Back In Black

Gary Lineker once famously said, about football, that "Twenty-two men chase a ball for 90 minutes, and, at the end, the Germans always win"

To some extent, the same blunt summation can be reapplied to "rugby union", "thirty men", "80 minutes", and "New Zealand".  As I have mentioned previously in this blog, that sport is synonymous with that nation, so it may be somewhat surprising to some people, to learn that, until earlier today, the All Blacks had never won a world title outside of their homeland.

I wasn't lucky enough to obtain tickets for the final in the ballot, but I was in attendance at the semi final game with South Africa.  When purchasing tickets for a game in the knockout stages some months in advance, it is never possible to fully predict the identities of the combatants - Team A, Team B or Team C could play Team X, Team Y or Team Z.  Although I had traced the draw through to the final four, and had a fair idea that NZ vs SA was a very plausible combination of teams.  The Springboks' surprise defeat by Japan in the group stages threatened to throw a spanner in the works, but, in the end, those two great nations got to meet once more, in the sport's biggest stage.  And I got to see the contest in person.

At Twickenham, despite the supposedly random nature of the ticket allocation process, there were some very visible pockets of both NZ fans and SA fans.  My seat was in the middle of a group of NZ fans, which pleased me somewhat, because I do have quite a soft spot for the All Blacks team.  The family sat immediately beside me told me that they had flown from NZ to the UK 10 weeks previously, and had stayed in this country for all that time, to cheer their nation on to glory - quite some commitment of time and effort!!

I'm not old enough to remember any Springboks games from before the years of isolation, but I have learned about the amateur pre-RWC rivalry between these two nations.  I know about 1976.  The tour.  The controversy.  The resultant Olympic boycott of 25 African nations.  Also, as covered earlier, I remember 1995.  The story of Madiba.  And Francois.  And Jonah.  And...... Suzie...

The 2015 semi final did not disappoint.  This was not a game of flair and exhuberance, with dashing tries scored by comic book heroes in neatly starched collars.  Rather, this was a war of attrition, fought in Twickenham's muddy trenches.  With the sound of each brutal tackle that I heard with alarming quality through my £10 referee earpiece, I became more and more cognizant of how much this rivalry truly meant to the current generation of men in Black and Green shirts, as they battled, mano a mano, for each and every ball.

So, for my final picture, in this, my last blog entry, I give you a shot I took at the final whistle, as the All Blacks secured passage to today's final.

To summarise and conclude this blog, the Rugby World Cup Experience has provided me with a great insight into this fine sport.  The Rugby Southern Hemisphere Experience has far surpassed anything from north of the equator.  We saw a strong Argentina team comfortably beat the supposed leading light of the Six Nations, to reach a second Semi Final in three tournaments. We saw South Africa recover from an initial calamity, to achieve a respectable final position.  We saw Australia battle with 13 men to hold off Wales, and run rampant with 15 men, to rip the wheels of England's sweet chariot.  But, in the final reckoning, the New Zealanders deservedly won a first overseas World Cup.


I would love to go to the Olympics in Japan in 2020.  But maybe, just maybe, I could be tempted as well by Japan's big 2019 sports offering, which will be the next edition, of the Rugby World Cup.

Ka Mate, Ka Mate, Ka Ora, Ka Ora

An Englishman walks into a bar...  He doesn't find any Scotsmen, Welshmen or Irishmen to partake in the joke with him, because they are all still at the Rugby World Cup, whilst the dear Englishman is not...

This has pretty-much been the state of play, since the Australia debacle 2 weeks ago.  It has been 16 years since the World Cup final was played on our final island.  24 years since the final was played at the home of rugby.  As anti-climaxes go, England's failure to negotiate the group stage is quite notable.

Although, in very recent times, English sporting failure has been endemic.  In the past 16 months, Men's World Cups have been played at Football, Cricket and Rugby.  In all 3 cases, the England team's burning dreams of ambition were extinguished by the end of the preliminary group games.  Compare and contrast with Team GB's 29 gold medals in the London 2012 Olympics (I may have mentioned that I wrote a blog at the time of that event, as well)... ;) and with the recent successes of our Women's teams, on the football and rugby pitches.

As for an inquest into what went wrong, I couldn't help noticing a current England player (and rather an arrogant chap at that, I might add) strutting around the Twickenham pitch prior to one of the group games with his dearly beloved selfie stick.  In this age of enhanced social media, it is all too easy to dedicate much energy to appeasing one's Twitter and Facebook devotees, at the expense of a tough training session, or of some quality team-bonding.

