Chariots of fire

Unless you’re the sort of person whose accoutrements for a match day include a hip flask of brandy and a sheepskin coat, and whose idea of a proper terrace chant is the anti-Sassenach cry of “You can stick your fucking chariot up your arse!”, you are unlikely to have been overly excited by Ireland’s recent smitings of Australia, Fiji and Argentina in deepest Ballsbridge.

On the day of the Australia match some weeks ago, a friend and I were watching the proceedings in a pub.

“It’s nice to see them beating the Aussies and all that, but it’s hard to give a shit, really, isn’t it?” said my friend, before wandering down the other end of the bar to finish watching Liverpool lose to Middlesbrough on illegally-obtained Norwegian satellite TV.

Foul Play was indeed finding it difficult to give a flying fuck. I’ve previously used this space to mull over the reasons why rugby has a less than iron grip on the affections of most paying punters in this country, so there is little point in revisiting the subject.

Suffice to say that, for most people, the recent international wins would have aroused feelings ranging from mild satisfaction to utter apathy. (The fact that none of the three games was really much of a spectacle also comes into it.)

Not that one would guess this from a cursory reading of the Irish Times. You don’t need a week-by-week analysis of their sports pages to see clearly that they give the sport arguably more space than football and certainly far more than Gaelic games, which is a self-evidently ridiculous state of affairs. And yes, I know the Irish Times is pitched at, shall we say, a certain social demographic, but... come on.

I suppose there is some enjoyment to be gleaned from the fact that Ireland, for the first time in yonks, are now unquestionably among the world’s five premier rugby nations. But even this sudden ascension to the top table has less to do with Ireland’s own virtues than with the shocking decline of South Africa.

Watching the ’Boks the other week at Twickenham – when they resorted to savage kicks, sly punches and brutal forearm smashes out of pure frustration at being annihilated by a far better team – provoked an unfamiliar and frankly queasy sensation: that of wanting England (yep) to score as many points as possible before the end, and rub the South Africans’ squashed noses in it big-time.

But, as a wise man once said, it’s not really the done thing to allow the words “Come on, England” to pass your lips. Better by far to go the Eddie Cochran route. Come on, everybody!

Speaking of England, I see that Clive Woodward and his media cheerleaders are at it again, hyping up their chances for next year’s World Cup finals, playing lengthy avant garde solos on their own trumpets, and once again allowing loaded phrases like “best side in the world” to be recklessly bandied about.

Let’s repeat this one more time for the hard of hearing. Australia are world champions, unlike England. France are Six Nations champions, unlike England. And the French also did the Grand Slam, unlike England.

What did England actually do this autumn, anyway? They were sorely embarrassed by New Zealand ‘A’ in that increasingly rare thing, a genuinely great rugby international. They mounted a very impressive comeback against the imagination-devoid Australians. And they wiped the floor with the direst South African team ever seen.

You might give them seven out of ten for that little lot, or maybe eight if you were feeling generous. But the best side in the world? No, no and thrice no. The real test will come next year, which should be fun.

Since he took the England job in 1997, Woodward’s mantra has been unstinting and ceaseless: “Judge me on the World Cup.” He’s a lucky man that his employers at the RFU have so far failed to do so. If they had, he would have been out of a job three years ago, when his charges were trounced 44-26 by South Africa in that memorable quarter-final in Paris (the one where Jannie de Beer scored six – six! – drop goals).

Woodward’s mob are undeniably a very, very strong outfit with several world-class operators. They are also totally unbeatable at home. But at this stage, haven’t they thrown away enough Grand Slams to learn the virtues of reticence and humility?

Foul Play is with Andrew Mehrtens on this one. “England are pricks to lose to,” said the All Blacks stand-off recently. Somebody buy that man a beer.

To paraphrase my good buddies in Dublin 4, they can stick their fucking chariot up their arse. Not that I really give a shit, or anything…