Every now and again it is useful to be reminded of rugby union’s place in the grand scheme of things. “So, what’s next for you?” a non‑sporty friend asked the other day. He must have spotted my raised eyebrow. “Oh, yes, um, it’s the Six Nations, isn’t it?” Even on Planet Zog, inhabited by people who think a cauliflower ear is a tasty veggie option, they have heard of the annual rugby equivalent of Glastonbury.
And, traditionally, that has been the sport’s saving grace. Millions with limited interest in club rugby gather to cheer on the lands of their fathers, grandmothers and wolfhounds. The technical intricacies matter less than pouring a Guinness 0.0 – seemingly the pint du jour – and announcing to no one in particular that England are coming in nicely under the radar.
