No cause for applause

If you were at Murrayfield at the weekend you would have been part of the minute's silence observed in memory of Bill McLaren, a man who did so much to preserve the spirit of Rugby Union in his popular TV commentaries.

When McLaren was at the microphone it was a commentary, not a conversation between commentator and pundit interspersed with pitch-side analysis and interviews. As spectators we indulged in our own analysis and argument. Today all that is done for us.

If, on the other hand, you, like me, were part of the crowd watching England play Wales at Twickenham on Saturday, you would have been invited by the DJ-style announcer who is so in love with his own voice, to show your appreciation of McLaren with applause. I did not applaud. I applaud a great sporting moment, a fine singer a funny comedian, a great speech, but I do not applaud in death.

Come Remembrance Day when the clock strikes eleven I do not feel the urge to applaud in memory of the millions who died in wartime. I would not want to stand in the street in Wootton Bassett and applaud the funeral corteges for fallen servicemen and women in Afghanistan. In fact sometimes people don't applaud and sometimes they do. In this clip people maintain silence until (3.15 minutes on the clip) a big chap with a white shirt, black tie and tattooed arms begins clapping robustly and others follow.

The problem is that as a society we no longer know how to handle death. Respect has become an issue and we are angered by those who fail to show it: a minority in football crowds, for example. One way of drowning out the disrespectful minority is to applaud. Applause is an example of flocking behaviour that can be set off by a single individual - the same one, perhaps, who would start a Mexican wave.

This may be a feature of soccer crowds; but it does not, or at least did not, affect rugby crowds. Rugby crowds are still capable of observing a minute's silence - just. I say "just" because the rugby union crowd is changing, manipulated by commercialism.

Rugby matches used to be great singing occasions, as did football cup finals. I can remember when the Twickenham crowd sang Jerusalem during the game. Today they manage a few lines of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. On the way to the England v Wales match, the England fans would sing a song, then call on the Welsh who never failed to do likewise. Not any more. As we made our way to the match on Saturday the only response from a Welshman came from one of our own group who sang a fine and and faultlessly delivered Land of My Fathers in his native tongue.

On Saturday a big choir came out on to the Twickenham pitch and sang Jerusalem before the game. But the crowd didn't sing along much. Perhaps some do not know the words but these could be displayed on the big screens.

Singing, sadly, seems to be on a decline on great sporting occasions - as opposed to abusive chanting which is something else. Some football fans may think it is amusing to compile a verse on the latest sexual adventures of John Terry, the captain of Chelsea. That is a reflection of the cruelty of people who don't know how to behave towards would-be role models who also don't know how to behave.

When England scored their last try that sealed victory in a closely fought match, a few of the crowd near me started up the mocking football chant: "You're not singing any more." That didn't use to happen. Traditionally there has been banter between fans at rugby matches but, for the most part, it is harmless stuff, not underpinned with the kind of tribalism you get in football.

Another thing - and I guess this is fairly harmless - there seems to be a growing fondness for declaring group identity at these matches in fancy dress. On Saturday I saw blokes dressed as bunnies, some in Elvis wigs and some with flame hair wigs. This trend seems to have been imported from cricket crowds. This eagerness to suppress our individuality behind such themed uniformity betrays a deep psychological need to belong (says this armchair psychologist).

More rugby old fart blogs on remarkably similar lines (I forget from match to match) can be found here, here, here and here.

England v Ireland with Statler and Waldorf

Let me tell you about Stuart who you may have met in two previous blogs – the trip to France and Camp Dick. I have known him a long time. He is one of life’s gentlemen, a beacon of values that are fading fast in the rest of society.

He likes things that are built to last, is suspicious of change and remains implacably opposed to what I might call the “disposable society.” Instinctively I know that Stuart would have no problems with a charge on plastic bags.

He is wearing the same Tricker's shoes he was wearing thirty years ago and has a Morris Traveller that is nearly as old as I am, that is still driven regularly, and that still works just fine. “The mechanics like to work on it because it has bits of familiar machinery that remind them of a real car,” he says.

We were sitting together high up in the east stand at Twickenham for the England v Ireland match. Stuart’s match commentary was fairly predictable, demanding that I take note of various nuances.

Rule changes

He didn’t approve of the move from the amateur to professional codes. Now he worries that Australian and commercial influences could further undermine the game he knows and loves. The Australians are favouring rule changes that will dilute the power of the scrum. Indeed some believe they would happily do away with the scrum altogether.

The danger here, says Stuart, is that we could be left with two teams of powerful running athletes, much as you have in Rugby League. This would be the beginning of the end for the slower, scrapping, forward who, he argues, has been the stalwart of club rugby throughout the history of the game.

So yesterday, when, after two or three phases of play, Stuart was spotting forwards such as Lee Mears and Phil Vickery, standing in ball-receiving positions, he was almost apoplectic. Why weren’t they in the rucks where they should have been?

Inflated prices

Meanwhile a couple of chaps in front of us were up and down like jack-in-a-boxes to visit the bars that are now open during the game. This never happened at one time but corporate greed now loses no opportunity to sell beer and pies at inflated prices while play is carrying on.

