Things I like about Christchurch:
Anglo-Saxon taxi drivers.
Things I don't like about Christchurch:
Everything else.
That's probably not fair. The Garden City has its attractions and one day some kind Cantabrian will let me know just what they are. He or she may even manage to do it without lecturing me on the many attributes of Reuben Thorne.
For now my one fond memory of Christchurch is the NPC semifinal in 2005. Otago was predictably the rank underdog but left all kinds of red and black debris on the grass as it smashed through Canterbury.
Chris Smylie, bless him, celebrated the greatest night of a rugby career that still has some miles left in it by scoring two tries. Smylie's gone from Otago and that makes me sad. But thinking about that great night always makes me smile.
Anyhoo, back to this test.
It's 6pm, dusk has descended and I'm safely out of the reach of the seedy underbelly of the city and in the press centre under Lancaster Park or AMI Stadium or whatever the old ground is being called this year.
Old ground? Heck, yes. The place is a dump. Half the ground is missing and the rest looks like something the Pirates under-13s have cobbled together. Why is this test even being played here? All the television cameras will point to the gaping hole that will eventually become the Deans Stand and it will look awful.
There are, I suppose, about 50 rugby writers covering this two-test series. There is one woman. There are about 14 New Zealand regulars.
The rest are English or, obviously, in one notable case, Welsh. Stephen Jones, the boogeyman to many New Zealand rugby fans, sits diagonally across from me in the AKA Stadium press room. Some find his diatribes against our style of rugby offensive but I find him both amusing and generally accurate. And his book, Endless Winter, is easily in the top five rugby books I've read.
The big names are all here: Peter Jackson (Daily Mail), Chris Hewett (Independent), Mick Cleary (Daily Telegraph), Rob Kitson (Guardian), Paul Morgan (Rugby World) and the two towering former internationals, Eddie Butler (Observer) and Paul Ackford (Sunday Telegraph).
The English hacks share many things: they all love rugby, they find endless ways to bemoan England's hopelessness, and they can't stop talking about food.
Even now one of the visiting press pack is describing, in sumptuous detail, the ham and cheese sandwich he had in his packed lunch. When the food for the reporters comes out, the call of "Nosh on" goes up and "Jackers", "Johnners", "Aggers", "Ackers" and company tuck in.
Ah yes, the rugby.
Having been told a few hours ago by the online editor that I am the worst sports pundit in the world - witness my Super 14 success rate and my limp Euro 2008 picks - I am reluctant to call the result.
All Blacks by 15, then. Nice and simple.
MIA Stadium turns on the usual pre-game waffle. There must be a law in New Zealand rugby that stipulates all visiting teams MUST be welcomed with their own culture and music. So the Irish get dancers in green, the Welsh get puffy-chested men with moustaches singing mining songs, the Springboks run out to Shosholoza and so on. Here, the English warm up to a very English Christchurch marching band cranking out Pack Up Your Troubles and You'll Never Walk Alone.
I've never really understood it. Why can't we display OUR culture, OUR music? Are the All Blacks greeted with 10 Guitars or Loyal when they play at Twickenham or Murrayfield?
Hold on. The band's just segued into the Split Enz classic I See Red. Jolly good.
On the dead side of MCC Stadium the air is suddenly ripped by several large explosions. Flames spew into the air and firefighters are on hand. Are they trying to knock down the whole ground?
I look across at a sign saying "Deans Stand - Opening January 2010". That worries me. Not because it's named after an Australian coach but because it exposes how Dunedin is lagging behind. We're very much the tortoise in the stadium race and I worry we'll be well behind the bunch when the 2011 World Cup arrives.
The test starts and there's a sense of deja vu. The English are rip-shizzle-bust, throwing themselves at everything and everyone. There's fire in their bellies, just as there was in the opening spell at Eden Park.
Just like last week, the English fizzle out and the All Blacks fire. There's a lovely moment when Dan Carter glides through a gap and on hand for a try on debut is Richard Kahui, the new centre, former Highlander and genuinely nice young man.
Less pleasant is watching lock Ali Williams leave NBA Stadium, the intense grimace in his face suggesting his injury (knee? ankle?) is bad.
The Television Match Official is called on twice, denying first England winger Tom Varndell and then Carter.
And then it happens.
Richie McCaw goes down.
He's hurt.
Bad.
He leaves the field limping. A nation holds its breath. ACC Stadium's a morgue.
Richie McCaw. The Master of the Maul. The Behemoth of the Breakdown. The Rajah of Rugby. When he jumps in a swimming pool, he doesn't get wet; the water gets Richie McCawed.
We'll know more soon.
The All Blacks go to the break 20-0 up after Carter waltzes through the wafer-thin English defensive line to score and add the conversion.
RICHIE!
Some other things happen in the second half. England scores, the All Blacks score, the clock ticks down.
The loss of Williams and McCaw has left the All Blacks with a most unusual pack containing Brad Thorn, Anthony Boric, Adam Thomson and Sione Lauaki and devoid of a real leader.
The All Blacks score again, Sione Lauaki charging over from the back of a scrum. The folks at KFC Stadium are suitably pleased. For now.
England scores again. Looks like the All Blacks are again going to slip into second-half mediocrity. That's disappointing, even if the game has long been won.
Soon it's all over and the All Blacks have wrapped up a 2-0 series win. But not many are celebrating. Only news of Richie McCaw's complete recovery will lead to that. Watch this space.
