9s and 10s: Learning from the French

It was while watching the young Toulousain Jean-Marc Doussain, who came off the bench to win his first cap in the World Cup final, that I begun reflecting on the French tradition of inter-changeable half-backs, and wondered why the Anglo-Saxon nations had never adopted this way of looking at the game.

Every nation has these ingrained quirks and preferences. New Zealand long-favoured the second five-eigth over the English crash ball, and so on.

But now, finally, Scotland might pick a stand-off in Greig Laidlaw who has evolved as a scrum-half too, so maybe it is a developmental ploy that we should be taking more seriously.

Allan Massie, one of the more lucid rugby thinkers in the employ of Johnston Press, wrote an article many years ago about the possibility of converting Mike Blair to a fly-half and pairing him with Chris Cusiter - that way, we'd have our two best players on the pitch. Typically, such original thinking was shouted down, the shouters' eyes blinded by their traditional thoughts on what a stand-off ought to be.

But in rugby terms, it makes sense to cloud the distinction between the positions. So often the 9 runs past the 10, thereby making the ball slower. Age-grade 'patterns' have impressively cottoned on to this fact and so the 9 and 10 do switch yet very little time is spent improving the 10's scrum-half pass or box-kick. If this is something we are going to commit to then the skills coaching has to reflect this half-back duality.

The benefits of the French system are numerous. Sharing responsibility takes pressure off the 10 - he doesn't have to make so many decisions. The 'cult of the 10' that characterises British rugby at the moment leads to the 10 being overly praised and overly criticised. This is partly a reaction to Mr Wilkinson and his (fully justified) deification - though it means that every 10 who follows has to 'steer' the team, kick all the goals, throw all the right passes. It's illogical. The French realise that the 10 has enough on his plate trying to spark the backline that they even take the pressure of goal-kicking off him.

So if we are going to adopt the French model then we have to loosen our grip on the cult of the 10 and the weight of expectation that falls on their shoulders. In France, 10s are not coached to control the game. Instead all focus is on the skills of passing and catching, running onto the ball and delivering effective passes. This is the bread and butter, not the pin-point kicks to the corner that 'put their team in the right places'. 

Last year, I wrote about my conversation with a coach in which we discussed the differing attitudes to the development of 10s, fly-halves, stand-offs and second 5/8ths. It's worth quoting:

"One the topic of fly-halves and the 'controlling of the game', for the French, they only worry about that side of the game when the player is a bit older, certainly older than me, and definitely only once they have mastered getting a backline moving and attacking the line - the basics."

While on the topic, it should be stated that positional specialisation  is just one damaging way in which British players 'grow up too fast'. We start contact too early and we pigeon-hole players at too young an age, to the detriment of their general basic skills.

It is worth looking back to recent French examples of the model. Michalak/Elissalde worked for many years, with the Toulousains having the same time in a club environment that Blair/Laidlaw have to build up the understanding that is necessary to make this blurring of the roles work. That is why Elissalde was always preferred to Yachvili, who was also slightly less adept at first-receiver. The World Cup saw Yachvili/Parra tried out. While lambasted in the press, I don't actually agree that it was a failure, and Parra proved himself quite capable of playing first-receiver. Francois Trinh-Duc is more a 'traditional' stand-off in that he is incapable of playing 9. However, he is far from British in the way he plays. He doesn't kick goals (regularly) and it could not be argued that 'controlling a game' is his outright strength. Like Michalak, he is a runner and a passer.

It's time Britain and Scotland in particular left behind the 'cult of the 10' and moved on to more logical rugby. Let's hope the emergence of Greig Laidlaw leads to a sea-change of attitudes at youth level where players are not told they are a stand-off and handed a large, metaphorical weight of expectation, but instead told they are half-backs and play-makers. Edinburgh have reaped the benefits this season - let's hope Scottish rugby learns from this so that multi-talented, skilful players like Laidlaw become the norm and not the exception.

Andy and Novak: The Morning After

The commentators for yesterday morning's 'epic' semi-final between Novak Djokovic and Andy Murray frequently referred to the match in boxing terms. It was a 'slug-fest', the two of them were 'sluggers', 'middleweights'.

But it was more a sick perversion of a boxing match - where each fighter took it in turns to land one punch and could make it as hard as they could while the other fighter could do nothing about the blow he received. That horrible moment when Djokovic has returned it and the whole world is pent up in Andy Murray's right arm and we hold our breath until he got it back and we could rest safe in the knowledge that for the next two seconds, it isn't Andy's to lose. Then it's back on us again.

Praying Djokovic couldn't stretch himself to it, then sighing in resignation when he did, it was unbearable viewing. Every time Murray returned the ball was a small victory, a sigh of relief. Only when Novak missed could I fully raise myself to happiness. Of course a winner from Murray registered a sort of happiness, but I found it to be far more like relief mixed with an admiration that showed itself in nervous laughter or a full-blooded exhalation of all that energy.

It was that sort of match where the avoidance of error was paramount. That, and running and running for every ball that made it back over the net. It was like a very real playing-out of the phrase, "the ball is in your court now," with all the implications those words carry of just being glad to get it back over the net, happy to not have to worry about it, even for those two seconds.

The end of any great sporting encounter always leaves a trembling pins and needles, nerves exhausted, like I had just been hit in the stomach. Later on, I experienced the come down, like hitting the wall, and realised that for several hours that morning I had been operating on some higher plane of being. That is surely the most powerful drug of all.

In Defence of Andy Murray

Is there anything more tedious in sport than people who moan about someone's 'personality'? Probably those who then use this judgement to decide who they are going to support. It's so depressing. I'm no rampant nationalist who dogmatically insists on supporting anyone who is representing our country to the point of fervour, but I do take issue with Brits who actively support our opponents. You don't have to like Murray, you don't even have to actively support Murray, but you must not support his opponent, thereby hoping that our man comes second.

After every big game that Andy Murray is involved in, I ready myself for the various arguments, fights and scraps that I will choose to wade into onto Andy Murray's behalf. But it isn't just on his behalf, it is for every sportsman that feels no compulsion to pander to boring journalists and who do not seek to build for themselves some ego-boosting following that they can then exploit in negotiations for sponsorship.

Novak Djokovic's innocent and polished answers he gives to the press are the most blatantly stage-managed things in the sport of tennis. When it comes to being honest and genuine, Murray wins hands down. If you want dancing monkeys, go to the circus. This is proper sport. Give me sweat over a smile every time.

