Heard the one about the blonde and the rugby psychic?

A blonde went to the rubbish dump with a farmer who was disposing of countless plastic bags which once contained calf feed.

On the tray of his ute were three huge canvas wool bale bags packed to overflowing with calf feed bags.

The farmer was about to empty a bale into the container (of the type leaning perilously aboard Rena) which sat below a retaining wall when the blonde merrily heaved an entire wool bale and its contents into the container.

The farmer said, “But we need to keep the bag.”

“Of course,” said the blonde, “that was stupid of me. I’ll ask the manager for a ladder or hook so we can get it out.”

She’d taken a couple of steps when the manager got to his feet and retrieved it.

“I’m not climbing into the container,” declared the blonde who’s scared of ladders - and needn’t have worried. By this time the farmer was deep in the container.

“Gosh,” said the blonde, “it’ll be tricky climbing the ladder carrying the full wool bale.”

At this point the farmer and dump manager said in unison, “He’ll empty it’s while he’s down there and bring up the empty bag.”

“Of course,” said the blonde, seriously humiliated by now, “that was really stupid of me.”

You may have figured out that the blonde was, in fact, me. In further proof that opposites attract, the farmer has demonstrated brilliant psychic ability with regard to New Zealand’s RWB win and wit in respect of England’s performance.

Two weeks before the big final he often declared, in front of many witnesses, that Stephen Donald would kick the winning goal. Of course, he hasn't reminded us about this since the win....

And he reckons the English team learned a handy lesson: “If there’s one thing they’ve learned,” he said, “it’s that passes should be made on the field and not in night clubs.”

I thought this line was so clever I assumed he’d stolen it from some radio jock, but it’s original.

While we were celebrating the All Blacks’ semi-final glory with a black drink - coffee liqueur - and noting there had been more spouting blood in the game than any A&E department, the farmer was also suffering. He’d put his back out the day before.

“Perhaps a couple of painkillers would be in order,” I said

He groaned and muttered, in a voice which suggested they would be the last thing to pass his lips, “Do you think Richie McCaw takes painkillers?”

Once upon a time the farmer really was blond. McCaw still is.