Month: September 2011

Listen face-ache…

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Before this broadside gets into full flow may I note to you, sagacious reader, that yes I am aware that there were times when Carlos Tevez was pretty much adored by fans of West Ham/MU, amongst others. And yes I am also aware that this was because of his near magnificent levels of honest commitment to the cause, to the shirt (or so it seemed) – a phenomenon that endears players to fans more than virtually anything else. He could actually play a bit too. However… yaknow… things change but don’t mess with the fans, right…

Listen face-ache, we’ve just about had enough. It was okay ferawhile you moving from club to club every new moon, or whatever it is meks ya skidaddle – ‘ang on, correction, I know exactly what it is but you only got away with that whilst you were patently the best player/most loved scuttler abart the park(er) at West Ham. Now you’re not. Scuttlin’. In fact ya flat refused to scuttle you overpaid scumbag and you are history mate, as far as we are concerned. Ahem.

Us fans – us City fans anyroad – have been absolutely buzzin’ with the way things have gone for us after all the crap we’ve ‘ad to put up with fer decades and you, you come over ‘ere and… first of all… yer unbelievable, ta be fair. But then, then ya get restless or whatever and start fallin’ out and whatever and the club, the club gets… like forgotten! I’ve never seen anybody playin’ fer ’emselves and nobody else so obvious man. You’ve not passed to nobody for twelve month! Embarrassin’! Sub or not; ya’ve played like my nephew’s lot – chase the ball an’ never f***in’ pass!! Ever! What’s all that lot about? It’s not on. Even us stupid fans know when things aren’t right and this started months and months ago and ya could see it on the pitch months and months ago. One ball for yoos and another for the team? Not on mate.

Dunt madder about the money – the money’s just a joke we all know that – but ‘s a team f***in’ sport innit? Ya don’t do that; ya don’t shit on yer mates. However good you are ya don’t shit on yer mates.

An’ now this is like another level innit. Champions League – ya know ‘ow long we been waiting fer Champions League? Need a massive effort from all of us and… to actually refuse to come on, no matter ‘ow much right, ya hate the manager, is unf***ingbelievable. The jury’s still out on the manager, we know that . But there’s no way back from that – there shouldn’t be anyroad. Frannie Lee and Micky Summerbee and all these people are all like… standin’ about in shock I think. Thinkin’ this is like the end… for anybody to do that.

I can’t imagine how anybody – any player, least of all a City player would do that. An there’s no kinda racism in this, we don’t give a f*** where Tevez comes from. If any ar British players – if say Milner had done this – same thing. Sack him now; get ‘im out the club. ‘E’s a greedy, stupid man and we just want rid of ‘im. It’s just sick that he can think he can do that; be bigger than everything. It’s mebbe a sign of the times but… anyway… gizzafag Jordie…

Na wunda there’s riots; ‘cosa twats like ‘im oo’re only thinkin’ me me me. An’ ‘e’s got f***in’ everything; an’ ‘e wants more. It’s just sick in the head that. We’ve been givin’ ‘im two hundred grand a week an’ ‘e wants… wassie want, really, to run the f***in’ club or wha? Get him artof’ere… we’ll pay – dunt madder about the money…

Keep banging the door

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Through the lightly steamed mirror that is my perception – a plane currently chiefly obscured by rapid successions of phenomenal sports images – I am trying to get certain things clear. These things are to do with politics, or political structures I guess, rather than the broader heavystuffs I dabbled with in Birds Of Prey… a recent blog, which was more personal. I am talking, along with half the known universe, about what can be done to address issues around dissatisfaction (isolated or widespread) and the perceived drift from community wellbeing or consciousness. Why people are selfish/greedy/stupid/scared/bitter/confrontational/narcissistic/’mindless’ and what might be done.

Naturally therefore, what follows may be said to be a response to ‘the riots’, that lurid expression of … you help me choose...absence?  Depressing lowness?  Vacancy?  (I’d argue for lowness from dull but momentarily energised perpetrators and vacancy in terms of the absence of a sustained intelligent response from the Left as well as the Tea Partyesque morons of the Right). But lowness too from cheap, disproportionate courtroom judgements, perhaps? And vacancy in terms of political will to get past joining-the-dots; thinking outside and beyond loyalties and prejudices. And… perhaps before we venture any further we need to flag up the fact(?) that these riots or, more exactly, some of these incidences may have meant almost nothing. They were apolitical in the sense that minimal cerebral activity was detectable; people just did stupid stuff because it became possible and maybe rather exciting. Causes may or may not have been present in the moment. But surely they are present?

