Tales of the Six Nations Unexpected

The Six Nations - you gotta love her.

What an unpredictable, idiosyncratic, wilful little maiden she is! Just when you think you've got her measure, she surprises you. When you think she's settled into some discernible pattern of behaviour, she kicks off her shoes and dances on the tables. You think it's going to be a quiet weekend, next thing she has you throwing craps in Vegas.

The girl can't help it.

Sometimes you forget when February comes around exactly why the Six Nations has such a hold on the sporting and cultural imaginations in these islands. You pull on your sneering hat and wax satirical about corporate knees-ups and city break piss-ups. You scoff at men in wax jackets and their befurred wives, after-dinner speeches peppered with decades-old gags about testicles and anyway, how the Tri-Nations is a vastly superior tournament.

Then Spring kicks in and you say "ah, yes, I remember now" as you're captivated by it all over again. The triumphs, the disasters, the passions, the shocks.

As a tournament it seems to abhor predictability. Not in the greater sense of its ultimate outcome: of the seven championships played since Five became Six in 2000, France and England - the powerhouses in terms of playing numbers - have won three times each. Moreso in that, just when it seems that a level of reason can be applied to an upcoming fixture, and all logic points to a certain outcome, it's at this point that events take a turn for the confounded.

Of course, with Ireland confounding expectations is nothing new. Heading to Murrayfield after the bravura dismissal of England at Croke Park, armed with a vastly superior team, as well as an increasingly one-sided recent historical record over the Scots, we talked of pulling away at a canter. We expected the home side, nostrils ablaze having just sang proud Edward's army home tae think again, to charge into the fray fiercely.

But class would tell, and Ireland would respond with steel and skill, being as how we've moved onto 'another level' and all.

At some point, maybe after the first twenty minutes when 70% of the possession had yielded a scoreline of 3-3, or perhaps after Nathan Hines came back from the bin to find his team three points better off than when he had gone off (in contrast to the match-breaking 14 points that Ireland had tacked on in Danny Grewcock's absence two weeks previously) it became apparent that this tournament's persistent awkwardness was striking again.

Scotland slowed the ball down at every turn and ranged their defensive lines right in Ireland's faces. At the same time, however, they drifted sufficiently well so as that, on the handful of occasions when Ireland's line-breaks were shifted wide, they had men over for the saving tackle.

In many ways, Scotland's tactics were identikit to those which beat Wales, their aggressive and mobile pack dampening down the attacking ambitions of a more gifted side and the accuracy of Chris Paterson's boot rewarding the forwards for their exertions.

Thankfully the capricious Six Nations only decided to give us a fright, rather than the shocking loss we could very easily have left Edinburgh with.

France, on the other hand, got the full whammy from the fickle tournament. England's victory was improbable for two reasons. Firstly because the last time we saw them they looked as at home at Croke Park as Kilkenny footballers; secondly because they had made so many changes (enforced and tactical) from that side that it seemed very unlikely that they could conjure a defeat of the best side in the tournament from what was largely a team of strangers.

The ensuing events, happily for Irish title hopes, kept with the Six Nations' tendency toward the unexpected. England's youthful promise, in the shape of Messrs Rees, Flood, Geraghty and the already established Ellis, bloomed gloriously. There hasn't been such brio in a white shirt since the days when Guscott and Underwood roamed the land. Who'd have expected that?

But that's just the way she likes it.

Irish to Crush Rebellious Scots

So where were we? Ah yes, Scotland! Murrayfield, formerly graveyard of Irish hopes, now a biennial source of Six Nations Championship victories. Where once the Scots were as miserly with championship points as reputedly in fiscal matters, now they ply their Irish guests with away victories like an Edinburgh barman dispensing Glenlivet.

On the face of it only negligence of the highest order on the part of the Irish team and a flawless display from the home side would seem to be able to prevent another victory for the visitors tomorrow. Given that Scotland's defeat to Italy last time out contained more flaws in the first seven minutes than the Irish team have exhibited in three full games so far, Ireland's seventh straight win over the Scots seems likely.