Andy Murray is concerned with winning. So what if he mumbles his answers back to journalists? So what if he doesn't shave? He's the best tennis player this country has ever had (not interested in those who won Wimbledon in another epoch). I'm more concerned about the guts he shows to pull himself back into a match when it looks like his opponent is taking hold. I judge him by his actions on the court and not in a press conference, his response to a cross court backhand not a question. Not every sportsman can be Muhammad Ali and arrive to each interview with merry rhymes to make everyone giggle.

At this point it should also be made clear that Andy Murray is not the same player he was several years ago. His on-court demeanour is no longer petulant and he has reigned in the sulking and the droopy shoulders. He now stands tall and is undeniably positive in the way he carries himself. If you still believe that 'he doesn't like English people' then I am not going to waste my energies trying to convert you. You are a lost cause as a watcher of sport.

He has still NEVER lost in a grand-slam to a player ranked lower than him. Well, you might say, he'll always lose to one of Federer, Nadal or Djokovic. Except you cannot deny that he is getting closer and closer each time and it is illogical to claim that this improvement and the narrowing of the gap will one day turn results in his favour. Federer is declining as a force and Nadal has his injury worries. Give it a few years - all the minutiae of circumstance that Murray needs to pull it off will one day happen.

Andy Murray is not a bottler. He is world number 4, so he should lose to world number 1, and 2, and 3. So when he pushes the world number 1 to his absolute limit, why would people abuse him? He was expected to lose in straight sets, so anything better than that is a success, even if he still lost in the end.

In the 2007 RWC, New Zealand 'bottled it' when they lost to France by 2 points. Four years later, the same ignorant people abused the All Blacks again for 'bottling it'. They won by 1 point. Andy Murray did not bottle today's match, instead he pushed the best player in the world to the end. The margins in top class sport are so narrow that it may well take four years to turn a two point loss into a one point victory. Murray, like the All Blacks, has the skills and the support and the set-up to narrow the gap.

Finally, if one more person brings up that tired, limp, smug phrase that goes something like, "Andy Murray is Scottish when he loses/wins and British..." - you know the rest - then I think I may lose my mind.

Two More Weeks

- Injured again?
- Yes, again.
- What have you done (this time)?
- Just my ankle
- Didn't you-
- Yes, it's the other one
- Ah right, that's shit
- Yes, it is rather shit.
- How long do you think it'll be before you're playing again?
- About two weeks.

He'd been telling people two weeks for about two weeks now and this fact now dawned on him.

- You know next week is our first cup match.
- Oh really? Who against?
- ...we need you back.
- Yes. Well, you know, we'll see.

Can't come back too soon - what would be the point? Injure it again? Lose the match anyway? Play like a fool and injure it? There was so little to be gained. Mustn't allow himself to come back too soon. He didn't want to speak to the coach but he was too decent to allow himself to totally slip off the radar. There were some remnants of professionalism left.

- Well the physio says you're okay now.
- Well, I'm not.

The aforementioned team-mates went on with their days, but not before the typical end to their conversations:

- Are you coming to the social tonight?
- No.
- Oh, okay.

He should have known better.

Pacific Islanders - The Poor Relation

The official twitter account of the Fiji Rugby Union tweeted the following this morning:

"This is a stab in the dark but is there anyone out there who can donate a defibrillator to the fiji rugby medical team"

This is heart-breaking for anyone who has ever been excited when any Fiji team, be it 15 a side or 7, have taken to the field. It highlights some massive problems.

Firstly, the very idea that a national rugby union as prominent as the Fijians should have to beg for a donation on twitter of all places is awful. Secondly, that they are asking for a crucial piece of medical equipment that could save lives is even worse.

Do the IRB not exist for precisely this reason?

This actually goes far beyond defibrillators. The same issues have been voiced over and over again throughout the rugby world but nothing ever seems to change. New Zealand and Australia fly over 50 people across the globe to play matches every autumn yet they are totally incapable of flying a squad up to play a test in Suva or Apia. Heck, the All Blacks have benefited plenty from players going the other way.

It isn't just the southern hemisphere teams either. England took countless players to Australia two summers ago - how difficult would it have been to send a side up to the Pacific Islands. What are they afraid of?

Some are suggesting that it should be the NZRFU who 'donate' the defibrillator. This is crass to say the least. As if donating a defibrillator, and treating Fiji as some poor, down at heel cousin will help matters. The Fijians don't want charity, they want to be treated equally. No, the NZRFU and the IRB have to change their mindset to view the Pacific Islanders as valued, equal members of the rugby world. They may not have the money or the population that gives them a seat at the top table but they provide a hell of a lot more than that, rugby qualities and brotherhood and humility that the other countries would do well to adopt.

These are the countries that light up the rugby landscape, providing something that is different to the stodgy European old guard and the southern hemisphere oligopoly. Fiji, Samoa and Tonga deserve so much better. The All Blacks and the rest of them should be thoroughly ashamed of themselves that a national union is begging on twitter. It begins with defibrillators but the issues run much deeper.

The Chinese and The Provencal

Hemingway was right about the inexplicably “windswept Place du Pantheon” which he noted many years later in his Paris memoir, A Moveable Feast. It was just as windswept over eighty years later, as another foreigner trudged round the great monument to French-ness, cursing himself for not putting enough clothes on and cursing the suburban morning sun for misleading him. It was always like that around midday, without fail. Anywhere else in the city might be calm, but wind would find its way to the Place du Pantheon to whip its way round that converted Church.

But I was not Ernest Hemingway, and not there to write. Not there to continue past the Cluny, round and along onto the Place St Michel to sit in a café and write. I was there to play the sport, so I stopped before the Luxembourg Gardens, slipped underground and took the RER south to run around and lift weights.

Much like Hemingway, that was when it felt good to escape the phoney people and to have the time and the resources to work on my craft. I was lucky to spend my afternoons with the genuine people, the sporting people. Some of these people were of Paris, but not the postcard Paris – they were of the unseen Paris, the suburban, quiet Paris which is the same as suburbs anywhere with the same attitudes and the same muted ambitions.

And there were some who were not Parisian in any way, who came from different lands like Alsace and who enjoyed Paris and took from it what they wanted like the nightclubs and left what they disliked and remained sceptical about.

There were no affectations – no vague aims about ‘Paris’ and the images that the very name evokes in the minds of impressionable, naive, East coast American women raised on a strict diet of liberal arts. My friends, especially those from the provinces, were here for the sport – to lift weights when they had to, to do little extras when they wanted to and sometimes when they felt they should, and most of all to run and pass and kick every day. They were the genuine people, and apart from the language, they were occasionally just as bemused by it all as I was.

