The Six Nations is almost here and Owen Morgan is feeling feverishly excited, wistfully nostalgic, and a little bit old as life turns full circle. Look out, the “internationals” are coming . . . 

When I was seven, I used to sing the title line from Wizard’s “I Wish it Could be Christmas Every Day” and I meant every single word.

Then, I discovered “the internationals” and Christmas had a rival.

In my house, we didn’t call it The Five Nations Championship. It was just “the Internationals”.

If someone said: “I’m going up to the international on Saturday” then nothing more needed to be said. You knew exactly what they meant and where they were going.

As much as I loved Christmas, it was soon matched by the magic of “the Internationals”.

From sitting with my dad in our front room, chewing on Opal Fruits and drinking Corona cherryade, to being sprawled seductively across the bonnet of a red sports car in front of an Irish Government building in Dublin, posing for pictures with a traffic cone on my head (don’t ask) – I have loved this time of year.

I have to say, I was extraordinarily lucky to be introduced to international rugby during the Golden Era of the Seventies.

No wonder I fell in love with the game and those wonderful occasions. Wales were ruling the roost and they were doing it with a swagger.

I knew from an early age that “International” Saturdays were special.

I would be sent to the village shop late morning to fetch supplies of sweets and pop.

This in itself was unusual. Normally, any thirsty plea for pop in our house was greeted with the sharp response: “There’s plenty of water in the tap!”

But on International Saturday, there was a plentiful supply of cherryade. I think it was my dad’s way of ensuring I served some sort of drinking apprenticeship, so I would be ready for Adult International Saturdays in later life!

I would dash back from the shop. The supplies would be laid out in front of us and we would take our seats in front of the television – just in time for the unmistakable theme tune of Grandstand to strike up.

The only match I didn’t look forward to was against Ireland. We had a black and white TV and I couldn’t tell the teams apart! The green Irish shirt seemed to be an identical shade of grey to Wales’ red – in black and white!

Pretty soon, it didn’t matter what colours the teams played in, the Welsh players and their unmistakable characteristics became as familiar as members of my family.

JPR’s sideburns and socks around his ankles, Merv’s bandage, Gerald’s tache and sidestep, Grav’s beard, Cobner’s dome, Barry’s brilliance and Gareth, well, just Gareth. Who could fail to recognise him? Even when he disguised himself as an extra from It Ain’t Half Hot Mum after scoring THAT try against Scotland?

Despite the Golden Era starting to lose its glitter in the early Eighties, I graduated to a whole new thrill – actually going to the internationals in Cardiff.

It all started off fairly innocently for the first couple of matches – the excitement of going up on the train, the thrill of seeing the stadium for the first time as we approached Cardiff station, the unforgettable moment of emerging from the tunnel beneath the vast East Terrace and into the old National Stadium.

When Wales ran out to take on France in front of a packed ground for my first live international, I thought I was going to burst with excitement.

Then came the anthems! Hearing 50,000 Welshmen humming along to the wonderful La Marseillaise was surreal and thrilling enough, but Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau . . .

I knew the words, I started to sing, but then stopped so that I could listen to this magical noise reverberating around the stadium.

It had sounded stirring on television, but this was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was an assault on the senses and emotions. My stomach was flipping, my spine was tingling, goosebumps were breaking out all over me and my eyes were prickling. Above all, there was an overwhelming sense of pride welling up inside of me.

Then, the match. Wales won 20-12. The highlights were seeing the great French full-back Serge Blanco, round off a flowing backline move for the visitors and Gareth’s successor Terry Holmes bursting through three tacklers to crash over in the corner – both in front of my vantage point on the East.

As I said, these first couple of visits were fairly innocent – dry runs if you like.

Then there was my full debut, albeit, a November tour match rather than a Five Nations game – Wales v Australia, 1984, my 18th birthday weekend – absolute carnage. And not just on the pitch.

I think Eddie Butler or Mike Watkins was captain, I know David Bishop scored Wales’ try on his only international appearance, and we were soundly beaten by the all-conquering Aussie team of Mark Ella, David Campese, Michael Lynagh, Nick Farr-Jones et al.

I can tell you very little else about the game, the day in general, or much of the next day. But I enjoyed it – according to those who were with me.

I must have done, because I kept going back for more. The Criterion, off St Mary’s Street, was a favourite haunt in those early years.

As you walked down the steps out of the daylight, you were met first by the strains of Calon Lan, or I Bob Un Sy’n Fyddlon, then by a seething mass of people taking on gallons of pre-match atmosphere.

There was little point battling your way to the bar for one drink. Whole crates of lager were the order of the day.

A bottle opener was essential, or a pal like mine, who could open them with his teeth. He was extremely popular with those who had not come prepared. His rates were reasonable – one swig from every bottle opened. You had to catch him early though, after a couple of hours of free swigs, he would struggle to tackle a jelly baby, let alone a bottle top.

The natural progression from days out in Cardiff, were weekends in Ireland and Scotland, which again unveiled a whole new dimension to the Five Nations experience.

Being a Welshman in Cardiff is fun, but a being a Welshman in Edinburgh, or Dublin, is an entirely different experience.

The warmth of the welcome and the fervour of the friendships forged are remarkable for the short duration of the stay.

It’s not all plain sailing though, naturally there are hurdles. For instance, heavy defeats – Graham Henry’s last game in charge springs painfully to mind.

But walking away from that 50-point Landsdowne Road drubbing, I had barely left the ground when I felt a comforting and sympathetic Irish arm around my shoulder – its owner ready to share my disappointment over a drink. The match was soon forgotten in one of the nearby bars.

Even the Fawlty Towers-type hotel we stayed in during that trip could not spoil the fun.

One of my fellow travellers enquired over breakfast on the first morning whether anyone else’s bed was damp.

One of the older members of the party, lifted his aching head from the strong coffee he was nursing before him and exclaimed: “Damp? Damp? There was a bloody rainbow over my bed when I woke this morning!”

Just when I thought I had experienced everything the Five Nations could offer, there was a new adventure. Italy away – in the Six Nations!

I had never been to Rome, so visiting that remarkable city was a special experience in itself.

Going there with 10,000 fellow Wales supporters for that first Six Nations visit was unique.

Marie Curie Cancer Care’s idea of selling pin-on daffodils at Cardiff Airport as the Welsh fans flew out to Italy was inspired.

Not only did they make a packet for their extremely worthy cause, but they contributed to a remarkable sight in Rome as thousands of be-daffodilled Welshmen and women swarmed around the city’s legendary landmarks.

One of my favourite moments was the morning of the match. Trying to cram in some extra sightseeing, we had just thrown our coins in the Trevi Fountain and were trying to find our way to the Spanish Steps.

Standing on a street corner, lost in the middle of Rome, head buried in an A to Z, a valleys accent cut through the air.

“What you looking for, butt? Spanish Steps? Go up to the end of this road, past the scaffolding, turn left, can’t miss it! We’ve just been there, brilliant it is, full of Welsh, red everywhere!”

“You don’t know where the Trevi Fountain is do you? he added.

“Well, as it happens . . . ,” I replied.

There we were, two groups of lost Welsh visitors, handing out directions in Rome as if we’d lived there all our lives.

Then my international adventures came full circle.

Wales starting winning Grand Slams again and I found myself sitting down in my own front room with my own children, who thought it great fun watching dad jumping around the room, face as red as his tight-fitting replica shirt, screaming at the television and sweeping them up into his arms and swinging them around the room every time Wales scored.

The “Internationals” – great sport and great fun, long may they continue.