6N 26.1 & 2

I used to have a routine for Five/Six Nations rugby matches. I would usually be playing at my own low level (to take a week off would have been an act of sacrilege) so I would set the video recorder to tape the England game. Now that of itself was a considerable act - there was none of this single-button-programming, much less catch-up services on which you could rely. But the next consideration was this - I don't like to watch sporting events when the result is known to me. So I would play my game (please bear in mind that pitches were far muddier in those days) and then retrieve my car keys from a secret location, clamber into my car and drive home to a hot bath, all without being fore-warned of the result. Then I could enjoy the match at leisure.

I mention this because it serves to remind me just how much magic adhered to the old championship. It felt somehow attached to the amateur game I loved so much. Those days are gone and I have no wish to sound like one of the much maligned old farts who used to run the game. Yes the opportunities to play the game for a living are nice for a tiny minority but the 'product' (as one must so odiously term it) is dangerously lacking in romance. One has only to look at the crumbling edifice of that once enviable structure, Welsh rugby, to know that something is wrong. All of which, in a counter-intuitive manner (certainly for an English patriot like the Pig), makes the result of the Calcutta Cup match last Saturday rather grand. The much (and deservedly so after the Italy defeat) Scots simply ploughed the shell-shocked English into the Murrayfield turf. Galling for the English, yes, but, in the final analysis, rather splendid and redolent of an earlier age.

Don't worry lads, it's only a game

But now let's get to the problems of the England team. Maro Itoje -a titan but one who is coming off a draining Lions Tour as captain and a draining personal tragedy (the loss of his mother). Should we be surprised that he looks drained? Sam Underhill - an old-fashioned sort of a player. He had a bad game - that just doesn't happen. He deserves another chance. I would pair him at flanker with Henry Pollock. Let's address the elephant in the room - Pollock gives every impression of being a bit of a gobshite - but he's our gobshite and just at the moment the force seems to be with him. The centres are a conundrum. There is no disgrace in being outplayed by Jones and Tuipolotu, a pair who rather inconveniently (for the English) overcame their previous torpor with a relish. Don't worry lads, it's only a game - as Ray Prosser used to say, 'Well what the f*** do we have points for?' Big Fat Pig will watch with renewed interest as the defeated England and the (for once) deflated Irish meet this weekend.

France? brilliant.  

You Are The Athlete First And The Rugby Player Second

I think it might have been that other great solicitor/rugby coach, Alan Jones, who coined this phrase. On the other hand it might have been someone else - either way it stuck with me. Let's unpack it and then consider it in the context of last night's England U20 v Wales U20 age-group international.

Athleticism - I think we can take it as read that to function at the top of rugby these days you need to be fit and strong. Yes there are differing types of athleticism (just as shot-putters differ from pole-vaulters) but you have to have some fitness. But being a rugby player, a true footballer to use the old parlance, well that is a mater of mental acuity. I have known some very fit people who were poor footballers and some superb footballers who cared not a jot about physical conditioning. These latter types cannot function at high levels. Not these days at least.

Last night's match was played in appalling conditions - pouring rain and a muddy (by the standards of modern curating) pitch. England won19-16 having been 0-16 down at half-time. England were manifestly the better athletes, you could tell this by the way that these gargantuan young men filled their shirts. The Welsh team equally manifestly contained the better footballers, most particularly Carwyn Leggat-Jones, who looks to be the latest fly-half to be mined from Max Boyce's legendary seam of No. 10s. 

For forty minutes England played a pre-planned game utterly unsuited to the conditions. It was brain-dead rugby. Wales feasted on the English stupidity, most particularly when England gifted them a try. One can only speculate what was said to the England team at half-time, but whatever it was, the result was a direct and forceful display from superior athletes. Had mental acuity been allied to athleticism, the margin would have been much greater. The problem is that sometimes you just can't teach these things - as the great Gary Street once remarked (to a passing opposition back-row) after a particularly notable clearance kick: 'You can't teach that - it's genetic'. As with so much else, Gary had a point, even if his insolence did place his No 8 (your correspondent) at risk of a smack from the aggrieved flanker. I can forgive Gary everything. Genius.  

A Personal Boast

It was only on 17 January that I shared with you my resolution to get back to being able to run for an hour non-stop by the end of May. This was based on adding five minutes to my longest runs each month. It was not exactly an earth-shattering ambition but I would point out that by the time we get to the end of May I will be sixty-six and in grateful receipt of my state pension. I own an old body hampered by a rugby player's accumulation of physical afflictions. Wouldn't change that last fact for the world.

Anyway, what I am building up to saying is that the Pig is back in Benllech and set forth this morning in high winds and pissing-down rain and rather surprised himself by running for one hour and sixteen seconds. To say that I am pleased with this outcome is an understatement. Just thought I would share this with you.

While I exult in this minor achievement, the world lurches from one undignified crisis to another. Will Keir Starmer survive as PM as what I presume someone will shortly dub Mandygate unfolds? It is very tempting not to give a shit but there's a country to be run. Any volunteers? Oh, by the way, I've just done a cursory Google search and 'Mandygate' has been doing the rounds for days. So much for my political antenna. 

Even I Am At A Loss For Words (Well Almost)

Anybody with half an ounce of perception has been able to tell for in excess of two decades that Peter Mandelson is very talented. But it has been equally obvious for all that time that the the man is a preening, vainglorious shit who thinks himself above the confines of what passes for common decency, Why could our Prime Minister not tell this? He could have asked me, or indeed anyone at the court of public opinion. I despair.

Keir Starmer has managed the near-impossible by his ineptitude in the appointment of our most important ambassador - he has made Kemi Badenoch look competent at PMQ's. I despair. And don't get me started on Ed Davey or that sinister yob Nigel Farage. We deserve better, much better.

An Enviable Fiction; A Damning Fact

 

That Stench Coming Off Your Screen - It's The Foul Smell Of Conscienceless Vaulting Ambition

 

 

The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig; but already it was impossible to say which was which.

The Search For The Good Nazi

I have been watching my way for the umpteenth time through the magisterial World at War (as an aside this reminds me that such compelling yet educational television just would not get made these days) and I am most intrigued by the contributions of that seismic fraud Albert Speer - a high-ranking Nazi who escaped from the Nuremberg trials with his life. It was the enigma of Speer that was brought to mind by recent cinematic encounters with interpretations of two other prominent National Socialists.

The Desert Fox is carried by James Mason's charismatic portrayal of Erwin Rommel, presented to us as an honourable and brilliant military man who came to see that Hitler was leading Germany over a cliff. When one considers that the film was made in the shadow of the War (1951) this is a balanced and generous work. 70/100. 

Nuremberg (2025) has an expert turn from Russell Crowe as the charming but malignant narcissist Hermann Goring. This is top grade acting. Rami Malek's efforts as the psychiatrist who endeavours to know Goring have attracted contrasting reviews (The Guardian is particularly hard on him) but I think he keeps just on the right side of manic. Juristically speaking the Nuremberg trials pose interesting questions for any sentient lawyer, particularly one like me who has always opposed judicial killing in the domestic setting. I still don't know where I stand on war crimes trials and I am grateful that I am not compelled to articulate one way or the other. Another worthy film. 70/100. Watch out as well for a fine subsidiary performance from Leo Woodall.