That is not to say that I didn’t go and sit in cafés like the good one that Hemingway wrote in on the Place St Michel. I did once, on the Rue Auber. I must have been there to see about my bank, for I never strayed that far north unless I was going to the bank. It was a day of heavy snowfall and the city was skidding to a halt. I was probably there because my money had been stolen, along with my watch, from the changing rooms in Colombes, which just goes to show that in amongst the genuine people there were some dishonest people. That was to be expected.

It was a perfect day to be warm in a café and when I texted my kicking coach to ask whether training was still on, I knew the reply I wanted. The reply I got was sarcastic and I didn’t understand it. So I did what Hemingway would not have done, and texted my mother. She told me that the text was about ‘snow shoes’. That was all I needed to make myself comfortable and to order a croque madame. Before heading back to the suburbs I thought about the phoney people. They seemed so phoney then and being around them irritated me.

But these days, when I compare those pilgrim students from all over the world to the vacuous Home Counties students who I share things like creative writing seminars with... When I cast my mind back around the lecture theatre in the Vth Arrondissement, there was more there than I suspected, yes there were the traditional Americans looking for something that they couldn’t define if you asked them, but there was also the Chinese, on the make.

I respected the Chinese more than the Americans. They closer resembled my genuine friends from the provinces, people who came to Paris with defined goals, who were prepared to work and weren’t leaching from Paris something that wasn’t really there. Paris owed them nothing.

Cycling: 'Bad Blood' - Reviewed

Bad Blood: The Secret Life of the Tour de France by Jeremy Whittle

Eye-opening without actually saying anything that wasn't widely suspected. This is the book that has turned me into a cycling nut. Whittle chronicles the downward spiral professional cycling has been on since the 1980s. Yet, it isn't sensationalist and it doesn't leave the reader hating the sport.

Certainly, it is hard not to hate some of the people involved, but the over-riding (pun) feeling is that doping is not black and white, and many cases, like David Millar's, are shown to be in the grey.

Whittle doesn't defend those who choose to dope, but he does explain their actions, some of which turn out to be utterly deplorable and others entirely understandable.

The author hasn't always been a cycling fan - he had to be converted, and it is this outsider's viewpoint that makes this book so readable.

Lance Armstrong is discussed in great detail and one is left with one immovable question: how on earth did he never fail a drugs test? Well, you might respond, he never took drugs! Simple! Even if Whittle is careful to never suggest that Armstrong doped, every other team member did and Armstrong is linked to so many dodgy doctors and team managers that one cannot help but wonder. It was all so institutionalised that the idea of anyone being able to resist is frankly laughable. But then again, if anyone could have, it would have been Lance.

A fascinating story that runs through the book is the feud between Armstrong and David Walsh of the Sunday Times, who is convinced to the point of dangerous obsession that Armstrong has doped and will risk nearly everything to try and expose the Texan. Whittle is balanced yet appropriately cynical, and not just about Armstrong.

David Millar is clearly author's friend and so Millar's story is told differently to the other reprobates. I have since begun reading Millar's autobiography, written with the help of Whittle.

Through all of the sludgy, thick, EPO, the double-crossing of team-mates and drug testers and the double-popping of amphetamines and sleeping pills, how am I left with a new interest in a sport that seems so ruined and with which so many have become disillusioned? Partly, it is because Whittle offers hope, that things are improving. But more than that, it is his descriptions of the traditions of cycling that run through the peloton, it is the camaraderie between cyclists that stems from the sheer difficulty of their livelihood (and it is their livelihood, something that the reader is never allowed to forget) and the respect amongst them that such toughness engenders.

And then, of course, such vomit-inducing suffering is set against the European continent: the Alps, the Pyrenées, the Spanish plains, the Provencal villages where the most exciting day of the year is when the Tour passes through. There's an undeniable romance to it all which provokes the same feeling that the Heineken Cup does in me - the colour, the pageantry, the excitement, the exoticism, and not a hint of parochialism in sight.

Exeter Chiefs vs. Perpignan

There were four of us yesterday who travelled to Sandy Park for the Amlin Challange Cup pool decider between Exeter Chiefs and Perpignan.

Their European pedigrees could not have been much different. Exeter in only their second year of European rugby and Perpignan experienced travellers.

An impressive number of Perpignanais had made the trip and they were clearly visible in their red and gold of Catalonia - the gold representing the shield of Wilfred 1 The Hairy on which Charles the Bald, Holy Roman Emperor, drew four lines with his own blood as a sign of gratitude. The Exeter Chiefs' fairly stereotypical view of  native North Americans that forms the basis of their club's branding looks tame in comparison to even a small slice of Catalan history.

Anyway, we four, a rugby player,a  golfer, a long-distance runner and a rower, took our places in a corner stand. And stand we did, for it was terraced. I am from a different generation to those who clamour for a return to terracing. I have grown up with a seat at sporting events, and was itching to sit down by half-time. Enough self-indulgent moaning.

The rugby played was enjoyable. After ten minutes, Perpignan were 14 points up, confirming my expectation that there was too much quality in their team for Exeter. But USAP fell asleep and fell away as Chiefs fly-half Ignacio Mieres orchestrated 31 unanswered points. Exeter lack the pace and penetration of many sides and so rely on a super-structured game plan which batters the opposition and then batters some more. It is not pretty to watch, though to ask Exeter to play like Leinster, Quins, or Edinburgh (woo!) would be downright unreasonable. They are good at what they do and good luck to them.

Sandy Park regulars rivals their Thomond counterparts in the respect they afford goal-kickers. However, for one of Mieres' pots at goal, some jolly old Catalan unleashed an almighty roar of derision. Without so much as looking where their kicker had put the ball, 10,000 of the Devon faithful turned towards the noise, booing and shouting, to which the garrulous and ballsy Catalan, clearly well-oiled, stood up, beamed, and opened his arms wide in gleeful appreciation for whatever abuse his hosts could throw at him.

Perpignan got annoyed, began lashing out, had a player sin-binned and the crowd was lapping it up. A very good day for west country rugby as Exeter continue making history. But for Perpignan, they have until the end of the season to reverse their current Top 14 position of 10th, wallowing in unfamiliar mediocrity. They should be better than this, and they know it.

Oh, Toulouse...

Oh, Toulouse.... Throughout the first half I was planning on indulging myself in writing about my favourite subject, the brilliance and audacity of Toulouse. Then they started to do some silly things and this became a piece about how they can be so brilliant and so inept. And now, having found myself shouting for Connacht against Quins, something that didn't sit well given Quins' very own brilliance, I find myself loving and hating Toulouse in equal measure. In fact, I want to hate them more.

