This mental stretched-out hindmost foot from the ruck allowing the halfback to tuck in his napkin, do the crossword, wave to mum in the stands, adjust his taint, put his hands on the ball, feel the stitching and have a read of the Gilbert's fucken psi, all prior to taking his sweet motherfucking time launching the 850th "fuckit, I give up" box kick of the afternoon 15 metres downfield, a kick which is immediately run back by the opposition to exactly where they all were standing in the first fucken place.
At one stage Tonga had FOUR GUYS snaking back to the halfback, all tenously bound with their back leg stretched out to give the halfback about 10 metres space from which to launch his precious "fuck this shit, I give up" gambit.
CHANGE IT, IRB.
Let's go back to "as soon as the halfback touches the ball, even with his damn foot, he is fair game."