deccles26

Why ‘Anyone but England’? In 2003 I infamously lost a game of pool on a Saturday night at the Royal Hotel in Canowindra. The following Tuesday wearing a t-shirt, running shorts, pair of Rabbitohs rugby league socks and some moulded soul Dunlops I got smashed at training by a viticulturist who happened to be Canowindra’s openside flanker. He was an arsehole on the field and off. He was like most sevens in my personal experience– if you’re not their mate, then you are most definitely their enemy. It happened again in early 2005 when I arrived in Melbourne with the Welshman Jim Roy. One Tuesday we did this tackling drill one on one. Jim would change positions in the line to be opposite me every time I ran through the drill. Every time he’d put me on my arse, time and time and time again. Once I remember he put his hand on the back of my head and rubbed my face into the dirt. It was subtle as all flankers make it look, Jim was merely using my prone body to get to his feet ready to complete the drill again. It was the first – but not last time I could smell and taste the dirt of Romanis Park.

At half time the day of my 40th birthday party we played University of Melbourne at University ( the infamous H.G Evans ground) I was so angry with Jim’s flexing of the laws and the fact that the ref had him pinged that I shoved him ready to smash his brains out. Luckily – and not for the last time a 6ft 4 220lb English second rower came to my defence. Later Jim and I were to become as thick as thieves as they say, and if Jim rang me this very second and said he needed me I would stop typing grab my car keys, wallet and mobile and be where ever he needed me to be. I’m grateful for Mr King saving me from myself that day. Fast forward two years later, I had a row with another Englishman who was also my front row mentor – the man who literally saved my neck – Tommy Gunn (real name Mark) but the enigma of an Englishman named Tommy Gunn is too good a tale to tell – especially when I’m in England. It was again, my birthday – my 42nd Birthday – and again it was playing University of Melbourne – at H.G.Evans. I was not myself that day, I’m rarely myself at H.G Evans reserve playing University of Melbourne.

Anyway I’m jumping ahead of myself. In 2003 I was living in outback New South Wales working for the Sheep Industry as the ‘I.T Guy’. I was staying up at Armidale NSW which is where my Head Quarters where. It had been a long day of internal and external politics. I still didn’t know 95% of the laws of the game. Indeed I called them rules, and called the referee 'umpire'. The origins of this are easy to identify. I was born in Victoria and bred on a diet of nothing but AFL (then VFL) and Test Cricket. I walked away from the office early and watched a midweek game between Fiji and the USA at the pub across the road from my hotel. The USA were underdogs but they were competitive. It was the most enjoyable game of rugby I had seen to that date. I had made every effort to watch as much rugby as possible –with my four mentors from Canowindra to learn the laws as quickly as possible.

Sitting in that hotel watching USA v Fiji I had no one to explain the rules – sorry laws of the game. So I asked three blokes in safety shirts downing Tooheys New to explain what just happened. They took me under their wing, invited me to their table and, at length explained to me what was going on. That’s the thing about my origins of rugby. It’s from outback New South Wales – and out there it’s about lending a hand and chipping in and enjoying it. They loved the rugby because it was two teams playing a competitive game.

For the RWC2003 I had watched every Australian game in the front bar of the Royal Hotel. The whole bar stood and sang the Australian national anthem before every match. I missed being at the final because it was my sister’s birthday in Melbourne. She graciously – and probably still with regret today –let me turn the game on. “It’s just 80 minutes” I said. By the first extra time every male at the party was in the living room watching the game and I, still a novice with the laws, was explaining the things that didn’t make sense to anybody from an AFL upbringing. I thought it miraculous that Australia had made it to the final, but I learned then and have witnessed many times since that Australia doesn’t give up until well after the 80 minutes has elapsed. Australia only gives up when the referee blows the whistle three times.

