Wednesday 18 July 2012

The Worcester Years: Waratah Love



The Waratah Flower

The University of Worcester boasts four rugby teams. There’s a women’s team and the men’s section runs a first team, a constantly changing Saturday team as well as a second team, better known as the Worcester Waratahs.

According to the dictionary, a Waratah is a straggling shrub with narrow leaves and conspicuous red flowers in dense globular racemes, a low woody perennial plant usually having several major stems.

Read into this what you will, but the way I see it is the narrow leaves represent the newbies, the freshers both in stature and appearance. They are fresh, they are active and they are the energy source of the team. The perennial nature of the plant is reminiscent of that of the team and its outstanding member’s longevity to remain a Waratah for years. They are the major stems, holding the team up and protecting it. This leaves the conspicuous red flowers, and that is the embodiment of the team and its character. It shouldn’t be beautiful given its rugged, insensitive nature; but its splendour is unquestionable. Its aesthetics may not be as striking as some of its compatriots, but its brutal resilience holds it in the same regard as its prettier, more pleasant brethren. We’d heard of the legend, it was now time to become a part of it.

As fresher’s, we had all been waiting patiently for our chance to prove ourselves and that chance revealed itself when a 30-strong squad travelled up the M5 to Stourton Park, home of Stourbridge RFC. From the moment we arrived it was clear that we’d be coming up against a useful team given the decent facilities on show. 

Stourton Park: venue for the 55-0 drubbing
The word from the senior boys was that our opponents would be a blend of experience & youth, but one man’s name in particular was mentioned more than anyone or anything else; Ali Mac. He was a student who’d been poached by Stourbridge for his grotesque physicality and surely that smile. When he smiles, it imitates the rest of him; wide, big and bold.

Incidentally, it was Ali Mac who gave me my first experience in a Worcester jersey. I was starting on the bench watching Gary Dipple wearing the number 10 shirt when this colossal human being flew from the back row straight into the prominent nose of the Tottenham fan looking fly half. Although we didn’t know it at the time, Dipple’s broken nose at the hands of Alistair Macdonald would be the start of a comical relationship between one man and his beak. It has held him back so much in his quest for academic greatness that he remains a studying member of the university. From ruining near sexual encounters to forcing him to play a large number of games with a foot of cotton wool sticking out of his conk; his nose has been nothing but a let down for him. Anyone who’s played in a backline with a bloody-nosed Gary Dipple knows the impossible position he puts you in, as we try and convey a call to him and he stares gormlessly back at you with two pieces of cotton wool hanging from his nose as if he’s just broken free from his straight-jacket. Even in the most tense and serious game-situations, you can’t help but laugh. Although, it’s not all bad; the damage sustained to his sense of taste does enable him to eat such dishes as his infamous watery goulash.

Gary Dipple's leaky nose. Yes, that's Ben Shore
Bloodied and battered a mere couple of minutes into the match, Dipple was heading towards the touchline. The glare flashed my way and I was stripped off, ready to enter the fray. Again, my memory of the game itself is hazy but there are some things I can recall from the evening:
  • Tom Winterbottom playing at scrum half & getting his ear ripped off.
  •  Sam Brookes being my go-to man at 12.
  • Guy Griffiths coming on at 9 and applauding everything I did; regardless of what it was.
  • The marrow-like head of Alistair Macdonald.
  •  The strong, quick Stourbridge backline who all looked like public schoolboys.
  • Getting slated for my post-match baby blue shoes.

We’d lost the game in pretty ugly fashion, but we’d all had our exposure. It was raw and uncompromising, but it was exposure nonetheless. Nobody likes losing, but realistically we never stood a chance. They were simply too strong and we had a squad full of players who’d never played with each other before; and Pete Kemp.

The next step was to train hard in an attempt to book your place on the prestigious first team training weekend up in Wakefield. I hadn’t performed anywhere near my best, therefore when I wasn’t named in the training camp squad, I’d already resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t be going. Having talked to Luke Milton, we were both of the same opinion that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to spend a season in the seconds; how wise we were in our youth. There were a handful of freshers who’d given a good account of themselves and earned a place in the squad; Chris Underwood, Lewis Joiner, Gary Dipple, Guy Griffiths & Jack Girdlestone. They were all about to experience a baptism of fire, but for one man it would be particularly painful.

Ed Cook drove the most feared vehicle in the West Midlands; that silver Citroën Picasso. When it turned up at training, a game or a social event, conversation would stop immediately and an eerie silence would fall upon those in the vicinity. Once, this deathly silence was broken by the sound of the bonnet of the car coming into contact with human flesh. Unfortunately for Luke Milton, it was his thigh that became overly familiar with the front of the Picasso as Cooky essentially ran him over outside The Dive as we waited to depart for a training session; almost predictably, no-one batted an eyelid.
The Picasso played centre stage as Jack Girdlestone was taught an invaluable lesson in how to keep himself to himself. Here’s what happened according to Gary Dipple,

            “Well, it was the pre season camp in Wakefield and we had been instructed to
            meet either at El Divos or at the roundabout by the M5. Despite still having
            been told ‘beware of Cooky’, me and Joiner jumped in the Picasso and his
right-hand man Brookesy was there. We drove to the roundabout. Girdles was there and had been refused by every other car and in desperation threw his bag into the back thinking he had a lift. Cooky, in disbelief, turned to the three of us, grabbed the bag and chucked it into the road. ‘I’m not having that c*** in my car.’ he said before speeding off. Girdles had to settle for being Cush’s co-driver to and from Wakefield.”

