Phworr the frisson, the low-heat pervy distractedness of it; clock-glimpses and trouser-hitches and coughs. Waiting rooms; except no… more like changing rooms… because surely we’re in there, waiting… to play.

You can be one of the French if you like, you miserable English bastard, but I’m Roberts… or maybe Hook. And maybe when I’m Hook I’ll be the Magic Man that Hook really can be, with a wonderful throwback moment to when I/he was just that bit less muscled; when I gambolled just that touch more freely; before they got me in the gym. And I won’t break that line, I’ll glide and dance there and no-one will lay a finger.

But tough call this. When Roberts is blasting holes in the side of French Buildings tomorrow morn that might have to be me. With my head down, like a hulk-cum-baby-carrier, the ball nestling; in all that magnificent poetic violence; that bicep-fest. But I do blast through, into the mintiest, airiest low-alcohol but most intoxicating space, filled with Welsh Voices roaring and a me-like Hook in support. And we exchange passes twice and then I feint, draw half the crowd – never mind the full back – and switch to slow-mo for the moment we put them to the sword. A blind reverse pass and he dives over under the sticks. And he’s me and I’m him and we’re Wales; and there’s no answer from the French.