LONG READ Whisper it, but are Scotland dark horses for the Six Nations?

There’s little in rugby to top a Six Nations – ‘age-old fizz and a chorus of songs’ as ITV’s Nick Mullins once, quite beautifully, described it – the glaring exception, of course, being a Six Nations in a Lions year where you get two scoops of gelato for the price of one. Collectively, who’ll impose themselves? Individually, who’ll be a glint in Andy Farrell’s gimlet eye? Folks, we may well need an extra paper napkin.

But before we get carried away with rugby’s beau monde in full dressage on the Irish and British Lions’ catwalk – does Finn in his brushed tartan look a cut above Marcus in his Carnaby Street couture – this is, first and foremost, a steeplechase, a Velká pardubická of thundering hooves and snorting rivalries and, arguably, as open a Championship race as we’ve ever seen. A savvy bookmaker might well be able to retire by mid-March.

Right now, it’s odds-on a No-Slam (10/11): Ireland (15/8) are the favourites to pinch the pot ahead of the French (2/1), while, pedalling squares in front of the Broom Wagon, Wales (10/11) are tipped to totter in last behind Italy (11/10). You have to say, all this has a whiff of plausibility. The one glaring anomaly comes in the middle of the market where England (7/2) are deemed a better bet for the Championship than Scotland (7/1). Indeed, rarely has the word anomaly lifted so heavy a sentence.

Because this, surely, is Scotland’s almost Homeric opportunity to bury 26 years of hurt and, for the first-time in their history, stick the Six Nations’ trophy on the mantlepiece. ‘Tides in the affairs of men … taken at the flood … leading on to fortune?’ No question, it’s time for Gregor Townsend’s brimful legions to go with the flow and channel their inner Brutus. True, the noblest Roman of them all did end up impaled on a claymore in his own dressing room post the Battle of Philippi but, hey, let’s not get too literal here.

The point is that Scotland haven’t looked this well-oiled in a generation. They’ve grizzle up front, a backline bristling with putative Lions and, crucially, a fixture list they might have cheerfully picked themselves: Italy (H), Ireland (H), England (A), Wales (H) and France (A). As Tracey Chapman once plaintively asked, if not now, then when?

Italy at home – no disrespect – is, arguably, the perfect hors d’oeuvres ahead of the cosmic collision with Ireland in Edinburgh; England’s number is in Scotland’s back pocket and Wales are a home helping before the denouement in Paris where, who knows, the Championship might already be in Gregor’s knapsack if the French slip up in Dublin and/or London. At the very least, it’d be a first Triple Crown in thirty-five years; better still, if they seal McSlam, they could conceivably end up with six trophies; the Championship, the Calcutta Cup, the Cuttitta Cup, the Doddie Weir Cup, the Auld Alliance Trophy and the Centenary Quaich. The wrap party, happily, would not be short of drinking vessels.

Scotland, of course, have been perennial dark horses in recent years only to be hanged by hope; falling at the second fence; unseating themselves at some innocuous, open ditch; wilting in the run-in or, most cruelly of all, sneaking over the line only to get stiffed in the stewards’ enquiry.

Scotland, of course, have been perennial dark horses in recent years only to be hanged by hope; falling at the second fence; unseating themselves at some innocuous, open ditch; wilting in the run-in or, most cruelly of all, sneaking over the line only to get stiffed in the stewards’ enquiry. Each time they saddle up they appear increasingly handicapped by the deadweight of history.

This time, though, seems different. Like Munster during the halcyon days of the Heineken Cup, you feel this group has learned its learnings and, itself, senses its ship is setting sail on a full sea and on a course charted by the fabulous Glasgow Warriors. What hasn’t killed Scotland has, surely, made them stronger or, if you prefer, there is nothing for them to fear here but fear itself. Pin either aphorism to the dressing room wall and 7/1 looks an almost indecent bet.

Ireland, indisputably, will beg to differ. And with good reason since, if you look at the last decade or so, their record worldwide against the Scots is P16 W15 L1 D0; not only that but they’re chasing a Six Nations three-peat with, largely, the same band of brothers who delivered the previous two. France at home is a further penny in the pot.

And yet? And yet the autumn – substantively – added up to a Kiwi car crash and two three-point squeaks against Argentina and Australia. The tin of WD40 appears to have gone missing, as, of course, has El Farrellissimo, now sporting a red beanie rather than a green one. Simon Easterby’s no one’s idea of boiled chutney but his head coaching excellence will be tested; that said, the bookmakers, certainly, reckon he and his team are up to the task. Time will tell.

France, as you’d expect from a nation which can draw on the resources of Stade Toulousain, Stade Rochelais, RC Toulon and Union Bordeaux-Bègles, aren’t likely to be roadkill: the Champions’ Cup is a warning light that’s casting an ominous red glow across Europe from Sicily to Shetland. They open and close in Paris (Wales/Scotland) and, in between, take to the road (England/Italy/Ireland) where, you sense, their bed will be made. Or not, as the case may be.