In the first few weeks of his university career, Jack was a self-confessed knob-head. (early picture) One social in particular when he claimed his love for the colour pink and apparently himself, the senior contingent of the rugby team turned against the former Saracens academy product. He got fined heavily for almost everything and in a state of blind drunkenness, left his mobile lying around in amongst the snakebites. Luke Milton, tells the rest of this story through his glazed eyes,

“It was one of our first socials. I’d just had the delights of Cooky’s Corner and blue fire & ice. It’s hazy but I remember Pumba saying, ‘fresher, here’s Girdlestone’s phone. Abuse it.’ I think he thought text people etc but I decided to chuck it against Berry’s wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces. As the phone crashed to earth, a Northern voice yelled, ‘THAT’ S MY FOOOOCKING PHONE, YOU TWAT!!’ It wasn’t the best start to me and Dave’s friendship as the night before was the first time I ever met him and I £300d him at the cashpoint.”

Upon further investigation, it was discovered that Jack Girdlestone & Tom Shepard not only shared a similar state of intoxication, they also had the same Sony Ericsson phone; Girldestone’s in his pocket in one piece, Shep’s all over the floor in Berry’s. This misunderstanding lead to Shep using the payphone in Malvern Halls for his telecommunications. Inevitably, upon our drunken returns from town, the payphone got damaged more and more every week to the extent that Shep was left with a metal chord hanging from a box with the numbers 4 and 8 on it to keep in touch with his family. Girdlestone quickly corrected his early flaws and became an integral part of the social scene which saw him renamed ‘Girthlestone’ and the ironic ‘Jack the Twat’. He’s also the finest diver in WSRFC’s history and he theoretically gained two degrees; his own and that of Guy Griffiths.

Jack Girdlestone didn't make the greatest first impression
Our next club fixture was by far the most significant, when a first and second team travelled this time down the M5 to face Bristol University. We’d been training together for a few weeks and we’d started to come together as a group. With the first team squad away, everyone else realised that we’d be the ones battling it out for a place in the Waratahs starting line-up which was lead by a very enthusiastic Ian Rowberry. By this stage I’d become good friends with Luke Milton and lo and behold it was he and I vying for the 10 shirt. Disappointingly for me, he beat me to the starting berth but given the nature of the game, I was confident I’d get my chance.
                                                                        
As expected I replaced Milts, who shifted to fullback, and was playing my first Waratah game. With my first significant touch of the ball, I spun a pass off my left hand (yes Cush, a fucking spin pass) to Ian Rowberry who went bursting through a gap. Looping around him to rejoin the attack I began to shout very loudly for 20m as he lined up the poor fullback. Catching a glimpse of me through his tunnel vision he popped the ball to his right. With 30m to go, I focused my very minimal speed on the corner-flag and pinned my ears back. About 16 seconds later I slid in for my first University of Worcester try. I was greeted with an ephedrine-fuelled headbutt from my deaf captain and I was forced to try and rid the stars from my eyes to attempt my touchline conversion following our celebratory hug. I’d pictured this moment, my first kick, since I’d been at Worcester and I was determined to slot it. My technique was sound and it sailed through the posts much like the rest of my kicks that afternoon. All apart from one. As I lined up a shot from near the halfway line, the linesmen made their way behind the posts. I struck the ball cleanly and although it flirted with the right hand upright, it was over; or so I thought. The opposition linesman had his flag aloft but our linesman, a clean-shaven and shorthaired Matthew Roberts wearing what would become a very familiar ski jacket, had decided it hadn’t gone through the posts. In blind rage I explicitly voiced my disapproval of the decision and was rightfully penalised for foul language.

The rest of my afternoon went swimmingly and I even managed to inflict my first dose of destruction upon a rival university. As I kicked to touch, the ball hurtled end-over-end towards the touchline and I set about calling the backs move from the lineout, safe in the knowledge that the ball had reached touch. Whilst chatting with the centres, we heard an unusual noise followed by guffaws coming from our bench. When the crowd had cleared, it became clear that what was once a perfectly good minibus was now very much a minibus with a shattered windscreen.

The Oxford Brookes students returned to their bus and they were less than impressed by the state of their ride home and began asking who was responsible for the damage. Ryan Hill was sent to clear things up and he used one of his limited arrays of talents in which to do so, confrontation & controversy. The conversation went thus;

            “Who did this?”
            “Our Fresher, him who’s kicking now.”
            “Well go and get him, we need to sort it out.”
            “Fuck off!”

Coming off the field victorious, we were all feeling a sense of satisfaction. Having consoled the opposition, I was greeted by the smiling Cheshire cat that is Thomas Raymond Leigh who said,

            “So, basically, you just kick it from anywhere.”
            “I try.” was my sheepish reply.

As we lined our stomachs with as much stodgy food as we could, knowing that an impending bottle of port was on its way; Stuart James Vincent asked across the room about my performance. Proudly, I stated the facts. He smirked, shook his head and simply said,

            “Oh dear.”

Oh dear, indeed. We got on the bus wearing our mandatory dresses and were equipped with three things; a bottle of port, 4 cans and a block of Brie. Some customary fines were dished out amongst the seniors and then the match fines began. I knew I was in trouble when my name wasn’t called out early and I sat facing the front doing my very best invisibility act. It didn’t work and the familiar sound of Stu’s voice echoed around the carriage from the back seat,

            “Gareth Davies! To the back!”

My fines list was extravagant;

·      First Waratah game                                      : 1 Finger of port
·      First Waratah try                                          : 1 Finger of port
·      First Waratah points                                     : 1 Finger of port
·      Try on Debut                                               : 1 Finger of port
·      19 points: no-one likes a show off               : 2 Fingers of port
·      Swearing at officials                                    : 2 Fingers of port
·      Man of the Match                                        : 4 Fingers of port
·      Dick of the Day                                           : 4 Fingers of port
    16 Fingers + 2 Dirty Pints

I spent what felt like an eternity in the middle of the aisle facing the Ed Cook, Pumba, Tasty, Stu, Watto and some more generally large men trying to force this bottle of port down my throat interspersed with the odd bite from a block of what had become very warm Brie.

