Category Archives: rugby

What Goes Around Comes Around. But Only Time Will Tell.

Posted on by
Reply

It’s been a roller coaster ride, an accident waiting to happen, in some cases it’s been every mother’s nightmare and lots of other clichés which journalists resort to when they can think of nothing original to write.

It seems as if the worm has turned (there’s another one) and this morning feels like the dawning of a new era (ahem). You know something of biblical proportions (ding!) has happened when The Sunday Times calls for a United States of Europe and a single currency as the only way of getting out of the mess we’re  in, thanks to Greekenomics (ping!). Honestly, yes they are. Don’t believe me ? I would say look it up online, but, of course, News International websites require a subscription. Of course they do. Do you really think you could get quality journalism like that for free? No, pop up to your local Tesco express (there’ll be one at the top of the road, I assure you) and pick yourself up a copy (for our younger readers, it looks like several dozen sheets of paper with words and photos printed on them, stacked together and folded in half, vaguely resembling one of those old book thingies. It’ll have the words The Sunday Times written on the front. And they’ll be a lot of unsold ones laying in a pile next to a similar but much smaller pile of something called The Mail on Sunday. Such is the country we live in).

When a Rupert Murdoch title starts eschewing the virtues of a single, fiscal, federal country called :”Europe” as the only way out of the mire you know two things: 1) Some big shit is about to go down and; 2) That is the view of the Sunday Times Editor and his alone and it in no way relates to any view the proprietor may or may not hold.

These ideas would, before now, be a red reg to a bull (beep!) to any right-wing eurosceptic worth his salt. The fact that The Sunday Times is the standard-bearer for your local right-wing eurosceptic makes this all the more worrying. Somehow, somewhere (probably in downtown Athens), something has hit the air-conditioning system and the resulting spray of faeces is landing in the eyes of anyone within a time zone or three.

This call for one, enormous, unified country suggests, of course that it will include every man woman, child and state in Europe, except, of course The UK and our old friends, the former owners of the Elgin Marbles. We surely will be outside the tent, pissing in (bong!), but the rest of continental Europe will be inside pissing out. And all over us. As befits our standing as the awkward bastards of the continent, we will be left with only the USA and Greece to trade with. I hope you like Retsina with your hamburger, cos that’s all there is.
( I was going to write that the Greeks do a nice line in eternal flames, but as the Olympic flame went out as soon as the British delegation arrived recently – no symbolism there – I shan’t)

But I didn’t pick up this change of tack (woop!) by reading the Sunday Times (the restraining order put in place by my doctor – banning me coming within a quarter-mile of a News International title – is still in force), no, no, no. This point of view was first put to me by Mr A Heckler (you will have read some of his nasty little comments on these very pages) while we were en route (ahooowhar) to a rugby match in Twickenham yesterday. While the rest of the passengers in our train carriage were discussing the probable outcome of the match between Ulster and Leinster (no, nor did I until recently), the big man and I were chatting about the state of the markets, economic policy and the collapse of the Euro. God! we’re a fascinating couple to be around, I can tell you.

And such was the vigour and enthusiasm with which we put across our views that we both found ourselves rather thirsty and, as soon as the train stopped at Twickers, we rushed to a nearby hostelry.

(Excuse me for diverting form the subject, but I have just had to pause to switch off the TV. Nicky Campbell‘s Sunday morning program has just started. I mis-heard his opening lines of the show when he said “Is there a difference between a cult and a religion?”. I immediately shouted to myself “Yes there is. One is worshiped in a church and the other is a failed DJ who has a sunday morning program.” It’s ok. TV’s off now. I am back).

…and relax…

Now, what I should have said to the barman was, clearly “Two pints of expensive watery Guinness please, and could you pour them into really flimsy plastic beakers for me, mate?” But not having been in this situation too often as of late, I merely said “Two pints of Guinness, mate,please”. At the drop of a hat (bingbong!), or at least far too quickly to have poured fresh, stout, our man returned with the legend “Ten Pounds, please, mate”. Almost immediately I calculated that him charging me £10 for two pints meant that they were charging £5-a-pint for one. My life passed before me, (whohoo!) I couldn’t believe my ears,(cha-ching) and the ground opened up before me (peep!).

