It’s a difficult one, sports fiction, trying to weave the hurly-burly of games like rugby or football into the plot of a novel. Mind you, there’s no shortage of thrills in sport, so it should be no surprise that many writers have given the weaving a go.

Roberto Rabaiotti is one of the latest to try his hand at it, and he’s chosen to set his rugby thriller “Catalyst” in late 70s Pontypridd. And as a thriller it works remarkably well. There’s certainly no shortage of suspense, tragedy and comedy in what is a very absorbing read. The characters, from the teenagers to the rugby club committee men, are instantly recognisable to anyone who has lived in South Wales in recent decades.

There is a certain amount of suspension of disbelief required in approaching the outrageous central premise of the plot: I won’t spoil it for you, but it involves killing on a very public stage. But in spite of this, the central characters of Joe, the passionate Italian teenage rugby sensation, and his girlfriend Sue, whose life has already been touched by profound sadness, are deeply compelling and you’re bound to feel a great deal of empathy for them on their romantic, emotional journey.

You do get the sense that some artefacts have been juxtaposed back into the 70s from recent times, for example the England rugby captain who bears an uncanny similarity to a certain W Carling Esq., who is married to a pop star called Vicki Adams (Posh Spice, anyone?), and certain transatlantic phrases such as “He’s not all that,” which I’m sure weren’t in common usage in South Wales when I were a lad in the 70s.

No matter though: this is a thriller, not an historical text. One word which sprung to mind early on was, “hokum,” but there are many deft touches and the characters have been sketched out with a great deal of care. Joe’s feckless, puerile friends; the blazer-ed Ponty chairman; the rugby hack Dewi Griffiths, and at the heart of it, Joe and Sue, the young lovers. These are all clever creations which lend substance to the piece. I’m still trying to work out who Dewi Griffiths is based on, though.

It’s a story which would work well on the screen, and as a piece it strongly evokes memories of South Wales in the 70s. I’m not sure what Will Carling would make of it, mind.

Catalyst, by Roberto Rabaiotti, is published by Grosvenor House.

Scottish First Minister Lochmuir Salmon has denied reports that Scotland’s bid for independence is simply a means to allow them to swear allegiance to New Zealand, and pick more foreigners in their side. “Och no” He said.
Rumours began after it emerged that Scotland had picked Welshman Steve Shingler in their squad, but were subsequently told by the IRB that he was ineligible for Scotland on account of the fact that he was completely not Scottish. Scotland coach Andy Robinson was upset at the IRBs ruling saying “All we ask for from the IRB is consistency! Consistency, and the right to select whoever we like regardless of nationality. They’ve never complained before when we’ve picked non-Scottish players, so why start now?”
Asked why he was persisting with his policy of selecting mainly non-Scottish players for the Scotland team he replied: “Selecting foreigners is a rich tradition that I’ve bought with me from my time with England. The idea is this: once we’ve capped every single player from the rest of the world, the rest of the world will have nobody left to pick, and if they do try picking someone who’s already played for us, we’ll complain to the IRB and kick up a right stink”.
However, it is understood that the decision to not allow Steve Shingler to play for Scotland wasn’t simply based on his nationality. An IRB spokesman had this to say: “While we usually don’t mind Scotland or England picking any Tom, Dick or Manu Tuilagi, on this occasion we felt that we had to step in. There’s only so many pisspoor outside-halves that a national team can have, and Shingler would have exceeded their quota”.

Another 12 months have passed and as the year slowly lists over onto its side, like Leo Cullen entering a ruck, we take this opportunity to look back at all the earth shattering events that the rugby world has offered up since we were last in a similar position in relation to the Sun as we are now. The unexpected bounty brought us a Six Nations, a Heinenken cup and a thrilling win in the Welsh Premiership for the true champions Llanelli RFC (who at the end of the league stage had amassed a record 28 point margin over all their other rivals*).

2011 has been a unique year (apart from one in every other four years since 1984) in that it has brought another Rugby World Cup. The tournament that challenges the best rugby players in the world (and Scotland) and that showcases all the Welsh regions shorn of their internationals (as they play a Connaught side that may have lost one of its TV analysts), started with a bang as the might of the Scarlets’ development region, Tonga took on the All Zealanders*.

