Oh, Toulouse...

Oh, Toulouse.... Throughout the first half I was planning on indulging myself in writing about my favourite subject, the brilliance and audacity of Toulouse. Then they started to do some silly things and this became a piece about how they can be so brilliant and so inept. And now, having found myself shouting for Connacht against Quins, something that didn't sit well given Quins' very own brilliance, I find myself loving and hating Toulouse in equal measure. In fact, I want to hate them more.

The Fijian, Timoci Matanavou had his worst game of the season. Andrew Cotter (who was typically outstanding) pointed out that Matanavou is the cousin of Sireli Bobo. The younger Fijian then spent the next 60 minutes proving this and left me asking how I had not seen it before. He gifted Gloucester their first after spilling a Garryowen into his dead-ball area, shimmying, and doubling-back, threatening to pull off a Christian Cullen, then decides to hoof it in the agricultural way that most Fijians do, charged down, try. Yuck. Gloucester then peppered him all game and little changed. Noves should have taken him off. He did some lovely things with the ball in hand, skinning Luke Narraway in the 5m channel and finishing off two of Toulouse's flowing movements, but they were overshadowed by his ineptitude when confronted by a ball in the air and the onrushing hordes.

Louis Picamoles, who I believe should start for France at no. 8, can be so classy. He covers the ground so well, reads the game, and off-loads with such ease. He has an air of Zinzan about him. And then he throws a series of inexcusably awful spin passes. Infuriating.

Burgess was lively, especially in comparison to Lawson who looks laboured. Nyanga seemed to mop up every missed tackle by his team-mates. Beauxis, who is now well and truly recovered from his festering at Stade Francais, made a nice break. Albacété flogged himself around the pitch, leaving me in rare agreement with Stephen Jones, that the Argentine is one of the great players of the era. Servat rumbled around in his usual manner, which makes the news of his defection to Toulon even more depressing. Who would leave Toulouse?

Médard's left boot, once so prodigious, now resembles that of Hugo Southwell, occasionally so long, often mis-hit. Still, the value of a left-winger who can kick is invaluable. Poitrenaud was Poitrenaud, nothing more, nothing less.

In contrast to these Toulousains, certain Gloucester players shone, offering some optimism for the future of English back play. Bryan Redpath is a lucky man. Akapusi Qera was, at times, just as brilliant and frustrating as his countryman Matanavou, passing out the back of the hand with difficulty then dropping the simple return pass.

Before tonight, Toulouse were my pick, and no doubt they will eradicate the faux pas of tonight. They've certainly done it before. Maybe it's unreasonable to expect them to produce it every week. But then again, maybe it isn't. It is all mental, after all. At times they are playing on a different planet, untouchable, even by the likes of Leinster. Let's hope that tonight reminds them that they are beatable when they fail to apply themselves. Tonight provided a huge sigh of relief, for the Heineken Cup would be infinitely poorer without the artists from Toulouse.

Andrew Cotter said of the enigmatic Guy Noves, "he always looks like he wants a cigarette." After tonight's performance, I can see him settling down with his pack of Gaulois. He'll probably sigh with frustration. Then he might allow a wry smile, a smile that knows that, with this club, it oftens turns out alright in the end.