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>Sat at home in surrey, where no-one knows what rugby >is except when Wales lose to england (notice who I >respect more). Me and my Dad watching the ginger one >kicking goals the w**ker wilkinson could only dream >of, getting steadily more wasted. At half time, heard >bracken and inverdale giving it some about the scum, >but I tend not to listen. Second half, Howarth's try >gets us back in it. Then the tackle that broke >Charvis' jaw means we get a penalty, with the clock >showing 80 minutes and us 6 points down. Naturally, >Jenks puts it deep into england territory. "That man >Wyatt again", says Bill McLaren as our trusty lock >wins yet another lineout. Howley, gives it to God, and >he threads the needle to Gibbs. How did he get through >that gap. YES! Elation as I run into the kitchen >knocking over my mother on the way shoputing "WE'VE >WON IT, WE'VE WON IT". The ginger one never misses, so >I was confident. Engalnd k-o, they try a drop goal. >Howarth calmly collects it under his own posts and >marks. Surely it must be over now. He finds touch, and >Bill McLaren (as well as the rest of the Celtic >nations) goes cock-a-hoop. I still claim drinks from >all my Scottish friends for April '99, without doubt >the greatest month of my life.

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