You may have noticed that I have been oddly silent about the state of my beloved game of rugby union. I must confess that my reticence has reflected a disillusionment with the grand old sport. The amateur game is dying on its feet. This is a societal tragedy. The professional game is a sad mess of hubris and protectionism. Worst of all, the great signifier of professional rugby is the wretched caterpillar ruck - a tactic born of fear and intellectual timidity.
It is therfore a delight to report that last night I watched a good game of professional rugby union - fleet, skilful and passionate. Well done Clermont and the victorious Leicester Tigers. It can be done.
And while we're on the subject I suppose I ought to unleash my verdict on the end of Eddie Jones' tenure as England coach. More seasoned (bored?) readers of this blog will recall that I had, despite my innate conservatism, been a member of the Jones Must Go camp. If you look at his record, you discover that he always outstays his welcome and it all ends in tears. The carefully cultivated chippy Aussie image becomes a tired act and he disappears up his own tactical behind. He was responsible for the single best England performance of my lifetime, the evisceration of New Zealand at RWC 19, yet only a week later oversaw the dire capitulation to South Africa. He is a high-class coach but, in the final analysis, you do wonder if he had started to believe some of his own oft-spouted guff.
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