The undoubted star of the tournament was Quade Cooper, who headed the stats leagues for roughly half of the key measures. He single-handedly showed that it wasn’t just the All Blacks who have a monopoly of funnily named players. Fortunately for Australia they found that having a nine as the best of their hand is slightly more useful in rugby than it is in Texas Hold ‘Em. They hung around the tournament until the bitter end hoping to pick up some reward, just like a fat bird at a party. This set them aside from Wales who stayed the course for exactly the same length of time, provided amble entertainment and talking points but ultimately ended up going home empty handed. Just like a fat bloke at a party. But what were the Pringles, Campari and other left-overs from this party, to push beyond breaking point this metaphor. Or simile*.

Allain “If I’m wrong, then my old man’s a Frenchman” Rolland provided a beacon of lite in the latter stages of the Games. Judging by the headlines in the Western Mail (“SOD OFF BACK TO BLARNEY (RO)LAND!!!”), the South Wales Evening Post (“Allain Quarterbrain!”) and the Wales of Sunday (“Roland’s Mother Once Visited Prestatyn”), reaction to the sending of off Sam Warburton was mixed. The focus to date has been on what was wrong with the tackle. Was Vincent ‘so-called’ Clerc lifted too far off the ground? Is the top of your head classed as ‘upper body’? And, why couldn’t I have a cool name like ‘Vincent’? What we should do is talk about the good aspects of the tackle. Just in the same way the police don’t pull you over for shifting down nicely into third, Allain was a consummate negative Nigel and failed to ac-sen-tuate the positive. What were the good aspects, I hear you ask? (How can I hear you, exactly? Aren’t I just typing this into a computer? Are you all in my head?) For a start, it wasn’t a high tackle. Warburton was at no point offside (which must have confused an Irish ref). And lest we forget, he didn’t trip or repeatedly kick in the balls, the Toulon Tyro*.

We also learnt the true meaning of ‘strength in depth’ as New Zealand progressed to their one and only Webb Ellis Trophy win*. The All Blacks used up more number tens than an entire series of Strictly. They finally opted for Stephen McDonald who had just spent the previous 2 months at his uncle’s company’s nugget testing facility. At one stage they were forced to put the bloke who acted as Mr Sullivan in the 1980s series, The Sullivans, on the bench. Fans were shocked to find that this show wasn’t filmed in black and white, as they remember, but in fact was set in 1950s New Zealand, which pretty much has the same effect. [For those interested in obtaining the series on video cassette or super-8, please send a stamped addressed envelope to New Zealand Film Studios, 1 New Zealand Road, New Zealand. NZ1 001]*

What have we learnt this year? Well, we’ve learnt that Wales aren’t quite as good as New Zealand at rugby union. We’ve learnt that Northampton Saints not only have a unique grasp of irony, but also have the keys to the factory whose production facilities provide a record number of players that look like the boy in your school who smelt of milk. Finally we’ve learnt that it will surely not be long before a Conference player finally graces the hallowed turf of Twickenham after the Barbarians picked the Widnes Rugby League side player, Johnny Northerner to turn out for them on the wing against South Africa*.

This year, there’s been much debate about what’s the key position on the field in rugby union. After the World Cup many have stated that it’s the No.7 (the rugby players, not the make-up) that is key. This is however wrong, you stupid arseholes! The key position, as Munster, Leinster and the whole of the All Blacks pack with testify, is 2 metres offside at every, single ruck holding back defending players and generally getting in the way. Like a protagonist in US TV series Alphas (which in NO way should be confused with Heroes), lingerers hang around unseen tugging on sleeves like a cigarette desiring 11 year old outside an offy. How do the referees not see them? Are they complete incompetents? Were they all given this chance to be at the top of our sport in a long deleted episode of Jim’ll Fix it? Are they killer cyborgs sent from the future to annoy rugby fans? Or are they all from North Island? This correspondent doesn’t have an easy answer but as sure as Rabo-Direct 12 will compete with Amlin and LV for most effortlessly forgettable brand name of 2012, they’ll be back next year to cluster-fluke their way into a continued career. Hell, if they get any worse they may end up being a representative of FIFA. Or those people that look after cricket; the IOC*.

