I think its time to get serious:
Dear Rugby Gods,
In your infinite wisdom and arse-kicking awesomeness, thou hast provided unto us the game we love.
Moreover, moving behind the scenes, we know thou seekest only what is best for the game, and lo! It has come to pass with the two best teams in the final, and not those boring South African c***stacks or pasty Pommy wannabes (do they even rugby, bro?).
We finally have our Wallabies v All Blacks pinnacle, and though it be far from the lands we hold dear, at least it isn't in at Eden Park, whose architect was surely in the grips of syphilitic dementia when he put that mish-mash of cowsheds together. Honestly, the planning looks like a narcoleptic swan had a pen taped to its beak and was thrown into a pit of butcher's paper.
I digress ... ... ...
Know only that we love this game, and though the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune be against our beloved Wallabies, we've still got a dog in the fight and that's all anyone can ask for.
But victory is our goal. Worthy is our cause.
And that is why I, Squadron Leader Emeritus Doctor Sir Pfitzy Ignatius Arsekicking-Genius the Third, of the Most Noble Order Of The Piss-Sinking Woman-Pleasurers, hereby solemnly swear that, should the bounce of the ball, and the whistle of the ref, and the blood, guts, willpower, and sheer Australian-ness of our team get us across the line against those black-shirted bastards, I will hereby give up the sophisticated and long-lasting pleasuring of Lady Pfitzy until the New Year.
I do this with the full knowledge that my wife, who cannot keep her hands off me (the little minx), is going to hate this, but a promise is a promise.
Yours etc.
Pfitzy