After somehow drinking half of the bottle, I was desperate. The taste made it feel like there was a hole being corroded in the back of my throat. It dawned on me that if I could somehow dilute it, it would become easier. I stared into the loving eyes of John Clark and asked,

            “Can I please have some cider with it?”

To which he replied,

            “He does know Bubsy!”

and handed me a glass. After adding cider, drinking did indeed become easier, though walking, talking and basic motor skills became peculiarly more difficult. Who knew?

Seeing my pain, Guy Griffiths in his infinite wisdom decided the best way to go about getting rid of his port was by downing it too; a decision he almost immediately regretted as he slumped into a coma. Most of the boys stuck to the conventional method of drinking the bottle steadily and frequently to try and get rid of its contents. Regardless of how it’s drunk, it doesn’t leave the consumer in a very good state. My only recollections of the ensuing evening are the photos on facebook, like this pearl below.

Griffbag and myself, probably talking politics


Any light-heartedness that had surrounded training previously disappeared in the week leading to the first competitive BUSA fixture. The tone was set at an indoor RGS session when Cush sat us down on benches in the school hall and we were all made to feel like very naughty pupils as he recapped the previous year’s campaigns. The first team didn’t have a fixture on the Wednesday, but they’d use the time as a training session before watching the Waratahs take on Warwick at Malvern RFC.

I was named at fly half and Milts would line up at fullback in what would be his second worst performance in a Worcester shirt. Before the game, we were introduced to our captain’s fiery leadership as he bounced around the changing room mindlessly shouting,

            “Come on boys! Where the fuck is the intensity?!”
            “Intensity, come on!”
            “Come on! Fucking intensity!”

in his West Walian deaf speak that only those who have heard it can truly appreciate. His assistant and calming influence was Pumba who drove home what it meant to be a Waratah. With the words still ringing in our ears, literally, we took to the field with an assuring confidence.

We tore Warwick apart that afternoon as Jordan Higgins ran in two tries in a comfortable 42-10 victory. I managed a flawless kicking performance with 8 from 8 and this was in the face of a lunatic Irishman bringing my tee on and complimenting my ‘shiny’ & ‘smooth’ legs. Our team ethic had been unquestionable and despite looking like a mish-mash group wearing all sorts of different shorts & socks; we were a team.

The year before we arrived at Worcester, Dan Allen produced a poem that’s gone down in Waratah folklore. It encapsulates the emotion and experiences each of us felt playing for the ‘tahs, it’s beautiful.

There it is, that magical scene;
The stage is set for our play on the velvet green.
Poetry in motion – hard hitting act;
Just trying to keep ourselves intact.

With a Cheeseman ball, the forwards roll on;
In the blink of an eye the backs are gone.
Ali Mac – SMASH – a player goes down;
He runs to the rest with a mean Welsh frown.

Wilson’s hair, blowing in the breeze;
He doesn’t go around but into everyone he sees.
“Pitching Pumba” as we win another ball;
“Derek” Waratahs, as we set for the maul.

The backs are released with their cutting lines;
If they drop one fucking ball they’re getting fined.
Lincoln goes in with a hard sidestep;
But into the player he goes not around – he sometimes forgets.

Quick scoot ball and we hear Brisbane;
I know if we win it, the backs are in.
The ball finds its way to Rash out wide;
Twis, the linesman, can’t keep up on the side.

Round one player, inside two;
He looks for Martin, flying through.
“Run really fast!”, great advice Tasty;
But our smiles are a little hasty.

We pile into the ruck and fight for the ball;
Slice one (whatever that is) is the call.
They do summit good and it works really well;
But we’re stopped on the line, Cayman was held.

I know if we lose, Penners will cry;
So we give him the ball and he dives for the try.
Cayman missed from in front of the posts;
But it doesn’t matter cos we beat the hosts.

Turn around to see the front row hug;
Look around everywhere – there’s WARATAH LOVE.

A true masterpiece from the undoubted talent that is Dan Allen. Had his creative prowess mirrored his rugby skills, he’d be playing professional rugby. Instead, he’s the world’s best at making stash look ugly and his running style can only be described by a mimic from Pumba. Admittedly, I’m narrowing my audience here, but if you’ve seen this impersonation, close your eyes and relive it. Now laugh. Loudly.

I’ve added a few lines of my own to bring the poem full circle. It goes like this;

This was the scene a few years ago;
When The Dive was a bar, not a fucking bistro.
It served maligin, snakebite & alcopops;
Not cappuccinos, mochas & espresso shots.

Malvern and Bottom Field was where we played our games;
Not the depressing morgue that is Sixways.
Being a Waratah wasn’t just something you find;
It was built in you, it was a state of mind.

I often gaze up at the heavens above;
Praying for the return of WARATAH LOVE.

Victorious Waratahs



Friday 6 July 2012

The Worcester Years: Early Days

Philosophers and songwriters say that you never truly miss something until it’s gone and after a certain weekend with some 40 ‘senile’ young men, I can confirm that this is certainly the case.

It’s safe to say that if you’re reading this as a University of Worcester student, you are entangled in emotions of frustration and helplessness. There’s nothing more frustrating than someone older than you telling you that ‘you don’t know you’re born’ or ‘back in my day’. So to those students of the University of Worcester – you don’t know you’re born and back in my day, things were a lot different.