I used what will doubtless becoming a cliché of my own: “£5 for a pint ? You robbing f*cker!”. A pal in the bar checked: A pint of Guinness (before half of Ireland arrived in town for the match) cost £3.80 in this pub. Now you might think that was a big enough markup for any pub. Clearly not. (For the record the pun was The Tup, Twickenham (pictured). Be my guest and boycott these robbing bastards. I’m sure the other boozers in town did/do the same, but this was the one I was in. W*nkers.)

All day I never worked out which fans were supporting Leinster, and who were cheering for Ulster (though the replica strips the all wore could have given me a visual clue, I guess). In the stadium, one half shouted “Leinster, Leinster, Leinster,” while the rest simultaneously wailed “Ulster, Ulster,Ulster”. The result was a constant “Leulster, Leulster, Leulster” bellowed by 85,000 passionate Irishmen. Leulster may or may not be another in a long line of Irish counties I’ve never heard of, but boy, the mob we watched yesterday can sure play rugby. And they sure can drink.

I don’t know what they would have shouted when a barman charged them £5 for a pint of Guinness, and I don’t know how many Euros that converts to, but I suspect the language was blue, either in English or Gaelic. In a final act of stupidity/arrogance/sebcoeism (and you’ll read that word again here until I make it my own cliché), these 80-odd-thousand thirsty Irishmen couldn’t get a pint of Guinness in the stadium because the competition was sponsored by and named after a rival beer. Pathetic, ain’t it ?

Business is business, but if that isn’t a missed opportunity in-the-name-of competition, I don’t know what is. In the end, the bar I was queuing at even run out of the eponymous lager. In the world’s most expensive capital, we hike up our beer to glean 100s of percents in markup, then we deprive 85,000 thirsty Irish rugby fans, not only the opportunity to spend a week’s wages on one of our pints, but we also run out of the alternative too. Well done. Very well, done. Brought to you my the country that organised the ticketing for the Olympics.

It’s no wonder no-one in Europe cares if we’re inside or outside their tent.

These are my pearls of wisdom for today. The writing is on the wall. (Babumtischhh!)


A Five Eighth and a Half.

Posted on by
1

It’s sad to hear that Michael Lynagh, the great Australian fly-half (or 5/8 in some circles) has suffered a stoke at the age of 48. Having suffered similar a year at go and at a similar age, my thoughts are with him and hope he gets as much luck as I did, enjoys the same amount of excellent care and attention I did, but put on only 1/2 the weight. Lynagh comes from that rare breed of tackling stand-off halves (no, nor have I) and played in, and though not captain, led an Australian side full of superstars such as Campo, Nobody and Willie Ofahengaue, who not only were a joy to watch and won the 1991 World Cup but also tackled, rucked and mauled like demons (yes, it was that long ago). Michael was a brilliant kicker, runner and tactical thinker and was a true great of the game. Horrible to think of him cooped up in a hospital ward, but one trusts he won’t have quite so many rows with the hospital staff as your correspondent did (I swear, it was the drugs talking).

Meanwhile, the Welsh RFU’s resident Kiwi, Warren Gatland has also been taken crook, suffering with that very common but nevertheless annoying injury: fractured heels. Apparently Wazza was up a ladder cleaning the windows of his Waihi Beach holiday house on the Bay of Plenty, when he stepped back to admire his work. This brings two questions to mind: since when did they start building two-storey buildings down in 1957land ? and; who forgets they are up a ladder ? The former Waikaito hooker (Aha ! there’s a clue immediately) is laid up with both legs in plaster while his summer duties for Wales are handed over to real Welshman Rob Howley.

