WHO WAS THE ARSE WHO TURNED RUGBY PROFESSIONAL?

Just as video killed the radio star, professionalism killed rugby union. The early games in the 2007 Rugby World Cup have been uniformly unedifying spectacles, as a sport that used to promote flair, courage and audacity has descended into a turgid, predictable waste of human energy. Watching the sport’s giants crush the so-called minnows is like witnessing the psychotic school bully deliver a sickening beating to the eccentric school swot, try after unstoppable try like a litany of original and devilishly cruel methods of breaking somebody’s arm.

Rugby used to be a game for those not blessed with any particular sporting talent. Fatso could comfortably pack down with titch, and the team would be none the worse for it. Welsh rugby legends such as Gareth Edwards and Phil Bennett weren’t large buggers at all, the latter being informed as a child that he’d never be big enough to play rugby (I’ve read his autobiography, “Everywhere for Wales”.) Edwards played a record 53 consecutive games for his nation without being dropped or seriously injured, a feat impossible nowadays given the quantity of blood-soaked mutilations we now witness per game. Johnny Wilkinson must be facing an existential identity crisis – if he undergoes any more operations, only his head will be original – in that case, will he still be Johnny Wilkinson? Welsh fullback legend JPR Williams, possibly the most recklessly brave tackler in the history of the international game, was recently asked in an interview if he’d like to have played in the professional era. No, he replied, he was always worried about getting injured, even back in the days when they’d train by jogging to the pub, doing a few press-ups and building up their upper body strength by raising a beer mug and smoking a packet of fags. For a fearless nutjob like him to get the willies proves that a very wrong turning has been taken somewhere along the road to riches.

Ex-England coach Sir Clive Woodward may have guided his nation to their first ever World Cup in 2003 (thanks, in great part, to Wilkinson’s sublime kicking skills), but he also helped promote a horrible corporate rugby ethic. I wouldn’t be surprised if Team England doesn’t have a mission statement, “To strive for excellence on and off the rugby field, whilst exceeding the expectations of our supporters and generating value in return for their investing their time in supporting us”, or some such offal. A whole new vocabulary of corporate rugbyisms has appeared, with pernicious terms such as “putting in big hits” (tackling), “getting over the gain line” (running forwards with the ball) and “going through the phases” (running into the opposition repeatedly en masse until a gap appears in their beleagured defences). Whilst I am an admirer of ex-Wales legend Jonathan Davies as a player, as a commentator he blows. If I hear him describe a team’s defence as “immense” once more, I’m putting it on record that I’ll be firebombing the BBC’s Cardiff studios.

Having said all this, I’ll be tuning in for some of the remaining games, notably those involving the boys from the valleys, and the All Blacks, just to enjoy the rabid Haka and see if they can yet again manage to throw away another World Cup from a virtually unassailable position as overwhelming favourites. They must be a bookmaker’s delight, along with the England football team in a penalty shoot-out.

So, come on lads, stop going to the gym so often, stop talking like you work for Citibank and go out and get a proper job like in the good old days (there are always openings in TEFL – but be sure to check out Sandy’s UK TEFL Blog and The TEFL Blacklist first.) Kick back, have a few beers (join me for a Special Brew here in the TEFL Graveyard, if you like), smoke the odd fag if you want to, don’t worry so much about your weight and enjoy the sport for what it is – a primitive rough and tumble for the Welsh, and people who don’t mind getting muddy. We, your long-suffering supporters, will thank you for it.

SCORE A TRY FOR ME, ARGENTINA

Brazilians, a popular saying goes, are descendants of Italians trying to be Americans; Argentines are descendants of Italians trying to be British. I’m unilaterally willing to grant UK citizenship to the lads in a rather effeminate blue and white after they put Les Bleus to the sword at the Stade de France yesterday in the opening tie of the 2007 Rugby World Cup.

Their win passed without event here in the Brazilian countryside, due to a confused apathy surrounding the sport of rugby union, coupled with a pandemic antipathy towards Brazil’s southern neighbours. During the last football World Cup, more fireworks were ecstatically discharged, more beer quaffed and more samba feverishly improvised after Argentina’s elimination than after all Brazilian victories put together.

If Ireland can survive the group of death with Argentina, Wales’ path to the Cup is assured. (Humour me...)