Granted, there are far more experienced old boys than myself that may be reading this saying exactly the same thing about me and my generation, but I believe that the class of 2007 was the last of its kind. No, we didn’t get to experience the splendour of Bamboo/Breeze, a place that Ed ‘soft’ Parkes used to use as his out-of-hours boxing gym. No, we never drank Hooch on tap at The Dive nor did we get to enjoy a home varsity; but we did have it good. The things we did manage to witness in our varied shifts of three to five years at Butlins will stay with us forever. Here’s our story through my eyes.


It was the first time that I’d seen the campus or indeed Worcester, but I already liked it. I’d accepted Worcester as my first choice on the sound advice of Mark ‘Bubsy’ Sadler, who’d told me,


“It’s wicked. The rugby is good up there and it’s a great laugh."


Sold.


We drove the van around to a block of flats called Malvern. Lined with shrubbery and with a discreet waste disposal unit next to the door, this would be the place I call home for the next year. As my mam and sister decorated my new room, Dad and I hastily moved towards the Students Union. The first thing that hit me was the damp aroma of stale beer and vomit, the second thing that hit me was the intimidating sight of 30 rugby boys strewn around the place watching Wales Vs Australia and the third thing that hit me was how God-awful my Strongbow tasted.


My first experience in the rugged Divebar was a bad one; watching Wales lose to Australia in the World Cup whilst drinking what could only be described as fizzy, cold line-cleaner. Little did I know that over the next four years it would become one of my favourite buildings in the world. The lethal, metal stairway that was once surfed by Josh House, the Carling lantern hanging off the wall despite the Dive not serving Carling, Berry’s, the SU office, Maligins, Snakebite, Elton John, Frank the Tank, the stage complete with its chained safety barriers and the sticky floor that made walking in flip-flops all but impossible all joined together in holy matrimony in an all-loving marriage with Worcester Students Rugby Football Club.


After unloading a vans worth of possessions into a room that was not much bigger than my garden shed, we headed into town for a spot of lunch. Unbeknown to me, sat on the adjacent table was to be my direct rival for the number 10 shirt; my kryptonite, Gary Dipple. He was already one step ahead of me because as I tucked into my mammoth portion of Bangers & Mash and sipped my Stowford Press at the Old Rectifying House, the wiry, Jewish Cockney behind me was drinking a pint of water or at its most flamboyant; a lemonade.


Upon my return to the academic grounds of the university my flat had began to fill up. A quiet blonde by the name of Jenny O’Shea has moved in opposite me and a fellow Welsh-speaker was living next-door in Sara Parry, which really impressed mam. A sombre looking Amy Reiner was also lugging things to and fro into the Malvern Flat 1 and a fairy called Timmy had already started burning incense candles. I met the last member of our halls by chance when I wandered into the living room and assumed that one of the others’ dad was taking a break from the manual labour. He popped his little head up and introduced himself to me as Daz. After chatting with him for a few minutes about music, he opened up to me,

Malvern House aka The Common Room

“I only wore jeans to try and look smart, thought I’d make an effort.” He said.

“Thank fuck you turned up; I was just waiting for another normal bloke!”

A bloke he was, normal he was not. He seemed to be in his thirties and his persona was far from stable; but I knew what he meant. He’d be my housemate throughout my time at Worcester, he’s an excellent yet appalling human and that’s why we love him.

With all the initial uncomfortable, forced conversations seen to, I returned to my room where I was greeted with a knock at the door. There stood Adam West and Martin Misiko, the former quite clearly nursing a hangover and the latter sporting the most magnificently welcoming smile that I’d ever seen on a man. They’d come to inform me of a friendly game of touch taking place the following day on The Bottom Field. I was left feeling a surging sense of empowerment as they departed due to the fact that I was almost a foot taller than the pair of them. At a towering 5’9” and ¾, I thought to myself that I might be in the top half, even maybe the top third of the biggest men in the team. It didn’t take long for me to realise that this would not be the case.

Picking up the kit I’d laid out the night before, I set about getting ready for my first university rugby experience. My legs were cleanly shaven, my hair was immaculate and I was sporting my very best stash. My presumption that I’d be among the tallest players was quickly washed away as I spotted a congregation of giants on the divine piece of greenery known as The Bottom Field. The details of the game itself still desert me, but there are four things I remember quite vividly;
  • Being greeted by a fellow fresher in a green & white hooped rugby shirt. He had delightful blonde hair and with a flick of his fringe introduced himself to me as ‘Lewis’; the last time anyone called him by his name was that afternoon.
  • Linking up with Gary Dipple on the nearest side of the pitch and thinking he was a South African scrum-half. Mind you, later on I found out that Tom Shepard thought I was a “Nippy Winger”. Looks can be deceiving.
  • Lots of big men shouting “TIMMY!” whenever anyone knocked a ball on.
  • Ed Cook in his trucker hat; every fresher remembers Ed Cook.

Most of the boys went to the Dive to pay their respects to the Chick that afternoon, but seeing as I was still petrified of social situations, I spent the evening alone in my room figuring out whether or not university life was for me. That night I wrote some scribbles down on a post-it note and stuck it to my wall. It would be my first real training session in the morning, the note read,

  • MAKE AN IMPRESSION
  • STAND OUT FROM THE CROWD
  • DON’T BE TOO KEEN
I can quite confidently say that I achieved all three.

My kit was once again set out ready for the morning but my 06:30 alarm had somehow turned into 06:58 and I was scrambling to get myself out of the flat. Somehow, I was walking out of the door at 07:00 and I’d dodged a bullet. I’d get to The Bottom Field by two minutes past at the latest and the boys would still be stretching, or so I thought.