The Fijian, Timoci Matanavou had his worst game of the season. Andrew Cotter (who was typically outstanding) pointed out that Matanavou is the cousin of Sireli Bobo. The younger Fijian then spent the next 60 minutes proving this and left me asking how I had not seen it before. He gifted Gloucester their first after spilling a Garryowen into his dead-ball area, shimmying, and doubling-back, threatening to pull off a Christian Cullen, then decides to hoof it in the agricultural way that most Fijians do, charged down, try. Yuck. Gloucester then peppered him all game and little changed. Noves should have taken him off. He did some lovely things with the ball in hand, skinning Luke Narraway in the 5m channel and finishing off two of Toulouse's flowing movements, but they were overshadowed by his ineptitude when confronted by a ball in the air and the onrushing hordes.

Louis Picamoles, who I believe should start for France at no. 8, can be so classy. He covers the ground so well, reads the game, and off-loads with such ease. He has an air of Zinzan about him. And then he throws a series of inexcusably awful spin passes. Infuriating.

Burgess was lively, especially in comparison to Lawson who looks laboured. Nyanga seemed to mop up every missed tackle by his team-mates. Beauxis, who is now well and truly recovered from his festering at Stade Francais, made a nice break. Albacété flogged himself around the pitch, leaving me in rare agreement with Stephen Jones, that the Argentine is one of the great players of the era. Servat rumbled around in his usual manner, which makes the news of his defection to Toulon even more depressing. Who would leave Toulouse?

Médard's left boot, once so prodigious, now resembles that of Hugo Southwell, occasionally so long, often mis-hit. Still, the value of a left-winger who can kick is invaluable. Poitrenaud was Poitrenaud, nothing more, nothing less.

In contrast to these Toulousains, certain Gloucester players shone, offering some optimism for the future of English back play. Bryan Redpath is a lucky man. Akapusi Qera was, at times, just as brilliant and frustrating as his countryman Matanavou, passing out the back of the hand with difficulty then dropping the simple return pass.

Before tonight, Toulouse were my pick, and no doubt they will eradicate the faux pas of tonight. They've certainly done it before. Maybe it's unreasonable to expect them to produce it every week. But then again, maybe it isn't. It is all mental, after all. At times they are playing on a different planet, untouchable, even by the likes of Leinster. Let's hope that tonight reminds them that they are beatable when they fail to apply themselves. Tonight provided a huge sigh of relief, for the Heineken Cup would be infinitely poorer without the artists from Toulouse.

Andrew Cotter said of the enigmatic Guy Noves, "he always looks like he wants a cigarette." After tonight's performance, I can see him settling down with his pack of Gaulois. He'll probably sigh with frustration. Then he might allow a wry smile, a smile that knows that, with this club, it oftens turns out alright in the end.

On Effortlessness

Effortlessness is surely one of the most admired concepts in sport. The word itself does the idea absolutely no justice at all, being clumsy and not knowing where to end. But when we put it next to effort, perhaps our perceptions change.

Do we not want to see the effort? Is effort not titillating? And is this a particularly British trait? We do, after-all, love an underdog, an outsider.

The outside-centre may have glided through a defence three times in the first half and go in at half-time with a clean shirt but it’s the muddy, dog-eared flanker that we are drawn to. At least, those of us who are more prone to cynicism are more drawn to him. The young, those who still have dreams of emulating the outside-centre, will be more drawn to a clean shirt and all it represents.

This dichotomy is one of the very essences of rugby: the forwards and the backs, the grinders and grafters up front and the gliders behind – ‘the piano shifters’ and the ‘piano players’, as one French three-quarter once put it.

But there is more to the idea of effortlessness than this. Hemingway defined courage as ‘grace under pressure’ – this is when we really enjoy effortlessness, when it becomes really superhuman to be so aesthetically athletic in the face of so much pressure (tangible nutters running at you, as well as the metaphorical weight of your nation on your literally narrow shoulders).

There is also effortlessness which somehow seems natural and that which becomes natural. When Jonny Wilkinson drops a goal on his right foot to guide his team into the World Cup Final in 2003 against France all the praise centres on how many hours he has worked to pull that off. It is graceful, it appears to be effortless, but hard work looms large. When Juan Martin Hernandez drops on his left against France in the following World Cup, there was little suggestion of hard work. It was effortless, he was exotic and the two came together to create this glorious nonchalance. He was like a South American freedom fighter. The thing is, he may have practised just as hard as Jonny, but we don’t know that, and we aren’t interested either.

Clearly, we adapt our perceptions of effortlessness in relation to what we know. Can English sportsmen really exhibit true effortless grace? Very rarely. But Hernandez, the Maradona of rugby, he sure can. Did Maradona practice? Of course not, he was sent from God and has been too busy dancing the tango with beautiful women and taking dodgy pills to practice... if we asked Hernandez if he practiced, we expect to be shrugged off.

It is incredibly hard to pin down, this idea of effortlessness. Perhaps it’s because it’s such a personal idea. How does Dan Carter look like he isn’t trying? It’s a question we seek to answer ourselves, open-mouthed, as he saunters to the line and fires out a pass with his floppy arms. Jonny and Juan, in their wrong-footed drop goals, both look so effortless, but as is human nature when it comes to sport, we create our own stories that surround these courageous, graceful figures.

Displaced in Dubai

Life is simply better when England are playing a Test match. You can follow it throughout the day, pulling yourself away from a tedious lecture or turning round a boring lunch with the the simple question, “What’s the score in the cricket?”

Test cricket is possibly the perfect sport. It is slow and rhythmic when you want it to be, before sparking into occasional flurries of tension. It is not a sheltered game played indoors, it is open to the air and all the variables that come with such a setting. And it goes on for five days!

Yet to watch Test cricket in Dubai feels wrong. Not that one can tell the location of the Test match through the coverage. In fact, having said that, the identikit, empty, brand new, shiny stadium is typical Dubai. Test cricket is one of the sports that, as yet, has resisted the lure of the Middle East. Football is consumed by it, with Manchester City the UAE national side and with the FIFA World Cup having been bought by the Qataris.

Test cricket still seems pure, untouched, the rhythms of a Test match feel intact. The bastardisation of cricket has, thankfully, been collected and gathered up in the willing arms of Twenty20 cricket.

There are good reasons to hold this Test match in Dubai. The players are safer and the facilities are world-class   - world class because enough money has been thrown at them, which leaves them shiny but hollow and not the sort of place any sportsman deserving of the name wants to play.

But here we are, in the half-built neutral desert, playing a Test match that is used to the cauldrons of Lahore or Karachi. It's bizarre, displaced and lacks feeling, but that is Dubai. These days, if a sport finds itself in trouble, look to Dubai. Thank goodness for Dubai.

