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Today my wonderful fiance Charlotte and I made the long trip from one side of the county to the other to visit a sick relative. When someone has a fit, becomes pretty ill and is diagnosed with suspected epilepsy, it’s important that they have plenty of visitors, presents and loving care to keep their spirits up. So off we went to see Harvey the border terrier (owned by Charlotte’s parents and so technically my brother-in-law). You will be pleased to know that Harvey has been making good progress; the hide chew went down very well and he even managed a bit of a nibble on Charlotte’s new shoes.

Situations like this support the truism that the Englishman bows to no-one in his love of animals. You wouldn’t catch a Frenchman driving across Paris in rush hour with a bundle of magazines for a poorly budgie. You probably wouldn’t catch him spending the first half an hour of his visit to his in-laws trying to locate the owner of a stray Rottweiler, either, but that’s what we ended up doing. But we’re animal lovers, aren’t we? We couldn’t leave the poor thing in the road to be terrorised by mini-motos , like King Kong on the Empire Estate. So I tried to keep the beast on the pavement and off my arm while Charlotte and her dad knocked on doors, stopped passers by and then finally rang the RSPCA.

And this is where my faith in Our Fine Nation’s compassion for dumb creatures began to wane. The RSPCA apparently hand over their stewardship of big huge dogs to the local council at weekends. The local council’s dog wardens didn’t seem to be contactable, unfortunately, but the police were slightly more helpful. If we could get the dog to one of their stations then they would take charge, but they wouldn’t come and get it. To be honest, I don’t think they have invented the hide chew big and tasty enough to tempt this brute the five miles to the closest cop shop, and I wouldn’t really have fancied having him in the back seat of my Renault breathing down my neck and commenting on my cornering.

Luckily it didn’t come to that. Charlotte’s dad finally knocked on the right door, the dog was reunited with its almost grateful owner and we could go inside for a cup of tea and a stroke of the poor sickly Harvey. Whose medicine, we soon heard, would be costing about 80 pounds a month. Ouch. (Incidentally, I have since found out that you can get your vet to write you a prescription for your pet’s tablets and then buy them online).

Home, and I read an article on two chimps which had tunnelled out of their enclosure at Whipsnade Zoo. As the report said, it was like the Great Escape all over again - but with a tragic ending. One of the chimps was recovered, but the other, 41 year old Jonnie, proved less keen to return to his cage. The zoo promptly deployed its escaped animals procedure and in the interests of public safety, Jonnie was shot. Steve McQueen was lucky he was only dealing with the Nazis.

This all convinced me while we may be a nation of animal-loving individuals, we are also a nation of institutions, organisations and businesses that rely on and perhaps take advantage of this love, but which aren’t particularly sentimental when it comes to the crunch. Of course, in some situations we can’t give in to sentiment; balance the wellbeing of one pet cow against that of the livestock industry where foot and mouth is concerned, for example. But compare Jonnie’s fate with that of the ‘beleaguered bear‘ rescued from a bridge in California recently. I used to think that if I was a sick Alsatian or a duck with a thorn in its beak, I would rather be in England than elsewhere. Now I am not so sure.

In just over three hours we will know whether to call the current English rugby union team the worst World Champions that the sport has ever known. A loss to Tonga will see England tumble out of the Rugby World Cup at the end of the group stages - a fate not experienced by any previous holders of the Webb Ellis trophy.

Much as the team’s poor performance will be a disappointment to the fans, it can’t really be considered a surprise. No sooner than the Sydney 2003 hangover had passed did England’s victory bus begin to wobble, as if Freddie Flintoff had hitched a lift at Trafalgar Square and taken over the steering. Sir Clive disappeared for a job keeping the youth of Southampton off the streets, to be succeeded by grumpy gnome Andy Robinson. Genuinely world-class players such as Martin Johnson decided that they had nothing more to gain by hanging on, while some who should have joined them dug their fingernails in instead of letting go gracefully (are you listening, Lawrence Bruno Nero?)

Throw in some turgid performances in the Six Nations, a few thrashings by the southern hemisphere nations and a first loss to Argentina, and you have a build-up to the 2007 tournament that certainly ripped up no trees. And despite the arrival of Brian Ashton, a man with a reputation for coaching flair, skill and at least being able to pass (Joe Worsley have you been listening?), the England XV are often just awful to watch. So if they lose tonight, should we care?

The domestic game does not seem to have suffered yet from having such an incompetent national team - Guinness Premiership attendances continue to rise and junior clubs continue to form and build new clubhouses. Money pours into the game, and there are signs that the RFU and the English clubs may finally have come to a truce over their many disagreements. Maybe an early exit for England will be cathartic, clearing the last vestiges of 2003’s stale air and allowing the creation of a new, youthful, joyful team that doesn’t look like it is afraid of its predecessors.

So I’ll be cheering for Tonga then? Will I Hell! It won’t hurt for the new dawn of English rugby to wait for another week.