To my horror, the session was already underway and the group were circulating the perimeter of The Bottom Field’s grounds. I slipped my white & red Nike Vapors onto my feet and began to tie the laces. I’d spotted some fellow freshers in Luke Milton, Lewis Joiner and Tom Shepard; this comforted me, but not for long. As I was strapping up my boots I heard a brash voice call out,

“Fuck off! You’re late!”

Assuming it was one of the boys messing around I started trotting down the hill; mentally preparing myself for a lap of the field to catch up. As I was halfway down The Bank, I heard that voice again.

“Fresher, fuck off! You’re late!”

Any miniscule piece of humour that I’d perceived in the first outcry quickly descended when I made eye contact with the perpetrator. It was at this stage that I realised that I wasn’t dealing with your average human being; in fact having picked his face out of the crowd it was barely human at all. The gargoyle-like features stood out from his spherical, hairless head as if someone had been playing a real life version of pin the tail on the donkey. His piercing eyes were now drilling through my soul and I became rigid, staring down the barrel of the sawn-off shotgun that is Andrew Cushing. Despite being wrapped up in hiking boots, thick socks tucked into tracksuit bottoms and an overcoat that would fit a horse; I still imagined him to be cold. Our shivering eye-contact was broken by a breathless Northern tone as it cried out,
The Glare That Will Live With Me Forever

“Don’t fucking listen to him, join in. Come on.”


It must’ve looked like I was doing the cha-cha down the bank because no sooner had I started advancing, I was retreating again when another shrill, evil shriek came,


“He’s not joining in, He’s late. He can fuck off!”


By now the group was running away from me towards the pylon in a murmur of sniggers and disgruntled rumblings. In the time it took the boys to get back around to me, I’d already changed my mind a dozen times and I’d decided that I’d give it a go and join the back of the pack. The Northern voice, which turned out to be that of Danny Hughes, pleaded once more,


“Come on, Mate.”


But one final blast from the poison dwarf was enough to send me on my way,


“Fuck off, fresher. You’re late. Go back to bed and try again next time.”


Dejectedly, I left the scene; leaving a very ethnically diverse Bank of casualties behind in Jamie Tsang and the Eastern European Matt Cock. I’d not only met my goals, I’d set new records. I’d certainly made an impression, undoubtedly stood out from the crowd and in the worst possible way I’d shown that I wasn’t too keen.


Having not taken part in the Monday morning fitness session, I was ineligible for selection when Worcester took on Birmingham in the first game of the season. It was a chance for those selected to make an impression on the field. Guy Griffiths and Luke Milton had the unenviable task of running the game as half-backs despite not knowing a single move. The rest of us were required to show our drinking prowess off it, which we did badly. I took up what would become a familiar seat down at the front of the bus when I was joined by the still injured Jamie Tsang. Our first conversation is one I’ll remember for some time,


“Hi, mate. I’m Jamie.”
“Alright, butt. Gareth.”


We engaged in the customary handshake and as he took his seat, he pointed at the three feathers on my jacket and mumbled,


“Welsh are you, mate?”
“Yeah.” I replied.
“Yeah, me too.”
“Oh right, where abouts?”
“Near Wrexham, by Oswestry?”




He’s since vociferously denied this exchange, but had you wanted to write a letter to Jamie’s home address while he was studying; you would have needed to put the following address on the front of your envelope:


Mr Jamie Hon Man Tsang
1, North Road
Llanymynech
Powys
Wales


SY22 6EZ


Much is made of Jamie ‘Panda’ Tsang’s ethnicity, but Martin Misiko summed it up quite neatly one evening at the Dive when he said,


“Tsangy. He’s confused.”


Aren’t we all; a Welshman with a Birmingham accent claiming to be English but with the unique ability to be blindfolded by dental floss. Confused, yes. Loved, definitely.


Our babysitters that day were Richard Smith & Lee Thomas. After watching the first half of the rugby whilst making small talk and drinking warm, flat beer; Lee Thomas took us on a re-supplying mission. He’d already polished off two bottles of wine and we were given an early introduction to a man they called Lincoln. Unfortunately, he’d already made himself known to me in fresher’s week. As I waited patiently at the bar to be served I felt a clamp-like hand on my shoulder and an overpowering scent of Johnson’s Holiday Skin filled my nostrils. The conversation went thus,


“Fresher?”
“Yeah.”
“One pint. Rugby?”
“Yeah.”
“Two Pints, Welsh?”
“Aye.”
“Three pints.”


I must’ve been at the bar for a further 15 minutes trying my best to get through three pints of ice cold snakebite. The freezing sensation of the teeth, the cramping of the throat and neck, the bloating of the stomach and the violent urge to vomit all held me back; but Lincoln supervised every last drop. He did, however, teach me the invaluable rule of E.G, a rule that through OCD I carry around with me today to the extent that I E.G my mam’s shoulder when I’m done with a cup of tea. Following my release from his watch, I staggered towards the toilet to redecorate a cubicle and give the hard-working Security staff an extra hours pay. There was a man in yellow that I’d recognised that night and with a bit of Dutch courage I went over for a chat. Our exchange was brief but, how was I to know there were two rugby-playing Pumba’s from Cardiff. I’ve since come to learn that there’s certainly only one Pumba; and he’s a superb human.


Every one of us has a story about the first time we met Lincoln, and for many; it was set in the alcohol aisle of a Birmingham supermarket. Having marched his band of followers to replenish their alcohol supplies, the disciples were browsing the cans and bottles. It was then that our tour guide spoke some of the truest words I’ve ever hear come out of his mouth,


“If you want to get proper fucked up, get a bottle of Frosty.”


