Six Nations 23

In the wake of England's underwhelming start to the championship I have not been motivated to get too deep into this year's Six Nations. On reflection I should have known better. There are some signs of hope for the grand old game from the first two weekends, even if the stultifying caterpillar ruck still makes the odd appearance. I won't get bogged down in the direness of this tactic but will confine myself to saying that it is the arch-signifier of precisely what can be achieved by soulless coaching.

will someone please ban this crap

England have been left in a mess by Eddie Jones. I never was a fan but now that he has gone I think we can identify his principal failing - he hates the English. We are left with a group of players conditioned to feel apologetic about who they are. That never works. 

International sport must per se be a cruel mistress and she may be playing a particularly malicious trick on poor old Owen Farrell. He has been a player on the cusp of greatness, a prime example of the solid English fly-half (as opposed to the Celtic preference for the will-o'-the-wisp) but now he looks slow and confused. At least he is now playing in his best position but if he is to be persisted with then he must be given the latitude to play his way. 

Enough of poor old England. Did you see the Ireland v France match? Now that did show the possibilities of the sport. Breathless, brutal, controversial, magnificent. Compare it to the decidedly lower division fare served up in both of week two's other games. Scotland were decidedly better than Wales (who have got themselves in a right pickle and have gone back to a man as unlikeable as Eddie Jones in the shape of Warren Gatland) but the match was littered with the sort of human error that was simply not a feature of the Dublin classic. England v Italy was also painfully second-tier stuff. I wouldn't put it past England to lose to Wales next weekend, thus once again reviving the corpse of the Welsh game. All part of life's rich pageant. But please no bloody caterpillar rucks and brain-dead box-kicking.