Dear all,

A mate of mine rang me up a few weeks ago and said, hey Welshy! I've got two tickets for one of the semis in Sydney - fancy going?

So obviously I left my wife and kids, told my boss that he looked exactly like a pustular boil I once found under my left testicle and that he needed lancing.

I took this first flight out I could to Orstralia, forgot to get off the plane at Sydney and found myself in Tasmania.

Oh well, there's plenty of time to get back to Sydney for the semis.

I fell upon (literally, too many beers after Wales victory over Italy) with a good rugby crowd and headed up to Launceston for the Romania Namibia game.

(The Tasmanians seem tickled pink to find a Welshman has come all the way down here to watch Namibia vs Romania - I feel a bit like a rugby ball myself, being passed from one crowd to another. Oh. May'be they're trying to get rid of me, hadn't thought of that!).

Anyway, bear with me on this. I went hiking up Cataract Gorge and settled down for a beer at a restaurant at the top.

When around the corner came two burly bouncers (but I reckon that after thirty or so more stubbies I could have taken 'em), an entourage of reporters and the RWC choristers (you know, those geeks in the blue blazers that ruin the national anthems?).

And, wait for it....cue the drum rolls....the bloody world cup itself!

The sports editors from the Mail and Torygraph were there and said hello to me, but I was six inches away from the cup!

A wave of coppery, no, sorry it was irony washed over me as I wryly realised that this was the closest that any Welshman would ever get to the cup!

I'll post a piccy or two when I remember to bring the photos out with me as I head off to an internet cafe. I find it difficult to do one thing at the same time let alone two.

But after the game against NZ, which I watched in the Prince of Wales pub here in Hobart, perhaps the Welshies are inching closer to the cup?

No no, let's not get too excited.

Before the game I went to Mount Maria, and climbed, um, well Mt.Maria (the kangas - my personal pet name for them, aren't terribly imaginitive when it come to names, more later).

Now I ruptured my cruciate ligs a while back and didn't want to overdo it, but my knee was pretty damned sore, so I settled down to watch us ship a shedload of points against the Kiwis.

Well bugger me sideways.

I leapt of my stool in utter joy so many times that I twisted and ruptured the knee all over again.

And it was a forward pass.

But let's not bitch, everyone was roaring the Taffies on, everyone was buying me beers, and now the Red shirt is no longer an emblem of pity but of respect and honour.

You won't believe how many people are coming up and congratulating me in the street.

At least three.

ARE YOU LISTENING INGERLAND???????

valleyboyabroad,