Rugby World Cup final day was not a good time to be working in a London pub. The overwhelming reaction to England’s triumph was one of unquenchable thirst – bad news for the vast majority of the city’s bar staff, largely comprised as it is of Australians taking two years out from covering their heads with hats with corks dangling from the brim, to pour pints with heads that end four inches beneath it.

Since spending a very happy summer making up the numbers for a team in the British Australian Rules Football League several years ago, there is a small corner of my heart that will be forever antipodean. I was worse than useless at the footie, but found myself in the unenviable position of being one of the first names down on the team-sheet every week thanks to a rule which dictated that each 18-man team had to field six non-Australians.
Almost inevitably, the vacant berths went to Irish players. This was partly down to our familiarity with the equally anarchic game of Gaelic football, but mainly due to the fact that nobody from any other civilised nation was idiotic enough to participate in the blood-soaked chaos that constitutes your average Australian’s notion of a harmless afternoon’s fun.
What I loved about these matches was that despite my lack of fitness, skill or ability of any kind to compete in whatever far flung corner of the field I was exiled to during the astonishingly violent encounters that preceded each Saturday’s marathon post-match booze-up, my team-mates were always supportive. So much so that when the official team kit was dispatched from Australia by our AFL sponsors, Carlton, I became the proud owner of a sports bag bearing the affectionate nickname with which my antipodean friends had christened me. In large white letters emblazoned across one side, just underneath the London Griffins logo was the word “Cunt”.
However, I would be lying if I said that fond memories of my halcyon days on the oval sward were the only motivation for my wishing Australia’s rugby team well against England in the World Cup final. Like most Irish people – indeed, like most people with a passing interest in rugby who are not English - my motivation for wanting to see the Sassenachs get creamed was mired in good old-fashioned begrudgery and spite. You know the type.
However, I had a contingency plan. It had occurred to me in the run up to the final that there was a horrifyingly real chance England would triumph. Having decided that fleeing the country never to return, just to avoid being drowned in the tidal wave of post World Cup smugness, wasn’t really feasible, I opted to hedge. Using a complex mathematical formula and an elaborate spreadsheet, I calculated the exact amount of money I would be prepared to sacrifice in order to ensure an Australian victory. And without wishing to bore you with the details, suffice to say the sum in question came to £80.
I promptly wagered this amount on England, safe in the knowledge that it would be money well spent if it went some way towards guaranteeing their defeat. After all, my ability to influence the outcome of major sporting events by simply betting on them is nothing short of astonishing. By the same token, if England won, I could console myself with my winnings, which would probably buy just enough booze to numb the pain of a victory for Martin Johnson’s men. It was a no-brainer – a win-win situation that could not go wrong under any circumstances.
Unless of course the match ended in a draw, followed by an England victory in extra time, an unlikely scenario that would see me lose my money while suffering the emotional double-whammy of an England win. But what were the odds of that happening, eh?
About 28/1, as it transpired, and didn’t I feel a complete tit as Jonny Wilkinson’s deciding drop-goal split the uprights and secured the Webb Ellis Trophy for England in the closing seconds of the second period of extra time.
Chilled to the marrow, I stared in slack-jawed disbelief as my two English flatmates hugged each other in delight before the wussier of the pair, a grown man, began a fit of uncontrollable blubbing that lasted for the best part of an hour, at which point we adjourned to the pub for “celebratory” pints.
Now perhaps it was the early afternoon alcoholic haze, but it was at this point that I began to feel that I had perhaps done the citizens of my home from home an injustice. True, there was no end of middle-class blokes in England rugby shirts present, all of whom were rip-roaringly drunk having been on the beer since 9am. However, where I had expected to be privy to the kind of jingoistic braying, lewd buttock exposure and beer-quaffage-through-a-sock that is the stock-in-trade of rugby supporters the world over, it pains me to say that the occupants of my local pub shredded all my preconceptions by being refinement itself.
Obviously they were delighted to have won the World Cup, but the raucousness of their celebrations was mild compared to the kind of exuberant free-for-all supporters of certain other countries (not naming any names) might embark on if, for example, they had almost but not quite beaten the home nation in a match the Wallabies weren’t really too bothered about winning.
By 5pm when I was completely pissed, I found myself lauding the efforts of the England team with the kind of vocal gusto that would almost certainly be frowned upon in Bective or Old Wesley. However, if it goes to court, my defence will be that it doesn’t really count because it’s only rugby and the cup they won is so small it was hardly worth the effort.
Truly, it was a great day to be from the Northern Hemisphere.