“With ice, sir ?”

Champagne Charlie leaves Italians hung over

The snow covered pitch in Rome made viewing difficult this weekend, but spare a thought for the 70,000 who braved the elements to watch a rather turgid game. Home fans were left feeling distinctly “What if…?” by the whole affair. In the early part of the second half, the Italians were (metaphorically) basking in the warm glow of a clear lead, courtesy of the efforts of their grizzled forwards  and a couple of well rubbed greens. The English looked as clueless as a Greek Finance Minister who had just been handed a calculator. Just like last weekend, in fact.

 And,  just like last weekend, the God of Chargedowns intervened. The game changed at that moment. From that point on, the home side looked shell shocked. It may have been advanced hypothermia, but the English deserve credit for capitalising on the added space afforded to them. They picked up the pace, and the Italians began to concede penalties and ship points. Burton was replaced by Botes, and let’s just say that there was little chance of the banjo and the cow’s arse coming into any contact at any point, so the game slipped away. Lancaster will be a relieved man, but he has to move this side on from a point where they regard the cross kick and the charge down as their “go to” scoring moves.

With the Stade de France occupied by an army of brass monkeys wielding welding rods, it was left to the match at the Millenium to warm us up, and, boy, did it deliver.  Three-all at half time hardly begins to tell the story. Without Warburton at the breakdown, Rennie was a real thistle in the side of the Welsh, and the Scots played with the sort of gay abandon normally reserved for Mardi Gras. Again, there was a turning point. An innocuous fumble by Cusiter from the kick off, and the Welsh had field position. They pounced, and the direction of the game was decided. There was a snowstorm of yellow cards as the Scots buckled under the focussed Welsh onslaught that followed. For all Robinson’s pounding of the wall, it has to be said that the ref was given little choice by the offences committed by De Luca and Lamont.

Three strikes and the Scots were out. Robinson will hate the tag of plucky losers, and will point to the yellow cards as the difference in the game, but in truth that’s exactly where he is. There is more than a glimmer of hope, however. When they get it right, someone is going to get a right royal Scottish larruping from this side. Ditto the Welsh, who are still to play at anything near their World Cup best. The champagne is still on ice.