As I have recounted elsewhere, my AFL mad nephew Nicholas, knew before the commentators, before me, before the crowd that Wilkinson was set up for that drop goal with only 23 seconds to go to the end of the second extra time. Wilkinson kicked the goal and Australia lost. It had been a great game of rugby, Australia were valiant competitors but England were a machine and were absolutely cold blooded and ruthless in dismantling Australia ‘up front’. I congratulated my brother in law – who is English. I, because of what I had learned from my four mentors, and those blokes in the safety shirts, enjoyed the game – but was disappointed in the outcome. That night in 2003 I was miles from the concept of ‘Anyone but England’. If the game was competitive then I enjoyed the rugby. If Australia lost I was disappointed – but I certainly didn’t want to barrack against whoever had defeated Australia, and if I’m honest, I felt it was about time England had won something. I knew vaguely about 1966 Soccer World Cup and we were at the time in 2003 smashing the English in test cricket in 3 days.

I love the six nations tournament because it is and was and forever will be very much ‘Northern Hemisphere’ rugby – which is to say it was forwards rugby, and being a forward I had much to learn, and watching the world’s best upfront was the best next thing to playing them. The ‘Southern’ hemisphere school of play focussed on getting the ball to the backs as soon as possible and using the forwards to ‘secure possession’ and not much else. It didn’t help that my playing years were spent during one of Australia’s worst droughts. The pitches were hard dry and fast, which exacerbated ‘southern hemisphere’ rugby.

In 2004, 2005 I made friends, tight, close, honoured friends at the Melbourne Rugby Union Football Club. Nearly all were from Britain and they had infused me with a sense of Anglophilia that has resulted in 3 trips to Britain in 3 years, with a fourth planned next year.  I discovered during the Australia spring tour tests that some of the English would with a passion - even more fervent than supporting England - barrack against Australia no matter who we played. Including the French. This given my deep reading of English history and the cliched phrase ‘Cheese Eating Surrender Monkeys’ struck me as odd. No more than odd, it struck me as bizarre. Surely an Englishman’s interest in France v Australia is a good competitive game of rugby? Nothing more than that. I learned, with some distaste, and indeed morbid fascination, that it wasn’t enough to be a good game of rugby. Australia must be grinded into the ground and eviscerated at every opportunity. It confused me. Why hate us? When I learned that the English supporting France, Italy, Ireland, Fiji, New Zealand, South Africa against Australia was more passionate than supporting England my mind could not fathom such a passionate hatred.

In the 2006 Six Nations I went to watch a game and turned up in a Scotland jersey – I think because Neishy had said Scotland were going to need as much support as possible because England were going to massacre them. It was a 'stir the possum' moment. It was meant to be light hearted, by the end of the night, it was not light hearted it was 'Heart of Darkness' territory. Olly – a mate and a hooker, was not mortified, or even aghast, and sure we were all a few pints down, but I think the word 'traitor' was used. I was there to lend Neishy support – after all, he was the single Scotsman in our pretty tight forwards pack group. A bet was made: if England win I was to wear the jersey back to front for the rest of the evening. I knew Scotland were screwed before kick off but I made the bet in good faith and when England massacred Scotland was asked to turn the jersey back to front. I did.

I had to explain to every girl, every Scots, Welsh, Irish and English man at Bridie O’Rielly’s why I was wearing it inside out. I did. It was a bet, I lost. I was still a good sport. Then in a moment of amber clarity (thanks to the pints and the fact that I had only just learned to scull them) made the connection between Collingwood & England. It was as lucid a moment as I could have given the inebriated state I was in. The words of Gore Vidal echoed in my head on the way home in the taxi that night ‘It’s not enough that I succeed, others must fail’. I said it out loud in my drunken stupor and the Taxi driver thought – yet again – that he had another loon in his car about to deposit his liquid supper over his dashboard.

From that night, that moment, the English had made – at least in a sporting sense an enemy of me. What’s worse, I had, like a bolt of lightening from above, the zealot’s passion of someone converted to the faith. In the beginning it was moderated, scared to be given full voice. It was – in fact – gutless largely because Australia’s front row was gutless too. I supported the British Lions because Boysey had discovered my Welsh Grandparents and while I had always suspected that my Grandfather in the Australian War Memorial records and National Archives was who he was, Boysey found the proof –in my father’s own handwriting from a return address which was the place I grew up. I with all seriousness wanted to pick the English corner out of my Lion’s jersey.