This meant that each of these two so-called supporters was missing large chunks of the game. But it wasn’t the beer drinking that upset Stuart. After the second England try, the man in front of him - a big bloke - rose out of his seat and started jigging from side to side. Stuart (who is not a large man – he played at scrum-half) tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to sit down.

The big man took umbrage at this and argued, with some justification perhaps, that he had not obscured our vision while the try was being scored. Then the big man’s friend joined in, shouting abuse at Stuart. It was starting to get ugly. Stuart was wearing a thin smile that had nothing to do with laughter. This was bad news for me since the first rule of mates is to stand by your mate. So I adopted the role of appeaser, saying “let’s calm it mate,” to the man who was not my mate.

Football supporter

But Stuart had taken against them. He didn’t like the way the jeans of the big man were hanging around his bottom. Neither did I. In fact the man was marked, in oh so many ways, as a “football supporter.” His hair was cropped short. He had too many gold rings on one finger. Indeed, he looked like he had never seen a piece of Tweed, never mind worn one.

Stuart does not approve of the behaviour of football supporters - you know the sort who bare their chest at matches - and is fearful that their ilk will invade our precious game. I share his fears. Fortunately our new friends did the football supporter thing and left before the end of the game. I noticed too, with some satisfaction, that they remained seated for the third England try.

By that time the match had been changed by a whole string of replacements. The game has allowed far too many substitutions. When fewer were allowed there used to be high scoring finales as the sides tired and made mistakes. Today the result is usually apparent within 10 minutes of the end of play.

Old farts

Of course such sentiments and criticisms mean that we and every other member of our small but happy group who go to the rugby internationals have become died-in-the-wool “old farts.” But if the older generation does nothing to educate the latest one, how will we preserve traditions of good behaviour?

As it is, few people know the words to songs anymore, not even Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. I struggle with some of the longer songs so have taken to using a song-sheet. Even this risks censure from those who think that knowing the words should be mandatory.

But I cannot hope to remember every verse of American Pie and there are times, such as during our post match singsong in the Prince Blucher, when you find someone who does know all the words and who needs a bit of help. Personally I prefer folk or classic pop themes, such as this one, to some of the baser rugby ditties, but there is a time and place for all things. It turned in to an excellent sing song (Simon, one of my fellow songsters provides a short history of Prince Blucher here).

Cheeky girls

So what about the game? Well, predictably the sports writers concentrated on personalities, overdoing the superlatives reserved for Danny Cipriani, and doing so in a way that belittled Jonny Wilkinson when both men played well and played well together. It was a vast improvement on the Scotland v England match that was ruined by the conditions.

I worry about Cipriani though. If you want to stay out of the tabloids, stay away from trans-sexuals and the Cheeky girls. Was this a sign of things to come? I probably came across him when he was a youngster when Robert, my middle son (now 21), was playing for Chobham. We often played Rosslyn Park where Cipriani played. Each of those junior teams had their star players and it’s nice to see one or two breaking through in to the international game.

Sadly the French did not beat the Welsh who can be insufferable in victory. At least the Welsh have a new hero in Shane Williams whose rugby is outshining that of Gavin Henson as much as Henson’s tan outshines the pallid (but authentic) complexions of his team mates. His skin is so orange I’m surprised he isn’t sponsored by Outspan.

Drinking vouchers

One last moan: the ticket prices at Twickenham have risen to ridiculous levels. My ticket cost £40 but the two middle-tier tickets I had for two of my sons each cost £68. When you have subsidised their drinking vouchers for the occasion it’s a costly day out.

On the other hand, at least going to the match means that we don’t have to listen to the discordant outpourings of Eddie Butler and Brian Moore, the Statler and Waldorf of sports commentary. We more than make up for that with our own.

Rugby, Pride and a prelude to Lent

A big breakfast today ahead of the England v Wales game at Twickenham and the gallons of London Pride that must be consumed before and afterwards.

The ritual is generally the same - down to the pub for noon, a few pints then off to catch the bus in Richmond that takes us to the ground.

But today is different because the match does not start until 4.30 pm and this plays havoc with the pre-match drinking. Peak too early and you're watching the game in a daze.

Ticket cock-up

So we're starting at the pub at noon as usual but - and this is the new bit - we are going have lunch in an Italian restaurant and that may mean wine.

I'm hoping that the catastrophic ticket cock-up has been resolved. We source our tickets collectively through various reliable avenues but this year the northern supply was a bit thin. Still the southern end was holding up, but there was a misunderstanding between the poles and one of the core group of regulars looks as if he might miss out and that's very bad indeed.

It has happened before in away matches but I can't recall such an oversight at a home match.

Another brick...

If we get to the ground early enough we shall be able to see "the brick". The brick was sponsored by Simon, aka The Philanderer and has been inscribed by various nicknames. On this occasion, for obvious reasons mine is "Scoop." It's part of some wall they've built and this our small bid for imortallity (until they knock down the ground).

This will be my last drinking session before the start of Lent next week. But I can't give up drinking for Lent because of other intervening rugby internationals. So I'm trying to think of a suitable sacrifice. I might give up milk instead. Should be doable.