It may be clearly unwise to invoke the need for civilised anything, but clearer still that we need, in a matrix of blanket and diverse bankruptcies, an urgent and a charged but civilised debate about values. We had people we cannot simply categorise as ‘poor’ looting in a manner that varied from the absolutely opportunistic, through to the relatively planned, often via blackberry. (Can I at this time venture the thought that I personally have no smartphone/iphone or similar piece of essential urban kit because… I feel like can’t afford one).

My sense is the thefts were not characteristically driven by need or hunger, although some definition of need may be a requirement here. Because whilst the ‘need’ for new trainers may rightly be generally snorted upon, the need to pinch something to fund the purchase of diesel or gas due to a real lack of money might be something different. And probably some ‘rioters’ stole with needs of this sort in mind. I don’t condone this but I do suggest that if some people, even people we judge may not ‘deserve’ our consideration, lack basic household goods or necessities in 2011 this reflects unhealthily on all of us. Cornball but probably true?

This is one of many (post-riot?) dilemmas with something pretty crass and unappealing at its root. That we have to confront certain social complexities to move forward should be no original hardship, but perhaps it feels difficult to get past general condemnation of the rioters and thereby into constructive reflection because of

  • emotive coverage
  • attitudes towards urban youth/gangs
  • evidence they were mainly criminals
  • racism
  • a suspicion that most of those involved spend the bulk of their time lounging about/being anti-social or worse.

Let’s maybe compare and contrast this with a list of assumptions on reasons why those involved may have looted or in some way acted ‘anti-socially’…

  • because they were bored and they were there
  • because they aren’t very clever
  • because they hate the police
  • because they hate society and they want to strike back
  • because they have a deeply-felt longing to undermine capitalism
  • because they got a call from their mates/they were dared
  • because they needed stuff (even if they didn’t)
  • because they really did need stuff.

Speculations. That we may be familiar with. We may in a fringe event to this Judgementfest have heard X or Y arguing that a significant issue is an accelerating awareness of what constitutes proper clobber for young people; the rise of another kind of worryingly dumb material obsession – dumb but screaming or maybe whining, constantly. Pitching, after a fashion, the kind of thing society is geared to do – sell/promote – even if the product is an offence, because it’s cool or it’s good or local or sustainable or whatever the pitch is. And we’re mostly listening but maybe not being encouraged to discern much? Because we’re consumers. And is there then a circle of ironies, most of which return us to notions around needing to consume, perhaps even only understanding ourselves in those terms?

I really buy into the idea that despite the abundance of goodness abroad there is a killing, unthinking, inhumane addiction to the drug of material goods. And most specifically worrying perhaps, that the next generation is being locked in to a faux-community individually fixated upon whatever their laptop or phone is trying to sell them. Otherwise they simply can’t ‘compete’ – exist even. Few of us know what need really is amidst the swirl and the intoxicating what next? of this cartoonised brief. Reality’s so hard and so unattractive and one-dimensional in comparison. So flick channels to a more highly coloured version. Easy.

My central point, after noting the prevalence of this delusional flux, is to re-affirm my belief in the need to dissent from capitalism of this pitch. We must protest and we must begin again; learn again – make it thinkable again – to cherish political inspiration.  Engage with a profound debate, especially those of us happy and occasionally proud to align ourselves with the Left; that’s our job. The leading and the creating and the renewal of faith and ideas will surely come from Big Hearted Lefties amongst the artistic/philosphic community; it always does.

I know the scale of this challenge given the estrangement of people from politics; it’s a long haul. But it is neither ludicrous nor hopeless to commit to the ambition for a degree of fairness and optimism and yes an increase in Gross National Happiness. Imagine what could be done, in the age of messaging and 24 hour news, by a magnificently, manifestly good man or woman at the top. Someone who was real. Someone worth listening to and following. Someone who cut the crap and the asphyxiating party loyalty right out. Maybe that’s all we need?

Oh Fernando

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A few days ago I spoke of the acute tensions affecting that formerly boyish, now visibly creasing with world-weariness, Signor Fernando Torres. His is a story absurdly, almost hypnotically full of the contradictions of celebrity life. He is outrageously wealthy and talented; he is handsome, personable and has – unusually for a togger player? – the look of a sensitive human about him. But quietly, for a near-worryingly long period of time, he has been …shredded.