Fast forward to the 2007 Rugby World Cup and I had changed. I had morphed into someone who was so passionate about England losing at any cost. I had become something that my parents would have been horrified at the mere thought of. I had become the classic bad sport.

In RWC 2007 I was on rugby ‘Tour’  - a thing of infamy - when Australia lost to England in the quarter finals. I was drunk and out of my mind in some slick fugly Gold Coast bar when it happened. The wound of losing the quarters was great. Losing to England made it greater and my English friends too great glee – almost to a level of gluttony, rubbed salt into the wound and crushed my passionate, rugby convert broken heart. There was no good humour, it was as cold hearted and jack booted as it could get. When South Africa played England in the RWC2007 final, I really did barrack for the referee.

This year for RWC2011 I made my intentions loud & clear, early & strong. I would be supporting anyone but England. It has infuriated some of the English that I am proud and honoured to call my friends. However, as will be demonstrated today if Australia loses to South Africa, some of my English friends ‘Anyone but Australia’ policy will be in full voice – after the event.

After I made the announcement of ‘Anyone but England’ I was reminded when Australia lost to Ireland at the Liffey in Stockholm what it was like to shake hands and congratulate the opposition when they defeated Australia. I had in all honesty forgotten that sensation. The Irish in the bar were humble victors and a sense of honour rushed through me when I and the other Australian supporters were noble in defeat. I thought as I shook Irishman after Irishman’s hand in the ‘Liffey’ it’s been a while since a victory has been celebrated so humbly and a loss taken so graciously in my presence. I immediately texted Tommy, Jim & Olly. Olly’s text didn’t get through because I forgot the +61 country code. I couldn’t be stuffed resending. I walked out of the Liffey 4 pints down stunned, head down & gutted. Our path to the final had in that one game been made virtually impossible. I never imagined us getting past New Zealand in the semi finals and I still don’t today. But South Africa in the quarters bought memories of 2007 flooding back, and the pain of that moment is as fresh as if it was yesterday. I was so despondent I burned through 100 AUD on a shell and pea game organised by the Turkish Swedish mafia on the streets of Old Stockholm and knew I was getting fleeced. I didn’t care. It was that kind of despondency. I know last night after England losing to France that my English rugby mates will have felt ten times worse than I did that morning in Stockholm.

