At large: Omens all point to payback final

During the other World Cup, the one with the round ball and the aspiring actors who would tumble and scream at the merest caress of the calf, there was an octopus who became a global celebrity because he could pick a winner.

The eight-legged suction cup would creep and crawl about his enclosure and slither into a spot which designated one of the two teams set to play.

His success record was remarkable and he became a much-beloved curiosity ... although he was a hated "clairvoyant" in the eyes of the TAB.

Of course in the end, given the way they had gone about their business on the field, there was no great surprise about the outright winners of that tournament.

Spain were superb, and while not the smartest identifier of potential I did not need to be ensconced in a tank of seawater to pick them as champions over the Dutch side.

My only regret is not putting money on them at the start.

Sadly, the octopus was not around long enough to become a real legend.

He carked ... and I suspect he became the ingredients for a poor man's calamari.

But he added some spice, some flair and some colour to the great event.

However, I did not need an octopus to tell me that Australia had as much chance of making the Rugby World Cup final as I had of finding the rake down the back of the section.

Because the omens ... the portents ... the mysterious clues ... all began emerging early on semifinal day.

Although the first clue appeared on Saturday night when the French were crowned victors of their semifinal.

I once played for a side like that when I played club rugby at U-23 level.

We had no game plan. We really had no idea.

Just an aimless 80 minutes of running around a green field.

So as the best team on the night was sent packing, the French began plotting and planning their next 80 minutes of running around a green field, in a final which (secretly) the whole country really wanted.

France ... the old foe. Our Achilles heel. Our bogey side. It's called payback time.

Of course, had English referee Wayne Barnes been charged with the whistle in the final, the whole wonderful carnival would have been even more complete.

So anyway, seeing that France had made the final, the All Blacks would have glanced expressionless at each other. They just knew what each other would have been thinking.

And Graham Henry's scowl would have deepened (if such a thing a thing is possible).

"Right ... right ... right," he would have seethed.

There was no way, given the garlic growers had reserved one of the Eden Park dressing sheds this Saturday, that the All Blacks were going to allow the Rolf Harris fan club to reserve the other one. And then, on Sunday, the weird stuff happened. I heard a song I have not heard for years and years.

A most elusive song in this day and age when every second radio station seems to play the entire Eagles catalogue continuously.

It was Over the Rainbow by Aussie Billy Thorpe.

It's a fine version, and an equally fine omen, I figured.

About seeking something which is just out of reach. Unrealised aspirations ... that sort of thing.

A great Aussie, on semifinal day, asking the question "why, oh why can't I?"

The sort of song Robbie Deans would be humming to himself on the early flight back home to Sydney.

"Gosh," I said breathlessly. "An omen."

Later, we called to see our granddaughter - an excitable little lady who is actually turning 3 today. On Sunday, though, there were some early cakes and drinks, and some balloons and streamers of course.

Among those streamers were some bright yellow and green ones. Familiar colours from the other side of the Tasman.

And there was just one single strong gust of wind late that morning ... and while all the balloons remained firmly in place those yellow and green streamers ended up tattered and torn.

"Golly," I chirped breathlessly. "Another omen."

Later in the day I had a beer. A bottle of Aussie Coopers, which is a fine drop.

Coopers ... Cooper ... Quade ...

And you know what, fellow omen-chasers? I spilled it.

"Cripes," I passed wind breathlessly. "Yet another omen." But what sealed the whole deal for me as the grand final crept closer, had actually occurred earlier ... back at party central.

Not all the balloons had stayed intact in that howl of wind.

One popped.

It was a dark blue one.

Now who wears dark blue?

What spooky times we live in.

Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.