A few of the boys contemplated it, and sensing some indecision; Lincoln attempted to seal the deal. He turned his back to us, held a bottle of Frost Jack Cider at his side and in one foul swoop, dropped his grey Adidas sweatpants to his ankles. We were greeted with a round, supple posterior upon which the ‘Frosty Jack’ logo had been replicated. The group collectively reeled in disbelief as he stood for a number of seconds holding the pose. But, the true beauty of the moment was the look on the Middle-aged Asian woman’s face who was getting a full-frontal view as she went about her Wednesday mid-afternoon shop.


We made our way back for the second half with ample supplies and the afore-mentioned small talk had become genuine conversation and the warm beer was now a delightful bottle of Blossom Hill rosé with just the slightest hint of strawberries.


Our mentor in Richard ‘Vinnie’ Smith gathered us together and warned us of a man they called ‘Cooky’. He was the giant in the trucker hat when we played touch rugby and there was a definite air of mystique about him. He’d been told to stay away from freshers and we’d later find out why. But for now, we were careless. We’d started to bond, share stories, backgrounds opinions and phone numbers; friendships were forming. The freshers who played were congratulated and commended for their first appearances by us first-years and duly punished by their elders.


It had started. We were there. We were WSRFC.






Tuesday 3 July 2012

Scotland's Impossible Dream

There is setting an ambitious goal and there’s setting an impossible one. Unfortunately, Scotland have opted for the latter.


The board and coaching staff at Scottish Rugby have sat down and discussed a four year plan from which they concluded that a realistic target would be:

 
  • To win a Six Nations Grand Slam.
  • To win the World Cup.

 
"The goals we've set reflect our ambition for the game in Scotland," said chief executive Mark Dodson.

 
"With unity, and support from the whole nation, there is no reason we can't achieve those goals."

 
He added, "There's no reason why we can't win a World Cup or a Six Nations.

 
"We've got some fantastic athletes working in Scottish rugby who are capable of great things.

 
Legendary goal-kicker Chris Paterson has recently joined the coaching team and he was equally delusional stating,

 
“In the Six Nations, Scotland won zero out of five, and certainly the first three could have been wins against England, Wales and France.

"So you could have been going into the last two games against Ireland and Italy looking for two wins for a Grand Slam.”

 
If they genuinely believe what is coming out of their mouths and actually think that they can win the next World Cup, they’re in dream land. Yes, theoretically they were the most successful Northern Hemisphere team to tour the Southern Hemisphere by beating Australia in the driving rain and the Pacific Islands of Samoa and Fiji. However, it comes on the back of a World Cup in which they failed to qualify for the knockout stages and a Six Nations campaign in which they lost every single game.

 
Just in case you need any more reason to doubt their optimism, this should put it beyond doubt. First of all there are only two full-time professional teams in Scotland following the collapse of Borders Reivers in 2007. Neither Glasgow Warriors nor Edinburgh have enjoyed any success since the Celtic League was formed and their most prestigious moment came when Edinburgh managed to smuggle themselves into the semi-finals of the Heineken Cup this year. Glasgow made some considerable progress this season in the league but they’re by no means a good rugby team.

 
England pick the bulk of their national team from the 12 Aviva Premiership teams, the French have the top 14 teams at their disposal as Wales & Ireland have their 4 regions and provinces respectively. Even if both teams were filled with Scottish players, that would still only mean 44 players to pick from.

 
One of the reasons that the Borders team folded was a lack of funds, a situation that hasn’t changed. There is no money in Scottish Rugby despite increasing their surplus from £1.6m to £3.1. Ireland and Wales are still in the economic shadow of England and France while Scotland is a mere spec in the distance.

 
Part of their economic frailty comes from its constant competition with football. For reasons unbeknown to most of us outsiders, the Scottish population worship the distinctly average Scottish premier league. In spite of Glasgow Rangers all but being shown the door of top flight football, the coverage will be all football. Anyone who’s been to Scotland know that the back pages are dominated by football even more so than in the English tabloids and the fact that Celtic will have the title wrapped up before Christmas next year won’t make a blind bit of difference to the column inches is receives.

 
Although Edinburgh is a beautiful city and an international match-day experience is simply superb, Scottish rugby as a whole is probably the least attractive in World Rugby. It starts at the clubs; with Edinburgh themselves playing their home matches at the 67,200 capacity Murray field Stadium. Anyone who’s sat in the stadium will know how cold it can get, even with a full house. It’s hard to comprehend that it would be an enjoyable viewing experience for those that go and watch a league game. The average attendance for all Edinburgh’s matches was less than 3,500 and their record highest crowd came this year when they played against bath in the Heineken Cup, it was a meagre 5,850. On average, the stadium is 5.08% full, which is an absolute disgrace and anyone who works on the marketing team at Edinburgh should consider themselves very lucky to still be employed. There is absolutely no reason for them to be playing their games there and why they’re not seeking relocation is a mystery.

 
Scotland have always been the ugly sisters at the pantomime when it comes to playing styles and the way in which they’re perceived in the Southern Hemisphere is quite comical. When New Zealand’s Fox Sports were covering the 2012 Six Nations, there was a weekly review show on Sunday evenings. On this show there was a weekly slot reserved for the tongue-in-cheek segment of ‘Scotland’s Highlights’. In this part of the show, they showcased the best of Scotland’s negative play. Regular features included the up-and-under, slow ball at the back of a ruck, the rolling maul and the aimless kicking from turnover ball. The panellists ribbed Andy Robinson’s men and their incapability of playing even the most remotely entertaining rugby week after week.