* I haven’t done ANY research.

“And she’s had the other one off as well….” opined my mother as my cellular phone buzzed into life. A textual message plopped through. The scribe ?; none other than Dan of this parish.

So here I am, an older, sadder, wiser man having enjoyed one of the most disappointing, yet thrilling, pieces of sporting theatre ever to’ve been scripted.

Why ? Well, I’m pleased to say that those fine people at Principality (“The most popular pint in Wales”) saw fit to offer the Gwladerati two free tickets to the WRU Rolling Thunder Cash Generating RoadShow which took place last Saturday.

And I tell you what else comes at no charge, that’s the arrangement fee for the 2 Year Fixed Mortgage (4.9% APR) currently available at the Principality (“Du vin, du pain, du Principality”).

Naturally, Dan would’ve snaffled them up for himself, and rightly so too given the amount of unmitigated nonsense he has to put up with from the dribbling brownies-outing of thumbsucking bedwetters known as Gwladers, but he had decided to set aside that day to inflict torture and degradation upon himself by going to see Llanelli play Aberavon.

But no, he kind-heartedly offered them up to me, so I would be enjoying the hospitality of Principality (“You buy one, you get one free”).

And that’s why I found myself on the 11.15 train (operated by Arriva Trains Wales; “even when it’s early, our staff are astonishingly surly”) from Penarth to Cardiff Central surrounded by an excitable throng of supporters, shoppers and teenagers who felt sufficiently threatened by my handlebar moustache that the only form of reaction they could muster was to point and laugh. But I tell you what’s not laughable, and that’s the 2.85% per annum rate currently available on the E-Saver Issue 4 currently available at the Principality (“They’re grrrrrreat !”).

Cardiff’s an odd old place. Not quite small enough to be a homogenous provincial drear, but not quite big enough to command sufficient talent to its municipal authority to develop a long-term sustainable transport infrastructure. That said, no matter how bad the busses, Cardiff has plenty of branches of the Principality (“Never knowingly undersold”) and all are accessible by foot.

I offered the other ticket to young dai-banjo. The reason for this was that prior to the world cup, he offered me a free ticket to the Wales v Argentina game, provided by S4C. My, how I looked forward to it. But, S4C being S4C, when we picked the tickets up, they were for entry to Radnorshire’s most popular alpaca farm.

So we met in Wyndham Arcade and had breakfast at Servini’s. Dai enjoyed a cheese Panini and a strawberry milkshake, while I had full breakfast with chips and a glass of red wine. We then had a cheeky snout while looking in the window of the tobacco shop. Sadly, the arcade’s beadle chased us off the patch. I don’t know why, probably the ‘tache again. Still we had plenty of time to enjoy a couple of pints before the match. And I tell you what else you’ll have plenty of time for, the home insurance quotes currently on offer by Principality (“Whoooooaaaah, Prin-ci-pal-i-teeeeeee ! Bodyform for yooooooo !”); you can get a quote in as little as 2 minutes, and it’s valid for 180 days.

So we queued on St Mary’s Street to get into The Goat Major and it was a joy and a pleasure to bump into an old Gwlader, Dai Hampshire who, I’m happy to report, is still breaking records in the charm and loveliness department, and breaking wind in the trouser department.

Sadly, dai-banjo was not feeling too chipper. The previous night he’d been at a big posh do in Cardiff, and had one too many Drambuie shandies. He sipped gingerly at his pint, like Bella Emberg with toothache.

And so to the stadium. I find it amazing that within minutes of finishing your pint in a city centre pub you can be in the stadium and in your seat and feeling utterly revolted by the behaviour of the members of whichever nondescript valleys hellhole rugby club that your freebie has fortuitously landed you in amongst. I’m aware that I ended that previous sentence with a preposition which is not the done thing. But I tell you what should be the done thing, and that’s the Variable Rate Cash ISA; with a minimum deposit of £1 and attracting a whopping 0.6% AER, it’s yet another fine product available either online or in person at a branch of Principality (“Maybe she’s born with it ? Maybe it’s Principality !”).