By that I mean that his confidence has been denuded to a mesh-like frailty. I have speculated – as a formerly prolific inside-forward/centre midfielder – that the principal emotion betraying the striker in mid-strike is a kind of glassy-eyed succumbing to a need for things to be over. Over for better or worse. Therefore, rather than showing either devastatingly confident instinct or devastating composure (this latter for me the absolute sign of class as well as goalscoring proficiency) the centre-forward does the difficult bit…but apocalyptically misses the yawning net. Receiving, in the process, a terrifying challenge to his previously invincible belief as well as the bitter mockery of the opposition support.

In the last week or two the cruel peaks and troughs of Fernado’s being – him being a top level footballer player and all – have been as publicly excruciating as the most exploitative X Factor audition. His level of performance has lurched from the sharp and instinctive (occasionally) to the raw embarrassing. But Fernando we know, we understand, should be passed fluffing his lines completely, right? He’s so been there, with all that pressure, all that expectation and worship because he has been brilliant, he has been as good as there is… which makes it news, which makes it poignant.

Today Torres again showed what are destined to be labelled ‘flashes’ for the second game on the trot. And crucially, perhaps, he scored. But then he lunged into a poor challenge – following, we presume prolonged verbals from opponents, who had no doubt quoted observations from my previous blog – and was summarily despatched from the proceedings.

It was an almost inevitably tragic (with the usual caveats) event in the accelerating sequence of almost cartoon-like Fernandoslots we have all been seeing and hearing on hourly sports bulletins for the last several months. And it makes us wonder what comes next. After the ban.

Will it be a prolonged period on the bench? Will it be, given football’s propensity for exposing the sensitive, a gift to heartless centre-halves the Premiership over? Will it be a catalyst for further dissent amongst fellow players, only some of whom are likely to have been truly supportive during Torres’ difficult times at both Liverpool and now Chelsea. We can’t know. But it seems beyond unlikely that Fernando will simply be spurred by a sending off into getting a grip. I wonder if or how he will do that, at all.

Birds of Prey Swoop Down on Our Shadows

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Doing a lot of necessary thinking about purpose. What constitutes …and which branch to clasp hold of as the river in spate bristles past. Whether there is any hierarchy in action/engagement/habit/belief. Whether anything’s worth anything. And when material ‘health’ is a clear absurdity, does everything become an opportunity for real expression? Is this expression a fraud, an indulgence, or a necessity ordinary life – measured in terms of buoyancy – denies us? Heavystuff, springing from maybe too much time and too much reading and a rumble towards life-change.

But how crazy-real-philosophic is this? Earlier, Russia v Italy in the Rugby World Cup, now becoming – like some absurdist shipping forecast – a kindof spiky Catalunyan idyll. Courtesy Joan Miro – Selected Writings and Interviews (Margit Rowell). Making empty hours full.

How wonderful to feel lifted by colours of such vastly different origins this day. A heartening reminder that perhaps there are no hierarchies, no high art /low sport ‘realities’ to be hastily despatched to safely demarcated brain-zones for judgement. It’s been perfectly agreeable and possible to drift from sport to art – as indeed this blog habitually does. Why deny or fail to appreciate the diverse beauties of spin passes and inspired art? Can I be the first(?) to argue for equanimity between the two, as gestures from the soul?.

(Answer – I could, but I might be talking bollocks).

Again Miro, that believer in the wondrous and the possibly divinely energising has stuck me on the spiritual ski-lift to Montjuic. Because he was absurdly poor most of his working life; because he knew his purpose was to make a poetic response to experience. And he did it, for decades. Call me an old tart, but I find that inspiring.

You banker

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Recently I indulged in a little open description of my family finances. It may have appeared (as) some kind of cheap exorcism but as always the aim was to document how things are and how they feel. I stand by it as a social document and have been touched by responses to it. In the current lather that is my sports-blogging it feels appropriate to transport back and briefly revisit the real world but fog-bound motorway pile-up that is ‘the economy’ – everywhere.

This review is not, I promise you, in order to further bore you with developments –hah!- on our own situation, but rather to step into line with Deborah Orr’s “Children are unhappy…” piece from last Thursday’s g2, which deals with this notion that an economy must grow, or else die.  (Another UNICEF Report has looked at child well-being, in particular in relation to ‘quality time’/material things, suggesting to some that a) Money Can’t Buy You Love b) Buying Things is No Substitute for Love etc.etc).