It’s a pity Gatland isn’t English as not only would he be able to still coach the national side, but he’d be more effective than Dylan Hartley (unless there was a Dwarf Tossing competition approaching) even with the plaster casts. 3/4 of English fans think that if the incumbent English hooker would 1/2 as good at throwing a ball than he as at throwing midgets across bars, he’d deserve his 2/3 of each match he somehow gets every week. As it is he’s been banned for a 1/4 of the season for biting for attempting to chew off 1/3 of and Irishman’s finger. Not that Warren would need to be English to qualify. There’s only a tiny fraction of the team who are.

Going Back to a Simpler Place and Time (Woo Woo!)

Posted on by
1

The Incumbent suggested I might like to look up on Youtube the latest sensation to take to the stage in Britain’s Got Talent. In the spirit of Susan Boyle, the producers have unearthed a young lad with the face of a fat Ross Noble and the voice of an Italian fiver. The missus was drawn to tears by the young man’s performance, and quite right too. I always cry when I watch a show including David Walliams but this time I had moist mince pies not because the poor man’s Michael MacIntyre was on the box again, but because he was on a panel (how ? HOW?) judging the worth of various acts. This eclectic bunch had, presumably, seen he’d had his own TV show and thought “well, if he can make a couple of quid with bugger all talent at all, I must have half a chance”.

Walliams, like the other half of the new BBC Sports line-up, John Bishop, is about as funny accidentally ending up at Michael Barrymore’s holiday home in Homs, Syria  where he’s holding a comeback swimming pool and toilet brush party. Recently, in lieu of telling shite jokes, the gruesome twosome have donned swimming trunks and taken the place of horse racing, Formula1, cricket, Football and Rugby. Just in case you find yourself enjoying it, Mike Bushell pops up to fuck up all the continuity announcements, and Boom Goes the Dynamite. The half time entertainment is provided by Freddie Flintoff naming the flags and national dishes of Commonwealth countries.

But I digress.

So Walliams with his fellow smug arse Simon Cowell (I neither have time nor space to discuss him here) hold the power of life and death over a motley collection of talented (or otherwise) men and women, boys and girls (or otherwise) who perform on stage in front of a tv audience of millions. It’s mostly pretty buttock-clenching stuff, but every so often they unearth a Susan Boyle or a Jonathan Antoine and his friend Charlotte (who The Sun exclusively reveal today is an aspiring model !!!! Who knew ???)

The boy John really can sing. He has a fantastic pair of lungs. (I’m not posting the video here because a bit of me thinks every click justifies Cowell and Walliams existence and that’s not what I’m here to do. Honestly. ) But it got me around to thinking that after the success of Subo, the fat and ugly clubs of the UK have been inundated with Simon’s talent scouts looking for someone with a face like a blind cobbler’s thumb and the voice of a Disney cartoon nymph to “surprise” the panel for the new series. If you happen to have  a face like a bulldog licking the piss of a thistle, expect a mic thrust under your nose on the off-chance you can knock out a tune like Engelbert Humperdink – or even maybe in tune.

And before you ask, no – I have not been approached by a team of researchers with a tape recorder asking me to warble Old Shep for Amanda Holden to weep over. And weep she would, for all sorts of reasons. Weeping is also rife in my house – and not just when The Incumbent watches young singers on talent shows. DIY SOS gets me, if you really want to know.

So big Johnathan and his sister got through to the next round and I suppose the recording contract has already been signed (even if it hadn’t been by the time we saw him on our screens). Is Susan Boyle still a going concern ? I don’t know but I suspect she is making shedloads of cash from sales to every other mothers in the land. Johnathan, I suspect, will be heading for a similar, successful career.

If you really want to see talent, take a butchers at the below, sent to me this afternoon by The Talented Mr Rapley (raconteur, bon-viveur and wit) who couldn’t help himself from reminding us all of the great talent that were Gladys Knights Pips (and that’s not a euphemism). If Johnathan could squeeze himself into either one of these magnificent flared suits, or even Gladys’s poncho, and perform these moves he’d get my vote every week. But in the meantime, no weeping just sit back and enjoy these chaps at their peak.

Shove that up your arse, Walliams.