If any knowledge can be gained from the final pool matches this weekend in the Rugby World Cup it is this: England are on target – again – and undeservedly so, for their third RWC final in a row. They didn’t deserve the win against Argentina and they certainly based on the 75 of the previous 80 minutes of rugby didn’t deserve to win against Scotland. The fugly rugby, in the end did its job for England and they were in front when the referee finally blew his whistle three times. After the scrape home against Scotland nearly every Englishman and his dog are pointing to the substitution of Flood for Wilkinson as being the turning point that changed the game. Actually that DID help. But the bigger help was getting Thompson out of Craig Joubert’s ear. Joubert had had enough of Thompson at the twenty minutes mark. As soon as Thompson had the thought bubble to pass comment, Joubert had awarded another penalty for scrum or breakdown infringement against England. It was a whiny performance worthy of Dunning and not the RWC champion that Steven Thompson is. Thompson was out muscled up front, and so was Stevens, and it’s scary to say that about these two men. These two have had Australia’s measure for far too long at scrum time.  After Thompson & Steven’s substitution the scrum and especially the lineouts started to go England’s way. Joubert – as he always does – reset his expectations when the new player arrived and I showed no surprise when England fared better from referee Joubert at the breakdowns, scrums and lineouts. While every English supporter will be hoping that Flood starts against France, they should take the time and effort to rewatch the first half of the Scotland game. For on not one, but three occasions Johnny Wilkinson was the last line of defence stopping a certain Scottish try. There would have been no way that England could have got those points back. Flood is an attacking player, but his defence has always been questionable. Wilkinson – in his older years – is definitely more defensive. I still think that Wilkinson will be decisive if England play New Zealand – as is likely – in the RWC2011 final. However, rugby supporters (from all nations) are going to have to sit through some pretty dire rugby before then. England continue to play the same deadly dull rugby that numbs the opposition into a state of suspended animation. It’s not pretty, nor elegant, and some days barely legal, but it results in a win. As the English constantly remind me it is a win that will bring home the William Web Ellis trophy. What about Australia? As an Australian supporter I am only comforted by the thought that South Africa are playing worse than us. The Australian team were outsmarted by Ireland – who had done their homework. We have hardly bothered turning up to play against Russia (probably the most dire second half of Australian rugby I’ve seen since I began watching the sport) and had to really find some heart to lift above the USA Australia are carrying too many injuries to get past New Zealand in the semi finals. When things click – and they have for minutes, not quarter hours, it’s an exciting game that Australia play. When it misses (the USA game, the Russia game) it’s some of the most awful professional rugby yet seen. At the end of the day Australia’s demise at this world cup will come down to two things. The Bens & Moore, and being too slow to adjust when the opposition changes it’s game plan. The only Australian front row combination to have any respect from the opposition and indeed the northern hemisphere referees is Ben Robinson, Stephen Moore and Ben Alexander. None of the others have been able to scrummage or conduct a lineout that would past muster for any northern, tier one team (including the French).  The loss of Stephen Moore – arguably the best hooker in world rugby leading into this tournament has been decisive in Australia’s lack of punch at the breakdowns. The loss of Pocock was also a considerable blow that has bought Australia back to the rest of the field. Secondly, when the opposition team changes its game plan Australia takes far too long to react and adjust. This for the lesser sides is ok. But for the England’s, the New Zealand’s, The South Africa’s and even the Irish, this failure to adjust to the change in game plan will result in points against Australia on the board.

Australia's lost to Ireland has resulted in the North / South Divide in the Pools. Australia, New Zealand, Argentina and South Africa are in the top half, England, France, Ireland & Wales in the bottom. The only team I can see getting past England will be Wales. If Wales can get past Ireland in the quarters. It depends who referees Australia v South Africa to see if Australia will make the semis. If it's Barnes, Owens, Joubert, Rolland or any of the other Northern refs officiates, it will be a big ask for Australia.

Chances by Athlete has been my tour song. Sometimes frozen to the spot crying, sometimes running with joy. I'm all the better for it too.

I have not seen the Dr Who episode featured in the you tube video - and I didn't know that it was used for a Van Gogh episode. Truly ironic because this trip I was in the Musee D'Orsay and the Van Gogh Museum. This song played on my walk to & from just about everywhere this trip.

For the record the tour song list was

Say what you want - Sheryl Crow

Stoned in Love - Chicane featuring Tom Jones

Bow River - Cold Chisel (The Ian Moss version on Circus Animals album - not the Jimmy Barnes single version)

Chances - Athlete (this song)

True Colours - Cyndi Lauper (because I can't buy my mate Kate Ceberano's version from the RWC2003 final)

Don't Hold Back (Radio edit) - Potbellez

Perfect Day - Lou Reed

The Liffey in Old Stockholm. Everyone of these Irishmen was looking at the TV above  the door to the pub. The Irish supporters were very good winners, and to our credit (and a surprise to most) the Australians were pretty humble in defeat. No bitching about referees. The better team won on the day.

I've just come back to the hotel room after downing 4 pints of quite good Belgian dark ale and watching a pathetic Australia lose to a lack lustre Ireland side. Full credit to Ireland they took the ball up to Australia.

Australia decided that for at least this 80 minutes of world cup rugby that defence was optional. In fact Australia's defence, counter rucking, scrumage and most telling of all lineouts were pretty much non existent.

All this means is that we get to play South Africa instead of Samoa or Wales in the quarters. This means Ireland get one of the above before being smashed by NZ in the semis. So be it.

What was telling today was how appalling we were at lineouts. How utterly crap we were at the concept of realignment, how defence did not exist in the Wallabies lexicon.

