February means one thing: winter’s last stand, pubs at capacity, and six beefed-up nations trying to knock the fillings out of each other for our entertainment. The Six Nations is back, and it’s still the best excuse to disappear for three hours every weekend and come back hoarse, happy and vaguely sticky.
England arrive promising a brave new era (again), Scotland swear this is definitely their year, Wales are running on pride and painkillers, and Italy remain everyone’s favourite chaotic wildcard. France? All silk, snarl and shoulder charges that make slow-motion replays feel inadequate. They’re the rock stars of the tournament.
But the smart money’s on Ireland. Ruthlessly organised, annoyingly fit, and armed with the kind of depth that makes other coaches wake up screaming at 3am. They don’t so much play rugby as professionally dismantle you.
Prediction: Ireland lift the trophy. The rest of us lift pints and pretend we saw it coming.