Oh, That Fellow Davies

Posted on by
3

Long before I developed my typically English opinions of the Welsh (yes, yes I know it’s mutual), when I was merely a roly-poly soft centre waiting to happen, there was Mervyn Davies. Merve the Swerve Davies was one of those sensational players that, as a young boy, you couldn’t take your eyes off. He was a magnificent specimen, and was picked for both the victorious British Lions tour to New Zealand in 1971 and the infamous 1974 tour to South Africa (the ’99 Tour). When I first took an interest in the oval ball game in 1976 I quickly found two heroes to adore – JPR WIlliams and Mervyn Davies. Yes, they were both welsh and both were as hard as nails. Everything I wasn’t.

WHEN MEN WERE MEN, AND SIDEBURNS WERE ENORMOUS: Mervyn Davies, JPR Williams, Mike Roberts, Geoff Evans, Gerald Davies, John Dawes and John Taylor – London Welsh’s representatives on the 1971 British & Irish Lions tour to New Zealand, 1971

Sadly Mervyn was to retire early due to a brain haemorrhage playing for Swansea in a Welsh Cup semi-final against Pontypool in 1977. It was a sad moment for Welsh, British and world rugby. Mervyn died today, and marks another piece of my childhood to slip away.
The 1970s was a time of welsh dominance and greatness, the reason everyone (me included) loved watching them play and the reason the unsuccessful Welsh teams of the ensuing years could never let go of, and for good reason. It wasn’t just the welsh who pined for the grace and skill of Mervyn, JPR, JJ, Gareth and the like – instead of the lame fair the WRU dealt up for the following 25 years. Little wonder they became bitter, twisted and unloveable. The boyos of the 1970s were a tough act to follow.

When the Welsh team pick up the Grand Slam tomorrow, which they look like they’re gonna do, their captain Sam Warburton will deserve the prize as he is next in a long line of great welsh back row players to ply his trade on the rugby field. When, as he surely will, he becomes the next British Lions Captain he will merely be taking the place of Mervyn who was odds-on to do the same had the brain injury not deprived him of it. Warburton could be truly great, and if Wales are lucky they may be able to find a few more like him and, who knows, rekindle the spirit of that great 1970s team.

Until then I look forward to the BBC digging out the footage of Merv and company thrilling the crowds around the world.

And, as Mervyn was playing No.8 in the 1973 Barbarians vrs New Zealand match, I see no reason for not showing the greatest try of all time again. And again. And in full

(normal English service will be resumed as soon as possible)

80 Mins of Hurt

Posted on by
2

The England Team to face Wales at Twickenham tomorrow.

15. Can’t tackle
14. Overrated
13. Samoan
12. South African
11. Boy band member
10. First receiver
9. Who cares
8 Welsh reject
7. Warbuton’s breakfast
6. Wishes he was welsh
5. Also South African
4. ask Xavier rush
3. Overweight
2. Kiwi
1. Never heard of him

By Hook or By Crook(s)

Posted on by
Reply

This is a bad time for football, no doubt about it. Racism rears its ugly head again and arguments abound about about who did-or-didn’t-do-what-to-whom, who should have shaken who’s hand ? and who’s gonna lead us out of all this ?

It’s not been football’s, or indeed sport’s, finest few weeks.  On the down-side, England lost another manager; there was more racism in football, more spear tackling in rugby; England’s cricketers get slaughtered by a team who’ve decided to quit throwing matches. In something called Tennis, GB take on the might of Slovakia. SLOVAKIA. Oh and there has been two dreadful performances by the English Rugby team. They throw Dwarves better than they throw a rugby ball.

On the up-side, Fabian Capellard’s resignation distracts us from the one question which everyone would have, wants to but now can’t ask: “How the fuck did Harry get off those charges ???” As Hugh Lawrie might have put it: “He’s as guilty as a puppy sitting next to a pile of poo!” No matter, let’s have blanket coverage on how we can persuade the former ‘Appy ‘Ammer to take on the England Job.