One consolation for the Scots is that, had they handed Ireland the three early opportunities they did to Italy, they might not have been punished so severely given how slowly Ireland have started matches this term. They began the matches against Wales and France with all the urgency of surly teenagers who'd been told to tidy their bedrooms. In the latter case this lethargy proved terminal to a golden opportunity to win a first Grand Slam since 1948.

In fairness, although they went 3-0 down to England early on at Croke Park a fortnight ago, they responded quickly enough - and with sufficient gusto - to suggest that they had overcome the slow start problem.

One thing that might work against Ireland is the complete inability of any game to match the intensely emotional proceedings of two weekends ago, let alone a trip to down-on-their-luck Scotland. The Scots succumbed to a rugby version of Ally McLeod syndrome against Italy a fortnight ago.

McLeod, for those who don't remember one of the many less edifying episodes in Scottish football history, was Scotland's manager for the 1978 World Cup. He managed to whip the nation into frenzy of expectation when he optimistically claimed that he expected his squad to return from that tournament with "at least a medal". Of course his spectacular hubris proved calamitously misplaced when the Scots went out after the first round following a loss to Peru, a draw with Iran and, in the true tradition of glorious Scottish failure, a win over tournament favourites the Netherlands.

Anyway, back to Murrayfield two weeks ago. Scotland, following an impressive win over Wales (impressive at least in terms of their forward play; their backs proved as penetrative as guerkin cutting through granite) were feeling pretty good about themselves, and the visit of Italy seemed to provide an perfect opportunity to further burnish their form.

Not content to redeploy the hard rucking and solid set-piece policy that did for the Welsh (against an admittedly stronger pack), they reached for the weapon in their armoury called "expansive back play" and set it to "attack from deep". In a repeat of McLeod's misplaced confidence, it blew up in their faces.

Of course the other thing that this story underlines is that the Scots are infinitely better underdogs than they are favourites. Much like Ireland used to, Scotland look dismissively and uninterestedly on favouritism; it bores them. Tell a Scot he has nae chance and he's painting his face blue quicker than you can say "freedom!".

So they'll have a good go tomorrow, and will pester Ireland incessantly at the breakdown, but a couple of line-breaks from Ireland's centre pairing should see them quickly hung, drawn and quartered.

Six Nations Preview: The Rest of the Impertinents

ENGLAND (Saturday 24th February, Croke Park)

By the blood of Michael Hogan, begone from this sacred turf!

The. Big. One. England in Croker. The subject beloved of T.V. and radio discussion programmes desperate for 'divisive controversy'.

TV Vox Pop: "Do you think they should play God Save the Queen at Croke Park?"

Punter: "Don't care."

TV V.P.: "There you have it - this divisive issue continues to prove controversial..."

A few months ago it seemed that we were to have a nice handy afternoon of Saxon-whupping to placate the infamous 'backwoodsmen' who continue to grumble from GAA county board missives. Unfortunately Andy Robinson is gone, Brian Ashton is in, with Rob Andrew upstairs peering through his designer specs at the whole thing. In short, they've belatedly attempted to get their act together.

For all the good vibes coming out of Twickers, much like TSA's dress policy for most social occasions, it all looks a bit too thrown together at the last moment. So much hangs on the three-pronged risk-orgy in the backs. This weekend Jonny Wilkinson starts his first England game since clipping that World Cup winning drop-goal in Sydney in 2003, Jason Robinson starts his first for his country in two years and Andy Farrell, at 31, starts his first international, well, ever, in union at least.

For all Ashton's reknowned ability to coach backline flair, a settled and immaculately prepared Ireland will approach this latest English team with the confidence of a side fully expectant of a fourth victory over the old foe. God Save the Queen might get an airing, but Sweet Chariot certainly won't.