And so to the game. If sport is meant to be a feast, then this was stealing sandwiches leftover from meetings.

I was far too interested in the array of glittered popsies surrounding us to take too much notice, but from what I did see, it was not a particularly edifying spectacle. One player stood out for me, and that was Berrick Barnes. Maybe it’s the scrumcap, but he reminds me of Stephen Larkham, but he also offers so much more. And that’s as much rugby chat as you’ll get out of me, I’m there purely to support, much like the wonderful support provided to the Oriel Un gallery at St Fagan’s Natural History Museum which is provided by Principality (“Probably the best lager in the world.”)

And so came the end. We all saw it. I’m not ashamed to admit that I cried openly, because I’d bought Australia at +10.

As a phrase, “A picture says a thousand words” can be over-used, but when you look at the miles of column space devoted to Wales’s ultimately doomed 2011 Rugby World Cup campaign, it would be nice to have them all distilled into a wordless series of dramatic, emotional and revealing photographs.

Heads Held High from Seren Books does exactly that, albeit with the photos sandwiched by a pragmatic assessment of Wales’s campaign by Phil Bennett, and a typically poetic epilogue from Max Boyce.

For those of us who are still feeling the pain of that fateful night in Auckland when fate conspired to rob Wales of a deserved World Cup Final place, this book serves as a reminder of the immense highs and lows we all experienced during the Autumn.

It’s amazing how a photograph can take you back to a moment during a match, bringing it back to life and forcing you to re-live the emotions you felt as you watched it for the first time. As a piece of silent reportage on Wales’s World Cup campaign this is a splendid memento to have.

There will be many more books written about Rugby World Cup 2011, but few of those thousands of words will come close to capturing the spirit and fervent feelings we all experienced when a nation dared to believe that the impossible was possible.

“Heads Held High” is published by Seren Books.

In Wales we like to win but the process, the enjoyment of playing, having a go, is important, more important to us than any of the other home nations. Why is this? Well, firstly, lets be honest, we’re generally not the biggest – not in individual size anyway – playing an open game, taking, as Gerald Davies says, ‘calculated risks’, is a way around this – being faster, more alert, quicker on the feet and in the head. Then there’s the argument that we’re compensating for or celebrating our past; rugby’s often compared to battle or war, down the years we’ve often been brilliant at playing guerrilla warfare rugby, a sanctioned form of Owain Glyndwr rebellion. We’re the sons of Owain.
So all of a sudden we find ourselves going into a game with a squad consisting largely of players who recently finished their GCSE’s, who like to play a running game. What’s more, we appear to have spawned yet more youngsters who’s apparent dream in life is to identify the tallest, widest, most muscular member of the opposition and make him look like a fool; the appearance of Mathew Morgan, Rhys Webb, Liam Williams, Gareth Davies and Rhodri Williams is a sign that the players who largely made up the world cup squad are not a flash in the pan, that Shane might have reinvigorated Welsh rugby on his own. So who do we have to thank for these youngsters? Shane? David Moffett? The regions? Gatland? We know it can’t be the WRU, they might have been OK recently but I’ve still got the nagging feeing they’re going to sell the Millennium to Toyota next week. For a tenner.
No. None of these are responsible. When I said we’re the sons of Owain, it wasn’t pretentious, offensive, cultural analysis, well it was, but apart from that – it’s biologically true. Now you all know there’s no record of his death, meaning only one thing, he’s still alive and he’s sneaking around Wales shagging our wives. At his cheekiest he’ll nip in through the bedroom window, inject you with Ketamin while you sleep, and then get down to business while the Optimism Gnome has a wank in the corner. ‘Jesus, I’m late for work, why didn’t you wake me up?’ you’ll say in the morning to your wife / beloved / that girl who hung around The Oak a lot a few years ago, ‘Had to go to the launderette’, she’ll say, suddenly interested in the floor, slightly to the right. Then twenty years later your son’s stepped eight players behind his own line on his debut, made the English hooker knock himself out on one of the posts and whispered ‘You smell lovely’ to the giant meathead in the second row. As for the fabled ‘Fly Half Factory’, your missus ever gone to visit a relative in Panteg, a relative she’s never once mentioned before? Come back a bit refreshed did she? A bit reinvigorated perhaps? Hmm?
God knows where Jamie Roberts came from. Here’s hoping Shane does his father proud on the weekend.

