Les Fecs are in there somewhere
Football has its Wags, players' wives and girlfriends. Having watched Coralie, Justine and two other delightful, articulate young ladies interviewed on French TV just before France v Ireland the other night, I can share my discovery that rugby has Les Fecs: femmes et copines des rugbymen.
We met four of them during TF1's build-up to the game, and diligent research enables me to introduce them - and the other members of the clan - here.
But you know you're getting on a bit when you suddenly start writing with affection about rugby. The game's appeal has always eluded me.
At school, you had to opt in to rugby. Otherwise, you played football. So far so good. But with the World Cup currently dominating media sports coverage in France, it is hard to avoid the game.
My brother Phil, always one for the more physical sports, actually made that choice. He became a very useful player, having to fend off at least one approach from the Rugby League and enjoying a solid club career in the North East and later down south.
He also got me through my one and only experience of having to report on a rugby game. It was something like Darlington v Carlisle, possibly each club's seconds, and the assignment was a duty, not a choice. Phil explained what was going on clearly enough for me not to make a fool of myself in my own rag's sports pages, and I seem to recall he pocketed his share of the small fee from the away team's local paper.
Now he's a referee. An idea of the way things are conducted on the rugby field came from a remark early in his refereering career that he found it hard to envisage circumstances in which he'd need to send a player off. There are times in football when you feel it's hard enough to choose a player you'd allow to stay on.
Even rugby has changed, and Phil has had to develop a tougher disciplinary streak. Compared with football however, it still gives the impression of being incredibly well behaved, however violent some of its manoeuvres.
Watching France v Ireland did nothing to dispel these thoughts.
It started with those four French players' compagnes. I know I'm a sucker for a pretty face. But these young ladies had all the je ne sais quoi you'd hope for: charm, style - immaculate, without trace of vulgarity, in French rugby tops and blue jeans - and obvious intelligence.
I have never met a Wag so would be reluctant to base an opinion on what the tabloids have said about them. Coleen McLoughlin, Wayne Rooney's girlfriend, comes across well and seems devoted to her handicapped sister. The French girls, Les Fecs, are no less girl-next-door, but just seem to have more class.
Back to the Stade de France. Remember how the French football squad struggles with La Marseillaise? Not a bit of it with les rugbymen. Every last man, whatever his ethnic origin, belted out each word of the scintillating anthem.
The Irish players also sang heartily, not the anthem - in rugby, it's an all-Ireland and the Soldier's Song is considered a bit too nationalistic except at games played in the Irish Republic - but Ireland's Call. This was written by Phil Coulter as part of his community service for having inflicted Puppet On a String on the world.
Ans the positive feelings seem to spread to spectators. While I have always enjoyed the company of - most -football supporters, rugby undoubtedly inspires greater camaraderie between opposing sets of fans.
The game? I still have only a vague grasp of the rules, but it was obvious even to me that France were overwhelmingly the better side. Their reward: the daunting prospect of facing South Africa (oops) the All Blacks unless Ireland beat Argentina.
French TV would not even need another encounter with Les Fecs to send the audience ratings, already at record levels for France v Ireland, rocketing still higher for that one.
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