The basso thump of Six Nations’ rugby begins this weekend — today Wales are at Twickenham and Italy in Dublin, and tomorrow the French collide with the Scots at Murrayfield. The reverberating crash-bang-wallop continues till the Ides of March. Turn the BBC’s sound down; rugby is now as gruntingly noisy as women’s tennis. Oh for our old springheeled game of evasion, dodging and darting. Lately, it has become one unending wince as one man-mountain simply charges pell-mell at another: Pow! Pam! Ugh! — and pot luck on murder or suicide.
England and France annually start as favourites; well, they each have by far the biggest supply of the biggest heavyweights. Nicely, however, it is Wales who come to Twickenham today as the champions. They won last year, not by much but with a mix of quickness, cheek, nerve and conviction.
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