These failings were obvious to anyone who had seen any of the Tri-Nation games. We were crap. Nothing I witnessed today gives me any confidence at any of the set pieces for Australia.

We need to be mindful that we have the USA (remember England v USA in 2007?) and Russia to go. The Irish in the Irish pub were sceptical of beating Italy. But that is just the usual keeping a lid on it northern approach to rugby. The only person to blame for today's debacle of a rugby game are the players themselves. NOT Robbie Deans. He's been a brilliant coach, but if Moore & Pocock don't return soon, I fear I'm going to be barracking for NZ against England in the finals.

Now time to find some food to help absorb this (quite very good) Belgian beer.

All you need is the sun to come out for a few seconds in Amsterdam and every Northern school painting you have ever seen in your entire life makes complete and utter sense. From Vermeer, to Rembrandt and finishing with Van Gogh.

The houses are full of windows, no eaves to let as much light in as possible, and you can understand why - it must be bleak business in winter, but in Autumn with rain clouds and low lying sun, magic hour last about 6.

Tonight is my last night in Paris, for the first time, this morning I walked east. Two metro's down to the Bastille, where in late September the Opera season begins in full swing. I didn't walk to the Eiffel Tower today, but I did walk most of the Champs-Elysees and wondered down the avenue with all the designer labels are head quartered. There was also lots of men in designed suits with those curly antenna ear pieces talking into their wrists. It was very surreal. I liked quite a few things from a style perspective - although being dressed in jeans, t-shirt, runners and iPod didn't really qualify me as a 'serious' shopper.

That is the thing about Paris, you always know who the Gendarme are, and who the Security staff are they are kitted up in kevlar, Tasar, semi-automatic, nightstick, handcuffs, sunglasses and navy boiler suit with decals by Versace and tailoring by Jean Paul Gaultier. It's the sunglasses (and not a 'standard issue' to be seen), that makes it seem like you've wondered into the middle of a movie scene, and they've just kept filming.

They are, also, ever present. For me as an Australian the ever present sign of security makes me think something bad has or something bad is about to happen. What is really obvious this time around, particularly in the 'colourful' Marais district, is the large number of homeless people. There are plenty of 'youfs' roaming late at night in numbers and with attitude.

The Parisians seem much more relaxed this time, and despite not practising as diligently as I should have with my language tape, with the help of an English - French dictionary I have been able to survive where English is not spoken.

The highlight for me this time around was spending a whole day in each wing of the Louvre Museum, and of course the most magnificent dinner at La Cinq at Hotel George V.

The other thing that has been on my 'to do' list for a while was to get to Bayeux and see the Bayeux Tapestry. I did want to see the landing beaches of D-Day but to be honest the Normandy countryside from the train was enough to entice me to tend an apple orchard making Calvados until my time on earth is done.

The trip to Normandy has also reinforced for me that a city is not a country. Sydney is not Australia, London is not England and Paris is certainly not France. The shopping in this town is great - even if you are a XXL rugby nut like me. I didn't get to the truly breathtaking BHV last time but spent nearly 3/4 of a day touring it. I did not - alas get to all the BHV specialist shops that hang off the major store with the exception of the wonderful BHV Homme.

The other discovery - which I know some Australians are already aware of is Marriage Freres tea. I discovered it Le Bon Marche (The Good Store?) and was astounded to discover just how different varieties of tea can be. What a different it makes as to when the tea were harvested. I never knew tea could have so many astounding bouquets.

I have enjoyed my time in the apartment, but to be honest, feel that my next trip to this hemisphere will be later in the year. November, or even - being a lover of snow - February or March.

Much remains unchanged. My favourite Rembrandt is still in its corner of the Louvre, David will still be wowing the crowds senseless in the French Romantics room. The easter egg hunt for the 21 must sees in a Museum where it takes 3 years solid to look at every object on display for 3 seconds. Applying that rule of thumb to the Easter egg hunt it'd take 63 seconds to see them all and about 3 hours to navigate between the works. That is about the battery life of the audio guides.