Postscript: In the end we were deluged with tickets, enough for me to take two sons, Rob and George (and subsidise them). The restaurant booking was a disaster since we all turned up 20 minutes late and, understandably, they had given away the table, so it was back to the pub. A 4.30 pm kick off was far too late. It meant that by the time the game has usually ended England were well in the lead. This might explain their eventual loss - their body clocks were all thrown and they forgot about the second half. Luckily after the match we managed to find a pub. Later, that same instinct that guides homing pigeons back to their lofts brought us home. Just two weeks to recover and it's over to Paris: bring on the French.

Rugby v football

Well it's Thursday and there hasn't been a phone call promising a day to remember at the Rugby Union World Cup final. It's too much to hope. World Cup finals are reserved for A-list clients in corporate entertainment and I doubt if I'm even C-list.

Besides I prefer to watch my rugby with the same lads who have been getting together for Twickenham matches for the past 30 years. The routine is always the same. A few beers before the match, always at the same pub in the same few square feet at one end of the bar, then down to the bus and a sing song on the top deck all the way to the ground. Always the same songs.

When we were in our early twenties we used to look at the "old farts" in their Barbour raincoats and wonder whether we would turn out like that - and we did. But we still have a lot of fun.

The routine changed a bit when they built the new stand and got rid of the old West Stand bar where a chap in a sheepskin coat we used to know as Beastie would climb on to the stanchions and go through his Beastie routine.

I like the home internationals and the odd trip to Ireland or France because its an opportunity for blokes to be blokes, tell a few jokes, have a few debates that never get too serious, drink a bit more than we should and sometimes fall over although there is always a magical homing instinct that somehow transports you back to your doorstep.

One of the lads, Simon, sent over a great link to this rugby inspired piece of viral marketing. It made me laugh anyway. Simon's is the Philanderer blog listed down the side of mine. Rugby tours, golf, tours, what's the difference? As he explains here, some things never change.

I can't see England winning on Saturday but then I couldn't see them beating the Australians or France. I don't think my old ticker can stand another tight match. But another Springbok walk over is also too shameful to contemplate. As Stuart, another rugby mate, said after South Africa's 36-0 beating of England earlier in the tournament, "England were lucky to score nil" on that occasion.

Could England walk over South Africa? I very much doubt it. But we can dream. How about 21-0 to England at half time? Even in that unlikely event I would still be biting my nails with some justification.

I'm not superstitious but some people believe that things go in threes. Suppose the England football team has kicked off a run that includes the loss of the world cup final this weekend and Lewis Hamilton losing out in Brazil? I'm really very very sorry for planting that thought but a worry shared is a worry halved so there you have it. Go England!

Jonny Wilkinson discovers levitation

England v Scotland, Twickenham, 2007 : a match that will linger in the memory for those who follow the English Rugby Union team through thick and thin. There has been more thin than thick of late but this match made up for all those miserable performances in the last couple of years.

The pre-match preparations in Richmond were as intensive as ever. Early doors in the pub, money in the kitty, serious drinking then down to the bus, top deck, and the start of the singing, including a few Scottish anthems in tribute to the visitors.

This was the first game back in an English shirt at Twickenham for Jonny Wilkinson since he kicked the winning goal in the 2003 Rugby World Cup. Some of us wondered whether he would last the first half but as soon as we saw the familiar bum-jutting, leg-jiggling ritual ahead of his first penalty kick the memories came flooding back.

Wilkinson doesn't miss many kicks. His ability to put them over from the touchline and rack up the points gives confidence to forwards and backs alike. His tackling and positioning stiffens the line and this time his battered frame stood up to the punishment. New cap Andy Farrell still feeling his way at inside centre, must have been glad that there was someone to share the attention.

It wasn't just Wilkinson either. Jason Robinson was back and, even without too many of his trademark jinking runs, still managed to score two tries. But it was the strength and punch of Harry Ellis that had us talking after the match, that and Wilkinson's precision kicking. OK, he might not have quite mastered the art of levitation, as it seemed he had with his one-handed try in the corner, but he was walking on water as far as we were concerned.

Post match we always sing, win or lose, but this was one of the classic sing songs with everyone standing on their chairs in the pub singing, "We're climbing up the sunshine mountain." There's still a big mountain to climb before the World Cup but it's nice to enjoy some sunshine at last.

The Scots tested England with some penetrating kicks and two deserved tries but really there was only one team on the day. Ireland at Croke Park will be something else. England will need to play out of their socks to beat an experienced Irish side on their own patch. But if Wilkinson can stay injury free, and that's a big "if", anything can happen. A new season, a new coach and everything has changed.

Former coach, Andy Robinson, said he would not have played Wilkinson. Few would have criticised him for that. But sometimes - as new coach Brian Ashton might argue - sometimes you have to take risks and sometimes you just get lucky. Whatever happens for the rest of the season after this 42-20 win, this was one for the memories - the day that Jonny Wilkinson returned and all of us fortunate enough to have had a ticket will say: "I was there".