Mikey

I’m an avid reader of sports biographies and histories, so I was very pleased to get my hands on a copy of Lynn Davies’ new book, “Hard Men of Welsh Rugby. ”

As book titles go, it’s pretty Ronseal, with a great photo of one of the hardest ever to grace the Wales shirt, Graham Price. It’s a rattling good read. I was still in short trousers when many of the subjects of this book were practising their art on the rugby field, but the names will be familiar to all serious followers of Welsh rugby.

This a reference manual relating to giants of the past century or so. It describes the careers of twenty illustrious Welshmen, including all three of the famous Pontypool front row of the 70s.

Whilst it lacks the more exhaustive detail of say, Peter Jackson’s “Lions of Wales,” this would be the perfect concise introduction to the history of Welsh rugby in the second half of the twentieth century for any young rugby fan.

There are some great anecdotes, notably concerning colourful types like Bobby Windsor and Geoff Wheel, along with a sprinkling of remarkable stats relating to the achievements of these heroes. It’s particularly pleasing to see John Bevan made it into the top 20 list of rugby hard men, but J J Williams, who I’ve always maintained was an inferior player in all regards, is absent.

What’s clear from the book is that it is the communities and professions which shaped these players and forged their hardness. Steel and coal loom large in the backgrounds of many of them. However there’s also room for a tough pair of doctors, JPR and Dr Jack, and the Electricity Board’s finest, Delme and Grav.

Get your hands on a copy of this book at Y Lolfa now.

It is hard to imagine a more heart-breaking defeat. Down to 14 men for the last hour, and having lost our cornerstone on the tighthead after only 10 minutes, Wales had no right to be in this match at all; and yet we were. Thanks to a remarkable display from the Welsh, and a remarkably negative approach from the French, we spent the last 20 minutes of the game a single point behind – and that, of course, is where the real heart-break was. We had no right to be so close – but having got there against all the odds, we had opportunity after opportunity to steal the victory, and simply could not do it. Attacking lineout after attacking lineout was thrown away, kicks at goal hit the woodwork or fell inches short, drop goal attempts went badly wrong or simply didn’t happen, and the final whistle brought an unlikely dream to a bitter end.

It is hard to imagine a more heart-breaking defeat; and yet heart-break should not be, must not be, the legacy we take from this World Cup. There is no glory in defeat. There is, however, a glory that defeat can not extinguish: the glory of finding your limits and being pushed beyond them, of refusing to break however shattering the blow, of discovering that you have more to give than anyone else imagined. This Welsh team has much of that glory already, and will win more in their response to this defeat, in their performance next week, in their performances in the months and years ahead. It takes the raging, vicious heat of magma to make diamonds – this defeat is surely painful enough to match that heat, and this Welsh squad is full of players who have the strength to become diamonds.

Adversity shows us who we really are. We will see that in how these players respond; but it is every bit as true of us as supporters, as people. We had seen what our team could produce, we had dared to dream, and those dreams have been trampled in the mud of Eden Park. It would be easy to blame the referee, to blame the fickle hand of luck, to howl against the fleeting nature of sporting opportunity – and yet that is not what we should do.

No. Instead, we should ask ourselves, ask each other, as we sit over our tasteless pints, why it is that we watch rugby, and why it is that we care. The answers should be clear. We watch it because it is the pinnacle of sport; because it marries the brutal with the poetic, marries passion with analysis, marries a dozen and more different contests in a single match. We care because it expresses something of our lives; of adversity, of triumph and disaster, of the fascinating complexities that being Welsh involves.

