Six Nations Saturday at GMT+11
A six nations Saturday is an entirely different experience at GMT+11. I awake at 3:18am, exactly 22 minutes before the alarm is due to sound. I would love to attribute the early get up to a Christmas morning like excitement. On reflection, I think it was more the noise of neighbours returning home from the boozer.
I am sweating. I doubt anyone in Cardiff is sweating, excluding the players going through their pre match rigours, oh and Dai Baselayer. If you know Cardiff on match day, then you know Dai. Dai likes to showcase his guns in a pro fit Under Armour Wales jersey. However, Dai's no fool, it gets cold in the stadium, he knows that, he puts his Baselayer on. Unfortunately for Dai, his friends have a preference to spend a notable portion of their Mikey Rayer (all dayer) in the sub Saharan climate of Walkabout. Dai sweats, the baselayer is soon saturated, but he has a cold strongbow, he is happy.
Meanwhile in Sydney, escalating personal sweat levels persuade me to roll out of bed, but dissuade me from chucking on the slightly faded Cotton Traders 1995 World Cup jersey. Shirt slung over the right shoulder, I march quietly downstairs. Laptop on, hope the Windows intro music didn't wake anyone. Sourcing the coverage is easier than expected. However, with kick off looming, the stream gets an attack of the buffers. The motion picture debilitating strain, as opposed to the 'lets get ready to rumble' clan.
The ever declining quality of the stream, renders my experience of Gareth Davies' try more akin to a series of quick fire games of 'what happens next?', than the delightful show of wheels that it was in real time.
Relieved that Wales have shot into an early lead, I commence the search for a new feed. Frustratingly this costs me a good ten minutes of the action. With the picture supply finally sorted, I anxiously wait for the score update that is hidden behind those annoying pop ups that are a nuisance to exterminate. While I was away, Scotland have grabbed a converted try of their own to tie the game up. I catch a replay of the try. Patient phase play backed up by a perfectly executed Finn Russell kick, which sits up for Tommy Seymour who in turn dots down. Whether a planned method of countering the Sean Edwards powered line speed, or a sublime read on the hoof, the try was a fine retort to those (me), who highlighted the Scots' lack of accuracy and composure in the 'red zone' during round one.
Scotland go into half time ahead, the consensus on the group chat is that they are good value for it. Wales are struggling to penetrate both on the ground, and in the sky. Wales' ability to gain easy yards via their superiority in the battle of the Garryowen, had been a decisive factor at Murrayfield a year back.
Inverdale and co. have competition for my attention during half time from a new sensation called 'international chin a beer', a craze that so far remains within the confines of the 'school lads' chat. It is essentially a game of peer pressure and irresponsible drinking, a very entertaining spectator sport, I must add. I lie and say I have no beers, knowing full well there is a lone bottle of Heineken in the fridge. Maybe what they say is true, and I'm not what I used to be. More on that later.
As the game resumes, I am confident that Wales will win. Not sure if the foundation for this is Wales' superior experience and fitness, or a doubt in Scotland's ability to close out a leading position. Probably a combination of the above.
With the score at 13-16, and the Scots advancing in the Welsh 22, the ball pops out of the ruck into the hands of Tom James. James' is denied his first international try in a bloody while, by a mammoth Duncan Taylor effort that personifies the culture that the Scottish centre is immersed in at the Saracens club.
I get the feeling that this is a momentum shift that Wales must capitalise on if they are to deny the Scots a first victory in Cardiff, since they beat a Steve Hansen coached Wales in 2002. Sam Warburton clearly agrees, he rejects the opportunity to lock up the scores. Instead opting for a scrum 5 meters from the Scottish line. You could say this is a 'brave' decision, I would call it one of calculated risk. Another draw is no good for Wales' championship hopes, and they have found it difficult to generate enough quick ball to this point to think that further try scoring opportunities will be plentiful.
Warburton gets the maximum return on investment. Jamie Roberts picks up a serious head of steam and a nice line to crash over. The type of unstoppable try that Australia repelled time and again during the World Cup encounter at HQ. Conscious I don't want to wake the house, my celebration is confined to a whispered shout of 'come on', combined with a few fist pumps.
More fist pumps follow when George North exploits a below par drift defence, to score the type of try that the Welsh public have been yearning to see from the big fella.
As Duncan Taylor goes over for a try to give Scotland a glimmer of hope, I am videoing myself glug a schooner's worth of Heineken lager. Like Scotland, my defence had eventually succumb to the pressure, in my case the peer variety thereof.
