LONG READ Graham Simmons: 'Stick a fork in the 2025 Six Nations. It’s done.’

The problem with the Democratic Party in Trump’s America, so it’s said, is that they’re ‘a bunch of Wes Anderson characters who haven’t yet woken up to the fact that they’re now living in a Quentin Tarantino movie.’ Analogies, of course, aren’t always transferable – not least ‘twixt politics and sport – but there’s a whiff of something similar about the 2025 Six Nations; to wit, five teams who’re offering varying degrees of nuanced, well-crafted, ensemble performances and one which appears to be serving up an unmatchable blend of idiosyncratic brilliance and stylised brutality. And I’m not sure the rest of the Six Nations quite knows how – or even whether – it can adjust to the new reality of Northern Hemisphere rugby.

An Crunch in Dublin last Saturday – according to the bookies, according to every man and his dog – was supposed to be a toss up. More than this, drooling onlookers were – effectively – going be standing on the shores of Cape Horn amid sheets of lightning and thunder as the Atlantic and the Pacific slugged it out to define which was the mightier; Neptune against Poseidon, loser shaves his head and leaves town. Except that France soaked up every wave the green tide threw at them and, in turn, unleashed a tsunami – both up the guts and out wide – which swept the Irish away; with the ball, without the ball, it didn’t matter. The Massacre in Marseille was paid back in spades.

And this was Ireland, no less; the second best team in the world; at home; unbeaten in this Six Nations; stalking a Slam; hunting down history and riding the emotion of umpteen centurion valedictions. Yet the French – with their trump card in tears in the dressing room for two-thirds of the match – obliterated them; a sandbag shutout in the opening quarter when Ireland had 86% possession, followed by 34 unanswered points in as many minutes in the second half. For anyone old enough to remember Ali flattening Foreman in a steaming Kinshasa in 1974, it was almost rope-a-dope rugby.

Should we have seen it coming? Perhaps we should. France, in third gear, stuck 43 unanswered points on Wales, could’ve put 50 on England – how that one will sting for an eternity – and ran up 70 against Italy, a match where far too many chose to damn the Italians rather than acclaim a stupendous French performance. So, in that context, pasting a record-breaking 42 points on Ireland in Dublin wasn’t exactly against the run of play. And if anything like those numbers project into the final weekend, then we can stick a fork in the 2025 Six Nations right now. It’s done.

Fabien Galthié is suddenly looking like Midas, albeit that the mythical King of Phrygia went with the full, boondocks beard and not just the dodgy moustache. But, no question, had Galthié’s 7:1 bench gone belly up, he’d have been fish and chip wrappings. As it turned out, his instincts were spot on – as Brian O’Driscoll put it on ITV, ‘dealing with the power game has always been Ireland’s Achilles’ heel’ – and the French bench had sinews to spare. Oscar Jegou appeared to be playing both centre and back row with equal panache; Maxime Lucu was a mosquito in a hot room and Emmanuel Meafou – all 145kgs of him – chased down Robbie Henshaw one-on-one. But it was the starters and the all-round defensive effort which laid the foundations.

Overrun in the second half, Ireland could find no relief from the ropes; add it all up and one or two Lions’ hopefuls might suddenly find glaring question marks next to their names.

Francois Cros made ten tackles in the first 15 minutes alone; Jean-Baptiste Gros – another unsung nonpareil – came up with steals and chicken-wing offloads at either end of the park; Yoram Moefana was a rock; Paul Boudehent went the full 80 minutes offering 60 seconds of distance run in each and every one of them and if Louis Bielle-Biarrey isn’t crowned Player of the Tournament, I’ll eat my hat. The only thing quicker than his feet are his wits.

All of which leaves Ireland in a tailspin and, who knows, with perhaps almost irreparable scar tissue. There are key areas where they’re not getting any younger; their fabled red zone efficiency evaporated along with their discipline; they came a distant second in the collisions and their usually infallible game management deserted them completely. Overrun in the second half, they could find no relief from the ropes; add it all up and one or two Lions’ hopefuls might suddenly find glaring question marks next to their names.

But France, at this level, are simply too strong, too good. When you’ve that much heft, guile and grit, you ain’t losing too many games. The burning question, I suppose, would be this: alongside South Africa, are they now turning the sport into a Sumo-esque collision of quantum mass? The short answer would probably be ‘yes’ but since neither team is singularly one-dimensional – on the contrary, both have limitless other ways to outpace, outstep, outwit or outflank you – the rest of the oval earth can scarcely complain. Eat more steak or shake the trees harder would appear to be the glib solution.

Of course, the counter-argument would be that the game’s getting seriously out of whack; essentially, rafts of spare forwards now offer game-changing impact while a residue of spare backs offer little more than insurance cover. The average bench split last weekend was just short of 6/2; translate that ratio to the starting XVs and we’d end up watching matches where a pack of ten piano shifters serves just five pianists. Factor in player welfare – certainly at copycat lower levels of the sport – and you wonder whether this is the way World Rugby wants its game to go. It’s a thorny one.

