After making a wrong turn off Struggle Street very late one midweek evening I came across a lost brother, down on his luck, down the big end of town.

A pathetic sight, he had a kebab stain on his bespoke suit and had lost both cufflinks. "Fix yourself up man," I whispered urgently as several Brooks Brothers suits and their horsey-mouthed women, crazy drunk from 60 minutes of revelry, approached. "It can't be that bad -- what's your game: commodities? FX? Ah, it's derivatives isn't it you hedge fund-fondling bastard!"

"No, no. I'm not in the market and I hate rugby," he said, with an ease of deceit usually only found amongst the ranks of AFL and NRL players' agents.

Fortunately those in the approaching mob were just as sorry, weaving about the place after slamming down at least two cocktails each - so far gone they couldn't remember the words to the Cranbrook song.

They passed without incident, but the next wave of punitively angry young men, scarred from years of boarding school, with no social and ethical meter other than their own self-importance, would be approaching any moment: in fact I could hear their faux English accents and references to "daddy" in the distance. Must hurry. "Pull (slap) yourself (slap) together (slap)," I urged, gently. I broke him eventually by laughing at his poorly constructed Windsor knot.

Turns out he was in the market - had done quite well - but had made a professionally idiotic decision he'd live to regret for years: he'd placed his entire year's pinot noir allowance on all Australian teams being on or near the top of the Super 15 after the first five rounds.

"I know I've been stupid," he whimpered. "But come on, tell me, incredibly wise rugby guy -- (that's what he called me, promise) -- didn't you think they'd be doing better at this stage? I mean there's so many New Zealanders playing here now."

I sat down beside him; nodded my head in partial agreement and pulled out the flask of Chateau Tanunda. We shared a drink and after we'd vomited I reminded him of a few irrevocable rules of Australian rugby.

1) The Waratahs will play brilliantly one week, like dawgs the next.

2) The Reds are geniuses against opposition who let them play their own game, otherwise, not so much.

3) The Rebels and the Force have little playing depth; will struggle without their top players and are likely to fade late in games.

4) The Brumbies' player power is consistently awesome off the field, impressive on paper but seriously flawed on grass.

My new friend's mum arrived soon after to take him home. "He's angry at his father, you know," she confided. "He's left us to play rugby league in the north of England." I understood immediately. We all cried (for the father) and they left.

I found myself content to sit there alone with my thoughts and the terrible, terrible stench for several hours.

Fortunately I had another flask. After I'd hallucinated, several more things became clear.

The Waratahs are trying to play mix-and-match footy. They play to the opposition rather than just backing their own style -- perhaps because it's ill-defined. They are a talented mob, maybe capable of winning the whole shee-bang, but they lack commitment to a specific approach.

The peerless Crusaders exposed the Waratahs' lack of self belief in a 20-minute blitz in Nelson and the brave and disciplined Cheetahs tore out a chunk of their shallow souls, nutting out a memorable win in tough conditions in Sydney ("Not in my house!" My arse).

How often, in the last few years, do the Waratahs look like unstoppable maniacs for the first ten to 20 minutes when they are direct and assertive only to crumble (and kick) when the opposition or conditions don't behave as prescribed?

Part of the reason they are great when Tatafu Polota-Nau is fit and on the field is a) he's probably the best player in Australia and b) he's a bit of a mongrel who'll go ya' whether the ‘Tahs are winning or losing.

At the moment, the other fellas look like the French pack against Italy in the Six Nations, oozing "faiblesse" while waiting for their inevitable superiority to take its toll. They look disinterested. A mortal sin.

The Reds are almost polar opposites, I thought, taking a long, confusing suck hoping to find a more accurate description than polar opposites. They have a game plan they believe in but it's so centered on Quade Cooper their unpredictability has become predictable. You can see the better teams running out chanting the mantra "quell the Quade, win the game, quell the Quade win the game ..."

Yet, as evident in their thrashing of the Rebels, give them room to move in the midfield -- and Melbourne's midfield defence is the worst in the Super 15, according to stats released at the end of week four -- they'll cut you to pieces. (‘Aussie' Mike Harris wasn't the first and won't be the last to sashay through those stupid gaping holes against the Rebels).

Danny Cipriani, as fine a player as he is, makes Cooper look like a defensive giant while the workman-like Melbourne backrow is making so many tackles to cover for "don't you know who I am?" and a few other passengers, they have nothing left in attack. The opposition swat them like mozzies at the advantage line. Melbourne is playing on the backfoot so often, they should re-name the team Hobart.

The Force look more positive this year, carried on the shoulders of a talented backrow, despite David Pocock's absence, the emerging excellence of James O'Connor as a pivot and the presence of the sometimes wayward but occasionally wonderful Cameron Shepherd at the back.

Their victory over traitor John Mitchell's Lions in the thin atmosphere before 27 people in Johannesburg was superb and suggests a club that is truly finding its feet. However, the loss of just one more of their big names (especially the ancient Nathan Sharpe) and they'll be a spent force.

The Brumbies? Fortunately I had another flask. Actually, I dug out a full bottle. I mean, come on, they score four tries to one against the Reds and lose, then surrender so meekly to the Crusaders they looked like they were playing without the settling influence of a coach. Oh, that's right, they are! I remain a great admirer of Matt Giteau who is making opportunities for his teammates from No. 10 and is terrific in defence, but he is to rugby what Woody Allen is to cinema.

Allen's approach is to listen to no-one but his own odd voice. The result is sometimes magnificent (see Annie Hall, Purple Rose of Cairo, Manhattan). But there is many a time when you just wish someone had the power to have a quiet word in his ear (Scoop, The Curse of the Jade Scorpion and the maddeningly, almost-good Cassandra's Dream - why would two brothers call each other by name in EVERY sentence, Woody?)

Apparently Giteau has got his wish to be the director, writer and leading man, but even a star-studded supporting cast can't save a project when all the moving parts aren't headed in the same direction (the antithesis of Cooper's Reds, at their best -- antithesis, that's the word I was looking for). I wanted to continue with the Woody Allen analogy but I had drunk several bottles of Australian brandy.

Just before the nice officer spoke to me, I think I had a kind of a vision -- well, it was more of a montage. The Waratahs played out-and-out attack for the rest of the season before falling in the finals; the Reds honed their tight game to complement Cooper; the Rebels played tenaciously at home to upset some of the overseas big guns; the Force stuck with O'Connor at 10 and just missed the playoffs and the Brumbies came good in the end, having agreed to comply with the wishes of their head coach who, somewhat disturbingly, looked like Mia Farrow.