Jim Hopkins: Make it like the Somme, lads - not pretty but effective

Poised as we are on the brink of a tour that's being called The Greatest Sporting Event of the Millennium This Year, we've already seen extensive coverage in the Harold and elsewhere, including a special series At Holmes With the Poms, now screening on Prime at 6pm. And the Poms are also getting exclusive diary-style reports from various members of the touring party.

To give Harold readers some sense of the frenzy sweeping the UK, here is one such account . (Note: Because it's published in the Guardian, which used to be in Manchester, some references may be unfamiliar.)

On the prowl with the pride

(The Guardian's exclusive report by Our Man on Tour, Alistair Campbell (formerly with No 10 and now with our First XV)

Friday, May 27: Ee bai gum, as my dentist used to say, they'll nowt be chattering down at t'Rovers. Not for a while, any road. They'll be too busy watching telly; even the young uns like our Leanne what gets quite frisky of an evening.

See, I'm not a betting man - well, y' can't be when you're advising the Prime Minister. Y' can't say to Tony, "I bet t' British public will enlist in droves if we just add a couple of teeny weeny words to this here secret report about Mr 'ussein's shenanigans".

No, y'can't. So I'm not a betting man, but I'd still wager a packet of pork scratchings that it won't only be folk on t' Street as will be struck dumb. My guess is t' whole country will be glued to the box, exulting - I say exulting - in the achievements of Sir Clive Wayward's glorious Loins.

And they will be glorious, make no mistake. I'm picking this will be an adidas Agincourt. 'Cept we're not fighting t' French, of course. Not wi' names like Muliaina and Taumopeau. I can't imagine them lads galloping towards our Henry's bowmen.

Nonetheless, as a predecessor of mine in the spin-doctoring department, young Willy Shakespeare, once put it, there'll be chaps in the snorer back 'ome as 'd give a day's pay at Rovers t' be here wi' us today.

Bai heck, our lads did a grand job when they finally landed on enemy soil. They were as chipper as Monty at Dunkirk.

One thing that surprised us is how folk down here don't try to hide their WMDs. No, they'll show 'em to anyone, including us as we got off t' plane. I 'ad t' laugh when old Lawrence of Arugbya (Dallaglio) said, "Cor blimey, Al, there's more WMD here than y'could fit in an MI5 dossier".

And he were right. Admittedly they were Warriors of Maori Descent, but dangerous with it, wearing little more than the dusky skin God gave 'em. I think I'll ask the Prime Minister here if I can take one 'ome for Cherie.

Monday, May 30: Spot of bother today, I'm afraid. Young Brian Moore has done what's known locally as a Tamihere - put his foot right up his gob, has lad. Created a firestorm of fury, bai 'eck. He might even be waltzed off t' pier by this chap Shadbolt who seems to have a Duracell smile. Honestly, this fellah makes the Cheshire Cat look as glum as our Roy on the Street.

But he weren't smiling when Brian alleged his beloved Invercargill were just like Chernobyl. There was even talk he might ask George W. Bush to invade us. Naturally, in my capacity as press officer for Sir Clive's rampant Loins, I had to calm things down, which I think we've done. I've arranged for the Black Dykes Mills Band (and a group of refugee Morris Dancers) to come over on a goodwill mission. That should keep 'em 'appy, provided t' refugees don't ask for asylum, mind.

And I've told Brian he were out of order. Personally, I think his remarks were grossly unfair. Tony and I went to Chernobyl last year and they've done a splendid job beautifying that place. So I told Brian, "Look, lad, if you're going t' say things like that about Invercargill, then for Pete's sake stay away from Dargaville". There's only so much a media guru can do.

Wednesday, June 1: What a relief. It's like Mafeking in stereo. At last, Sir Clive's quivering Loins are about to shag some sheep, as the Barmy Army might put it. We've just arrived in Rotorooter to prepare for the first match. I tell thee what, you wouldn't believe the smell. It's like the 'ole of Birmingham just 'ad a dodgy curry. This must be the only place in t' world where every time you fart you increase the tourist appeal.

Some of our chaps reckon it's a cunning NZRFU conspiracy to demoralise us. Well, they'll soon discover our damn busters are made of sterner stuff - I hope.

Trouble is, some of the backs reckon they won't be able to catch the ball 'cos they'll be too busy holding their nose. Sir Clive's a worried man, right enough. He doesn't want his flashy Loins going down on their first outing, especially against the Bay of Plenty. We was 'oping they'd be nowt more than plenty of red meat.

Fortunately the skipper, young Brian O'Driscoll calmed things down at the team meeting. "Sure and begorrah and hoots mon, boyo," he said in a most inclusive manner, "don't worry about the pong lads. It's no worse than Ian Paisley's socks, dontcha know, dontcha know."

Well, that stirred Sir Clive's Loins up a treat, believe me. "Make it like the Somme, lads," he said. "Not pretty, but effective."

As the official spin doctor, I also suggested we never ever use the word "defeat". My proposal is we always say, "draft victory". And the lads were right chuffed about that. Everyone said that were a phrase as might come in handy as the tour progresses.

Must dash. Got a pint of warm ale in the campervan. Tally ho and good 'unting, as we used to say before it were banned.