For Wales, well, it’s ‘All About Eve’, isn’t it? ‘Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be bumpy’, a line which, appropriately enough, was famously delivered by a Davis.

No question, France will feel that it’s high time they reasserted their hemispherical puissance. Exactly how many Championships do you suppose they’ve bagged in the past, say, 14 years? Six? Five? Three? Answer comes there one, in 2022; indeed, previous to that, their last win was in 2010. It’s an eye-popping statistic.

Certainly, they’ll be itching to atone for last year’s ill-disciplined, Dupont manque, post-traumatic World Cup stress disorder where they were atomised by Ireland in Marseille, gift-wrapped a highly dubious win in Scotland and humbled by Italy in Lille before rediscovering some semblance of their ju-ju against Wales and England. Ball in hand, they’re terrifying; ball out of hand, somewhat less so. Shaun Edwards has his work cut out.

For Wales, well, it’s ‘All About Eve’, isn’t it? ‘Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be bumpy’, a line which, appropriately enough, was famously delivered by a Davis. Rome in round two already looks freighted with consequence and there’s an ‘all-in’ humdinger with England in Cardiff to wrap things up in round five upon which Warren Gatland will doubtless be feasting a hungry eye. But, as the head coach is very well aware, any repeat of last year’s witless Wooden Spoon would make his position untenable. Is the Age of Miracles over? We’re about to find out.

Steve Borthwick, too, needs an urgent restorative. Key coaches are still bedding in, there’s now a new captain in Maro Itoje and, Japan apart, the team’s on a dismal run of sapping, last-gasp defeats. England’s Six Nations opens with Ireland (A), France (H), Scotland (H) and yet, somehow, they’re 7/2 to win the Championship. You’d like to see the working out on that one.

And all this while, backstage, the RFU resembles The Reign of Terror. The beheadings, if beheadings there’ll be, have been postponed until after the Six Nations but if CEO, Bill Sweeney – who made and who sustains Steve Borthwick – were to fall victim to some Thermidorian Reaction on the back of a lame showing from England in the Championship, then the head coach’s exposure could border on the naked. These are disquieting times for the English.

Anyone nailing a Slam this year will have done it the hard way. More likely, bonus points will be bullion; namely, maximising your superiority when the sun shines or hanging tough on a Dog Day Afternoon.

And last but, these days, not necessarily least, come Italy, who’re a fanciful 250/1 to poach the pot. On the upside, they too have three home games; on the downside, two are against France and Ireland. Wales a casa might well end up being their finale but Benetton have looked sprightly in the Champions’ Cup – they beat Bath, might have beaten Bristol – and they’ve last year’s heroics to inhale in their more breathless moments. Their progress will be a fascination.

All of which, as ever, adds up to pot-boiler. Certainly, anyone nailing a Slam this year will have done it the hard way. More likely, bonus points will be bullion; namely, maximising your superiority when the sun shines or hanging tough on a Dog Day Afternoon. It’s tantalisingly tight.

And Lions-wise? What’ll delight Andy Farrell is that the scramble for a boarding pass on the flight to Australia looks to be as wide open as the Championship itself. Take the second row where – deep breath – the likes of Ryan Baird, Tadhg Beirne, Joe McCarthy, James Ryan, Iain Henderson, Scott Cummings, Grant Gilchrist, Will Rowlands, Dafydd Jenkins, Maro Itoje, Ollie Chessum, George Martin, Courtney Lawes and Dave Ribbans – forgive me if I’ve missed anyone – all, to a greater or lesser extent, will feel they have some kind of shot at it. Fourteen into four? It’ll be a bunfight.

And if the scrap to make the squad is cut-throat, so too are Test places which, again, would be Andy’s idea of ideal. Right now, if asked to offer a list of rock-solid Test starters, the only name I’d personally write in blood would be Andrew Porter. Caelan Doris? Very probably but then Taulupe Faletau is back – and, as we all know, Superman wears Taulupe Faletau pyjamas – while Saracens’ Tom Willis could yet be a bullock of a bolter. Sione Tuipulotu? Again, like Doris, odds-on on current form but Fua Leiofi Bundellu Aki looming large in your rear-view mirror is like trying to shake off a 16-stone mosquito in a hot room.

So all in all, the only prediction anyone of sound marbles would make is that we’re about to embrace a Six Nations for the ages and that’s without considering any of the Lions’ parlour game sub-plots. The fixtures fall quite beautifully with Scotland/Ireland and Ireland/France likely to prove decisive, not forgetting the final weekend when Scotland head to Paris, the very city and the very stadium where they snatched their last Championship win in the 1999 Five Nations with, it should be said, a little help from Scott Gibbs at a Welsh Wembley. This time, though, you’d fancy they’ve the wherewithal to do it by themselves.