat the mistakes of 2007′s early exit, a clearly tired and emotional Henry replied “Fight you,” before falling asleep awkwardly on his microphone.

OK, we can panic now. Our national rugby union team has lost two matches in a row, and more importantly, the Australian national rugby union team has a big fat jandal full of confidence, just before they cross the Pavlova Sea to claim the trophy that’s rightfully theirs and wave it in our tear-stained faces.

Many people are questioning our world cup selection, with two of the world’s best wingers in Gear and Sivivatu left to peruse overseas contracts for the rest of the winter, while taking Kahui and Toeava. sportreview.net.nz appreciates the need for versatility, but wonders whether we over think this stuff, and take utility players with meaningless matches against Canada in mind, rather than the semis or finals, when a top winger would arguably come in handy. We’ll see.

Anyway, the All Blacks looked tentative and nervous on Saturday night, to say the least, except in the second half, when they looked awesome. Australia suddenly look like a proper team and Dingo Deans rediscovered his steely look, while Quade Cooper, fed up with being labelled a poor man’s Carlos Spencer, now seems determined to become a chicken-legged Richard Loe.

All Blacks fans enjoying the pre-tournament anticipation.

The only bright spot of Saturday night’s depressing first half was that we now know the impending Big Fucking Tournament loss will be Zac Guilford’s (or Colin Slade’s) fault – every All Black fan knows Identifying The Scapegoat is a vital part of world cup preparation and that Zac n Colin will be enjoy reunion dinners with Leon McDonald, Wayne Barnes, John Hart and Suzy the waitress for years to come. Whatever happens, I’ll make the point I nicked off one of the Sunday columnists – we are the best team in the world, playing at home, where our track record is outstanding. We just need to hold our nerve. Gilbert Enoka, come on down.

Elsewhere, the greatest substitute centre we’ve ever managed to wave Adidas’ hard-earned cash in front of is dilly-dallying about re-signing with the NZRFU for another eight to nine months. Let’s be honest, Sonny Bill comes with a poor track record when it comes to sticking around and has management that’s shadier than Elvis’. Negotiations to sign him up in the first place involved nightclub toilets and plain paper bags of cash – those are warning signs, team. Getting into bed with Sonny Bill is like getting into bed with a Bull Shark – you might not have done it before, but you’d have a reasonable idea of how it’ll probably turn out. There’s no doubt he’s good, but he’s competing with the world’s best centre for a place in the side, and we look OK without him. A world cup distraction? Only for the sporting media – Sonny Bill himself doesn’t seem too bothered.

Finally, a handy tip – if you’re sick of being annoyed at the upcoming world cup, and want to be annoyed at something else, try following Luke Mcalister on the twitter. As all eyes in the rugby loving world focus on a tiny, naval gazing nation in the South Pacific, wasted-talent Luke floats through his life, going to training and asking Twitter “what’s up?” like a rugby’s version of Desperate Housewive jacked up on Pimms and Valium. Jesus wept. And unfollowed.