Keyhole Surgery: Hallelujah.

For about 45 minutes this sunny afternoon I was back in Paris. It was just me, my ankles and an assorted group of health professionals. From the smiling receptionist to the rushed woman who did the x-rays, standing behind her iron screen (radiographer?), to the knowledgeable and confident consultant.

It could have been the Clinique du Sport in the 5th Arrondissement, where I kept the MRI machine warm for Hugo Southwell, or the hospital in Antony, or that other clinic that I sweated my way around the suburbs to find only for results to show that my hamstring was still very much intact.

Today was in Exeter but the all the apparatuses of these visits remained. The interminable waiting around, watching the clock, not wanting to touch the communal magazines despite the knowledge that these patients were injured and not sick. Their germs were the same as mine and their joints just as unstable. I read the Telegraph sport section instead of the Midi Olympique. My fellow patients were just the same, the elderly and their hips. The same, faint excitement from the staff when they realise they have un sportif on their hands.

Then there's my eternal and paradoxical hope that the ankle will still be sore when he does his examination. It would have been typical if it had behaved at exactly the wrong moment, making me look the fool.

And as you read your sports paper, in English or French, you rehearse the story of how you injured the ankle in the first place. You don't tell them how you injured it, that's in the past, all that remains is the story. So you tell them the story of how you injured it - the story that you've been perfecting each time you tell it to each different physio and each different coach.

And after the x-ray people have got their hands on your ankle and lined it up and hid behind their screen and pressed the button, you return to the waiting room. And when the images appear on the doctor's screen, he looks for the abnormality and, hallelujah, he finds something. He calls you in to share the good news. You are injured. There is genuinely something wrong with the joint. Immediately I felt sane again. What joy to be injured, to be officially injured and to know how it is going to be fixed and when you will play again.

I can now haul myself out of this limbo, this lazy, half-assed semi-retirement that I've been wallowing in and circle a date on the calendar. That is when I will run again and play again. I will go under the knife - my stomach churns - and then they will take the stiches out and then I will work hard and then I will play again.

Nick Mallett for England

Worldly, erudite, multi-lingual and proven in several environments. This man must be the next coach of the England rugby team. Nothing about Nick Mallett smacks of Aviva Premiership weights lifting academies or RFU accredited coaching badges or moving through the system being sycophantic to the right people. He seems to me to be about as far away from Rob Andrew as a rugby person could be. Though Andrew went to Cambridge and Mallett to Oxford.

He combines the rugged, ruthless streak common in South African rugby with an erudite and enquiring mind. For a generation of rugby players who have never seen past the back door of their local Nando's, Mallett is a rugby traveller, the best sort of rugby person. Never accepting that he knows everything or that the South African way is best, he has travelled the rugby world accepting challenges and learning on the hoof.

He was schooled in the same way as many white Springboks, at a white private school, in the Eastern Cape, from where he moved to Cape Town University where he took a BA in English and History. Ah, a man of letters, a reading man. Excellent.

From there he moved to Oxford - just another thick rugby player, many mean-spirited souls will cry - but he took blues in both rugby and cricket. He once hit three sixes in an over off Ian Botham. English, history, rugby AND cricket. I'm unashamedly biased.

Back in South Africa he won 4 consecutive Currie Cups with Western Province and won 2 caps for the Springboks.

His coaching career began in Italy at Rovigo from where he moved to Saint-Claude in France. He then coached Boland back in South Africa, then the Springboks assistant coach before being appointed head coach in 1997.

If it hadn't been for typical stubbornness and political infighting of the SARFU, who knows what Mallett could have achieved. He took the Boks on a record winning streak of 17 wins, including an unbeaten Tri-Nations. His time with his national side ended after his relationship with the captain Gary Teichmann soured and Mallett spoke out against high ticket prices. Instead of going through a disciplinary hearing for allegedly "bringing the game into disrepute", he resigned.

He returned to coaching in 2000 with Stade Francais, to whom he brought domestic titles in 2003 and 2004. Success. It was then back to Western Province before taking up the Italy job. The very fact that he took the Italy job is highly laudable. A coach of his calibre would have enjoyed more success at any of the top clubs in the world and most national sides. It says a great deal about him that he took on such a challenge. Italy moved forward under Mallett, slowly but forward, and there are greater issues in Italian rugby that are outwith the remit of the head coach of the international side.

He's also consistently won with the Barbarians - crucial wins with a dying franchise playing an impressive style of rugby. With two hours practice on a Tuesday and another two hours on a Thursday, these wins are not to be sniffed at.

As a rugby coach, his credentials are some of the best around. As a person, likewise. The culture he will create will be a winning one, with no excuses. In many ways he reminds me of Clive Woodward in his professional outlook. This is no time to pick a candidate to learn on the job. England must start winning, the resources are too great to make mistakes.