I have to declare an interest here, having written a prophetically colourful play about a North European Protest Group who respond to an earlier UNICEF Report by committing rather wonderful acts of subversion and dissent; a play that was soundly rejected by The Sherman Theatre, Cardiff.

Orr speaks inevitably of the links between the rat race and the accelerated pressures on good consumers/parents resulting in conflict between the “growth agenda” and human satisfaction. And this leading to unhappy children. She talks persuasively and broadly around and about issues of time/satisfaction/purpose, believing that our capitulation to a belief in growth as god is a cheap and inadequate response to the structural and philosophical challenges we face. She argues for a new socio-political conversation, as do I, as did Tony Judt, whose work has been something of an inspiration in these politically and arguably morally vapid times.

Deborah Orr wonders at the irony of Cameron being more engaged with the satisfaction agenda than Miliband. Judt calls on The Left to re-engage – on all of us to have a spirited debate – with political issues crying out to be addressed articulately. Issues like happiness, worth, proportionality, citizenship. Can we be bothered, we are asking rhetorically, to get past Daily Mail level exchanges in order to approach fairness and yes responsibility and wellbeing as a huge disparate group? It may take some thinking about.

As will the role of the City, the banks. I am one who is prone to judging bankers en masse as a bunch of reasonably dense, morally bankrupt parasites on the whale-like body of the economy. (Clearly it’s just most of them who fall into that category).

Once my prejudices have cleared, however, I remain with those who find it beyond belief that nations like ours have fallen under the spell of a handful of banks/global companies who have not and will not be held to account for their lack of intelligence/regulation/professionalism. It may be stupid of us to mindlessly serially abuse bankers… but they and the government(s) need to feel our hot breath, our verbal pitchforks, our gathering focus, our passion for that which is better.

Should we see this as an opportunity for an Arab Spring equivalent or a mere fiscal tightening, the point may be that we, the people are seeing that things demand our attention. People have been and may soon again be ‘on the streets’ – though clearly that fact is not necessarily a reflection of increased political intelligence in any quarter. Many of the rioters were criminal opportunists, or were caught up in something that felt exciting; it was hardly activism of any cerebral breed. Strikes may be different but in order for them to improve the general lot, let’s hope our Trade Unionists are quoting Judt and Orr as well as football songs when they stride purposefully out.

A Word about Torres…

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Let’s in a moment get slightly past the obvious; Torres is a formerly brilliant central striker – at one fairly recent stage arguably the best in the world – but he was not worth £50 million when purchased by our Russian friend. Aside from any legitimate argument about whether that fee may be obscene – let’s pretend there is a ‘real’ market price for his value as a player only – there could be no justification for a fee of such magnitude for a player so apparently physically and psychologically damaged.

That may in fact be a rather melodramatic description of where the player is at but surely it’s fairly representative of the feeling around him, following maybe 2 years of admittedly injury-linked frustration, poor goal returns and occasional (out-of-character) petulance at Liverpool. Torres the magnificent and the fluent had become a tetchy, visibly unhappy individual and a player fortunate to be getting regular football at the top level. It was and is questionable whether the toll repeated injuries and surgery had taken on his movement and consequently his form would and will preclude re-capture of the original precious gift for electrifying impact.

Ask Nemanja Vidic – in a few years time perhaps – to honestly assess where Torres ranked, how brilliantly he shone. Ask the average Liverpool fan to describe the relationship that fizzed between the Koppites and the player in his unassailable pomp and the scale of The Fall would be revealed. He was hugely loved, both for his scampering expression of the team ethic and for his exuberant talent. But that was, in football terms, a long time ago. When the fleet-footedness and the confidence petered away Fernando was rather depressingly different. He was not worth a place in the team.

Extraordinary then, that at this time of near-poignancy for the Spanish superstar, Abramovitch stepped in. I myself hope that he put an arm round Torres, told him he believed in him and would guarantee him a chance to gather and then express his deadly genius once more. (I suspect that the money was less an issue for Abramovitch than it would be for most minor nations but let’s assume the best and applaud the Russian for his faith – generosity even. Doubly so if we imagine the purchase as a reflection that he really does want to excite the Chelsea support on the way to the next level of glory). Torres may have seen the move more prosaically, as a step closer to silverware, rather than an opportunity to nestle under the warm wing of the owners’ casual jacket. Whatever, the blonde former bombshell moved south.

