Goodbye, R360. And good riddance.

This la-la lollipop of a rugby competition - bankrolled by oil billionaires and dreamed up in a boardroom somewhere far from an actual rugby field - deserves every ounce of ridicule coming its way.

This week, the leading rugby nations of the world - and that’s important, because it wasn’t some limp, bureaucratic directive from the faceless donutters at World Rugby - released a joint statement saying any player who signs for this new league will be ineligible for international rugby.

Good. Job. Finally, a collective spine. Finally, some leadership that recognises this Mickey Mouse cash grab for what it is: a soulless attempt to wedge itself between club and country, feeding off that most basic of human temptations - greed.

Now, look - we can all understand the players’ perspective. The money being thrown around is eye-watering. Three, even five times what some of them earn on their current contracts.

In any walk of life, that’s tempting. You can’t fault people for wanting to set themselves up.

But let’s be honest - this isn’t rugby. Not real rugby. It’s contrived, manufactured sport-as-entertainment, created for… well, who exactly? No one seems to know, and fewer seem to care.

Is there even room for this circus in the rugby calendar? Next year alone, we’ve got Super Rugby, the new Nations Cup, a possible tour of South Africa, a truncated Rugby Championship, the NPC jammed in somewhere, and an All Blacks end-of-year tour. And that’s just our side of the equator.

Up north they’ve got their own club competitions, the Six Nations, and Lions tours and World Cups every few years. So where, exactly, does R360 fit? Between brunch and burnout?

More importantly, what’s the carrot for a player with any real ambition? It’s not playing for the Dubai Diddlers or the San Francisco Fiddlers (and if those teams aren’t real yet, give them a week). It’s representing your country. It’s pulling on the black jersey, standing for the anthem, and chasing a World Cup.

And here’s the thing: money doesn’t buy credibility. Never has, never will. You can toss millions around, but it won’t turn a synthetic sideshow into something people care about.

Would you pay to stream a match between a bunch of league converts and past-their-best pros playing in front of 3,000 mildly confused expats? Didn’t think so.

It’ll have all the atmosphere of a midweek testimonial - farcical, forgettable, and finished before it even begins.

So go on, players. Take the money if you must. Nobody begrudges you that. But understand what it means. Your international career ends the moment you sign. You become invisible.

The big stages, the test caps, the World Cups - all gone.

The biggest rugby nations have drawn a line in the sand. Cross it, and you stay there. And as the LIV golfers have learned the hard way, no matter how fat the paycheck, the grass on the other side isn’t always greener. Sometimes it’s just plastic.

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