Technically he is clearly adept. He is used to media pressure and the PR skills that come with it - something that Wayne Smith shied away from - and he clearly loves a challenge. He's always succeeded and played good rugby, too. For England to get to where they should be, it has to be Mallett.

"Petty, Arrogant"...Fully Vindicated.

On what basis should an international rugby squad be picked? Should it be on 'form', this mystically subjective word, or class? Was Beefy Botham right in his confident assertion that 'form is temporary, class is permanent?'

In the run up to Scotland's first match in this 6 Nations, various people were worried about the squad not being picked on form, and instead on performances from several months ago. Ross Rennie was one such player under discussion.

Having not played a huge amount for his club side this season, some felt that his selection wasn't merited. How can he be expected to perform for his national side when he can't even get in his club side, they wailed.

No, I said, don't be so silly. I want a Scotland squad made up of the best players. If someone's form has shown them to be one of the best players then they are welcome in the squad. But form is not class, and form is not ability. It is too myopic.

It also assumes that just because a player has performed at club level that they will seamlessly rise to the challenges of international rugby. This sort of thinking is simplistic in the extreme. Yes, many do, and if in doubt, we should test these players out. That's the only way we will really know. But they must show both the form and the class.

In Rennie's case, he had proven the class, over and over again. This season, when he played for Edinburgh, he showed his class. He was clearly one of the best players Scotland has, yet some were questioning his place in the squad because of 'form'.

I took great exception to this before the England match and told all and sundry that Ross Rennie was world class and would prove it. Many joined me in this, the collective sticking out of our necks and standing up for the selection of a class player. We watched the England game hopeful, but with no shortage of expectation that class would show.

Of course, we were right all along. Andy Robinson was also right, picking a class player with scant regard paid to how many matches he has played this season. It is hard to avoid a 'told you so...' in the wake of these barnstorming performances, but those who were wrong should admit they were wrong, and if they need a little encouragement then I am more than happy to provide it.

What we have is a potential British & Irish Lion on our hands. These are world class performances. Being proved right isn't about being personal or taunting those who were proved to be wrong, but taking joy in one of our world class players. Let us be positive about class, not negative about 'form'.

Wales host Scotland: To 'Mordor' and Beyond

A Scot from Edinburgh and a Welshman from Llanelli, both exiled in Devon, went day-tripping to Cardiff. That's not the start of a bad joke, but the beginning of a typically atypical 6 Nations story.

From Exeter to Bristol Temple Meads and then on to Cardiff would be our itinerary.

There were exiled Welsh in Exeter who joined us, and then more at every stop the train made. There were Scots, too, in particular one kilted Borderer who proudly wore a South of Scotland shirt. He got on in the rural backwater of Tiverton, proving that you can take the man out the Borders...

My 'see you Jimmy' hat was drawing more and more attention as we reached nearer Bristol, upon where I began to blend seamlessly into the hoards of Scots. I had only previously been to Wales to play rugby in Cardiff - my focus was not on looking out the window on those occasions. Today, though, I was at leisure to take in the joyful and energetic scenery of South Wales. If that sounds facetious and overly harsh on the places that the train struggled through, then I apologise. It's industrial, clearly once thriving but now jaded in the extreme and clearly breeds good rugby players as well as good rugby people.

Cardiff Central train station is very central indeed, and we enjoyed our walk to collect our tickets. I made full use of the time to warm up my voice, humming Men of Harlech before downright shouting Bread of Heaven. I was not going to turn up to the Millennium unprepared. 

A Level geographers might see Cardiff as an excellent example of city centre regeneration. It's a pretty town centre, pedestrianised and so on. I was pleasantly surprised, though that reflects more on me than on Cardiff.

It was also a rugby town, a proper bone fide rugby town full of rugby people. Flags flying, rugby shops, the whole place geared towards rugby just like Limerick and Perpignan.

Not being an adventurous creature, me, I joined the sizeable queue in Gregg's to pick up some lunch. It was as if every Scot had seen the queue and felt it was their moral duty to buy a cheese and ham melt.

Well fed, with the voice box loosening up nicely, we joined the throngs. I was surprised at how close the Arm's Park was to the Millennium Stadium. It seems silly that Cardiff Blues play in a half empty football stadium and not this compact ground with so much history. 

The Millennium deserves every inch of its reputation. It is so much more impressive than the Stade de France, Murrayfield and the rest. So steep, with the crowd so close. And then the singing. About 60 middle aged to elderly gentlemen trooped out, with the brass band and the now customary goat, and began to sing the classics. 'Delilah' was huge, 'Bread of Heaven' everything I hoped it would be.