"I done wrestled..." : A Day With Ali

One of the many luxuries afforded to students of English literature is days like today. I woke up, took my usual leisurely breakfast of weetabix (with a spoonful of Special K for the 40 year old woman in me), a sausage, some scrambled eggs and two hash browns. I ate alone. All my contemporaries had rushed off to lectures at 9am, leaving me free to enjoy my breakfast with the sun and Devon's green and pleasant land out the window.

I found out that today was Muhammad Ali's 70th birthday and was feeling decidedly controversial. All I saw was praise. Praise, praise, praise! Greatness here, legend there. No one seemed to be making any mention of the more shady years of Muhammad Ali. I was aware that these shady years existed, these years in the extreme right, so I set out to find out more about them.

I didn't have to look very far. The ever dependable Matthew Syed had got their first, filed his copy, The Times had it, the anti-story! Good job he had done, too.

The speech at a KKK rally where he advocated racial segregation and spoke out against inter-race marriages, the speech in full Nazi uniform to the American Nazis, the man was divisive in the extreme. Yesterday, the 16th January, was Martin Luther King day, for goodness sake! The two men couldn't be further apart. (It's interesting and nothing more to pose the question, what if Muhammad Ali had shared the views of Martin Luther King Jr. who died in 1969? What if Ali had continued his legacy?) Would I have acted differently to Ali? King's stance is so famous because it goes against the natural reaction to turn against your oppressors.

Still, why didn't people (apart from Syed) talk about it? Why was there no clause in the unending fountain of praise the poured forth today that mentioned all this?

The answer is, of course, that Muhammad Ali is a poet. The best sort of poet - an orator, and one with a cause. And as well as being a poet, he was the most charming man of the 20th century, when not in Nazi uniform, that is. In this age of heavyweight tossers, Ali was a thoroughbred whose trash-talk was thought out, measured, and not just choreographed to entice punters to shell out for the match on Sky Box Office.

When I say Ali was a poet, I don't mean the little rhymes he came up with, though they are obviously poetic.

"We gon' get it on, 'cos we don' get along'"

is a pleasant ditty and it rhymes and is, in a sense, poetic. But Ali was more than that. Everything he did was poetic. To watch him skipping rope was poetic. Even watching him sparring, allowing himself to be pummeled, preparing his body for pain - it was all poetic. He's no poet in the way Robert Frost or Whitman were poetic. Ali was more visceral, not to be found in some book with his name at the bottom of the page. He was right there, rippling and dripping and talking, his voice rising and falling safe in the knowledge that everyone in his presence was absolutely captivated.

When Ali says, "I done wrestled with a alligator. That's right. I have wrestled with a alligator. I done tussled with a whale. I done handcuffed lightning, thrown thunder in jail!" this is more than poor grammar. It's language 'made strange' - it's literary. Why are we taken in by it? 'Cos he 'done wrestled', he 'done tussled', he 'done handcuffed'. Ali is all action. He done it!

Norman Mailer, who chronicled the 'Rumble in the Jungle' in his book 'The Fight', writes, "for Ali to compose a few words of real poetry would be equal to an intellectual throwing a good punch." He isn't talking Ali down, more emphasising that Ali was a fighter, first and foremost, not an intellectual. What Mailer is referring to isn't the little rhymes that Ali would spout at press conferences but the more serious, private, and seemingly shallow poetry that Ali took great pride in and insisted in showing Mailer, who he regarded as the 'Champ' of writing.

Ali was all action. Mailer said he ran a marathon everyday in his speech alone. But he had a purpose, even after he moved away from the Nation of Islam, who had clearly begun manipulating him, towards a more peaceful, reflective, conventional Sunni Islam. His stance on the Vietnam War - "No Vietcong ever called me 'Nigger'!" - endeared him to millions across the globe whilst simultaneously alienating him from white, middle class Americans. Ali didn't care. They had probably never liked him anyway. No, Ali's purpose was wider, he was taking on the world. He was doing it, doing, always doing, and doing it for the black man.

My evening finished with re-watching 'When We Were Kings' which, as I had expected, annulled any of my self-consciously controversial reservations about Ali. How could it not? When Ali is placed next to the wooden, horribly insensitive, probably ignorant George Foreman, Ali is on a different level. When Foreman walks off the plane with his Belgian Shepherd, he blows it with the Zairois, even with the added surprise that he is actually black, blacker than Ali.

Ali is on a mission that is wider than a boxing match. It's spiritual and it's African. Being in Africa means something to him. He has a purpose wider than knocking down George Foreman. When he goes out jogging he's messing around with the kids, lifting them up, inciting their 'Boma yé' chant. We don't always like sportsmen who claim to have a purpose wider than winning. That doesn't fit, we say. Be a politician in your own time. For now, you must win. But Ali so clearly believed it, spoke it with poetry, with rhetoric, and drew us in.

By those final rounds, me, just like 120,000 Zairois in late October 1974 are shouting "Ali, boma yé! Ali, boma yé." And George Foreman hitting the deck is greeted with a cheer, a restrained cheer, because I'm not in Kinshasa and people in Exeter are trying to sleep.

Ali was infectious. Humans are drawn to engaging people and it doesn't matter what they are talking about when it is said in such a way. I now understand the happy birthday messages. I feel like I've spent a day with Ali, warts and all. And when faced with such a man who had such faith and such confidence in his cause and such ability and such sporting class and grace and sheer unadulterated brute force, I hereby accept defeat to the flea who supposed to go down in three, Muhammad Ali. In the words of Don King, "Ali even motivates the dead."

Assessing the English Premiership

The Aviva Premiership has finally cracked. The veil of illusion has fallen away and the 'mediocrity', as Stuart Barnes put in today's Sunday Times, has finally been exposed.

With Northampton, London Irish, the hapless Bath now the formidable Leicester Tigers, for many years the English shining light in Europe, out of the reckoning, it is time we re-examined the merits of this league in relation to the RaboDirect Pro 12 and the Top 14.

Saracens and Harlequins, first and second domestically, are now the only English teams with a chance of progressing, with Harlequins doing so from second in their pool.

Is this down to the salary cap and therefore smaller or worse squads? Not really, when the evidence shows that Harlequins and Saracens are competing on two fronts. To blame the difference in chequebooks is to hide the real rugby reasons behind this decline.

I always preferred the Premiership. A child raised on Sky's groundbreaking coverage, I felt like I knew Miles Harrison and Graeme Simmons and Dewi Morris was just an awkward uncle who I wanted to go away. Their coverage, excellent though it was, gave the impression that the Premiership was better than the other leagues. Why wouldn't they show the other ones, I naively assumed?

