Speaker by Various Artists

I notice that Graham Henry favours the hardcover 2B8 exercise book for his note taking. Solid and sturdy, like the All Black front five. But I am sure there will be more than a few words written in CAPS after this morning’s stuttering error riddled effort. ACCURACY, FINISHING, COMPSURE and BALL SECURITY. This game was the very definition of frustration. Scotland never threatened to get off zero- they had no ball and no territory. Yes, they defended well, but the All Blacks coughed up ball and failed to execute in a way that makes me believe a number of the players are already singing the national anthem on October 20 in Paris rather than living in the here and now. That might not matter against Scotland B, but it will be a whole other thing against France in a quarterfinal. It certainly must be stressing out this punter.

It is easy to look at this as a team failure, but I think the crosses in Mr Henry’s detention book will be beside names like Rodney So’oialo who failed to control things at the back of the scrum, Chris Masoe who was guilty of a number of turnovers, and most of the backline who took critical wrong options, including Carter. In terms of the ‘top team’ I think Sitiveni Sivivatu is probably the only one who might have played his way out of contention, but it did feel like Aaron Mauger’s steadying influence could have been helpful.

Silver was definitely colour du jour in Edinburgh this morning. There was enough of it on the Scotland jersey to confuse my 3am eyes -- perhaps it did the same to the All Blacks. Not sure I want to see the silver jersey again. I always liked the white jersey as the alternate strip- it makes me think of the water polo test in 1975, and that fantastic image of Hamish McDonald aquaplaning across for a try.

Meanwhile, in the British press, debate rages over who how to view England’s victory over Samoa. In the Times, Stephen Jones lauds ‘Lazarus England', while Andy Bull over at the Guardian tells it like it is bemoaning the ‘arthritic baboons’ in the English forward pack.

I was wrong- Samoa did not beat England, but you can see why they might have. If they had won even half of their lineout ball they could have made a a real game of it. I still think England are rubbish, even if they did play a lot better. It is a real pity the Tongans did not play England before South Africa. I think they will have run out of puff by next weekend. The Aussies are building up nicely, and must be looking forward to burying the memories of 2003 in the quarter finals against the Poms.

The real revelation of the tournament for me is the Tongan team. Only three of the Samoan players who took the field on Saturday were not professional players, mostly plying their trade in the UK. The Tongans on the other hand have a smattering of NZ provincial players and very few on the international scene. They played some great rugby against South Africa, and only lost because of a 15 minute burst from the first string players on the bench. Time once again for NZ rugby administrators to do the right thing by the global game and find ways of developing test rugby in our own region.

The tragedy that is Ireland’s time at the cup is close to over. Paul O’Connell is blaming the ref, the team hotel, anything rather than face the face that they showed almost nothing. The Irish had a bad week. It will take a miracle for them to knock over they very well drilled Argentinians.

Having said that Argentina v Ireland is the most important game of the tournament for All Black supporters. There are various scenarios with bonus points, but if Argentina win, it will be France in the quarters. No doubt the 2B8 will be put to good use on October 1.

And finally, the gift for the All Black fan who has everything. Voodoo pins optional.

Grant Robertson

Some Foreign Field is sponsored by Whisky Galore.

People used to ask me what sort of job I could get with a Ph.D. on Thomas Pynchon. The answer, it turns out, is chauffeuring eroticist, anarchist artists across America.

"Anything to say to the folks back home?" I demanded, swinging the camera around, inches from her face.

"Um, hi," she managed, just holding to an edge of equanimity, just keeping the terror tremor from announcing itself in her voice.

"I’m a shy pornstar," she explained -- to those half imagined, judgemental faces of a world away. But she was recovering now her slightly abstracted air, cooing into the lens that was obtrusively turned on her within the oppressive, overheated confines of a white Dodge blasting along a Texas highway.

Boxed in she was, literally. This could have been a porn flick now, the kind of capture fantasy that seems a favoured plot line of current forensic cop shows. With her knees around her ears and about as much space to move as, say, a dead dog in a suitcase, she shifted herself slightly for comfort and pressed against a gnawing corner of cardboard that she was slowly, over the course of this coast-to-coast marathon, moulding to her body-shape. A poor Canadian orphan, filled with stories of childhood abuse at the hands of vehemently righteous religious fanatics, here she was on the open road, caged on all sides by stacks of another's boxed belongings -- obsessively collected over a life-time, documented, labelled and databased by a mind more active than sound, a mind that chose this moment, as arbitrarily as it might choose a tune to hum, to speak.