Which brings us to the down-est side of all: Garth Crooks is gonna have to be on telly again. A lot. The former Spurs player and now BBC Pundit is always rolled out when a topic is deemed serious-enough to fit Garth’s very very worthy and intense questioning style (“This was…clearly… the result you wanted,… wasn’t it?”- he once asked a Dutch manager after his side had beaten Denmark)

Yes, as you can see above, Garth really does think that the world hangs on his every word. The BBC certainly do because he’s been using that supercilious tone all week while talking about and to ‘Arry about the England post. The tv bosses clearly hang on his every word cos he’s on every bloody minute, every sports magazine program that feels it needs some gravitas added to the discussion.

For those lucky sods who can’t quite imagine just how self-important Garth is, envisage a combination of Dianne Abbot, Colin Montgomery, Deborah Meaden (apologies if the last two turn out to be one-and-the-same-person), Derek Hatton, Claire Balding, Tony Pulis, Chris Eubank, Cherie Blair, Pauyl Boateng, Simon Hughes and Johnny (Rotten) Lydon. All of the aforementioned function under the mistaken belief that we’re all on tenterhooks,awaiting their next verbal gem. Garth Crooks encapsulates them all. I’d rather listen to Former King Kenny’s blinkered opinions on Urugyuan fascists. Or watch the England Rugby Team. Er…

So we’re stuck with Garth, as he’s paid squillions to spout shite. Unlike me, who isn’t paid anything to do similar. I just do.

Other Blogs are Available

Posted on by
3

You can’t please all of the people all of the time. I’m fully aware that when I rant on about all things political, fair and socialist, many of you retreat to your panic rooms, put the duvet over your head and hope I’ll go away. On the other hand, when I put finger to keyboard and opine on the wonders of organised sport, the crumpet people among you flee to the safety of your pinafores and Strictly Come Dancing. Bless you’re little hearts.

Well, as I think we’ve all had our fill of RBS for one week, the Chris Huhne story has been and gone (I’m Chris Huhne and so is my wife), we have time to catch our breath before the crook David Laws (who Clegg thinks we’ve all forgotten about) is given his job back, and still months before I am arrested by the Thought Police for my views on the London Olympic Games, let’s get a round-up of this weekend’s sport. Sorry girls.

So let us indeed start with the Olympics. It won’t have been lost on you that there was an initial hiccup at the first meeting of Olympic volunteers – sorry Games Makers – when they started their training yesterday. These induction sessions are crucial if the maximum amount of cash is to be gleaned by as many corporate sponsors allowable by using as much free labour as is permitted by international regulations, orchestrated by the biggest corporate carve-up since RBS handed out taxpayers money as bonuses (oops! see what I did there? naughty boy). These poor sods even have to pay their fares there. And most will be stuck in a car park, pointing out the direction to the nearest McDonalds. You’ll see more athletic action if you’re stuck in a basement, cowering for your life in downtown Damascus.

Anyway, not everything went swimmingly for Seb’s Little Helpers. As the BBC put it:

But there were reports of train delays and local traffic congestion and some Games Makers reported they had problems getting to the venue.
Colin Foster, 43, from Gerrards Cross in Buckinghamshire said it took him two hours to drive the eight miles to the Arena. When he got there he then had to pay £22 to park nearby.
“I think it’s a bit steep when people are volunteering. We’re doing our bit giving up time and energy so to be charged is rather excessive”

Congestion in London ????  Train delays ???? Exorbitant prices ???? Well I never did. Whodathunk it ????  Not that, of course Seb’s mob admitted anything was wrong. The Goebbelesque method of propaganda which Locog (that’s what they call themselves) reacts to reported or forseeable problems with the games has only been surpassed in recent times by the crew of the Costa Concordia telling passengers to relax and go back to their cabins. And the band played on. For the record, Locog said it was surprised to hear of any problems, again according to the BBC.

It certainly came as a real shock to the rest of us too.

Meanwhile, away from snowy Blighty, the English Cricket team are being pummeled into submission by Pakistan. It’s painful to watch, but like rail disruption in the capital, not totally surprising. As reported here many times before, this current bunch of show ponies look overpaid, uncooked, over thier heads, and are under-performing over there. They can’t even blame a betting syndicate cheats on this disaster. What no-one seems to have foreseen was the the Pakistan team would have included several good spin bowlers, one of whom turns the balls both ways.