To a certain extent I was right. It is a league made up of proper rugby clubs, with proper grounds and proper histories, not created in the 1990s by the governing bodies, like those in the Celtic nations. The fact that for me to watch the Celtic League would involve watching a struggling Edinburgh was undoubtedly a factor - had I been going along to Thomond Park regularly I doubt I would have felt such a pull down south.

The Celtic League was a false league, I would argue. Teams can afford to throw caution to the wind because there is no threat of relegation. No wonder they perform better in the Heineken Cup when their domestic matches can afford to be warm-ups for the bigger stage. I no longer believe this. Yes, the centrally-contracted nature of the Irish provinces means their player-welfare structures are far more advanced so top internationals can play less games, but the Celtic League is a serious title and Leinster, Munster and the Ospreys take it extremely seriously.

Does the supposed greater pressure of the Premiership lead to unimaginative, stodgy rugby? Are teams less risk-taking because of relegation? I doubt it. The English teams involved in the Heineken Cup are rarely worried about relegation at the same time. Instead, the unimaginative, stodgy rugby is a result of a lack of ambition and an inclination towards the the conservative.

Who are the most expansive and best-coached teams? Harlequins and Saracens. Harlequins play a very free-flowing, continuous game. They want pace to put teams on the back foot. Saracens have a similar ability as well as being structured in the extreme.

Sky's Dean Ryan highlighted a pyramid of skills or qualities that he believes make up success in Europe.

I would agree with the base and the top. What Ryan classes the foundation, the building blocks, are true for any rugby team. You won't have the ball without a good set-piece, you won't keep it without good contact skills and you won't be in the game without a solid defence. But Ryan gives too much credence to having good 'phase play' - a horrible phrase - and 'shape' - a slightly less horrible phrase. Organisation is surely just every player pulling in the same direction, like watching Toulouse. Execution and precision are far more important than 'phase play' and 'shape', and this is a fact that most English clubs should wake up to.

Leinster and Toulouse are leading the way in Europe with their execution, precision and willingness to have a go. They have the foundation and they have that x-factor that is not inhibited by some dogmatic 'shape'.

This is something Harlequins and Conor O'Shea have realised this season. The sooner the other English clubs catch up, the better for their league and their chances in the Heineken Cup, because the rest of Europe is passing them by.

Thoughts For 2012

Here are some thoughts for the 2012 year in rugby.

1) The Scotsman disables the ability to comment on its articles. These days everyone and his dog has a view on something and there a few positives in knowing what Tam from Cumbernauld, or Jockey Badger, or 'snake in the grass' thinks about who will wear Scotland's 10 shirt. I reckon about half of the comments are from Glaswegians complaining about west-coast rugby folk getting a raw deal or Borderers reminding 'posh edinburgh folk' that rugby is still played in the region.

2) Rugby continues to be a sport for all shapes and sizes. Few things are more depressing than seeing teams lining up in the tunnel and each one being indistinguishable from the next - that is rugby league. Props must remain short and stout. For this to happen, the IRB must continue the improvements they are making in the scrummage. Matches are no longer being blighted by interminably collapsing scrums as they were 18 months ago. Similarly, for there to be space for those remaining players who duck and dive, and those who can run an arc and swerve and cut and slash, the ruck must be policed properly.

3) Rugby learns more from Sonny-Bill Williams and his famed offloads. He is potentially one of the players who come along and change the sport by updating everyone's perceptions about the game.

No longer should the back of the hand offloads be considered flash. This is what is now needed to break down defences. And it is definitely not the preserve of a few players who just 'have it', that manual dexterity to flip a ball out of the back of the hand. It can be practised and it is worth it.

Some coaches will naturally react against it because it might seem flash but it needn't be. Like all skills, if it is done at the wrong time or done too often then it will become useful. But imagine a team, or even just a back-line who have the ability to offload the ball in the trickiest of circumstances. Like passing practice, all it does is make players more comfortable on the ball.

It will revolutionise support play and turn half-breaks into breakaway tries. It's exciting, and players and coaches should begin devoting time to this neglected way of breaking down a defence.

The Prince

As the BBC readies itself for its coverage of the upcoming internationals - and Eddie Butler grooms the gravitas in his voice for an inspirational montage video - let us hark back to a bygone age.

The hero of the day is Prince Oblensky. From one of the oldest royal houses in Europe, the Rurik Dynasty, and therefore the founders of what eventually became Russia, Oblensky was the royal real deal. That was, however, his family's downfall when Lenin and co.'s arrival forced them to flee in 1917. They settled in North London.

'The Prince' went up to Oxford in 1934 to read PPE and left several years later with a fourth-class degree, two blues, and 4 England caps - a desirable outcome in anyone's eyes.

Whilst still at Oxford he played for Leicester Football Club, now the Tigers. One cannot imagine a Russian prince turning out for Leicester these days, I mean, would he get on with Richard Cockerill? But then again, Leicester have always been that little bit different, so maybe his unusual background would have endeared him to the characteristically unpleasant Welford Road faithful.

His England debut in 1936 against the All Blacks returned two tries which would have undoubtedly pleased the young man no end.


OblenskyTry1936 by Frederic

Oblensky played a further three times for England before joining the Auxiliary Air Force. In March 1940, a day after being selected to play against Wales, Oblensky's training plane crashed into a ravine at the end of the runway after landing in Suffolk, breaking his neck. He was 24.

Pete Wishart MP - The Scotsman, 13th Jan 2012

Sport and politics do mix and anyone who says otherwise is a liar and an apologist.

It's not often that I read The Scotsman, the east of Scotland's premier tabloid newspaper, but I like to keep an up to date list of their mistakes. So that is how I found Pete Wishart's article on sport. As will probably become clear, Mr Wishart and I look at sport in very different ways. Why The Scotsman felt they should allow an SNP MP to write such an arrogant (and poorly written) article about sport, I do not know.

I am a huge fan of the British and Irish Lions, possibly more so than my national team due to the sheer rarity and grandeur of these teams. I love the idea of players who batter each other all season long coming together and donning the same shirt for the same cause in what John Hopkins called, "a cross between a medieval crusade and a prep school outing."

So imagine my outrage when Mr Wishart writes,

"Following independence I hope that there will be occasions where we will come together as a "British" team just like we do in international rugby as the British Lions (sic)."

How dare he! If he is so desperate to leave the UK behind and let Scotland go it alone then how dare he still crave a piece of the British and Irish Lions. If he dislikes the UK so much that he wants to tear it apart and dislikes the very essence of 'Britishness' then how dare he make such a claim.