Peremptory, with a nasal-New-Yorkish twang: "Mandy, hand me a Doctor."

This set off my own internal refrain. Mandy, unhand me. Mandy, unman me. Doctor me Mandy. Hand me, Doc Mandy. Hand jobs for Mandy. Handy, that Mandy.

"So explain to me this," feeling something like that sour bummer Emile we all know: "How do you qualify for the title 'pornstar'? Can anyone be one? Do you have to have a fan base or something? Win awards? What is it? Anyone who makes a bit of porn can be a 'pornstar'?"

"Yeah, I think so, I don't think you have to have like lots of fans or anything. I mean, I do have fans, you know, but not like, I mean some girls are really hot at the moment, say, and they get lots of fans and they're in demand and stuff, but we're all pornstars."

Between chugs on his Doctor: "I think the cut-off point is you've got to have made a feature film. Like, if you've only done internet stuff you're not a pornstar. But if you've made a feature film you're a pornstar, no question."

"But that's just the girls, right? I mean, are you guys pornstars?"

"No, not really, I don't think so. Nobody gives a shit about the guys. I mean, the guys are just like me, you know, we're just these dumb assholes who just have to show up. The guys I know who do porn, they're just like, I don't know, some truck driver who got lucky, some gas station guy who got lucky..."

Outside, the night continued to flash by, unconcerned by our discourse, untouched by our own intimate connection to time.

One diner we stopped at, in Knoxville, Tennessee, the waitress, dead on her feet, with a lined and wretched face that bespoke more years at the frontline of suffering and deprivation than you'd expect to find in a Serbian geriatric ward, automatically nonetheless addressed me as both "Honey" and "Sweetie" during the course of my ordering and would have loved, I am sure, to bring me pie with a smile.

Only I ordered no pie.

While Mandy, captive child of circumstance and accident, sipped disconsolately at her soup, Zak Sabbath chewed furiously at a spit-roasted side of pig and, raising himself half an inch from his plate while liquefied grease traversed his unshaven chin, cocked his eye expectantly at the shambling figure, half rancher, half runaway cretin, homing into view.

With agnosticism calling out boldly from the tattooed question marks on his forearms, and the skull on his neck that leers obscenely when he flexes his head, not to mention assorted dragons and other decidedly unholy creatures, our lay preacher knew exactly what to expect from this Sabbath character and drew himself up to his full stature, exposing an extensive belly and a half-done fly.

"I only wanna take a minute of you good folks's time," he drawled, "to ask you if you go with Jesus in your heart."

Mandy contemplated the hot-pink dreadlocks that hung from the unshaven region of her skull. Like a sulky child, now, she was yanking these at weird angles, the strain of her efforts showing in her delicate, pale hands, all the while letting her spoon balance in her mouth and dance about gently, tinkling against her numerous oral piercings as she exhibited a pout that that gentleman of God will be remembering at this moment, as I type, while he's peering squarely, perhaps for the first time, into the blackest hole of his unspoken desires.

Eternally embarrassed -- by myself, by others, by the absurdity we're all called upon to share in -- I made myself busy with my stewed apples, coleslaw and beets, relishing food that for once didn't quite slide down like lard, and feigned deafness or, more likely, called on that capacity for unbelievable rudeness that the New Zealand male thinks he can forever pass off as simple reticence.

Loaded up on Doctor, Zak filled the chasm of silence just before it imploded in the intensity of its moral disquiet. "Don't worry," he assured the concerned citizen. "We've been with Jesus ever since we crossed the state line."

The coffee was reliably bad, and outside it was hot. Really hot. And on the baking tarmac of this nowhere strip mall, pulling on a cigarette that made my head pound while my shirt stuck to me in days-old sweat and a man and his son drove by in a pick-up, I asked myself this: "What the hell am I doing in this southern shit-hole, with a couple of punks, in a nation of eminently polite crazies?"

The Dropkicks know there's nothing quite like a major sporting event to make you realise how much you'd love to have been a sporting star, is there?