 
If the summer tours have taught us anything, it’s that the skills required at the top of the game are at an all time high. With defences so well drilled nowadays, genuine try-scoring opportunities are few and far between; it’s the sides that are have the ability to convert these chances into 5-pointers that win games. New Zealand are comfortably the best at this followed by Australia and South Africa. Some way behind them are England, Wales, France and Ireland. Meanwhile, in a land far, far away you’ll find Scotland.

 
They play the most negative brand of rugby on the planet and their lack of enterprise has strangled the life out of Scottish rugby. It’s understandable that with the lack of player quality, Andy Robisnon would have seen conservative selection of Dan Parks as a kicking back as the right way to go. But with Chris Paterson and Parks calling time on their international careers it’s a perfect opportunity for him to adopt a more inventive game-plan.

 
Scott Johnson is the coaching staff’s newest recruit. Johnson first burst onto the British scene as a long-haired, short-wearing, arm-waving Aussie lunatic who was the mastermind behind Wales’ 2005 Grand Slam success. Stephen Jones, Shane Williams, Gavin Henson, Gareth Thomas and Martyn Williams all noted in their autobiographies the positive impact he had on that Welsh squad while he was skills coach. Yet, since, these characteristics have somewhat deserted him. As Ospreys’ Director of Rugby, he turned into a much more defensive rugby man. His pedigree and rugby brain are undoubtedly astute, but the percentage kicking game seen at the Liberty Stadium under his reign was painfully uninspiring. Given the decline of his adventurous side, it’s going to be a waiting game as to whether or not it’s a decent appointment.

 
The pinnacle of any British rugby player’s career is a British & Irish Lions tour. There have been very few Scottish representatives on these trips in recent years which is further evidence of their shortcomings as a rugby nation. From the original selected touring squad, in 2001 there were 3 Scots, there were 3 again in 2005 and a rather lonely 2 travelled to South Africa in 2009.

 
Back in 2007, the representatives of the Scottish Ruby Union set out some objectives in their strategic plan. They were:

 
  • Achieve a top 8 IRB World Ranking status by 2012.
  • Reach the quarter finals of the 2007 & 2011 World Cups.
  • Increase the 6 Nations win rate from 25% to 40%.
  • Win the 6 Nations at least once by 2012.

 
After their summer tour they moved up from 12th to 9th in the world rankings. They failed to progress from their group at both world cups. Scotland’s win rate percentage dropped from 25% to 13% in the 6 Nations where since 2007 they’ve come last twice and last-but-one the other four times.

 
Whoever comes up with these strategic plans needs to check thems4elves into rehab, because there is absolutely no hope of Scotland winning the next world cup or even the 6 Nations in the near future. If the powers that be genuinely think that if by some miracle they managed to trespass into the knockout stages of the world cup, they’d be able to beat the Wallabies in the quarters, the Springboks in the semis and then the All Blacks in the final; they’re bigger idiots than we originally thought.

 
Despite declining since 2007, they’ve increased their ambition in the 6 Nations. They’re no longer contempt with just winning it, they was the grand slam. You need to win 5 games in a row in order to win the grand slam as Wales did this year. Scotland have won 5 games in the last 6 years in the 6 Nations, but they’re confident that they’ve turned that corner now? They’ve also realised that they’re better than a top 8 finish in the world cup and they deserve to be the best team on the planet.

 
You’ve got to admire their farfetched ambition, but the audacity of the whole concept is laughable. They will not win the next world cup; neither will they win a grand slam; that’s one of the safest sporting predictions that can be made. That is of course unless they have a source at the Met Office and they’ve been told that the weather forecast for the next 4 years is heavy rain and gale-force winds across the globe. Even then, they’d be up against it.

 
Come on, you sweaty’s. Get a grip.

 

Monday 2 July 2012

State of Origin


With so much mediocre sport broadcasted today, it’s reassuring to know that three times a year you can look forward to 80 minutes of gladiatorial entertainment.

 

This year especially, the State Of Origin has been a fast-paced exhibition of skill, power and inhumane physical commitment made better by the fact that we have a tied series going into game 3. In recent years, Origin football has been dominated by Queensland as they’ve taken the series every year since 2006. Although Queensland have enjoyed a decent amount of success over New South Wales, winning 52% of the matches in Origin history and 20 series wins to New South Wales’ 12 there have only ever been seven 3-0 whitewashes: four to Queensland and three to New South Wales.

 
For those who have somehow avoided this titanic battle, here’s a brief summary of the series:
  •  It’s an annual three match series between the Queensland Maroons and the New South Wales Blues.
  • Players are picked from the clubs in the NRL competition.
  • Players are selected to represent the Australian state in which they played their first senior rugby league, though this year there has been a new eligibility criteria agreed by the affiliates of both states which includes other factors such as place of birth.
  • All selected players must be eligible to represent Australia. This has caused some controversy in the past with Kiwi players who are eligible to play for Australia choosing simply so that they can be considered for Origin selection. The most high-profile case was that of Auckland born Karmichael Hunt who was approached by New Zealand to play an international test match in 2004. He declined the offer, pledging his allegiance to Queensland and Australia; even though he didn’t even make the Australian training squad for that year. That’s the calibre of competition; it’s enough to deter players from representing their country of birth for the opportunity to play Origin football.
  • There have been state representative games dating back to the pre-1900s but it wasn’t until 1980 that the first official Origin match was played.
  • The first two State of Origins were one-off games which were both won by the Maroons. It wasn’t until 1982 that the three-match format that we know today was adopted.
Last season, a true great in Darren Lockyer retired from the game and familiarly steered the Maroons to victory in his 36th and final Origin match as they took game 3 34-24 and their 6th consecutive series giving him a record amount of Origin appearances.