Wait a minute !!! Isn’t that cheating??  Can’t we imprison Sajeed Ajmal  for being able to bowl better than we can ??  It’s a bloody disgrace, I say.

Closer to home, I feel lucky to have survived the Rugby match between Scotland and England yesterday. Not since the display by the London PR Team at the end of the Beijing Olympics has there been a more inept, toe-curlingly awful display in a major stadium, all captured in stunning HD for the world to watch in stunned silence. The phrase “looking like two drunk bald men fighting over a comb” can never have been used more aptly than to describe this truly awful spectacle. In a match which had already been marred by the sight of 22 child mascots dragged into the frozen wastes of Muyrryfield wearing little more than a pair of shorts, saw 44 huge men run around aimlessly to the strains of a whimpered “Swing Low” here, a choked “Flower of Scotland” there.

No-one-one does parochial pettiness better than the jocks, and if Alex Salmond had marched onto the pitch and demanded to hold a referendum on Scottish devolution there and then, it would have been more interesting than what was taking place on this pitch. After the match, the Scots knew they had missed a golden opportunity to beat a woeful English team. Jock Fly half Dan Parks (who’s about as Scottish as I am) was kicking himself in the changing room, only to miss with two kicks and have a third charged down.

So today we have more rugby when Ireland play Wales, which always promises great things and sees me don my traditional impartial kit of a green shirt and a pint of Guinness. On the world of OnMeEadSon we have Man Utd playing Chelsea. A lot of the gloss has been taken off this one by the fact that, through injury, we are to be denied the spectacle of Rio Ferdinand waking from his usual 40 winks half way through the second half and ploughing into former England Racist John Terry for abousing Rio’s little brother. Sorry that was a typo. Did I say England Racist ?  I meant to say cvnt. And for former read present and big.

Over in the Middle East, Pakistan will doubtless move closer to wrapping up a 3-0 victory over the ever-popular English Cricket team, which will be a relief to all, especially the four blokes and the jack russell terrier who’ve actually paid money to sit in the stand and watch this rubbish.

Across the pond, the weekend ends with what passes for sport in the US – The Super Bowl. The New Improved Recipes play the New Lamps for Old in an encounter that proves to be the first Super Bowl since the last one. There was a time, back in the 80s when I’d have been all excited about this. I even attended a few Super Bowl parties, cheering on the Cowboys vrs the Redskins or the Packers, drinking beer til the early hours until it was time to fall asleep on someone’s floor. Thankfully I’ve grown older, fatter and tireder since then and this old body can barely make it past the Ten O’clock news, let alone keep awake to watch this, surely the most cynical of all advertising opportunities. I’ll watch a selection of the funny ads on Youtube tomorrow, just don’t pretend this is a sporting event. Coupled with the fact that the old cockney Madonna is serenading the crowd at half time makes this the most missable event since Diana Ross took a penalty at the world cup (an event which sums up all you need to know about the US corporate world’s relationship with sport).

Anyway, before I go to practise my rendition of Fields of Athenry I shall leave you with this, another old git ranting on about football, soccer and America. It was sent to me by another sports fan, this time a Jock who was keeping strangely quiet through yesterday’s festivities in Edinburgh. He’s like that when Scotland play. Anything.

 

This is not Soccer

Posted on by
8

Welshmen: An Apology.

During past rants, I may or may not have been discourteous or downright rude about the Welsh-speaking peoples of the world. I would like to make it clear that I do not hold all Welshmen in such low regard – just the boring, long-winded, opinionated, chippy ones (that should cover most of em). However, I would like to make it clear that referee Nigel Owens is not included in this group. For now at least.

Owens comes in for a lot of criticism, often from me, but you will not find The Sharp Single in anything but total agreement with how he handled the situation during this match. Thank you, Mr Owens. Let’s hope someone from FIFA, UEFA or the FA is reading this.

Well said, Nigel. And long may it remain not soccer.

6nationgridadvert