Let's face it, as soon as the Summer Olympics roll round you're dusting off your running shoes and sprinting between lamp-posts like a sad old bastard with one lung full of emphysema and knees skinnier than a kid with rickets. Then you stop and cough a bit, stand up, walk a little to distract attention from the disgraceful show of weakness, and head to the pub to watch the 100m finals. I mean hell, you're from New Zealand, it's been a long time since we produced a credible sprinter.

By comparison The Rugby World Cup holds especial a place in the heart of former players. Those glory days of running out on a sodden pitch down the back of Hapakauraka College, having just laid a wicked pash on Sharyn next to your Torana.

No? Then maybe you just played social Sevens somewhere. Whatever. The fact is though, if you find yourself bunching your shoulders and sizing up someone walking down the hallway towards you at the office, you're probably in the grip of "The Cup."

This type of behaviour is all good though, because, you know, we're social animals. It's normal to be looking sideways at the guy in the kitchen and thinking "I could fend you, sidestep Kevin over there as he returns from the photocopier, and easily put this file down on Cath's desk... Win-na."

And let us face facts, you have to have these type of [slightly weird] fantasies during The Cup. Why? Because the England v. Samoa game screens at 2am on a work night, and you know if you miss it you will be:
A) mortified and
B) seriously annoyed when you're half awake at 6.30am and the radio tells you the score.

Damn it I hate that.

But, the Dropkicks are here to help. If you're a regular working Joe/Joanna, stuck at a desk with no hope of escape to catch the 3pm afternoon rugby replays, then we feel your pain. If you're slumped over a keyboard half asleep because you stayed up late to watch that all-important Ireland v. Argentina match while your less committed workmates got to bed with warm hot chocolate and a hot water bottle, then you need some handy workplace tips.

First you’ll need to Rugby-World-Cupify your office. Flags, memorabilia, bobbleheads, whatever. Just make it good, quality, not cheap Warehouse-knock-off rugby stuff. You’ll need it on, above or beside your desk. Let people know who you support and whatever slightly tenuous national link you have invented to distinguish you from the hordes of All Black supporters. This will at least alert your understanding boss to the reason for the baggy eyes and the nodding off in team meetings.

Second you’ll need to be able to see some of that brilliant web-based rugby content on your computer. Not an easy thing if you’re stuck behind the fire wall of some evil, sport-hating dictator in the IT department. But you've obviously found your way either here or to the Dropkicks podcast, so you're halfway there. We can't condone anything else. Like going to Lifehacker and finding ways around that issue.

All that websurfing will help you fill your head with facts for trumping people in rugby-related discussions around the water cooler. But if you can’t remember all those difficult numbers, and let's face it, who could after sitting up till 3.30am watching Australia get bruised by Tonga in the first qualifier (you heard it here first), here are a few lines that will undoubtedly see you crowned king or queen of rugby knowledge.

• “Actually only eight All Blacks were born overseas and all but Sivivatu went through the school system.”
• “Despite his size Carl Hayman is nearly always one of the first three to the breakdown”
• “There is actually some controversy about whether William Webb Ellis invented rugby or whether he copied a similar Irish game”
•  “You know I heard on the Dropkicks the other day…” (pause for quiet awe)

And finally, for those long, long days away from your TV when you can't escape the office for the afternoon replays, we recommend stashing Red Bull somewhere at your workplace. These geniuses went one step further and hid their own beer fridge! Once you’ve got a frosty beverage you can lean way back, throw on a game cast, and it’s like you’re there. Almost.

The Dropkicks

Did anybody know that the All Blacks aren't allowed to swap jerseys with their World Cup opponents after games? Lu reports in Allez Les Noirs that he ran into Portugal front-rower Andre Silva after the game in Lyon, and the big guy was disappointed:

No doubt a special day for them. Just a pity they don’t get much in the way of souvenirs. That night we bumped into two of their forwards in town, speaking to Andre Silva and he said that they could not get the All Black jerseys at the end. It seems Henry’s All Blacks can only give out socks and shorts to opponents. Doesn’t quite look the same, framed on the clubroom’s wall does it?

