I was going to blog on about adventures in the European theatre but was overtaken by an unusually heavy workload in the real world and before I could say ‘Italia’ the 6 nations was upon me. I’m sat before a computer keyboard wondering what on earth I might say about the 6 nations that will come across all original and unhackneyed.
I don’t for one moment envy those journos whom spew out acres of print on all angles, anecdotes, murmurings, chat and anything else that justifies their cloistered existence amidst the sporting galacticos and journeymen of rugby union.
Rugby union unlike football is one of those relatively staid sports where outside of the odd eye gouge, fake blood capsule, player manager squabble, there’s not a lot to excite the more avaricious media elements.
The peccadilloes, easy virtue and tasteless immorality of 36K a week wages has yet to test the moral fibre of top rugby stars. Rugby may have the odd no.8 who thinks he’s Deuce Bigalow and the occasional guy who wavers into undesirable substances but by and large the rugby chaps go about their business with all the fuss of a granny on mogadon.
Come the 6 Nations they sit down in front of the microphone and mutter how the other guy deserves his place at your expense or how your opponent in the forthcoming game was such a decent fella when you roomed with him on the Lions tour.
No one wants to upset the psyche and give the other team an edge. Really little happens at 6N time to provoke the kind of feral excitement that the Heineken cup evokes with its 16 men on the pitch, fake blood capsules and players extending a welcome to fans by biffing them.
What little excitement the 6N drums up is on the periphery of the game where one might speculate on the substance of Tony Buckley’s sun tan or admire Euan Murray’s religious beliefs which cause him to play for Scotland ‘A’ at 3,000 sparsely populated Ravenhill rather than 60,000 at cacophonous Murrayfield. The list is endless:
Why is Boss on the bench instead of the Dorian Gray of Munster rugby, Peter Flinger?
Will Ireland ‘A’ captain Henry use his insider knowledge on Simon Danelli, his Ulster colleague and attack down his wing given the Scotsman’s turnstile defending?
Will Ryan Caldwell be making the ’A’ lineout calls and will he know whether he’s in or out of the lineout if the ref politely asks him?
Will the Ireland scrum fold like a Haitian house in the tremulous front row collision with Italy’s powerhouse scrummagers?
This and much, much more exercises the mind of the average rugby spectator whilst the fringe minority contemplate a weekend of booze, romance, travel, oh and a game of rugger if they can stay awake long enough.
I’m not excited as yet, as there’s little to get the taste buds, in a rugby sense, up and gurning. Perhaps next weekend’s French game is a little more like it though one imagines as in past years, the only gurning I’m likely to hear is the sound of the English media indulging in forensic castration of every aspect of Martin Johnson’s English team.
Highpoint of this will be a win against Wales and the resurrection of the English game on a par with biblical resurrections. In reality it could be the hapless collapse of the pack of cards and Hari Kari in the backline in the face of Welsh wizardry. For sure there will be no middle path of reason and clear blue eyed analysis. As I write the former has happened though one cannot be too carried away by England’s win as they scored the bulk of their points whilst Alun ‘win?’ Jones tripped his way to the sin bin.
Death by a thousand cuts to Ireland should they slip up against the Italians with Hook, Pope and Sinker in particularly virulent squawking form as Hook attempts to land a punchline so unfunny as to be comical. (Does he rehearse them in front of a mirror?).
Doubtless Brian O’Driscoll will play anonymous for 19/20ths of the match and will duly pop up at the death and land a drop goal to win man of the match for his 30 seconds of eye catching play. Indeed the great man is getting all the plaudits for his kicking game which I actually thought was rather poor thing to do since he eschewed at one stage, a raft of players on his inside in favour of the spectacular punt towards David Wallace on the wing.
Depressingly the kicking aspect of the game has returned in the shape of focus on Andrew Trimble for not kicking!!! Will the southern media ever grow up? From rustling up memories of the World Cup game against France when Trimble moved in off his wing under orders to questioning why he was handing kicking duties to RO’G and Kearney it seems the media’s obsession with picking on anything outside the Munster-Leinster comfort zone is unsatiated.
It is depressing that a player who stood out in defence and made one of the few decent contributions in attack should find himself prey to nit picking by journos who clearly are at a desperate stage in moving attention away from some of Ireland’s poorer performers.