To further difficulties. A spiky or likely surly dressing-room, a club perennially now in flux. Ego’s the size of the Ivory Coast/France maybe. A new, sharp and pressing need to show that the Price Tag was irrelevant and the gift alive. Impossible? Could any manager build a side around this particular striker – let alone, after a series of underwhelming early performances, justifiably pick him?

A new season brought certain signs that key instincts may be returning… but not, sadly, the essential goals. And then there is today, and an absurdly wonderful, open game at Manchester United. Some of the movements – the commitments – are back. In a game brimming with opportunities and space, Torres scores a fabulous goal with an expressive flick of the right foot; it’s a trademark, top of the range finish; it’s beyond encouraging. But tomorrow’s papers I fear will be more likely to concentrate on the stomach-churning miss achieved shortly afterwards; the Sunday League miss, the one executed surely by an interloping donkey from park football, who, having rounded the keeper with contempt, stabs it laughably wide. To world-wide disbelief.

Cruelly, this one is right up there with the very best open goal misses. Massively saleable and destined to be forever referenced by fan and pundit alike. How did he miss? Because suddenly, he wanted the moment to be over. Over for better or worse. As a consequence, if Fernando is the sensitive boy many believe, he is going to have to disconnect his capacity to feel for some time. I wish him luck and the mental and physical wellbeing to recover.

An economic crisis

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Money can be personal and it can be political. By that I mean we feel its impact acutely both in our individual lives and more abstractly via some sense of how the high street, the county, the country seems. Right now, I have a personal shortage of dark vulture-swung-canyon proportions, mirroring that which apparently afflicts the (entire?) eurozone.

So am I a special case? Clearly not. Is there any comfort in this current, fateful tessellation of inner and outer skinthood? Is there bollocks. The laughably small business I have lies broken-backed on the valley floor whilst the inevitable narrowly post-dinosaur nimrods scan for signs of weakness. The fact that half of Europe feels like this fails, at this particular moment, to lighten the spirit.

So I need to make jokes/watch wonderful sport/write about stuff/recycle the juicy juice/hope that something gives. And I am. Believing and offering up and pursuing, with my characteristic utter lack of proportion, rationality, guile. Hugely, honestly aware that though I can’t afford to fix the truck/am not able to draw cash from the business etc. etc. my more significant privileges remain free from the shadow of capital(ist) fact.

And I breathe them in deeply and think, powerfully and laterally and without any despair how we might dance through this together. Work on the refinery shutdown; work at the gallery/tourist centre; work please god following a call sending me urgently to New Zealand to shadow Eddie Butler, who’s having trouble with his laptop… and writer’s block… and could I possibly knock out coupla columns? Likely or unlikely ways onward.

In one sense I love this knife-edge of possible bankruptcy and possible mindblowing leap forward. At the risk of sounding nauseatingly indulged (I can’t make you believe that there’s really no financial airbag here but I’m not seeing one) I’ve often claimed to be contentedly insecure. Not entirely in some crypto-buddhist unattached present, but pretty close, where a healthy insecurity is certainly preferred to a reactionary stasis. As a unit, me and my beautiful wife do believe we can live for a while off our wits and now we may have to. This, for us, is a test of will and imagination as well as book-keeping.

Each of our cases is unique and I seek no comparisons, being clear that we are fortunate that the prolonged exercise of my evidently poor business skills may yet be a springboard towards less prosaic business in an ideal world. Conversely, and necessarily, I am gearing my expectations down (too), being prepared to go back to where my working life started – in the frozen food factories of Great Grimsby, if you must know – or to the Pembrokeshire equivalent.

How many of us now, with how many cruel or crushing backstories are congregating in this generally greying niche of the crisis? How many have real hope of betterment? Or of achieving financial parity ‘once things straighten out’? Best not to focus on these abstract economic concepts too keenly methinks; we might find people wriggling underneath.

Eight changes…

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“Eight changes” – of what, kit?  Once every 12 minutes or so, to maximise bird-pulling possibilities/employment of backroom staff? Of formation? Of tack, or strategy, or manager? (Now we know it can’t be that). No, this phrase that seemed to resonate so, from the Five Live commentary from Lisbon was merely a matter of numbers – superficially. Playing numbers; meaning players who are good enough to wear the red of United, away, in the Champions League, in what is likely to be the most challenging fixture of their group stage.

