TV VIEW:YOU KNOW, some of us had only just regained our composure after hearing Slim Dusty's slightly harrowing, yet a little bit gorgeous, rendition of Waltzing Matildaat the closing ceremony of the Sydney Olympic Games. And that was 11 years ago.
But along comes Hayley Westenra in Auckland yesterday, bidding adieu to those who’d soon be sailing far across the sea. And we were gone again.
These Antipodean sporting farewells might be very lovely, but as Brent Pope would attest, they’d leave you as upbeat as, say, a Manchester United fan sailing away from Old Trafford yesterday.
"Now is the hour, when we must say goodbye," sang Hayley, and with that the furry Kiwi on the desk in front of Brent was nigh on submerged by his tears, Hayley making Leonard Cohen – on an especially sombre day – sound like Westlife (RIP) giving us a blast of Bop Bop Baby.
“I’m just exhausted,” admitted Brent after a World Cup final that was a touch on the competitive and tense side, the French display somewhat debunking Tom McGurk’s pre-match “dread” that France would “just turn up for the appearance money”.
They were good for something, as it proved, the cheese-eating no-surrender monkeys giving as good as they got, turning the World Cup final in to a bit of a contest. And if you ever found yourself stuck in the trenches, on the evidence of yesterday morning, you’d surely want that Thierry Dusautoir by your side.
“We can rest in peace,” said New Zealand coach Graham Henry afterwards, but you suspected, before their final repose, there’d be some life in the All Blacks’ party. Brent, for one, promised to treat the RTÉ panel to a meal, at his expense. “In Eddie Rockets,” he said, prompting George Hook and Conor O’Shea’s faces to say something like: “Hmm.” George was half sad, half happy, which is 50 per cent more happiness than he’s displayed through the bulk of the tournament, saluting New Zealand, but mourning the defeat of the vanquished.
“France is my mistress and New Zealand is at home doing the washing up in a pinafore,” he said, leaving us with an unwanted image of Dusautoir bleaching his unders. “New Zealand are dependable, they’re always there for you, but it’s the French if want to go out dancing and carousing.” But he saluted the victors, coming, as they do, from a “country barely 200 years old”.
That, of course, will be news to the Maoris who’ve called New Zealand home for around 2,000 years. As if ruckin’ and maulin’ marked the birth of nations.
Just time for McGurk to thank commentators Ryle Nugent and Donal Lenihan for their services, the pair leaving Irish shores and sailing far across the sea when Dev was in the Park and Dana was wooing us with all kinds of everything. Or maybe the rugby World Cup just felt that long?
Over on Setanta, Matt Williams and Neil Francis – the telly stars of this World Cup, according to this couch’s poll, although transfers lifted Pope, O’Shea and Frankie Sheahan in to contention – were busy hailing both finalists, before breaking off for an ad for 2015.
There was Jonny Wilkinson, kicking the 2011 World Cup ball from New Zealand to England, narrowly swerving to avoid the white cliffs of Dover, and assorted landmarks, before landing in Twickenham. It left Matt all a-tingle.
“I’ve had to put up with New Zealand, now I have to look forward to England – good God,” he said. Neil nodded, like a man who only craved a triple cheese burger in Eddie Rockets with Brent and the lads, rather than having to preview the 2015 World Cup finals.
You might, possibly, recall a billy being boiled in Waltzing Matilda. Well, at Old Trafford yesterday that's pretty much what Manchester City did to the billy that is United. Boiled the poor divils until they evaporated.
United might be the Maoris of the Premier League, the natives who were once in charge, but City, like a fleet of moneyed johnnies-come-lately, are, it seems, here to stay. They certainly colonised Old Trafford, with all the swagger of a planter backed by a stinking rich benefactor, or the menace of an exiled convict (Mario Balotelli).
“It’s the biggest statement in Premier League history,” said a gobsmacked Jamie Redknapp at full-time, his sidekick Gary Neville, dressed – appropriately enough – as an undertaker, nodding in agreement. “Now is the hour, when we must say goodbye to the Premier League title,” Gary didn’t say, but you sensed he was thinking it.