Anyway, onto the topic of the latest two games which I attended, where the pre-match rituals thankfully did not involve selfie sticks, but rather involved the traditional war dances of Oceania.  I'm sure we are all familiar with New Zealand's Haka (one of which, Ka Mate, has always been my sentimental favourite), but the below video, which I shot in Newcastle, represented an extra-special rendition of the Haka, intertwined with Tonga's own Kailao dance.  The obvious passion, togetherness and brotherhood of the two competing groups of men really is a sight to behold.

I also had this great view of the Samoan Siva Tau at last weekend's other game.

Amazingly, I only have one more live game to attend, which will be the first Semi Final.  This was originally billed as "Winner of Quarter Final 1" versus "Winner of Quarter Final 2", which has now manifested into New Zealand versus South Africa.  As I said in a previous blog entry, the previous World Cup which I remember with the most nostalgia was from 1995, and this game will be a rematch of that edition's epic final (Invictus and all that...)  Speaking of which, at the Samoa game, I was sat this close to World Cup legends Francois Pienaar & Jason Robinson (plus Ian McGeechan & Mark Durden-Smith)

Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau

For these blog posts, which are tied to the World Cup games that I'm attending, I generally have a broad idea before the game of the anticipated content, which I then refine, by adding observations, thoughts (and general rambling...) from the live games, to back up the initial broader thoughts.

With this in mind, as I prepared to head to Twickenham for last Saturday's headline-grabbing clash between England and Wales, I already had some plans in mind for this post.  The title of the post would be "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot", and the content would be a celebration of the way that the patriotic crowd had inspired the hosts to a fine victory, against the plucky opponents.

It is fair to say that these plans had to be changed somewhat...

I won't go into too much detail about the game itself - I assume you already know by now that the Welsh were triumphant.  But what I said above about concept of a patriotic crowd inspiring a nation still held very true, with respect to the Welsh contingent in the crowd, which apparently numbered 20,000, or 25% of the total Twickenham attendance.  The gentleman sat to my right was a Welshman, as was the guy sat behind me.  From the moment that they belted out the uplifting national anthem, "Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau" pre-game, and through several word-perfect renditions of "Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer", the voices from the valleys served only to inspire the men in red, out on the pitch.  The Sweet Chariot was malfunctioning somewhat...

As I said in my last post, there is a huge amount of respect built into the culture of Rugby Union.  When the aforementioned Welsh chap took his seat beside me before the game (and, he appeared to be a prop forward, so it sure was a cosy 80 minutes...) he shook my hand, and wished me all the best.  At the final whistle, I shook his hand and congratulated him on the win.  Can you really imagine such a scene occurring between rival Premier League football fans?  I somehow struggle to visualise such a scenario...

The walk from Twickenham station to the stadium certainly isn't dull.  For those who have never been to the home of rugby, it is located in quite a middle-class area of London (even borderline upper-class).  Street food, and other souvenirs, are sold from the gardens of these properties on match day.  I'm not sure how the logistics and financials are worked between the home-owners and the stall-owners, but this all adds to the occasion of the day.  Also, nobody can fault the sweet smell of street food!  Here is a picture I took on Saturday, showing the scene, with the stadium in the background.

Anyway, I'm skipping the live games next weekend, as the only available ticket prices I could find for England vs Australia were somewhere on the other side of the line the sand that represents value for money... but more live games... and more general rambling... will follow, later in the tournament!

The Round Ball... or The Oval Ball?

"Football is a game for gentlemen played by hooligans, whilst rugby is a game for hooligans played by gentlemen".

Twickenham is a very different sporting venue to any that I have previously attended.  The accents spoken by those in attendance wouldn't be out of place at Oxbridge, nor in one of Central London's legal chambers.  At one stage last Saturday, 6 "chaps" strolled past me in a group, each one dressed impeccably in matching tweed jackets, along with collar, tie, etc.  Jolly good, old fellow, jolly good...

Also, the physical dimensions of a rugby supporter stand out from the norm.  I attend many football matches, and often feel, with my 6'1" frame, like the character of Gulliver, on his travels to Lilliput, as I gaze at the assembled masses of short, but loud, supporters.  When attending a rugby match, however, many of my fellow spectators have been observed to be 6'8" and upwards, and of a very sturdy and muscular build... and this is just the women......