If he wants to 'come together' then he should campaign for Scotland to remain as part of the Union. If you insist on believing something so petty as independence then at least have the courage to follow it through. If you don't like the UK then don't try and hold on to the bits than you do like.

Now, I'm fully aware that an independent Scotland would still form a part of the Lions, of course it would. But for an SNP MP to come out picking and choosing which parts of British life he still wants an independent Scotland to be a part of shows a deep-rooted uncertainty about independence and a total disrespect for everything that the Lions stand for. Mr Wishart is the sort of narrow-minded fan who would watch the Lions and only cheer if a Scottish player scored a try.

The rest of the article is simply Olympics bashing. It's the sort of thing one would expect to hear from an MP whose only interest in the games is how they will benefit his constituents in Perth and North Perthshire. The crux of his unhappiness seems to rest in a total dissatisfaction with Perth being far away from London. Sorry, Pete, that's geography. He writes,

"Scotland will be overwhelmingly positive about the games and the potential for opportunities and spin-offs it offers us as a nation."

This is a horribly patronising way to view the greatest show of human endeavour on Earth and Scottish responses to it. Does Mr Wishart view Scots as miserly figures rubbing their hands in glee at the prospect of weasling some extra cash out of the games?

I aim to write mainly about rugby, but the recent flurry of independence talk left me wanting to write about that too. Thank goodness for Pete Wishart MP for giving me the opportunity to write about both.

The lesson is as follows: if you don't like the very idea of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and make it your job to see it crumble, then do not have the cheek to claim continued involvement and interest in one of the UK's most wonderful institutions. You're either in or you're out, Pete.

The Bloodied 10 Shirt

The more observant of those cold and lonely souls who occasionally check this page will notice a slight picture change. That well known 'rugger bugger', Mrs Mona Lisa, has been replaced by a photo I found on my  computer from last year.

I remember the match like it was yesterday. In the first knock-out round of the Crabos championship versus Toulon. A hugely satisfying game, played on a lovely pitch, baking under the Villanche-sur-Saone sunshine, with a raucous crowd along one side. We played such wonderful rugby that the Toulon fans felt the need to jump the barrier and invade the pitch when there ensued a huge fight that spilled into the first few rows of the stand.

Perhaps that's how the blood ended up on the back of the shirt. The irony, is of course, that for that match, it wasn't my shirt. Still, nice picture all the same.

A Review of 'Jonny: My Autobiography'

I stayed up till half past one this morning finishing Jonny Wilkinson’s autobiography, a tremendously engaging book that was ‘unputdownable’. It was genuinely gripping.

We, the general public, rugby watching or otherwise, always knew Jonny wasn’t quite right. All those hours kicking, we knew they couldn’t be healthy. But he was always so fiercely reserved that, until now, we’ve never really seen beneath the surface, beneath the pose – bum out, hands clasped, breath just escaping out the side of the mouth as the left foot hardens itself for impact.

When I was 12 I used to kick like Jonny, clasping my hands in wide eyed admiration. This was a technique I perfected in the garden. We were lucky enough to have a piece of grass which was made for a set of rugby posts at one end. And, one Christmas, Santa brought some nice, shiny poles that were soon erected. I soon had a ball bag and a motley set of Gilbert balls, some size 4, some size 5. I knew which balls had the biggest sweet spot, which ones carried further, the duff ones.

I tried to be Jonny. I would always end a session with six kicks, the same six that Jonny would take hours and hours over. I wanted to do that to. I wanted it to matter that much. But, like most normal human beings, I could never do it. Sometimes 5 out of 6 was good enough and I happily skipped back inside to plump myself in front of the television. For several Christmasses after, I would make a point of kicking on Christmas day because I had heard that’s what Jonny did. The difference between me and him is, of course, that he kicked every day and Christmas day was simply another day to get better at kicking. I failed to grasp this, and despite not kicking anywhere near every day, thought it was impressive enough to be out on Christmas day even though I hadn’t kicked on Christmas Eve or would kick on Boxing Day. To be honest, it was simply an affectation.

For Jonny, the very idea of an 'affectation' is anathema. He is an obsessive. He talks of the rages he would fly into – at his long-suffering mother, his brotherly brother and guru Dave Alred. Always a picture of serenity, we had no idea that he would swear and argue. This is single-mindedness was taken to the next level, a more dangerous level. He writes of how he became so upset (as a grown man) that he bit his own hand, causing some painful bruising.

The book, however, doesn’t always show Jonny as a reclusive obsessive. In his early days he would go out drinking after internationals with the rest of the squad. In fact, the vomit-and-all manner in which he describes his relationship with alcohol forms some of the funniest sections of the book.

What we see is someone who found fame cripplingly difficult. Life was easy when he went out and Lawrence Dallaglio was the one getting recognised. When Jonny started becoming that famous, he stepped away, removing himself from the public eye completely. There is a definite sense of paranoia surrounding the whole thing. One can’t help but feel sorry for him.

The injuries are some of the most freakish collection of months and years that rugby has ever seen. Unsurprisingly, he was totally unprepared for a life of rehab. Most players get fed up but, like most things, Jonny takes this to a new level. He becomes depressed and more should be made of this. It should be made more explicit that he suffered from clinical depression as it would massively help reduce stigma surrounding the illness. Instead, it is never fully stated, glossed over.

Undoubtedly, there is some sickly schadenfreude that one feels when Wilkinson admits that he began turning up late for rehab sessions and sometimes missing them altogether. Turns out there is a limit to his determination. It is poor form from this particular reader, but like the references to hangovers, it is pleasing to see that this side of him does exist.

‘Blackie’ is an absolute shining light in amongst all the darkness. He is friend, trainer, mentor, motivator and spiritual guru. A huge amount of Wilkinson’s success must be down to coming across a man like this. Similarly with Dave Alred, a world leader in his field, who Wilkinson was able to feed off for over a decade.
 

Some people do not come out so well. Jeremy Guscott, unsurprisingly, is confirmed as being the absolute berk he appears to be. Similarly with Austin Healey. To mention them is a quite contemptible if I am not going to balance their names up with those of Mike Catt, Richard Hill, Pat Lam, Inga Tuigamala, Sparks (brother) and the various other gentlemen that Wilkinson admires.