I was sitting next to a very inebriated middle aged Welsh woman who clearly has unresolved issues surrounding Leigh Halfpenny. These issues will not be solved in the near future. It seems to me that Welsh women broadly fit into one of four categories: Katherine Jenkins, Charlotte Church, Nessa or Stella - the final two are Ruth Jones characters. My teary, beery, companion, she was a 'Nessa'.

Scotland looked promising at times. Their scramble defence is world class. Stuart Hogg is pure class. Blair should have started, proving lots of people right. Ross Rennie was world class once again, proving that you don't have to play every week for your club side to justify your place in the national team.

I wrote last week, fairly angrily, at what I saw to be a growing and misplaced arrogance from Welsh fans, pundits and former players. They really are an arrogant bunch, but after a day in amongst them, it's easy to see why. They take it so seriously, far more than Scottish fans. They believe their rugby history is far more impressive and it defines their national identity far more than in Scotland. All this is hard to argue with. And they sing, and shout, and make noise and they're positive towards their own team and not unreasonably unwelcoming to opposition teams.

To paraphrase Jim Telfer, they think all the rugby is with them.

So rather than castigate the Welsh, I hope the Scots become more like them. Of course no one wants Andy Nicol to become Jonathan Davies, but we could do with taking a bit more pride in our achievements, our rugby history and traditions, a Scottish style of play, making our players our heroes and national icons. This is all tricky to do. Wales simply like rugby more than Scotland. They have a smaller population but consistently bigger crowds - it's their national sport. It matter more to more people.

For us, it's a minority game where small factions argue against smaller factions and don't buy tickets and moan about the prices and moan about the players and the coach and rejoice when they retire and seem to take a masochistic pleasure in the whole goddamed thing.

Today was a wonderful day, despite the result. I have a new found grudging respect for the Welsh and for how seriously they take their rugby. I still hope France beat them in the Grand Slam decider, but I left Cardiff thoroughly impressed with the whole thing and heady with the much clichéd brotherhood of the 6 Nations.

The Growing and Misplaced Arrogance in Welsh Rugby

There is a growing arrogance in Welsh rugby that I really hope gets shown up on Sunday afternoon.

Ever since the World Cup, all I have come across is self-righteous indignation from everyone from Jonathan Davies to Jonathan Davies to Warren Gatland and every Welsh captain from the past 50 years. You were good in the 1970s, we get it. The only humility has come from Sam Warburton.

First there was his red card, one of the best and most courageous decisions I have ever seen a referee take. The tackle was dangerous and Vincent Clerc's neck was put in considerable danger. If someone mentions this justified red card one more time, I am no longer responsible for my actions.

Alain Rolland, I salute you.

Then there was the utter failure to accept that Wales were responsible for their own defeat. If only their goal-kickers had the ability to knock over simple 3 points, they would have been in the World Cup final. But they consistently failed to accept their own failings.

They ended up fourth in the World Cup after a lacklustre performance against Australia in the play-off. Would it be sacrilegious to point out that this glittering Wales side won just as many games as England? Tricky point to accept for many in the valleys.

Then in the Autumn, Wales lost again to Australia. Things were starting to not add up. But this Wales side is so good? What's going on?

And then the build-up to the 6 Nations. Wales for the grand slam? They were, after all, so good in the World Cup. And aren't their backs wonderful? For that matter, yes they can be.

We're being subjected to embarrassing comparisons between the promising George North and the incomparable Jonah Lomu. Any rugby fan who saw Lomu will now be doubled up with laughter. British & Irish Lions teams are being suggested, packed with Welshmen, those traditionally bad tourists.

This Wales team has achieved nothing of note. Until they achieve something, excuse me for reacting rather coolly to all this hype. As I said, you were good in the 70s, we get it.

Let's see this potential turned into something, then we'll bow down to the superior greatness of Welsh rugby, how important it is in your valleys, how skilful your number 10s always are, how wonderful Max Boyce is and how beautiful Katherine Jenkins is. Until then, pipe down, Davies.

Keeping the Bard Happy

This blog does, in its title, include the phrase 'Bard's Place' - my rather limp effort to make an appropriate pun out of the common phrase. I write often about the 'Ruck' but less about the Bard.

Perhaps this is because most of my time these days is on the reading and writing rather than the rugby, a sorry consequence of being the not-so proud owner of the two most impertinent ankles in Devon, if not the whole world.

Shakespeare: not all he is cracked up to be. He is no longer viewed as the "timeless and transhistorical figure" that we have deified him as. The Shakespeare we read today - who actually does this? - is a collaborative effort. The words have been through so many grubby pairs of hands that attributing these words to some genius is impossible. There is little originality in his work, taking old stories, buffing them up, twisting the ending to titillate Queen and pauper alike. He saw no lasting value in his plays and hated how they impacted on his more prestigious reputation as a writer of sonnets.

