We run through the pre-flight checks.
There’s an edge to things this time that wasn’t there in 2006.
Bullet’s two years older than the last time we went to Cardiff. He’s bigger and grittier and flintier and gruntier. Me, I’m just grumpier.
I glance at Bullet. Bullet glances back at me.
You ready for this?
Bullet nods. You?
I nod. Stick another turtle on the fire.
We fall quiet, lost in our own thoughts, watching the sparks rise into the clear night sky. Somewhere in the distance, a lonely knacker shouts abuse at his girlfriend.
We did it before, Bullet breaks the silence.
True, but that was against Biarritz.
True, but we have a far stronger squad this time.
True, but we’re up against Toulouse.
True, but we never had the likes of Howlett, Tipoki or Mafi before. And Rog is on top of his game.
No he’s not.
He will be.
We fall silent, watching the embers rise. It’s going to be a long week.