But I’m even more than usual an unreliable witness. In fact no kind of witness, other than the aural kind, following the infuriating refusal of our antiquated telly to trap ITV. (For some reason the channels are slipping away like a soapy ball circa 1968 from under Bill Foulkes’s boot.) And rather than sling the thing out into the street, after having the kids take turns to hold down the 1 on the remote – which worked for about 30 seconds – I spoke gently to the telly and doinked it,  reaching for the laptop… and Five Live.

Which is rarely a disappointment.

And so, whilst other senses were engaged with the business of wolfing down pasta/tuna/pesto – or P and T as it is affectionately known in our house – my ears tell me that a proper European night was unfolding in balmy Lisbon. Atmosphere; chances; flashes of brilliance or that diaphragm-gurning fear of such brilliance from their number 8/9/delete where appropriate. A stunning home goal, with Johnny Evans critically drifting when an admittedly special pass unzipped him. A rare but welcome sharp finish from everybody’s favourite shagger, Ryan Giggs. (Blimey girls, imagine how sexy the boy Ryan would be if only he could have… finished?)

United are ludicrously tooled up in the penetration department. Though I didn’t actually see them I believe Berbatov and Owen were amongst the predators left unspent on the bench – this in addition to the part-used Nani and Hernandez. A small digression here, before I go onto further labour this point about United’s absurd luxury of gifts…

I was on the Llyn Peninsula only the other week when who should almost bump into me – presumably in some crass attempt to get my autograph – but M Owen esquire. He looked small, young and very fit; end of. He will clearly have few opportunities but the otherwise supra-dull Mr Owen will, in his boringly defiant way, surprise no-one with a couple of significant, well-taken goals (Carling Cup/late on in Champions League matches?) and I for one, will be pleased for him.

But how far will the fizz and the flash and the alround foxy-in-the-boxiness of United take them this campaign? Evans’s blunder will not be a solitary blip on the defensive charts – though he will feature less once a) senior players are fit, if ever and b) Fergie realises he has to pick Jones ahead of him… everytime. Over recent seasons United have been pretty close to outstanding but you would fancy top players to expose their defence. Vidic can be made to look poor by pacy strikers catching him flat-footed; Evra’s defending for the last year has been, in my view, consistently shocking; Ferdinand is often imperious but more often absent.

However, to Ferguson’s great credit, United have been about attacking for aeons. As soon as you give them the ball, they are a threat. Amongst his other undoubted gifts, Rooney’s pace is at times unplayable. A simple one-two may be executed, leaving a defender utterly out of the game as the formerly balding one bolts for the return – or the return of the return. Hernandez is that precious thing the natural snaffler of sharp chances. Nani can play, no question, but needs a kick up the arse and most of us would like to give it to him.

On the one hand the team is manifestly brimming with goals… but hilariously there are a few dunces in the corner in this regard – Carrick/Fletcher/Anderson certainly, and to a lesser extent, Giggs. But to answer my question… United are looking better than last year and I like the freshness (and the challenge) Jones and Smalling are putting out. If they remain impregnable or their relative inexperience is not significantly found out then the reds are serious candidates – as in truth are City – for the last four. Barcelona remain favourites.

Back to Lisbon and a draw probably acceptable to both sides. A match with momentum and colour and something of that special atmosphere. A proper European night then, honourably competitive; one to cap with a walk on the coast path and a humbling perusal of the stars. In reality it’s thirty yards up and down the road, with the dog snorting snail-traces; bats though.

Rugby World Cup Fantasy

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Level One – where our daft fandom spills over like beer…

  • England qualify top of their group / Scotland do…
  • New Zealand get a grip / the grip is tenuous and the choke potential merely rises…
  • Wales go out following tragically breathtaking defeat against Fiji/Samoa or both / Wales beat South Africa in the final
  • Brian Habana refuses to play following spat with the management / Habana gets a pass
  • Argentina second to England in group / After a Puma prop takes over kicking duties
  • Elsom and Pocock guide Australia to glory / Wallaby pack implodes against England
  • Above the other way round
  • Richie McCaw breaks turnover records / McCaw sinbinned in final for persistent offending
  • France make 15 changes to team for quarter final / they get beat by England
  • Ireland proceed as dark horses / O’Driscoll magnificent in quarters victory over South Africa
  • Scottish back row rampages through tournament / Then they wake up
  • Kiwi’s turn on an absolute exhibition in each of the knock-out games and a nation rejoices / the world smiles with them and applauds