This is all information that should be crucial to A Level and GCSE syllabi. Currently, many pupils fail to 'get' Shakespeare and then, whilst still accepting that he is the genius, it becomes their problem, never that of the great bard. Disabusing pupils of the outdated view of Shakespeare can only be positive.

Another module, grandly named 'The Poem' takes us on a crash course through poetry and the techniques that the Greats have used. The elephant in the room, however, is that the vast majority of these poets are dead - not surprising, given that more people are now dead than are currently alive, of course. But poetry is dying. Maybe it is still a 'higher art' but consumers don't think so. All the best writers of our age write prose, often exclusively, a state of affairs which was not the case a century ago.

Some casual surfing of the web brought me to this: spoken word poetry. Perhaps this is the future, the saviour? Edinburghscreenworks.co.uk summed it up best in their review of the leading practitioner:

"If you are knowleagble in the works of Seamus Heaney, go to this show. If you're more familiar with Eminem's discography, go to this show"

Mark Grist, a former teacher, tours around the country, on the stage and often competing in 'Rap Battles' with teenagers who dress funny and whose only connection with poetry is through rap. Maybe poetry is alive and well, just not as we know it.

 

Dan Parks: A Tribute and a Warning

We should begin with some obvious but often neglected words: "you cannot be any better than you are." That is not to neglect improvement, of course we can always improve. But everyone has a natural limit and not everyone will become Dan Carter. What a boring game it would be if every number 10 was like Dan Carter.

The second obvious, but often neglected phrase is: "just try your best". What more can anyone do? Does anyone deny that Dan Parks always tried his best?

The third phrase is evident but equally neglected: "no one picks themselves".

So it is with these three phrases in mind that we can evaluate the premature retirement of Dan Parks. It is absolutely premature, as it always is when a fit and healthy player retires after just one game in the 6 Nations.

Dan Parks has been a good and honest servant to Scottish Rugby. Like many players, he came over to play when progression in Australia was no longer an option. Who can hold that against him? Not I; we live in professional times. Parks was not the first and he will not be the last.

Few will argue that he was a limited international fly-half. His left hand pass was very ropey indeed and whole crowds would wince when he threw a loopy lofted left-handed effort, often eschewing the spin-pass in favour of some other hybrid. He rarely took the ball to the line and he was really quite slow. The same crowd would gasp in horror when he decided to feint and go - what was he attempting? - and, finally, he was a poor tackler and a worse defender. I am in no position to condemn him for any of these faults - which of us are? - especially the last two.

Anyone educated in rugby football knows that there have been much worse fly-halves to defend alongside.

But what Parks did well, he did very well indeed. His odd kicking style, with his odder style of boot, has spawned a whole generation of Scottish kickers. For several seasons I adopted this slinging, round-the-corner style, trying to drill the ball into the corner like Parks did with such ease. He was ballsy, too, often just dropping the ball in-field, giving the full-back hope, before beating him to touch.

When his right leg was swinging well, he was the best tactical kicker in the world. Better than O'Gara and really he was the only other 10 who could claim to be such an expert.

His goal-kicking, too, was something to be admired. Stuart Barnes once said something like, "I have immense respect for anyone who can kick goals in international rugby." So few seem to recognise this. While Dan may have shirked a tackle, he never shirked a shot at goal. Perhaps that was the Aussie in him. He was a fighter.

Too often when Parks had led his team deep into opposition territory, he would opt for the drop-goal. Maybe he knew his limitations and those of his team. Certainly, some were the correct choice and others were emphatically not.

More often than not, his drop-goals were ugly. I salute him. There is nothing more beautiful than an ugly drop-goal.

It is deeply distressing that a player has felt so low that he feels he has nothing more to give, that his best option is to walk away. Parks has had bad games, bad campaigns, but has always fought back. This time, clearly, he hasn't the energy. And so many people to fight against! Whether he should be picked or not really has nothing to do with him. No. 3: "no one picks themselves."

I hope this is a wake-up call to Scottish Rugby fans, and all those who allowed their feelings on a matter of selection (controlled by a coach) to focus on the player. Players are pawns: they try their hardest, they try to improve at all times and it is the coach who controls his pieces. Debate should be directed to Robinson, not Parks. His failings are his failings, not his fault.

Who will the Scotsman commenting mafia turn their ignorant ire to next? Who will they hound out? Who will become the next symbol of Scottish failure? Whoever it is - and it will be someone - I cannot feel sorry for them enough.

Dan Parks is clearly a very likeable chap and is hugely respected by his peers. That's the important legacy, the esteem he is held in by those whose faces "are marred by dust and sweat and blood," not what JockyBadger from Bathgate thinks of you.

To conclude, let us return to our three unalterable and unchanging facts of international rugby:
1. You cannot be any better than you are/your failings are your failings, not your fault.
2. They are all trying their best.
3. No one picks themselves.

This is a sad day for Scottish Rugby, let's hope we all learn the lessons.