The English are coming and at last the deep yearning within my soul is nearly over as the long awaited hour approaches, for at five minutes past the hour of eight upon the evening of the sixth day of February, the second month of the fifteenth year of the second millennium, the hour duth indeed approach. The air is already heavily laden with expectation of the furious battle between nations to come. For when Old Father Time's scythe cuts the last second from the fourth minute of the appointed hour mens nerves will be shredded, the boasting will be hushed, women will swoon at war weary and hardened gladiators lining up on the field of bloody battle and a nation's hopes and prayers will hang upon the slimmest of threads.
The English are coming but shall we falter? Shall we yield? Should we fear them? With the voice of seventy thousand angels around our holy place we shall sing out no, no and thrice no, for we shall ask no quarter nor shall quarter be given. For we have the heart of the dragon and the English shall not hold fear for us. They shall come to our holy temple and they shall fall upon our hallowed turf. They shall come to play a game, when will they ever realise that this is not a sport, by the Northern gods no! for this is our dream, our religion. Is this madness? No this be far worse........
THIS IS RUGBY!
Till the next time.....Cymru am byth