Level Two – where surely we must be drunk…

  • Wales qualify top of their group following Springbok implosion / England commit to 15 man rugby
  • Shane Williams scores hat-trick as Wales crush All Blacks / James Hook plays 10 and joins the pantheon of world stars
  • Martin Thomas wins a late call-up for Wales and dives over to win final / Then converts
  • France blitz Australia in magnificent semi / Australia steal it from France
  • Argentina beat All Blacks in quarters
  • Guest appearances from Lomu and Carling / Carling stops Lomu in his tracks
  • Lomu gets up and tramples entire English defence / But McCaw penalised for use of hands

Level Three – where spookily things reflect what might really happen…

  • England All Blacks final
  • Australia New Zealand final
  • Wales beat Aus and Eng but fall to All Blacks
  • South Africa have it relatively easy until clash with NZ in semi
  • Italy make knockout stages
  • Argentina really do beat the All Blacks in the quarters!

‘Real World’ likely fixtures and results…

Quarter Finals

Australia 20 Wales 16

England 16 France 12

S. Africa 19 Ireland 9

NZ 30 Argentina 16

Semi Finals

Australia 16 England 19

South Africa 17 NZ 23

Final

England 18 NZ 30

And what do you think?

No surprises

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Surely the money – the big money, the imaginary money, my money, actually – was on England Argentina being crunchy and one-dimensional rather than Michelin-starred fare. Stodgy, because England will surely have regarded this opening fixture as a serious threat to their tournament. Their victory therefore, in the narrowest sense answers everything. They won.

Martin Johnson would however, probably have delivered a prolonged bollocking to his embarrased players afterwards. Repeatedly giving away cheap early penalties was surely the first sign that English eyes were glazing over but Wilkinson’s poor kicking was perhaps the most striking reflection of the not quite all blacks limitations on the day. I personally expected them to revert to rather depressing Johnsonian type because this England team is both ordinary – but powerful – and manifestly not in the grip of inspired leadership, on or off the pitch. Still they did manage to significantly underperform, again, whilst beating a Pumas side that would have given any of the real contenders in this competition a major test first time out.

( A footnote; I have just this second witnessed the cruel defeat of Wales – again! – by the Springboks in a comparatively luminous match which nevertheless suggested that the Argentinians would, for example, have more than stretched the flawed World Champions and the Welsh).

The Pumas clearly stretched the English to the point where any sympathy amongst the unbiased rugby-watching world for Brian Moore’s compatriots petered out with each slow rotation of the narrow range of possibilities learned, we imagine, by rote by everyone from Armitage to Cole. For a few minutes England looked brutish and purposeful but later they were merely characteristically dour – the epitome of everything rugby purists (epitomised by the Welsh?) detest. Johnson will I think react with fury to the general lack of quality and to specific errors, as well as to failures to execute. Then he will mutter darkly that his undeserving side won… and Gatland’s occasionally inspired boyo’s got beat.

For that, disappointingly for the watching majority, was what happened despite a near-inspired twenty minute period of the second half when it seemed that tries were about to rain for the Welsh. South Africa were reeling; Roberts looked like the Lion of old and Warburton – who’s missed tackle was instrumental in the Springboks 3rd minute score – was becoming the force many are now predicting. It seemed unthinkable that Wales could fail to convert overwhelming possession and territory into a substantial lead. But then following another surge from the rampaging centre the ball was carelessly surrendered and late on Priestland, who had previously shown admirable calm and direction, inexplicably pulled an easy drop wide. Proof yet again that pressure and expectation and the moment separate the winners from the worthy.

Wales’ tournament may now be agonisingly ‘poised’ rather than having taken flight after a famous win. To deservedly beat the Springboks would have been a huge lift from which all-singing and dancing Welsh backs might have threatened even the few world powers of the game. Surely Gatland’s players knew this. Interesting perhaps that few have used the word ‘choke’ to describe Welsh inability to convert opportunity into win(s) – perhaps this is a legacy of the goodwill towards the nation that represents and supports the spirit of rugby playing better and more genuinely than almost any other. Those neutrals will be hoping for Hook and Williams S to respond with flair and imagination to what was undeniably a devastating defeat; whether this will carry them through against the bullocking Fijians and Samoans may be another matter. Some Welsh fans fear it may not.

So again we might feel we can bless the Welsh for their colour whilst condemning the grey English. But look at the scoreboard. Young’s moment of sharpness in a dull matrix of English meanness means almost everything.