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Ben Dirs

Bonjour and welcome (91)

The other day, as I passed a queue snaking out of the door of a KFC in Romford High Street and became embroiled in my third set-to of the afternoon, a voice appeared in my head.

β€œDirsy,” it said, sounding a lot like , β€œit’s time you gave this great country of yours and the rabid lunatics that infest it a swerve for a month or two.”

As luck would have it, Tommy Fordyce and I are off on Monday to the Rugby World Cup in France, a country that has given the world more than its fair share of culture and sophistication down the years.

Indeed, to paraphrase the mighty Bob Hoskins in , a little bit more than a - know what I mean?

β€œTWO BLOKES JOLLYING IT UP ROUND FRANCE IN A FIVE-BERTH WINNEBAGO FOR SEVEN WEEKS?” I hear the angrier licence fee payers among you splutter.

Well, yes. And no.

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