Wales has already won their World Cup judging by the euphoria and sheer joy that took over Cardiff when the final whistle blew at Twickenham.
For the first time in scores of trips to the Welsh capital, I was actually in town to witness a Welsh victory and it was an uplifting experience.
This is a country where, like New Zealand, rugby is god and everyone knows the game back the front and has an opinion, as I discovered sitting in a pub in St Mary's street watching the game. Once it was discovered that we were Kiwis, we became involved in a hundred different conversations with a hundred different people and they naturally assumed, and indeed insisted, that we become Welsh for the day.
Frankly it was hard not to be as the national anthem was belted out around the pub, the shouting at the big screen started, and then the final whistle which sent the place into delirium. Perfect strangers suddenly became lifelong friends as the pub patrons danced and embraced and the crowd outside on the main street erupted in celebration which left the place looking like a bomb site on Sunday morning.
England, and the English, have to live with the fact that a hundred or so miles down the M4 they, in a rugby sense, are far from popular and the Welsh take great delight in knocking over big brother.
This might just be their most significant and celebrated win over the old enemy and it remains to be seen whether it has a hand in seeing the hosts miss the play-offs, but whatever transpires, this match will long be remembered for its drama and pure sporting theatre.