Some things, however, don’t tally up. Wilkinson, and perhaps Owen Slot can be blamed for this, far too often drifts into continuous reference to his obsessive side. ‘That’s my obsessive streak kicking in’ is heard so much it loses its effect. It is simply a stylistic issue even if, at several points, it becomes downright frustrating. When Clive Woodward was insisting on Wilkinson hitting fewer rucks and staying on his feet more, the player shows huge reluctance, claiming that to do so would be contrary to his instincts. Scant regard is given to the needs of the team in relation to what Jonny does naturally. It grates. I, for example, have recently found tackling to be against my nature, but if a coach says I need to shore up my channel I am not going to justify my refusal to tackle by some self-reflexive bullshit about my ‘nature’.

Again, when Wilkinson is a part of the 2005 Lions tour to New Zealand, he describes the first few days. He notes how well prepared they are, especially a booklet which has been produced containing background details on all the players. This seems like a sensible idea, helping everyone get to know each other better in a short period of time. Wilkinson, however, disregards it, though he admits that he knew he should have read it. For someone who so openly prides himself on his all-consuming desire to not let his teammates down, this shows an uncharacteristic lack of attention to the details.

Thankfully, he has found peace at Toulon. In fact, that may be wrong, he will probably only find peace when his body properly gives up on him – and it is truly miraculous that he has lasted this long. His powers of comeback are unimaginable. The book gives no hint toward his career post rugby – the playing of rugby, that is. I predict he will remain at Toulon as a coach or mentor of some sort. A return to England is unlikely for many many years. He is clearly very happy in the sun at a club where he feels valued. His new ‘spiritual outlook’, which is occasionally laid on too thick, appears to have widened his outlook so that rugby and his extraordinary mind no longer control him.

Throughout, Wilkinson is as kind, thoughtful and self-deprecating as his reputation suggests. He is classy enough to avoid slagging off coaches and fellow players except in the odd instance where it is done with dignity. That is such a given that it is probably offensive to mention it. At the risk of treating him like a psychiatrist’s test case, Wilkinson is so fascinating because he is a solitary individualist who is obsessed with not letting people down. It is a book that deals with fame and celebrity in our time and their damaging effects on someone who feared their effects. It is terrifically funny at times, sad at others and absorbing and anyone with even a passing interest in rugby union will struggle to put it down. I may no longer clasp my hands as I did as a 12 year old, but I am just as wide-eyed and he is still very much my hero.

France 6 Nations Squad

Today we were greeted with and treated to the now unfamiliar sight of a French squad which appears, by and large, to be made up of the best players in France.

After years of tinkering and mad left-field selections from mad moustachioed Monsieur Lièvremont, Philippe Saint-Andre has reverted to most of the players that should have been involved all along.

Having said that, Florian Fritz will feel hard done by after his exclusion in favour of Toulousain club mate Yann David. More so, former captain Lionel Nallet has been left out in favour of Julien Pierre who is surely not as good as Nallet whose physicality and mobility are as good as they have been in recent times. There is little doubt that his influence in France pulling themselves together and reaching the World Cup final was significant.

The front row looks as solid as ever and Barcella should return to his position as the best scrummager in Europe after a lengthy lay-off.

The second row could be all Toulouse if Yoann Maestri makes his debut alongside Romain Millo-Chluski, though Pape looks certain to keep his place.

 The back row is as dynamic as possible. Captain fantastic, monsieur 38, Dusautoir will be inked in. The other flank could be Yannick Nyanga's, he who last played in the 2007 World Cup, or Fulgence Ouedraogo. Both offer something different to Julien Bonnaire and PSA may opt for the Clermont man's experience and line out skill. With either Harinordoquy or Louis Picamoles at no. 8, the back row should dominate this 6 Nations.

Morgan Parra and Dimitri Yachvili once again share the 9 shirt, no surprises there. More interestingly, Lionel Beauxis returns from the international wilderness. His move to Toulouse has revitalised this enigmatic fly-half (this always seems to happen at Toulouse, doesn't it) after too many years in a limp Stade Francais team. 

Rising star Wesley Fofana is the bolter of the centres though Mermoz and Rougerie will probably start. Julien Malzieu deserves his recall after Lievremont's folly. The Toulouse trio of Clerc, Medard and the recalled Poitrenaud will surely sparkle at some point.

 A squad of 30 with 12 Toulousains and 7 Clermontois is smart selecting from Saint-Andre who promises to bring together the French style that he exhibited so well with some added Anglo-Saxon pragmatism. Though I see no Grand Slam this year, France are my pick for the 6 Nations. Their match away to Wales at the Millennium looks set to be the defining match of the tournament.

'Tops et Flops'

Being back in the French Alps this week has allowed me, once again, to immerse myself in all the colour and pageantry of the Top 14. As always, the ever faithful yellow pages of the Midi Olympique are my way in.

The first edition of 2012 ran a section on the 'Tops' and 'Flops' of the recruitment process so central to success in this league. The 'Tops' included such well-known names as Luke McAlister, Steffon Armitage and Felipe Contepomi.

The 'Flops', perhaps unsurprisingly, have even more celebrated names. This is the depressing side of Top 14 rugby. For every 'galactico' who lights up the league (or shores up a scrum), there are those who are simply too old, lack the motivation or respect that their hefty pay cheque deserves or simply fail to deal with the lifestyle change or uprooting of family. Two All Blacks top the list: Byron Kelleher, such a hero in Toulouse the past two years, has struggled at Stade Francais and Joe Rokocoko similarly at Bayonne. Then, depressingly, Max Evans, comes in at no. 3. While the inexperience of his fellow backs is noted, he has yet to score in a side 4th in the league. Cedric Héymans, Paul Warwick and rugby league convert Willie Mason are all 'Flops'.

It's not all doom and gloom, however, for Scots playing in France, even if the impact on the national side is zero. Scotland's former second rows Nathan Hines and Scott Murray were both singled out for special mention with Hines making the Top 14 team of the week.

Top 14 Round-Up

Toulouse, as ever, lead the Top 14 by 5 points from Clermont. Their recruitment policy has been outstanding with Beauxis and McAlister dominating every midfield (not to mention Fritz, Jauzion et. al.) with Fijian youngster Timoci Matanavou leading the try scoring league with 6. Clermont's recruitment has been equally effective if less headline making. Nathan Hines, Gerhard Vosloo and Benjamin Kayser are forming a formidable pack that Parra effortlessly controls. The top of the league, therefore, is actually quite boring compared to the rest. The Midi Olympique highlights 6 teams that are be owing separated from the rest without the resources (financial or otherwise) to suggest they will catch up. They are: Bordeaux, Perpignan, Brive, Bayonne, Lyon and Biarritz - who lie bottom and fighting for their existence at the top table. The mighty have indeed fallen. It's not all doom and gloom, however, as smaller clubs like Agen seem to be holding their own with the bigger spenders and this is absolutely welcomed.