Russell nailed all five, bitter-sweet conversions against Wales from all points of the compass. It’s the Law of McSod. Had he been wearing the same boots at Twickenham a fortnight ago, Scotland would be heading to Paris this weekend knowing that an improbable win might just snatch them their first Six Nations’ title.

Elsewhere, Scotland, yet again, proved that they are the enigma with no variation. How exactly do you play that handsomely to build yourself a 35-8 lead and then end up sweating like stale cheese to snatch a 35-29 win? This is not a rhetorical question. Skewered to the sponsors’ backboard by a BBC microphone in the aftermath, Finn Russell – almost wistfully – used the phrase ’80-minute performance’ no fewer than five times in one flash interview. ‘If I say it enough, hopefully it’ll come,’ he said. Yes, well, as ever with Scotland, here’s hoping.

Russell, of course, nailed all five, bitter-sweet conversions against Wales from all points of the compass. It’s the Law of McSod. Had he been wearing the same boots at Twickenham a fortnight ago, Scotland would be heading to Paris this weekend knowing that an improbable win might just – just – snatch them their first Six Nations’ title. The margins in this tournament are thinner than wafers.

But when Scotland opened up against Wales, they did so with real élan. Russell – as ever on front-foot ball – looked like the master puppeteer he is, Darcy Graham and Blair Kinghorn had stand-out games and Jamie Ritchie backed up his England heroics with another mighty shift in Edinburgh. All, to varying degrees, are bang in Lions’ contention but you sense Paris will confirm to what extent.

As for Wales, well, given they spent the first 50 minutes of the match sitting outside on the bus, it was a minor miracle they ended up stealing two bonus points. Implored pre-game by the BBC’s Martin Johnson to ‘drag Scotland into the back streets and dark places’ they instead gave them the freedom of the 15-metre channels and – like England a fortnight earlier – got sliced and diced. Factor in a ramshackle kicking game and, to put it very politely, it was naïve.

But, as Head Coach, Matt Sherratt, noted afterwards, Wales’ rearguard defiance at both ends of the pitch gives them a measure of momentum for a potential jackpot next weekend; not just dodging the Wooden Spoon or finally notching their first win anywhere in nigh on eighteen months but slapping the English. ‘That one,’ said Sherratt, ‘looks after itself’ and, no question, there’ll be tripe white supporters fingering their collars as they head to Cardiff next weekend.

Ollie Chessum was a scourge and the only regret about the Currys is that they’re twins and not triplets. Fin Smith is cooler than a greyhound’s nostril and Elliot Daly remains a class act.

But at least England are starting to match deeds to words and while the cogs still need lubricating, the wheels are in motion. Three tries in ten minutes early in the second half put Italy flat on the canvas and despite the fact that it took a further 30 minutes to stick a cherry on the trifle, there was genuine ambition. Mind you, if you’re not going to cut loose against the fragile fratelli on a sunny Sunday afternoon in TW1, then you never will.

Ollie Chessum was a scourge and the only regret about the Currys is that they’re twins and not triplets. Fin Smith is cooler than a greyhound’s nostril and Elliot Daly remains a class act: ‘he has that educated left foot, hasn’t he?’ Eddie Jones once said. ‘You can tell he went to private school’. On top of that, Tommy Freeman is looking increasingly leonine and Ollie Sleightholme snaffles scraps and starts scraps with equal abandon. That young man is a doughty fighter; indeed, show him a doughty and he will almost certainly fight it.

Italy, for their part, appear to have plateaued, which is possibly the most courteous word available. Lord knows what the score might’ve been without Tommaso Menoncello and Nacho Brex who – once again – are the sharpest, tightest and most effective centre pairing in the championship. And yet bang in the chat in the first half, Italy unraveled like a cheap sweater in the second – knock ons; penalties; botched line-outs; buckled scrums; forward passes; missed tackles – this from a side whose Head Coach, Gonzalo Quesada, told ITV before the game they’d spent the past fortnight ‘focussing on the basics’. There’s the makings of a very decent team in there somewhere but, right now, they’re their own worst enemies.

Alas, it was an even grimmer weekend for Antoine Dupont and Ollie Lawrence. France have enough depth at nine to amply cover their one remaining match but Stade Toulousain – chasing a double double – will be beyond consolation, as will Dupont and you feel for him. Lawrence’s injury, likewise, is a personal calamity with Bath riding high in the Premiership and a Lions’ boarding pass beckoning. England, too, will sorely struggle to fill his boots in Cardiff. Sport can be brutal.

But looking ahead, unless Steve Borthwick’s boys head over the bridge this weekend and win by roughly 90 clear points, any French victory in Paris in the final match against Scotland seals the deal. ‘They’re going for the title but we can’t wait to be involved,’ said Scotland’s Head Coach, Gregor Townsend. You hate to sound like a pessimist but the key word there might just be ‘involved’. France look utterly untouchable.