With the time fast approaching twenty to six, it's time to call it a morning and head back to bed, where it appears I have surrendered significant sleeping territory. Next up France, with a far more reasonable 7:05am kick off. Nos da.
I am sweating. I doubt anyone in Cardiff is sweating, excluding the players going through their pre match rigours, oh and Dai Baselayer. If you know Cardiff on match day, then you know Dai. Dai likes to showcase his guns in a pro fit Under Armour Wales jersey. However, Dai's no fool, it gets cold in the stadium, he knows that, he puts his Baselayer on. Unfortunately for Dai, his friends have a preference to spend a notable portion of their Mikey Rayer (all dayer) in the sub Saharan climate of Walkabout. Dai sweats, the baselayer is soon saturated, but he has a cold strongbow, he is happy.
Meanwhile in Sydney, escalating personal sweat levels persuade me to roll out of bed, but dissuade me from chucking on the slightly faded Cotton Traders 1995 World Cup jersey. Shirt slung over the right shoulder, I march quietly downstairs. Laptop on, hope the Windows intro music didn't wake anyone. Sourcing the coverage is easier than expected. However, with kick off looming, the stream gets an attack of the buffers. The motion picture debilitating strain, as opposed to the 'lets get ready to rumble' clan.
The ever declining quality of the stream, renders my experience of Gareth Davies' try more akin to a series of quick fire games of 'what happens next?', than the delightful show of wheels that it was in real time.
Relieved that Wales have shot into an early lead, I commence the search for a new feed. Frustratingly this costs me a good ten minutes of the action. With the picture supply finally sorted, I anxiously wait for the score update that is hidden behind those annoying pop ups that are a nuisance to exterminate. While I was away, Scotland have grabbed a converted try of their own to tie the game up. I catch a replay of the try. Patient phase play backed up by a perfectly executed Finn Russell kick, which sits up for Tommy Seymour who in turn dots down. Whether a planned method of countering the Sean Edwards powered line speed, or a sublime read on the hoof, the try was a fine retort to those (me), who highlighted the Scots' lack of accuracy and composure in the 'red zone' during round one.
Scotland go into half time ahead, the consensus on the group chat is that they are good value for it. Wales are struggling to penetrate both on the ground, and in the sky. Wales' ability to gain easy yards via their superiority in the battle of the Garryowen, had been a decisive factor at Murrayfield a year back.
Inverdale and co. have competition for my attention during half time from a new sensation called 'international chin a beer', a craze that so far remains within the confines of the 'school lads' chat. It is essentially a game of peer pressure and irresponsible drinking, a very entertaining spectator sport, I must add. I lie and say I have no beers, knowing full well there is a lone bottle of Heineken in the fridge. Maybe what they say is true, and I'm not what I used to be. More on that later.
As the game resumes, I am confident that Wales will win. Not sure if the foundation for this is Wales' superior experience and fitness, or a doubt in Scotland's ability to close out a leading position. Probably a combination of the above.
With the score at 13-16, and the Scots advancing in the Welsh 22, the ball pops out of the ruck into the hands of Tom James. James' is denied his first international try in a bloody while, by a mammoth Duncan Taylor effort that personifies the culture that the Scottish centre is immersed in at the Saracens club.
I get the feeling that this is a momentum shift that Wales must capitalise on if they are to deny the Scots a first victory in Cardiff, since they beat a Steve Hansen coached Wales in 2002. Sam Warburton clearly agrees, he rejects the opportunity to lock up the scores. Instead opting for a scrum 5 meters from the Scottish line. You could say this is a 'brave' decision, I would call it one of calculated risk. Another draw is no good for Wales' championship hopes, and they have found it difficult to generate enough quick ball to this point to think that further try scoring opportunities will be plentiful.
Warburton gets the maximum return on investment. Jamie Roberts picks up a serious head of steam and a nice line to crash over. The type of unstoppable try that Australia repelled time and again during the World Cup encounter at HQ. Conscious I don't want to wake the house, my celebration is confined to a whispered shout of 'come on', combined with a few fist pumps.
More fist pumps follow when George North exploits a below par drift defence, to score the type of try that the Welsh public have been yearning to see from the big fella.
As Duncan Taylor goes over for a try to give Scotland a glimmer of hope, I am videoing myself glug a schooner's worth of Heineken lager. Like Scotland, my defence had eventually succumb to the pressure, in my case the peer variety thereof.
With the time fast approaching twenty to six, it's time to call it a morning and head back to bed, where it appears I have surrendered significant sleeping territory. Next up France, with a far more reasonable 7:05am kick off. Nos da.
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