I was listening to Radio New Zealand in the wee small hours of Monday morning – the Aftermath.

The predictable four-yearly seismic shift in world rugby was grating over the Ditch with all the dexterity of the continental tectonic plates colliding with the French tight five.

Listening to the lamb price reports from the world’s woolly trade centre, Dunedin, is one of my secret pleasures … as is the weekly readings of the sexually charged, lambs-tail docking diaries of the desperate and dateless farmers over there.

Suddenly, the sheep-dip shampoo beauty tips segment was interrupted with a nasally, abject wail: “We interrupt our 24-hour national mourning and self-flagellation to bring you this important message from our Prime Minister, the right miserable Helen Clark.”

Then came the testosterone-flooded tones of Fred Dagg’s sister:

“My fellow gutted Kiwis, it is my duty in these all-too-familiar trying times to inform you that there is STILL no God.

“Any doubts that a benevolent supernatural, rugby-mad being loves us, died a horrible death on the killing fields of Cardiff, Wales, when Associated Press so cruelly reported: ‘Frederic Michalak set up the winning try for Yannick Jauzion just seconds after coming on with his team 18-13 down in the 69th minute to ensure France returns home as a semi-finalist and New Zealand’s 20-year wait for the title will be even longer.’

“This unbearable injustice came after our world chumps were leading 13-0 ... when that outrageous blunder to rest our molly-coddled chokers from the Super 14s seemed sublimely blessed!

“And we all thought the Underarm Incident was the pits!

“As of now, we are at war with France and the NZ Rugby Union board. We should have seen this coming.

“It was not enough for the French to bomb our nearby atolls with atomic-powered arrogance, they saw fit to sink our Rainbow Warrior and then our rose-coloured dreams of world rugby dominance … again!

“A pox on their pinot noir!All French cook books are banned from this day on and the public burnings will start outside the Wellington French Consulate, with Monsieur Consul making a fine flambé.

“It is of only cold comfort that Australia has been globally exposed as uppity pretenders, rather than a good thing beaten … as we always are, it seems. Eddie Jones may well yet have, not only the last belly laugh, but a Zulu dance performed in his delightful, double-crossing honour on the grave of Australian Rugby, where lies the rotting remains of John Connelly’s coaching career and John O’Neill’s maggoty mouth.

“As of today, all rugby is banned in this fair, but World Cup-famished land. I now realise how cruel it is to expect, every four years, for us to actually live up to our unreal expectations and potential … for anything else but disaster! I want an end to our world-class inferiority complex by finding something that no one else can do as well as us.

“As a direct result of our French toasting, I am imposing a $2 weekly levy on every man, woman, child, sheep and Kiwi fruit until the year 2040, where upon we will have saved up enough to put a deposit on hosting the 2060 Olympics.

“That Games will consist entirely of sheep dog trials, Tiki carving and the haka. In such pursuits may our nation be rejoined and our sundered hearts made whole again – as long as we’re not expecting ourselves to win. And then, maybe we’ll fluke a few gold.

“In closing, I have declared Milford Sound off limits to the swarming losers who are congregating at the cliffs like lemmings. Unless, of course they are members of the disgraced All Blacks squad and their pathetic coaching team.”