Jerusalem in Croker's green and pleasant land?
As Brian O'Driscoll pointed out last week, for all England's supposed wretchedness in recent years, they have never been given a proper doing, and even a cursory remembrance of last year reminds us how it needed Shane Horgan's telescopic arm to win the day for Ireland in Twickenham.

As Frank Hadden showed last season with Scotland, the creation of a postive working environment and the sense that there is some kind of plan afoot can change a team's fortunes quite quickly. All through England's trough, their forwards continued to win masses of ball, but were scuppered by diffidence behind them.

Coming just a few weeks after Munster were demolished up front by a Leicester pack, five of whom are in the 22 for this weekend's Calcutta Cup game, its safe to assume England will give us a tough day up front.

Last year we had too much guile and nous for them when we had the ball. However if Ashton's talents have had any effect, if Jonny Wilkinson can rediscover a fraction of his ruthless mastery at out-half and if the whole lot of them have even a small amount more confidence about them than we've seen in recent seasons, they might be sending her victorious at the end of the 80 minutes as well as at the start.


SCOTLAND (Saturday March 10th, Murrayfield)

Not so brave now, oh eaters of artery-clogging, deep-fried foodstuffs!
The days of our struggles against the Scots in Murrayfield may be relatively recent - we only ended an eighteen year winless run in Edinburgh in 2003 - but, psychologically, any sense of inferiority to Scotland in rugby feels as remote as, hah!, unemployment and Mike Murphy.

Since we last lost to them in 2001, the Scots have served up a routine victory for Ireland wherever we have played them, only offering mild resistance on our triple crown winning afternoon in 2004.

Scotland are traditionally at their strongest from 6 to 10, ravenous back-rowers and impudent scrum-halves being key to their game. As ever they possess class in these positions this year too. Trouble is, most of it is either injured or just returning from injury. Jason White, last year's player of the tournament, and Alistair Hogg are missing from the back row (although Hogg could be back for the Ireland game), Mike Blair at scrum-half is also out and Chris Cusiter has been bandaged up after a ligament injury to take the 9 jersey.

With an inexperienced tight five and a continuing inability to really spark in the backs - flaws which Ireland do not share - this year should be another business-like trip to Auld Reekie.

They've sent us hameward, tae think again!
Scotland were the big good news story of last season's championship. Frank Hadden proved to be the Walter Smith to Matt Williams' Berti Vogts, reinstilling enough pride and pleasure into performing for the national side to make a stark difference on the field.

That positivity permeated their play in the way that the embarassing error-count of previous seasons was reduced, and with Sean Lamont emerging as an exciting attacking presence on the wing, the Scots were almost able to fill Murrayfield again.

They are also starting to produce quality young players again, Rob Dewey in centre and Ali Kelloch at lock being two currently causing drams to be raised in appreciation north of Hadrian's Wall.

With Dan Parks and Chris Paterson at 10 and 12 they have an experienced creative think-tank and a metronomic kicking presence that could just be a potent fulcrum for the emerging talent around them.


ITALY (Saturday 17th March, Stadio Flaminio)

Get back to organised crime and driving too fast, you immaculately coiffured types!
And no better time and place to win the grand slam than Paddy's Day in the Eternal City, which is how long the wait seems like since Ireland last won one.

We all know the drill here. Italy will batter us about a bit up front, Bergamasco will rampage, Bortolami will rumble. At half time the score will be 6-6 and George Hook will howl in the studio about this being "the poorest performance from an Irish side in living memory."

Then D'Arcy or O'Driscoll will make a line break shortly into the second half, which will end up in Wallace going over after a couple of phases and that'll be that. Cue endless footage of the despoilment of the Trevi fountain.

Rome riddle as Ireland burn!
Or maybe, for once, our traditional first half buffeting by the Italian pack will result in them picking up a few scores, rather than the usual fruitless territorial dominance.

Maybe, after a glorious run to this stage Ireland will come over all, well, Irish and conjure inglorious failure at the moment of truth.

If this happens, as a nation, we should throw our hat it.