Those answers should help us see how this adversity will reveal us to ourselves. Perhaps ironically for a Welsh supporter, it was an Englishman (but qualified by birth to play for India) who said it best of all: ‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster, and treat those two imposters just the same.’ And there’s the truth of it – triumph is an imposter, disaster is an imposter. Neither is real. Reality is the journey, not the temporary stations that we mistake for destinations. Reality is the glory of the struggle, the glory of getting back on your feet every time you are knocked down, the glory of reaching further than you think you can, the glory of life itself.

These young men of ours, these sons and brothers, have wrestled with that glory. They have reached past their own limits time and again, and they have represented us to the world as well as we could possibly have hoped. They deserve our respect and admiration; but more than that, they deserve that we should be inspired by them, and that we should collectively set our own sights higher in recognition of their endeavours.

So drink those pints of bitter, people of Wales – and then when the sun rises again, shake off your headaches and do whatever you do best a little bit better. Achieve more, laugh more, help others more, love more, live more – and make the legacy of this Welsh team and this World Cup defeat a ripple effect that gives us all a taste of glory. Every single person in Wales who was watching the game was knocked to the ground by the final whistle – let every single one of us get back up again, wipe the blood away, and aim a little higher.

In the midst of the enormous pile of lazy dross in the London press describing Wales’s ascent to glory in the Rugby World Cup, there have been some truly laughable pieces of work. The Telegraph’s “How To Be Welsh” is a particularly puerile example of the new genre peddled by the bored Jonny-Wilkinson-come-latelys of the English press.

Back in 1987, when Wales last graced the semi-finals of the Rugby World Cup with their cheeky sidesteps and brutal forward play, international rugby was still a fairly level playing field. Hell, in 1991, Scotland managed to find their way to the bronze play-off game against New Zealand, only losing 13-6 at the old National Stadium in Cardiff. Professionalism was still the word that dared not speak its name. And it remained that way until 1995, when Vernon Pugh QC of the IRB announced the abandonment of the amateur ethos.

New Zealand, South Africa and Australia were best prepared for this. Uncle Rupert was ready for them with his chequebook. England soon followed the Tri Nations into the professional elite and by 1999, the gap between the haves and the have-nots of world rugby was wide enough to prompt Paul Ackford to claim that England would “put 100 points on a Celtic Nation within a couple of years.”

How we laughed at him after our victory over England at Wembley on April 11th, 1999. 32-31. The beginning of the false dawn. The Great Redeemer’s finest hour.

Wales had already beaten France in Paris in that final Five Nations tournament; the first time since the 1970s. And our first ever victory over South Africa was yet to come in the inaugural match at the new Millennium Stadium later that year. From such highs came such lows. Wales were co-hosts of the 1999 World Cup, but another needless defeat to Samoa was followed by an undignified exit from the tournament at the quarter-final stages thanks to Australia, who went on to win the tournament in a fairly one-sided final against France.

Shall we mention 2003? We must. The 22nd November: my stag party at London Welsh RFC. England vs Australia. Who to support? What a choice. I chose England, and they won.

But that was the beginning of the end for England. Yes, there was a brief flash in the burning embers in 2007, when by sheer bloody mindedness the Saes managed to drag themselves into the final, beating the All Blacks’ conquerors France on their way. But South Africa stemmed the tide to win their second World Cup.

After 2003 Wales got better, albeit with some stutters along the way. There was a Six Nations whitewash, but on the other hand we won two Grand Slams. On the whole the Noughties were an upward curve for Wales.

So here we are 24 years since our last appearance in the final four. The protagonists are the same: Australia, France, New Zealand and Wales. Is it still a level playing field? I would say it is. These days, being prepared for a big tournament means burning hours in the gym and freezing hours in Polish ice-houses. It means strict diets and recovery regimes, psychological programmes and debriefing sessions.

If you look at the last four standing, in these terms alone Wales are well above the average in their preparedness. The best thing about this is that the new superiority hasn’t come at the expense of traditional Welsh attributes such as flair and imagination. The ability to create magical attacking moves from almost any area of the field is still there. But now it’s accompanied by ferocious, unrelenting tackling, intelligent commitment to the tackle area, a reliable lineout and probably the strongest scrummage in the world.

