The State Of The Union

Fings of course ain't never what they used to be. So with my beloved Rugby Union. But I have decided there is life in the old beast yet - the game that is, not me, though I have no imminent plan to shuffle off the mortal thingy.

Two weeks ago I refereed a humble second team match at AOE. Now, quite undeniably, second team rugby is not what it was in the bloodthirsty eighties but despite all the poor omens this match was a delight. It had to proceed with uncontested scrums (which I detest but hey, ho, the dead hand of my own profession) but what transpired was a cracking contest. Result unimportant but well done to Aston and to Birmingham Exiles. As I jovially said to both teams afterwards, 'I don't really care about you bastards - I had a great time - what a fantastic game of rugby.' Filled my cynical old heart with joy. There is no skating over the fact that amateur rugby in England is still struggling to find a sustainable identity in the wake of, firstly, structured competition and, secondly, professionalism. This is no old git whinge about either of those developments, for both of which I proselytised. In particular I completely loved the league rugby that I got to play - it gave a formality to the extreme competitiveness that marked (occasionally marred) my inexpert efforts. In this I differed from my far more talented father. No one was ever going to offer the Boy Roberts money to play rugby but I did get a few flattering if unelevated offers to coach professionally. This never seriously appealed although I suppose I might have looked differently at it had I not had a bemusingly passable legal career. I preferred the lofty view that I didn't want the additional pressure that money would bring. Anyway, what I'm getting round to saying is that, thank the Good Lord, there are still daft people who get a kick out of the controlled violence of playing amateur rugby football. Good on them - there is hardly a day goes by that I don't miss the visceral thrill of it all.

But now the other extreme - the Six Nations. A competition wreathed in tradition, bonhomie and old enmities. But is it any good? Did the dominance by the southern hemisphere of RWC not prove that we in the north are categorically crap at the game? Well, yes and no. Let's take the southern supremacy thing first of all. New Zealand are everyone's exemplars these days - which I find satisfying since I was singing this tune forty years ago when the northern static maul was enjoying an uncharacteristic period of fashionabilty. However before we embark on a Stuart Barnesean orgy of jizzing our pants at all things antipodean, let's just note some important facts. For a start we need to remember that (with the previously suggested exception of Maggie Alphonsi) Dan Carter is the best player who has ever lived. In the 1950s many knowledgeable commentators averred that Hungary had devised a perfect method for coaching football (soccer for our American readers) - they hadn't. What they had actually discovered was Ferenc Puskas plus a coincidental flourishing of other players nearly as talented.  Whither the Magnificent Magyars? Next, please don't forget that when playing without Carter in a home RWC in 2011, New Zealand struggled to defeat a woeful French team. Just to keep us away from that old Celtic favourite, English arrogance, we will also recall that England had succumbed feebly to the same French. Now as it happens, the 2015 All Blacks not only had Carter but several others who will enter the pantheon - McCaw of course, Kieran Reade and Ma'a Nonu - this last the most towering example I can recall of a man who has just got better and better. Carter was born great; Nonu became so. In the near fifty years that I have been a student of the game, the 2015 All Blacks are the best team to have taken the field. Better even than the 1986 AOE Colts Invincibles and better even than Gary Street's World Cup winning women, though those girls were the best prepared team I have witnessed.    

So where does this leave us? Optimistic or doomed to a season of 'second division' international rugby? There is much that mystifies me: how does Warren Gatland continue to get away with the pre-match crap he spouts and will Eddie Jones (who has distinct previous on this) be allowed the same leeway by a press corps which is already gagging for him to fail? Just as everyone seems sold on the 'double open-side' ploy (not invented by Australia by the way - please note Hill/Back fifteen years ago) why have England picked Haskell to play at 7?  The answer one suspects is 'faut de mieux' - and this is the reason that Robshaw has suffered so much odium over the years. Mind you if he had elected to kick that goal against Wales then Stuart Lancaster might very well still be in a job. My hunch is that on balance Robshaw did us a favour - certainly with the advantage of distance the Burgess farago looks more and more embarrassing. Most vexingly, when will the French bloody well turn up at the party again? At their best they have big, nasty, deft forwards and exhilarating backs. However their game is (yet more than the English) held to ransom by rich clubs and their import of ageing galacticos.

What about the Celts? Scotland have some very good players - I particularly like the look of the imported Kiwi flanker. Their coach is a mute hard case - a model I favour. The younger Gray is a very tidy player . However, Scottish resources are scarce and they somehow manage their poverty less efficiently than the Welsh and Irish. Wales - a lot of very good players. They are right to pick Tipuric, an outstanding footballer, although I would be tempted to play him at open-side, keep Lydiate and drop Warburton. Could the Welsh pundits please stop banging on about the injuries at the World Cup. Man up. New Zealand won the World Cup in 2011 without Carter and with McCaw on one leg. They played a fly-half who transpired not to be good enough for Bath's second team. The Welsh penchant for morbid self-pity is what separates this team from greatness. In their defence coach, Shaun Edwards, they have the asset all right-thinking Englishmen have coveted for years. One strongly suspects he simply could not envisage himself working for the Twickenham set. One equally strongly suspects he has a point.

Ireland, oh Ireland. I have lauded your coach, but let's face it, the World Cup exit was tame. Giants have departed - O'Driscoll and O'Connell were generation-defining players. Heaslip has diminished and Sexton looks like he may have had one too many blows to the head. Nonetheless, a match for anyone in Dublin.

Italy. You've got to love them but there is no logical reason to think they can win a game. That may not stop them. Sergio Parisse will get the part of God when they remake The Ten Commandments.

Bring it on. No Grand Slam this year. Wales to win the title from France, England, Ireland though these three not necessarily in that order. Newsflash - Eddie Jones will do what no Englishman would have the licence to do and openly treat the championship as a development exercise. If this backfires he will be excoriated, will be forgiven because the RFU can't afford to sack him and will garner a Grand Slam in two years.    

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