Rugby World Cup: Wales and moans on a dark day for New Zealand

The low moan to the left of me started to increase in volume. And length. It was a man in immense mental pain born out of frustration. And resignation.

Down on the Millennium Stadium pitch, French scrum-half Jean-Baptiste Elissalde was tearing off towards his own line, ball in hand, ready to hoof it into the stands and continue New Zealand's rugby World Cup nightmare.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO," came the crescendo that had been building for what seemed like minutes, but in reality was merely seconds.

Elissalde completed the coup de grace, sending the ball into the seats, and referee Wayne Barnes blew the whistle to ensure the All Blacks were leaving the World Cup without the trophy. Again.

"I can't believe this has happened again," my All-Blacks-jersey-clad neighbour started chanting.

Over and over again. As if he were re-living the failures of 1991, 1995, 1999 and 2003. Over and over again.

Frustrated, he squatted down in the aisle and lit a cigarette. In the non-smoking, enclosed arena. His rationale, as he shrugged his shoulders at me and looked into the near distance with vacant eyes, was obvious. "What's the worst that could happen?"

I understood.

We had had a strange journey, my neighbour and I. Taking a year out of journalism to do post-graduate study in Britain, I had chosen to see the World Cup as a fan, and we had seats together for the All Blacks' games throughout the 2007 World Cup. Him, me and two other New Zealanders, all of us following "our" team.

One was a postal worker from Perth in Australia who had saved for four years and was backpacking around Europe. The other, like my neighbour, lived in London.

We had introduced ourselves in Marseille, and cheered when Richie McCaw's team demolished Italy 76-14, then bade each other farewell, expecting not to see each other again.

We surprisingly found ourselves sitting together the next week in Lyon. We asked what the others had been doing in the previous week. What to see in the south of France. Where to get a decent beer. What was happening back 'home'.

Then we revelled in the passion displayed by tournament debutants Portugal, whose efforts earned a standing ovation despite the 108-13 loss.

By the third pool game in Edinburgh, the hellos had been swapped for the customary 'Maori salute'. Eyebrows raised, slight head nods upwards.

Such a simple New Zealand gesture, a piece of shared culture that identifies the diaspora to each other and silently conveys so much. "Hey! How are you? Good? I'm fine, thanks for asking."

A 40-0 victory over a Scotland side that seemed to have no intention of trying to win the game caused some consternation. A win, yes. But...

Then came the 85-8 thrashing of Romania in Toulouse. More concerns. Something was not quite right.

Never mind, they had smashed France twice in June (42-11 & 61-10) and they would sort out those kinks by Cardiff.

Boy, were we wrong.

My mobile phone started beeping. Over and over again. More than 30 times. In the space of 10 minutes. English friends, who had watched their side upset Australia hours earlier in Marseille to advance to the semi-finals, commisserating?

No. They were offering, I'll give them the benefit of the doubt, 'good-natured' mocking of the All Blacks' failure to win the Webb Ellis trophy. Again.

They all got the same, very brief and to-the-point, reply.

My All Blacks-supporting friends had dispersed — no handshakes or goodbyes — and I headed into the damp Cardiff evening to meet an old university friend from New Zealand.

An hour after Elissalde's kick into touch ended the dreams of more than four million New Zealanders for another four years, we were at the bus stop, waiting to go back to the pub where we had managed to get rooms for the night.

What a disappointment, I posited rhetorically.

"Oh well," he responded with a deep sigh. "There's always next time."