This time last year, when rugby was in a state of cryopreservation and supporters found themselves throwing money at Jeff Bezos – as if he was short of a bob or two – in search of their sporting fix, the game yearned for a breath of fresh air in the way a drowning man craves a lifeboat.
The likes of Harlequins and Bristol provided it in the nick of time with their explosions of ambition and adventure at the back end of the Premiership campaign, but it hasn’t lasted. A breath of fresh outrage has taken its place.
Make that a respiratory hurricane of fresh outrage. Right now, the critics’ l...