To me, there's nothing quite like the thought of England rugby matches on a Saturday to spur you on through the dark winter working week. The Six Nations is just about the best invention ever, plus of course we live in Edinburgh so we get to see the hoards of descending green/white/blue/red (delete as appropriate) shirts when they pop in to our town.
Autumn tests are harder, since the opposition are nearly always better, plus England aren't particularly good just now. After two successive weeks of watching our boys play-reasonably-well-but-get-absolutely-hammered, Maria has informed me that she's not sure she can handle the stress of it all, and may not watch the All Blacks beat us this Saturday.
But I will, because I know that this is what sport is all about: how can you enjoy winning stuff unless you stick it out throughout the horrendous dark night that precedes the blinding dawn? How you can have any affection for a sportsman unless you've seen them down-and-out, then pull themselves up off the canvas, vowing to return? That is why when England play, it's 'we' who are playing, not 'they'. It's us. We're all in it together, horrible as the result may be.