From the backblocks of beyond, The Oracle is predicting miracles

Sonny Bill Williams. Photo / Getty Images

And so The Oracle has spoken and his words are dire for the People of the Black. A three-syllable word uttered in the sanctuary of his cave on a rolling hillside in the Otago hinterland foretells despair and dismay of biblical proportions. Australia: such is The Oracle's prediction for World Cup glory.

A minute examination of the contenders brings everyone else up short, he says. The critical difference is a will to win and the self-belief of a nation that sees a chance of victory in every sport, even including a haemophiliac Queenslander taking the world darts title.

A denuded and shaky All Blacks side will not be up to it, predicts The Oracle, a former selector and referee, now resting from a long illness.

Besides, he says, Jimmy Cowan should be behind the scrum. Richie McCaw he scorns for bending rules beyond breaking point.

But most galling of all is the matter of the coach. To The Oracle, Robbie Deans should be in black and Eden Park will see the NZRU shrouded in the ashcloth of failure.

Away from where it's all been played, getting to see games has often been less than fun in Melbourne. A TV network outbid rivals for the World Cup rights then hid the games away at ungodly hours, fibbed about them being live and pretended the lash of criticism wasn't there. A pub announces itself as a World Cup venue, packs in a big crowd of Kiwis (and others) and then come quarter-final time remembers a commitment to rock music (it's "Rocktober") and moves the footy watching out the back to a chilly "smokers' bar".

The pub, the Royal Derby, in the formerly down-at-heel but now gentrified suburb of Fitzroy, did something even odder, however: it sought a $30 fee to get into see the NZ-Tonga game. Blazer-wearing Kiwi chaps at the door said it was for the Footlighters charity. Many fans simply went elsewhere. Later, the management tried to say the entry fee was a donation. Not a great start.

This joint was heaving with black jerseys for the NZ-France game, except possibly for one hulking, shaven-headed chap sporting the cockerel and a thirst like an England player, who tells anyone who would listen, "I had a troubled childhood".

Cut to Australia-Italy two days later and a more stylish pub. "Please ask the boss to put the game on," a waiter pleads with a customer. "I'm from Sydney." As it filled the screen a confused drinker asked, "Is this the footy or what?"

Now it is the turn of the Irish to inflict damage. This time, our watching venue is chosen by the Irish (local variety) who opt for a vast beer garden in an adjoining suburb, forgetting one detail: a knockout AFL match featuring a team from that suburb is on that night. The Irish triumph is drowned in partisan cries of a different sort. Still, from Limerick comes a text to the riotously celebrating Milligan sisters from their dad, a retired schoolmaster. "Wooh," is all he manages.

In more eloquent moments, the Irish are, naturally, the best. The IRB Hall-of-Famer and former billionaire beans salesman Tony O'Reilly tells of being at the bottom of a ruck beholding "the face of the terrible Meads. He reached down and drew me from the ruck, ball and all, like a cork from a bottle."

And when the Irish retreat from their latest leek-battering, the Milligans say, "We're not bothered. We're used to defeat."

This is not an attitude for Kiwis. Not least because, as a Herald Online missive said, the women's refuges will be crowded if all goes wrong. Perhaps men's refuges are needed, too, suggests The Oracle.