In the history of the Six Nations when it comes to be written by far more erudite and knowledgeable persons than I, this day will carry its own footnote in the margin, in the inimitable style of the Simpsons' own Comic Book Guy: "Worst. Opening Day. Ever."
Italy sans Bergamascos tired early, overly relying on a prop forward to carry their ball over gain lines but not try lines. France never left third gear, but then neither does a 1979 Robin Reliant. Both rusty and unfashionable, uninteresting and uninspiring. Their Mediterranean opponents, with such exotic names as McLean, Derbyshire and Burton, weren't up to scratch. Again. After twelve seasons in the Northern Hemisphere's top international competition, they are still undercooked, under-prepared and underwhelming. A national embarrassment for such a sport-mad nation, and reason if ever one was needed for a relegation/promotion system with the European Nations Championship to allow Spain, Georgia or Portugal the chance to graduate to the big time.
Up north, the Scots managed to get through a match without one of their men being carted off on a stretcher, so bonus points there. However, if I was a Scottish rugby fan, I'd be more depressed than if I was listening to Morrissey on a miserable Monday morning in Mockerkin. How this team, with its talent and ability, wastes chance after chance after chance is beyond me. They make Robert Mugabe look careful and a queen's banquet look austere. England were ordinary - an ordinary team with ordinary players coached by an ordinary bloke. No spark, no character, just.... grey. A big woodlouse army of grey.
I feel cheated. Where's my tournament? I hope to christ it's waiting in a big, glass cake tin in Dublin tomorrow.