Indeed. So, are the hi-tech Adidas jerseys just too expensive to replace for each game? Do they contain secret stuff that can't be shared? And aren't socks and shorts a bit smelly?

The rest of Lu's post is worth a read too. Apparently Byron Kelleher -- who so desperately wants a job in TV, I think -- has been wowing French TV with his serviceable, if limited, Francais.

My sources also tell me that Jerry Collins is scaring all and sundry in the All Black party with his intensity and level of training. It would appear that he is keyed up for the tournament.

Meanwhile, Tracey Nelson sums up the response to England's miserable performance against the Boks:

There are now calls from many over here that it's time for England to have a Southern Hemisphere coach, some are even suggesting Graham Henry - but the truth is that it will take more than a Great Redeemer to remedy the cancer that has spread into English and UK rugby. It's not so much a coaching dilemma but a lack of understanding and feeling for the game that has made it'\s way into rugby on this side of the world. Until they get their heads around this, even the best coaches in the world are not going to be able to change it.

Oh, and the New Zealander who has been uploading games to YouTube has been DMCA'd. The clips are gone and his account is suspended. So it's almost impossible to see any meaningful coverage on the internet, Even TV3, as the local broadcaster, doesn't seem to be able to show anything -- in this news clip, supposedly about the Portugal game, there is literally one second of the match.

Naturally, there are high-quality torrents of nearly every game available from the usual sources. Given that, the IRB obsessing over news clips and YouTube seems self-defeating. One day, major sports bodies are going to have to come to terms with the internet and the fact that it's actually an important way of engaging the public.

The last time that I found myself thinking about Georgia was in a Russian Politics class at university, when I struggled to remember how to spell Eduard Shevardnadze and tried to show off by remembering Stalin’s Georgian name and got it completely wrong.

The Lelos are the toast of the cup and hopefully have put to rest the twaddle about the problem of minnows. The forward play of the Georgians was as good as anyones at the cup. I am pretty sure I would tire of watching the Georgians after a few games. They were playing 15 man rugby- its just the 15 all played in the forwards. However they executed their game plan brilliantly. The fact was they lacked a bit of composure at the end of the game, but that is not unexpected when you are only playing at this level once every four years.

Perhaps it it should not be a surprise that Georgia are doing well as apparently they invented rugby (and then forgot about it for a few hundred years or so). Only having eight rugby fields and 300 players is a bit of a limitation but their performances at the Cup can only do the game good.

Ireland on the other hand are in awful trouble and will need a total turn-around to beat either Argentina or France. We await with interest Paul O’ Connell’s tour dairy entry because apparently Namibia was as low as it gets. Mind you the Northern Hemisphere participation in the latter stages of the cup is looking decidedly dodgy. The English papers have laid in, and are now predicting doom and gloom against Samoa. After last night it could be that they have as much to worry about from Tonga.

As for the All Blacks, I find it hard to say a team who scored 108 points were scratchy, but they were, and Graham Henry is spinning like a top to say they achieved their aim of improving things from the game against Italy. They did play well in patches, but it was clearly a difficult game for the All Blacks to know how to approach.

They were disjointed from the moment they aimlessly wandered on to the field. By comparison the Portuguese were equal parts pride, fear and passion. It appeared at least half the team was about to spontaneously combust during the national anthem. (which begs the question has Byron Kelleher got some Portuguese blood?) They passed the tikanga test by facing up to the haka and set about staying alive, as their coach put it. The ploy of bringing Ric Salizzo on as a replacement prop worked well, and the sought-after try was scored.

Once again the weekend showed the French turning out in fantastic numbers for all the games. They do seem to be embracing the cup. Tracey over at haka found Lyon to be doing just that, if struggling a bit to get around the city. If only I had been there. My high school French class used a book on Lyon as our text. A few years ago I was there and I stood by the town hall, willing someone to ask me how to get to the railway station, “prenez la troisieme rue a gauche.” It never happened.

Anyway, for the All Blacks it is away from the charms of Lyon to the Scotland -- and the injury toll seems to be limited to a minor hamstring tear (can you have ‘minor’ tears) and a more serious hit out against the Scots beckons.

It is hard to take anything much away from this weekend for the All Blacks, except, perhaps, that it is possible to lift Carl Hayman in a lineout. Now, don’t do it again.

Grant Robertson