Keith Duggan/TV View: After the opening game, 40 days and 40 nights of rugby seemed like more of a Biblical punishment than the promise of a festival of sports. When a rugby game manages to dampen the ardour of Tony Ward, you know it has been a grim one. All in all, the WRC began on a flat note.
The Australians, self-styled party givers to beat the band, started like they meant business. They lathered on the greasepaint and dusted down all the old props left over from the 2000 Olympics. In no particular order came the sea anemones, children beating drums and human processions full of symbolism and pan-national messages of hope.
"Twenty inflatable one-eyed rugby fans," noted Ryle Nugent quite early on, although whether he was commenting on the ceremony or merely scanning the audience remained unclear.
With Crowded House in demise, Michael Hutchence sadly gone and Kylie gone global, the music entertainment was provided by "contemporary Australian band, George". As bands go, George were God-awful and their turn was worsted by a Scottish fiddler by the name of James Crabb. After that came the showcasing of the "Kicking Kid", a touch of gimmickry which Ryle thoughtfully advised us had worked none too well in practice.
The Kid duly appeared and was predictably impertinent and faux adorable and looking much to the manor born in front of 80,000 people.
My hopes were briefly raised by the sight of legendary lock John Eales, thinking that maybe he provide the "kicking" part of the equation. But no: the child went through the tedious spectacle of kicking a ball created by lasers or smoke or something equally pointless.
Even the Aussies, congenitally bred to cheer anything merely because of its Aussie-ness were left cold by this one.
Thousands of miles away in RTÉ, the WRC team was blithely trying to ignore the theatricals and talk rugby. They unveiled the jewel of their tournament team, injured Irish winger Geordan Murphy, who will surely end this tournament more battered and bruised than he would have done had he encountered the toughest defences in the world.
He joins a familiar table; George Hook brimming with irascible opinion; Brent Pope his amicable foil and Tom McGurk, the presenter who plays it tough.
"The loss of Finegan?" barked McGurk. "Well, not the loss," corrected Pope. "He wasn't selected."
In the midst of this crossfire sat one of the best wingers in the world and from the outset he looked like a natural, relaxed and composed and, alone among the band, in fairly good form.
Back to the stadium in Sydney, where Australia's seemingly inexhaustible supply of amateur percussionists was still going at it hammer and tongs.
"Yes, keeping the beat going there," said Ryle in the weary tone of a man who had been listening to that very beat since arriving at the ground 12 hours earlier for his first sound check.
It would take a lot more, though, than bad drumming to quench the spirit of Wardie, one of the great connoisseurs of the game. Wardie does not so much analyse a game as wine taste it. It is all in the throat. When he sees something that particularly appeals to him, he can sound virtually post-coital. He hums, purrs, sighs and occasionally weeps.
"Those lines of running," he swooned early in the second half. "Beautiful on the eye."
Indeed. But the problem is that centres and locks coming onto the ball at perfect angles is not likely to spread the rugby gospel beyond the globe's trigonometry enthusiasts.
Argentina versus Australia was poor and predictable and reinforced the problem that the watching world are going to have to tolerate games with no intrigue. Argentina were touted as the game's emerging force and although they stayed within touching distance of the champions, their game was laden with the kind of errors that break Wardie's heart.
"Unpardonable," he lamented at one point as another of Contepomi's kicks went straight to touch.
Afterwards, there was just about time for a hasty review from RTÉ's team, none of whom seem too enamoured by what they had witnessed. Argentina's late try was lined up in slow motion for Murphy to talk through.
The tape was played and the Irish winger remained silent.
"Geordan," snapped McGurk. "Oh. Yeah, I was just admiring it really. Left me speechless."
Even on crutches, the boy is quick. He will need all his wits for this RWC is shaping up to be oh-so-slow.
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