Unbelievable. What a match. Having proved to the Australians that they aren’t even any good at sport, we took on the French in the semi-finals . . . and won.

Or lost. It’s hard to say for sure because today’s Friday and the match hasn’t happened yet. But one thing’s certain: when it does I’ll be there, glued to the screen, with my boy and some beers, talking a load of absolute codswallop.

The problem is that I like rugby very much and I have many opinions about who should do what and when, but never having played I do not have the first clue what’s going on. I have no idea why the forwards play at the back and the backs at the front. And nor do I understand what’s meant by “the blind side”.

I can’t see why one side of the pitch is blind and the other is in full view. It all makes no sense.

And it makes even less sense when 140 tons of beef all lands in a big muddy lump on top of the ball and you have no idea what on earth is going on in there. Not until the referee blows his whistle, does some signing for the deaf and decides that someone at the bottom of the pile has let go too soon, or not at all, or come in from the side or made the ball go forwards and that as a result, another big muddy lump must be formed to get the game going again.

Despite all this, though, you have to love the collisions, the moments when someone with thighs made from oak and a chest the size of a tugboat smashes into a winger with such ferocity that you wonder how his skeleton hasn’t just disintegrated into a million pieces.

That and the fights, those cherished moments when a man mountain smashes his fist, which is the size of a Christmas ham, into someone else’s face and all hell breaks loose. Brilliant.

And that brings us on to the referee who, instead of wading into the melee and showering the participants with red cards, simply asks everyone to calm down, pauses while the more badly injured have their noses and ears sewn back on, and then restarts the game.

Compare this attitude with the homosexual nonsense we see in football. Flick someone’s earlobe in a game of football and some jumped-up little gnome, sweating like a rapist, will mince over and order you off the pitch.

What’s more, a rugby referee is not so drunk on power that he won’t go to the video ref if he’s not sure. The commentators complain about this but I think it’s marvellous: the chap knows how important this game is to the players and he wants to make sure he gets the decision right.

Football refs are not allowed to consult technology even though, so far as I can see, they never ever make a correct decision. No really. They don’t notice when the ball goes over the goal line, they send players off for breathing and do nothing when Ronaldo hurls himself to the ground and claws at his face as though he’s been showered with acid.

And you can’t argue with these power-crazed idiots because then you get sent off as well.

Do you know a football referee? Do you know anyone who knows a football referee? Have you ever even met anyone who sold a dog to someone who knows a football referee? No. And don’t you think that’s weird? I know an astronaut. I’ve even met someone who makes a living from sexing the Queen’s ducks. But I’ve never met a football ref.

Perhaps they’re bred on farms, like The Boys from Brazil. Either that or they all hide behind meaningless day jobs in PC World, emerging only on a Saturday like a troop of SuperNazis with their too-tight Hitler Youth shorts and their silly whistles.

It’s not just football either. The unseen referees in Formula One motor racing distinguish themselves every year by getting every single decision wrong. Only the other week a Polish driver was made to come and sit on the naughty step because he had the temerity to try to overtake a rival.

Then there’s Wimbledon. Half a trillion pounds’ worth of electronic projections say the ball was out. But sometimes, and I often feel for the hell of it, the umpire calls it in.

And then docks the player points if he objects. But what’s the player supposed to do? He’s been on a court, solidly, since he was old enough to vomit. He’s never been out with a girl, he’s never had a beer, he’s never been allowed to masturbate. He has dedicated his whole life to this match and this moment and now some jumped-up power-crazed lunatic has denied him the point.

Of course he’s going to be angry. Of course he’s going to throw his racket on the floor.

If I were in charge of tennis, I would allow aggrieved players to actually punch the officials in certain circumstances.

Either that, or I would get them all down to Twickenham to see how it should be done.

They will note that rugby refs josh and joke with the players. They give off a sense that they’re pleased to be out there and – by constantly issuing instructions during rucks and mauls - that they are on hand to offer advice, as much as they are to enforce the rules.

I was going to say that they are the most important feature in rugby. But obviously that’s not true. The most important feature in the game, of course, is watching Australia lose.

Again.

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