For reasons not unadjacent to the presence of a monstrous hangover taking up squatters’ rights inside his skull, Foul Play reluctantly spurned the TV coverage of Ireland v Scotland in the Six Nations the other week. (There’s diligence for you – Ed.)

I did, however, rouse myself from my sickbed later in the day to watch a recording of France v England. A good move, it turned out to be.

The first half was a motherfucker. France rattled over 17 points almost before England had emerged from the tunnel, the sense of exhilaration at this dramatic turn of events heightened by the fact that the home side had such a bewilderingly unfamiliar look. Scanning down the French teamsheet, I recognised no more than six of them. Some of the others would hardly be household names in their own homes.

But the new boys – most of whom the viewer was comprehensively familiar with by the final whistle – uniformly excelled themselves. There was Tony Marsh, the flying winger from New Zealand; Damien Traille, whose surname, with fantastic serendipity, sounds exactly like “try”; and Serge Betsen, the Cameroonian flanker who spent the whole afternoon slamming Jonny Wilkinson’s head into the turf.

And there was the exceedingly impressive Imanol Harinordoquy, the Basque no. 8, whose name, I can exclusively reveal, is as difficile to type as it is to pronounce.

Consider this: there are only three players left on this French side from the unit that dismantled the All Blacks in the 1999 World Cup semi-final at Twickenham.

That particular fixture, which France won 43-31, is commonly regarded as the greatest rugby match of all time. I am no sage of the oval ball myself, but I would venture that Les Bleus’ latest spectacular rout of the best team in the world (sic) ran it a close second in terms of entertainment, and surpassed it by a mile in the schadenfreude stakes.

Poor England. Perhaps if they weren’t so damn insufferable every time they achieve something of note, we might acknowledge their awesome way of playing the game more readily. They have been the finest side in the northern hemisphere for a good five years now. Furthermore, they are acutely aware of this fact.

The problem is that when you are a virtuoso on your own trumpet, as England and their cheerleaders in the media assuredly are, you pit a whole array of people against you who might otherwise do your trumpet blowing for you.

It seems that the margin of their annihilation of Ireland a month ago was sufficient to put them top of the official world rankings. Cue a fortnight of vomit-inducing drivel in the UK press about Clive Woodward’s team being the best on the planet.

Call me a curmudgeon if you like, but I thought that, by definition, the best team was the one in possession of the William Webb Ellis trophy, i.e. the World Cup, which, last time I looked, was Australia and not England.

Furthermore, when the British and Irish Lions came a cropper Down Under last year, was it not Jonny Wilkinson, an Englishman, who fucked up the second Test by throwing a hospital pass straight to Joe Roff, turning the entire tide of the series in Australia’s favour?

And was it not Matt Dawson and Austin Healey, two more Englishmen, who did most to undermine morale in the Lions squad that summer, by bleating at length about the coach and his training methods in their poxy newspaper columns?

The point being that England have still not learned to look before they leap. The result is that they have now pissed away four (count ’em) consecutive potential Grand Slams.

They certainly have the best out-half in the world, the best lock-forward (when he isn’t otherwise occupied punching opposition props senseless, that is), the best flanker, and probably the best full-back, too.

But they aren’t the best team in the world, and won’t be able to make that claim unless they (a) lift the 2003 World Cup, or (b) at the very least, go to New Zealand and Australia before then, and win.

France may have just done England a bigger favour than they realise. They can learn from this latest disaster – and as preparation for the next World Cup, that’s no bad thing at all.

Because that’s when we’ll find out who really is the best.