Being patriotic during 2010's Six Nations

You know the rugby’s arrived in the Cresci household. Talk of tactics, prospects and player choices have been en vogue at family mealtimes for a few weeks now. As you would expect, the rugby world cup has been top of the family’s sporting things to look forward to. I’ve been privy to many grumbles about Wales’ group, meaning I haven’t quite been sure whether my family have really been looking forward to the world up, or actually properly dreading it. Either way, there’s no escaping the rugger at Casa Cresci.

Sadly, I’m the clueless one at the dinner table when it comes to rugby. I know nothing about the sport. When I watch it, I wonder when they’re going to start hitting each other. Then I promptly move on to ogling the fitties on the pitch. Then I’ll either leave the room or if I’m in the pub, get another drink.

You see, for me, rugby has come to mean a booze-up with friends, much in the way of banter and singing Sosban Fach with some boys from the Valleys until I lose my voice. I make no secret that my favourite part of any international game is the bit with the Welsh national anthem. Obviously, being in New Zealand, the games aren’t quite corresponding with sociable drinking times as they would do if they were held in the same hemisphere as my local. I feel robbed.

As you would expect, this is not an attitude the rest of my family share, particularly my younger brother. Yesterday, I was up at the crack of dawn despite it being my first Saturday off in a while. Cwtched up in my Swansea Jitsu hoodie and not quite being able to face getting dressed just yet, I ambled downstairs for my morning cuppa. In pops a very peppy Baby Cresci from the living room, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, curiously so for a Saturday morning.

“What are you doing up?” I grumbled, wondering the same of myself. My younger brother is just about to go into his second year of university and usually doesn’t rise before at least 12 noon, standard student practice during the Summer holidays.

“Oh, actually, I haven’t been to sleep!” he chirped. “I’ve been watching the rugby! Two more games to go still! IT’S BEEN GREAT!” That would explain his markedly early appearance in the Cresci kitchen then. Nothing but rugby could induce such early morning enthusiasm from Baby Cresci. Unsurprisingly, he spent the rest of the day sleeping.

This morning, rather than wake up at the crack of dawn, I decided a lie in would be a good shout, and it was… that is until I heard roars of “WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOOOOOOOOOING?” boom from downstairs. Begrudgingly shaking off the remnants of sleep, I heard further screams of “NOOOOOO” and “ARE YOU BLIND?!” and much in the way of cursing and swearing. It didn’t take a genius to figure out Wales were probably losing. (Mum explained later that much of my brother’s ire was saved for the referee rather than the Welsh team, who actually played rather well against South Africa. Woo Wales!)

Now, I can deal with not understanding the dinnertable rugby banter, and even being robbed of an excuse to crack out Sosban Fach in the pub. But being woken by rugby induced rages? That’s just not on. So, Wales. Bloody start winning already, and refs? Please don’t wind up Baby Cresci, because I swear, that boy makes his displeasure so loudly known, you’ll be able to hear him all the way in New Zealand.

I could hardly mention Sosban Fach without embedding the techno version now could I?