Spectators are provided (for a fee) with an ear-piece, connected to the referee's microphone.  Other than the very audible bone-crunching collisions between players, something else that is obvious via this handy piece of equipment is the level of respect shown from the players towards the referee.  The referee is always referred to as "Sir", and no bad language is ever used.  Compare and contrast with our dear national sport, in which it doesn't take a degree in lip-reading to identify the liberal usage of Anglo-Saxon terminology, towards the much-maligned "man in black".

Only last weekend, I saw a football game on TV where one prima donna footballer struck another prima donna footballer twice in the face, before chest-bumping him to the ground, whilst a third prima donna footballer showed up on the scene, engaged in some pushing, shoving and back-heeling, which ultimately resulted in a red card, and lots of somewhat childish acrimony between two managers, who refuse to engage on any level with one another at the best of times.  In rugby, respect is always very obvious, as the quotation at the top of this blog post sums up very nicely.

As the game I attended last Saturday was contested by France and Italy, there were also many nationals from those two countries in attendance, which made for a very cosmopolitan feel at the venue.  Les Bleus (always Les Bleus, never Les Rouges, despite the colours being worn) won both the vocal contest in the stands, and the sporting contest on the field of play.

The loudest cheer of the day, however, was reserved for prior to the game, as everyone gathered around the nearest TV screen to watch the unfolding action from the game at Brighton.  The edition of the Rugby World Cup that I remember with the most clarity from my youth was from 1995 - the tournament clashed with my GCSE exams, and presented a great, and maybe excessive, alternative to revision.  In that tournament, Messrs Mandela & Pienaar marked a South African triumph, whilst I still remember watching every moment of Japan's painful 145-17 demolition by the All Blacks.  Just 20 years later, the scenes that I watched unfold on the TV screen of the Stadium bar last Saturday, of Japan defeating the Springboks, truly represented one of the great upset victories of all time... indeed, arguably the greatest upset victory of all time... in any sport.


I wonder if a well-known 1999 quote can be reapplied, in this instance?  If so, then the quote would read:

"Rugby...  Bloody Hell...!!"

World In Union

Rugby.  And Blogging.  Not two words that would typically be synonymous with me.

But, as for the blogging, something happened in 2012 - I wrote a blog on the Olympics, and it was rather well received... I'd even say, it was VERY well received.  More for the quality, I hasten to add, of my narratives, which some readers were surprised to see extending beyond the monosyllabic, and less for the quality of photographs from my (thankfully former) smartphone.

And, then rugby.  Being a football supporter, from the North-east of England, and being someone who was educated at his local comprehensive school, surely I don't match the typical clientele of this fine sport?  Rugby (so says the wholly factual story utterly made-up myth) was invented by William Webb Ellis, when he was playing football at Rugby School, and chose to pick up the ball and run with it.  Whilst the reaction of those around him at the time was "look at Webb Ellis, the pioneer", such a reaction would not have occurred in my school, where it would have been more a case of "look at Webb Ellis, the bleeping bleep"......

Until November 2014, I had never in my life attended a rugby match, at any level.  I then went to an autumn international involving England, and followed it up with a Six Nations game earlier this year - again, involving England.  And, with this mere 160 minutes of experience in the bank, here I am, at the start of my 2015 "project".  I don't know if this particluar "experience" will be good, bad or indifferent... but I'm more than happy to find out.

And so, the Rugby World Cup.  The quadrennial jamboree of the sport, first contested back in the amateur days of 1987 (being an oldie, I remember those days)...  Staged on British soil (at least in some part) in 1991, 1999 & 2007.  Won by England in 2003.  Returning to these shores for the 2015 edition, which kicks off at Twickenham this very evening.

Much the same as with my Olympic adventure, I bought some World Cup tickets quite early in the process, for some of the less glamouous games, and then topped up my collection some months later, thanks to a few flash sales of tickets to the more prestigious games.  It is a 6-week tournament, and I'll keep this blog updated whenever relevant to do so (and, preferably, not by typing most blog entries at 1am, as was the logistical necessity in 2012).

My first game is tomorrow night, and pits together those most passionate of neighbours, Italy and France.  Here is an extract from the pre-match email which I received... for some reason, the phrase "Allez Les Rouges" sounds inherently wrong...

Anyway, I'll leave the last words of this first blog post to Dame Kiri......