It is reminiscent of the vitriol directed towards Bowe after playing in Paris when it seemed he was blamed for just about anything that happened in the Ireland backline. Meanwhile other favourites were ring-fenced and escaped media prosecution.
Bowe himself was relatively anonymous yesterday and carried out orders on the kicking duties and has escaped unscathed from criticism of his performance. Then again he has his Lions tour reputation and the fact he doesn’t play for Ulster which seems to indemnify from criticism.
Doubtless Trimble will be dropped for Paris and Ferris restored and the media will be happy. You have to ask yourself what Trimble has to do to shut these people up. The answer is that there is nothing he can do to alter some people’s perception of him as a player. The fact it is a perception says it all.
The Eve of Destruction has passed and we are into the second day of Armageddon. Scotland – France will be interesting as the central point of debate will surely be whether Scotland can score a try. Indeed this is one of these debates that could rage on much like the enmity between the Scots and English which started due to a foray by the Scots in the 12th century. Will Scotland score a try before the end of the 6 Nations. Not even Nostradamus could predict that one.
On the Eve of destruction I found myself astride the Terrace at a sparsely populated Ravenhill and enjoyed the answers to some of my questions I posed in so jocular fashion earlier in this piece. Herr Buckley does have a sun tan and indeed as if in answer to my query he had his socks rolled down to his ankles revealing an extremely orange pair of pins.
It was easy to identify him at ruck time where, one noticed he resembled a doubled up lamp post. We know he cannot be bothered scrimmaging but he can’t be bothered rucking either by the look of it. The Hymn to Tony is from the bottom of my cold heart:
He’s a prop and he’s not ok,
Doesn’t work and he gets his pay,
Dresses up in big girls blouses,
And hangs around in rucks.
Buckley issues aside it was an entertaining game with the local fellas showing their potential. This included one new guy who appeared after half time in Ryan Caldwell’s shirt with a bandage round his head and brought some much needed vroom in the loose. Closer inspection revealed Caldwell had underwent image transformation in more than just looks. His oomph was a sight to behold and is encouraging if he can transfer that type of display to an Ulster shirt. Another to catch the eye was Henry who was again must have nudged the Ireland selectors with a typical intelligent game at no.8. The caveman gave a typical performance at 13 showing some nice touches in attack and a typically resolute defence.
Hugo performed another cameo to remind us of what we might miss. Seems he has accepted that getting into the Ireland team is via Leinster and he may well have a point. He is the form 9 in Ireland at the moment, yet can just about smell the ‘A’ team pine. Sad really, though one suspects he may have negotiated a little too enthusiastically with UR and had his bluff called. It‘s almost certain, despite lack of official confirmation that he will be gone to Leinster.
Half the UAFC board appears to have interrogated him after the match on Friday night about his much trumpeted move. Doubtless he probably said the first thing that came to mind as the fresh faced youngsters from the board surrounded him in true public schoolboy fashion armed with high powered lamps and yodelling away with the same aimless question. Poor Isaac, I must say his sympathy ratings have tripled as a result of this harassment.
Feature of Friday night was Dan Chewy’s continued rise to prominence in the loose, this time enacting the role of a no. 6. I am forming FODS, a new organisation of like-minded folk whom are celebrating the imminent arrival of a rapidly forming Ravenhill cult figure. Fans of Dan’s can sign up to the fan of dan fan club by simply typing FODS in the response box at the bottom of this column.
I am going to make a point of profiling a fan-a-week in the bowels of this column and to start the metaphorical ball rolling I will highlight ‘moondance’.
A second barrier stalwart he was at Friday nights eve of destruction game sporting an Ireland Viking helmet, a pair of safety conscious horns and armed with the obligatory flag, (can’t remember if it was Ulster or Ireland?). In his honour I have penned a little abridged verse of Van Morrisons ‘Moondance’.
What a marvellous bloke is Moondance,
With his Viking hat above his eyes,
A fan tababulous bloke is Moondance,
Beneath the Ravenhill skies
If you wish to be profiled in next week’s column please send me your own dazzling or derogatory piece on yourself and I’ll sex it up for publication. In fact you can email me here.
In fact I’m almost tempted to offer a prize to the person who can come up with the most bloated self assessment of themselves.
As BJ Botha might say, ‘whoever they are, deserve a prize just for reading this rubbish.’
Corrections, comments or questions?