The trouble is you cannot imagine Martin Johnson firing up his English team for the Auckland game by citing an unfair tax system, while Andy Robinson, his Scotland counterpart, would rather chew off his arm, which to be fair he frequently tries to do in the coach’s box, than wear a kilt, as the former England boss is as West Country English as dry cider.

However you can bet the Scots have been digging up all the old slights, perceived or otherwise, through history. The spirit of Robert the Bruce and the Battle of Bannockburn will be summoned and former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher’s face will have been painted on Scottish tackle bags this week.

It’s a load of old sheep guts really. The idea that our Celtic cousins have the advantage of passion and patriotism because they blindsided King Edward’s English army in a Stirlingshire village 700 years ago is a little fanciful.

Never let reality get in the way of a good cliche, but rest assured, 12000 miles from the action, I shall be shouting “Remember Flodden” in my Sussex local on England’s south coast, confusing mates with no knowledge of military history. Don’t you mean Foden?

Ah Ben Foden. A downside of following the World Cup from afar is you have to read the ghost written thoughts of players. Over the years I have been Francois Pienaar, Joel Stransky, Ieuan Evans, Serge Blanco, Mike Catt, Matt Stevens and Steve Thompson.

I even once got the word ‘existential’ in the England hooker’s column, which rather gave the ghosting game away, while Blanco, so upset after Australia’s win over France in the 1999 World Cup final, turned his phone off and the only word in my notebook was merde. That particular column was poetic license and an existentialist poet at that.

Foden, in two successive weekly columns for The Sunday Telegraph, has joyfully told us his girlfriend Una Healy, a pop star with a girl band called The Saturdays, is pregnant.

So we now know what the England full-back gets up to on a Saturday, although Foden, rather worryingly, told us “the pregnancy was a little bit unexpected.” Too much rugby and not enough listening in biology class Ben.

Many congratulations to the couple and Foden gave that familiar cradle-rocking gesture when he touched down against Romania, but it’s rugby insight I want, not extracts from Mother & Baby magazine.

The biggest England mystery, until officially announced as part of the squad, has been the whereabouts of Thomas Waldrom. Was the tank engine on the South Island, the North Island or the Island of Sodor? If England wears its change strip again at least Waldrom gets to be an all black.

Privately Martin Johnson – Grumpy if a little bigger - was furious. The England players who tackled the dwarves, singing ‘swing low’ not ‘hi ho,’ clearly did not roll away.

What’s more a week later they repeated the offences – at the breakdown not the bar – against Georgia. The England squad is a great bunch of blokes, but they’ve got a Dopey and a Sleepy as well as a Hape.

Mike Tindall’s Stag do in Miami ahead of his wedding to Zara Phillips was referred to by one English newspaper as a ‘seven- hour drinking marathon’. That’s not a marathon; it’s barely the 400-metre Hurdles. A Buck’s weekend is one thing; professional sportsmen performing on the biggest stage of all, another.

It was meat, drink and royal jelly to the prurient press. If the News of the World had not closed, the infamous British tabloid would have had interviews with the dwarves - well seven of them anyway.

Nobody expects their players to be snow white – last dwarf gag for a while promise - but this was the height of idiocy, especially given Tindall’s wife is the Queen’s granddaughter.

Johnson got it wrong. Bungee jumping yes, for that is an adrenalin rush to enrich both body and soul. Relaxing over a few beers may be good for team bonding, but it is not the fuel of champions and in this all-seeing, all-judging age what goes on tour stays on CCTV.

Does Usain Bolt go for a barrel of rum between races at the Olympics? Actually scrub that. The Jamaican could drink the annual rum rations of the pirates of the Caribbean and still win at a stagger.

If anyone deserved to get epically drunk it was Ireland, a nation that has produced a few Olympic drinking champions down the years. The Irish forwards were immense against the Wallabies and I’m counting captain Brian O’Driscoll among them, as the centre could cut it as a Test seven.

We up north are now getting very excited as you big beast southerners could all end up on one side of the quarter-final draw. It’s like having Djokovic, Nadal and Federer in one half of the Wimbledon draw and Andy Murray in the other, except Murray doesn’t count in rugby terms, as he’s Scottish.

Whoops shouldn’t have said that. Scotland will now ruck England out of Eden Park.

Presumably if Wales had successfully appealed – if such a process existed - to have James Hook’s penalty re-instated, they would be regretting it now, as second in Pool D might be the best place to finish if Ireland has already produced its one big game.

Meanwhile France is doing its best to replicate its football team with its unique mixture of ennui and angst, not helped by Marc Lievremont being one croissant short of a continental breakfast.

I’m off to watch England get penalized against Romania. I hope the pub is not too crowded. I’m not very tall you see. Important to end on a low.

We heard the thudding sound back in England. Jonny Wilkinson was doing his best impression of Dobby, the house elf in Harry Potter, who routinely beats himself up.

‘Bad Jonny’ chanted the England first-five as he repeatedly bashed his head against his hotel room wall. Meanwhile the new from Hades was that, as well as Wilkinson missing five penalties, hell had indeed frozen over.

There were thudding noises across the living rooms and bars of England too – the sound of jaws hitting the floor. Even when England plays like scalded, neutered cats against fired-up Pumas, there is always the comfort of ‘our Jonny’ slotting his kicks. Not any more. Goodness to win the World Cup England may have to be creative. That wasn’t part of the plan.

Even the relief of replacement scrum-half Ben Youngs skating over for the game-changing try against Argentina had England supporters screaming “ground it!” as he insisted on getting under the posts and almost ran out of dead-ball area. Fair play to the Leicester man; he thought surely even Wilkinson won’t miss if I get it beneath the sticks.

It’s not much fun shouting at the television 12000 miles from the rugby planet’s biggest party. Envious? You bet. Should I leave a note for the wife and slip off to the airport? She’s half Kiwi; she’ll understand.

The England team may not have scared anybody on opening week, but Brian Moore did, which given he makes Dobby look like David Beckham is not surprising. The former England rake, looking for his Dunedin digs, knocked on the wrong door and terrified an Otago granny. At least he did not say: “Hello, I’m an old English hooker working here for six weeks.”

Apparently New Zealand brothel keepers are expecting the best trade to come from England fans, presumably dressed in England’s change strip just in case the other half spots them on Google Earth. Playing in all black, whatever the motives, was crass in the extreme and with the numbers peeling off the jerseys within five minutes England was as sartorially shabby as its rugby.

How we laugh when we remind any New Zealander we know that it has been 24 long years; that should they choke again, but this time in their own backyard, Dan Carter will be lucky to get a job mustering sheep, yet alone a backline.

We cannot decide whether to mock the Haka as a faux-warrior dance, or respect it for its noble traditions. Well I’ve made a decision to follow the All Blacks as my second team – and not just as a nod to a Tauranga father-in-law foolish enough to move to Australia.

A lot of guff is spoken about a sport defining a culture, but in the case of New Zealand it is achingly true. I cheer for England, but should Richie McCaw lift the World Cup next month it will be one of the greatest moments in all sport. I just wish I was there.