We have three world-class fly-halves and the best scrum-half on the planet by miles. Shane Williams, Leigh Halfpenny and George North have been the most threatening back three of the tournament so far, and we have the sumptuous prospect of Jamie Roberts smashing holes in everything in front of him.

Wales stand on the cusp of greatness. Fleet Street’s finest Anglophiles are now courting us. On the one hand, it’s nice to have the attention. But on the other it feels a bit uncomfortable. What if the boot was on the other foot, as it was in 2003 and 2007. England in the final: who do you support? In 2003 I supported England, mostly because I was surrounded by a number of my favourite English friends and I didn’t want to offend them. But I also wanted a Northern Hemisphere team to strike a blow against the Southern dominance of our sport. And they did.

2007 was different. The England team were a gnarled old bunch of whinging buggers, and they were universally hated by the rest of the rugby world. After having seen France steal a win against New Zealand in the quarter finals, I wanted to see them go and win the whole thing. But England spoiled it. Nothing much has changed this time around, except that France have done the job they failed to do last time, and where they’d previously just spoiled it on the pitch, England also spoiled it off the pitch. Good riddance to Prince Bendy-Nose and his dwarf-chucking neanderthals.

But in the midst of England’s shame, there was a beautiful moment when Pitbull-turned-puppy-dog Brian Moore lost a bet with Gwladrugby.com over the outcome of the France vs England match. True to his word, Mr Moore donated £50 to the Gleision Miners’ Fund and encouraged many others to do the same. Diolch Brian.

Here in Wales we don’t need an excuse to whip ourselves up into a national frenzy when we look like we’re about to win something, and this time is no exception. We’ve even managed to persuade David Cameron to fly our flag over his house.

I’m always suspicious when politicians take an interest in the sporting success of their constituents. That’s why I was never keen on seeing Rhodri Morgan and his mates on the pitch before an important match at the Millennium Stadium. The campaign of the last few days has seen Kevin Brennan (Lab, Cardiff West), Paul Flynn (Lab, Newport West), Cheryl Gillan (Con, Chesham & Amersham) and David Cameron (Con, Witney) all attaching themselves to the success of the Welsh rugby team.

Basking in the glory of someone else’s effort and achievement is so much easier than doing the hard work yourself and delivering bad news which may or may not be a result of your own incompetence.

Unfortunately, over 16,000 people in Wales have lost their jobs since June, so you’ll forgive me for being a little bit cynical about the motives behind David Cameron’s decision to fly our flag over his house. What annoys me even more is that the people who are supposed to be fighting Cameron’s job cuts are tripping over each other to wrap themselves in the flag.

Tamping

That’s right, the bloke who drove Tom Jones to murder his woman back in 1968 was named Pierre. He met Jonesy’s woman in Pontypridd Co-op having ‘accidentally’ reached and grabbed hold of the same cucumber in the grocery aisle. Having overwhelmed her with suggestive eyebrow raising and the aroma of cheap rollies and garlic, he insisted on going back to hers for “making zee pashonat lurving”. This turned out to be a rough artless pounding over the arm of the sofa and the curr never even had the decency to take his socks off.

He left early doors the next day for the ferry back to Dieppe, but by then Jonesy had been outside all night in a right old stew having witnessed the silhouetted piston-like transaction of the previous evening on the blinds of the front room. Spending all night in Ynysangharad park and getting through 8 cans of kestrel, Jonesy steamed in to have it out with her. Sadly he looked a right state and she just burst out laughing when she opened the door, so Jonesy felt the need to stab her 43 times, drive her in the boot and drop her in the Taff with bricks in her dressing gown pockets.

The judge was very reasonable, and in summing up at the trial, said: “for the rest of her life – had she lived – Delilah would have had day-dreaming yearnings for a French portion; once women have had a taster of some Gallic contempt-sex it stays with them forever. It was kinder this way”. Jonesy was sentenced to an afro and a duet with the as-yet-unborn Robbie Williams.