 
However, this year, there is a slightly different look to the series. The teams are deadlocked going into game 3 and for the first time in a long time the Blues have momentum going into the series-clincher. New South Wales were unlucky to taste defeat in game 1 due to a highly dubious Greg Inglis try. Although they lost by an 8-point margin, the Inglis try proved to be a key moment when the video referee judged that Blues’ hooker Robbie Farah had played at the ball with his leg which caused the ball to be spilled as opposed Inglis losing control of the football. It was a decision that incensed the New South Wales captain Paul Gallen who argued with on-field official Tony Archer, claiming that the decision was ‘a disgrace’ having seen it on the big screen.

 
There’s a feeling among pundits and fans that the Queensland reign of superiority is coming to an end. With Lockyer already gone, there are a number of players that are on their way out. The ageing Maroons can’t seem to sustain an 80 minute performance and in game 2 the viewers witnessed a moment of history. There is a man in rugby league who is “made of tree” (Morgan, D.R. 2012), but straight from kick off Petero Civoniceva was uprooted by Tim Grant for what has to be the first time in his career. Feats such as these simply haven’t happened in recent years and will only serve to fill the Blues with confidence.

Paul Gallen might just be the most consistent performer in world sport. You often hear the phrase ‘leading from the front’ referring to team captains; this is not only true of Gallen, he’s the epitome of it. His physicality is brutal for the whole game and he’s always on hand for his hooker, Robbie Farah, to take the ball up time after time.

 
This year, Robbie Farah has won his 1-on-1 battle hooker battle with Cameron Smith. The Maroons number 9 has in no way been under par, Farah has simply been outstanding. The Wests Tigers man got through an incredible amount of work in game 2 notching up 74 tackles in a complete performance. His sharpness around the play of the ball and a nicely rounded kicking game relieved the pressure form his half-backs Todd Carney and Mitchell Pearce which allowed them to flourish.

 
Possibly the most remarkable feat of game 2 was how Josh Morris kept his opposite number Greg Inglis quiet for 80 minutes. Inglis is the hottest property in rugby league and is probably the most complete centre in the game. His 6’5” and 16st 10lbs frame is not only obviously powerful, he’s also one of the quickest men in the game; he’s got better footwork than Michael Flatley and the slight of hand of a young Paul Daniels. He’s scored 19 tries in 21 appearances for Australia and 14 Origin tries in 17 appearances for Queensland making him the record try-getter in Origin history at the age of 25; and all of this from the centre. Morris’ management of Inglis was instrumental in the victory and the Blues will have to replicate it Wednesday when Inglis lines up at fullback if they are to take their first series win in 7 years.

 
It’s almost an impossible task to predict who’s going to come out of the encounter victorious. The loss of Sam Thaiday was evident in game 2 and Queensland severely missed his energy, the Maroons will be desperately keen for him to regain his fitness following the injury to his shoulder. If Queensland are to capture their 7th consecutive Origin series, they’ll have to do it without the inimitable Billy Slater. The world’s best fullback injured his knee in game 2 and hasn’t played for the Melbourne Storm since. He’s been trying to prove his fitness but Mal Malinga has been forced to name Inglis at fullback which sees Dane Nielsen move into the centres with another injury doubt Justin Hodges (ribs). With Jharal Yow Yeh already sidelined through long-term injury, it’s a reshuffle Malinga wouldn’t have wanted to make but he’s very confident in Inglis at fullback stating this week,

 
"I'm excited about what Greg can do at fullback,"

 
"Playing both sides of the park, Greg is a great rugby league player and I still maintain fullback is probably his best position.

 
"When you talk about getting involved and getting more touches, this gives Greg that opportunity. As we saw against the Broncos (when Inglis twice hammered rival fullback Josh Hoffman a fortnight ago), his defensive ability was pretty good too.

 
"You can't replace people like Billy, that is a given. He brings so much energy, he is all over the place and his talk is fantastic.

 
"You can't replace the things he does but we have to meet the standards at which he plays. We have to engage Greg and make sure his best plays are utilised for the team."

 
It’s all set up for an absolute ripsnorter of a game. If you’re not familiar with the Origin series, here are a few things to look out for:
  • A car-crash like collision from the first kick-off.
  • A sustained level of physicality that would see the average person spending a long time in prison for assault.
  • Greg Inglis defying science by being so deft for a big man. He’ll be desperate not to spend game 3 as a bystander as he did in game 2.
  • Robbie Farah making every other tackle.
  • Johnathon Thurston demonstrating why he’s the best kicker in rugby league by some way.
  • Greg Bird being the most aggressive and intimidating man on the pitch.
  • Jarryd Hayne running really fast.
  • Brent Tate leading into contact with his enormous chin.
  • Paul Gallen sporting the most muscle-mass ever seen on a rugby player.
  • Commentator Phil Gould shouting “THAT IS AN ORIGIN PASS!” or “THAT IS AN ORIGIN TACKLE!”.
  • A moment of brilliance from Todd Carney.
  • The best combination of skill and bruising physicality you’ll ever see in a sporting arena.
  • A fight. Although there’s been one in game 1 of this series, the 2011 series went without a proper dust-up and the atmosphere has been simmering for a while. If it happens, it will be in the first 10 minutes, but with so much at stake; neither team will want to lose a player to the sin bin or worse to the dressing room.
It really is the finest sporting spectacle on the planet. Even if you’re not a rugby league fan, the theatre of the whole even is encapsulating. It will make you shriek, shudder, scream, applaud and thanks to the legendary Channel 9 commentary team fronted by Ray Warren, you’re in for a few laughs too. If you’ve watched it before, you’ll know all of this already but if you haven’t; you’re in for a treat. Come on you Blues!