Jim Hopkins: Silence in the sadly, madly, badly-planned Hadlee stand

You do wonder, don't you, how the literary giants of yesteryear might have covered the Lions tour had they been given the chance.

Well, no, you probably don't.

But you might when you consider that the alternative is yet another pontifical dissertation on the looming battle between Dr Don and Mistress Helen - otherwise known as Tweedledull and Tweedleduller.

Faced with that unpalatable prospect, a bit of literary speculation seems appealing.

Especially since an entire leeky boatload of Welsh fans has just sailed into Canterbury, ready for all the pulsating excitement of tomorrow night's test.

And, as you're no doubt aware, one of the 20th century's greatest authors was a Welshman.

No, it wasn't Oscar Wilde. He was Irish.

And, besides, he would have likely dismissed the whole tour with a snooty epigram: "Rugby is a ballet of elephants and therefore belongs in the zoo." Or: "The only time I was ever invited to watch a rugby match, I instructed my driver to speed like the devil - in the opposite direction."

And it wasn't Shakespeare, either. Mainly because he was dead. Although, if he wasn't, he might well have penned something like this:

Friends, roamers, countrymen

I come to bury Henry. Not to praise him.

For Woodward says he is ambitious

And Woodward is an honourable man.

Besides, forsooth, if I sucketh not up to him

I won't get into the press conference.

In fact, the famous Welsh writer was none other than Dylan Thomas. Who did much more than give the famous folk singer a surname.

He also produced some powerful and enduring works, none more so than his "play for voices" first broadcast by the BBC in 1954, Under Milk Wood.

So, to escape the taxing haggles of our politicians and enhance the overall tone of contemporary sports journalism, we proudly present a previously unpublished sequel to Under Milk Wood, Mr Dylan Thomas' Down Under Clive Woodward.

(Note: To assist with any possible NCEA questions, secondary students might wish to consult a copy of the original play in the banned section of their school library.)

To begin at the beginning: It is a winter, moonless night in the Christchurched city, thousands of miles from the valleys where the coal-veined, sweat-blooded boyos hard shovel the old deep long-crushed anthracite forests, pausing only to enjoy a slip-slop slice of womb-warm bread and Mother's dripping, followed by a briefly joyful chance to choir their voices massed and sing aloud the songs of Harry Secombe. (Harry Lujah!)

Or, to put it another way, this beginning does not begin in Wales, look you.

It begins in Godzone, far flung across the world on the shores of the sloeblack, All Black southern seas, where we are actually closer to Japan than Wales - and, believe me, no one is closer to whales than Japan. (With the possible exception of Chris Carter, who's thinking of marrying one.)

But as readers of this ale-inked, ref-blown, frost-chilled, exclusive report will soon discover, it is still a winter, moonless night in this Christchurched city, starless and bible black, the cobblestreets silent and the shops in mourning for all the people of this dumbfound town are cheering now.

Listen. It is crowds moving in the streets, a great, processional scarf-wrapped throng, thermal-lined and woollen-hatted. Wrapped in Romney (like lambs to the slaughter), they stride on, ox-broad, barge-booted, eyes bright with hope, a hopeless hope against the pride of Lions, that's true, but still a hope, fern-chested, fierce and foreign.

Listen. It is the grass growing on Stadium Jade. Bright as a jewel. Green as the envy of our Zurich red. Evergreen. Nevergreen. As green as the green, green grass of home; although it's not. And Tom Jones won't be singing the anthem either, more's the pity.

Look. There's the referee; pea-whistled, officious, penalising breakdowns like an Aussie with an apple.

"Lion on the ball," he cries, chest puffing like a rooster. "Slowing down the play!" But they've not got Jonny. Goodness, no. Stooped solemn, hands in prayer, more conversions than Pastor Brian, he's our salvation tonight.

Hark. A haka. Tribal. Trademarked. The Black band's brand, all amplified around the ground to send the army barmy. But when the roar of Lions comes there'll be silence in the sadly, madly, badly planned Hadlee stand.

And look again. There's young Gavin Henson, new lover of the Church, the vice of an angel, our Gavin, wild Gavin, hair as red as a red, red engine, clanging down the burning streets with frightened Fireman Throttle clinging to the ladder with his braces whistling in the wind and his moustache dancing like a baboon at a garden party. Except Gavin's not playing tonight. They've picked Jonny instead, the daft buggers. As second five, for heaven's sake!

Honestly, sometimes Sir Clive Woodward makes as much sense as an ormolu clock. It's all very well being cautious and canny and keeping your secrets like a preacher in a brothel but if we lose tonight, then every member of the Llanelli rugby club would be wanting his guts or Polly Garter's.

Remember 1905, y'Pommy git. It was the Welsh that thrashed 'em. So put that in your leek and smoke it.

Oh, look you, I think I'll have a drink.