Rugby Union

From what little I saw of the autumn
internationals, we can look forward to a rubbish winter on a global scale. I
have only two lasting impressions. South Africa reminded the world that, with
the whole-hearted backing of the Old Testament, they continue to feel justified
in inflicting GBH on such opponents as seem likely to stand between them and
victory. Ireland’s fly half had the impudence to convert three penalties and
was promptly flattened by the flailing knees of a Springbok forward as he tried
to get to his feet after a (legitimate) tackle. Why any self-respecting nation plays
rugby with the RSA is beyond me.

 

A fortnight later, I am 1 minute 32
seconds late for the start of Wales versus New Zealand, and I have missed the
first depiction of All Black hooker Andrew Hore assaulting Welsh lock Bradley
Davies with a blow to the head from behind which poleaxed him. However multiple
repeats supplied me (and the crowd and the worldwide TV audience) with the
facts of the case within seconds. None of the officials saw the incident, and the
authorities in their wisdom feel that TV surveillance directed against foul
play is inappropriate. Consequently 
Davies went to hospital and Hore stayed on the field. He was ”cited”, as
is normal in such cases, and the following week a disciplinary panel banned him
from playing for five weeks (two gameswworth), reduced from eight from eight
weeks in recognition of his “acceptance of guilt, genuine remorse and conduct
at the hearing.”

 

The rugby authorities are about as
disgraceful a group as it is possible to imagine. They seem to be unaware that
every time they pussyfoot round a crime of this nature they endorse the All
Black and Springbok conviction that they are allowed to use grievous bodily
harm on talented opponents in order to win games. This in turn means that fewer
and fewer players of genius will want to play rugby, and those few who chance
it will be broken into little pieces by the so-called “stars” of the Southern
hemisphere.

Thank God for horseracing. What a
privilege to have been treated to Frankel and his team.

 

BBC

Broadcasting House is full of dark
corridors and shadowy passages. Inevitably, I suppose, it will bring forth more
creatures of the night than less introspective megaliths.  I remember, at the time of Blair and the Iraq
War, a BBC figurehead had to make an appearance and a statement on behalf of
“Aunty”. Never has a rabbit in the headlights looked more frightened, never has
a professional communicator spoken so haltingly and so ineffectually. At the
next BBC crisis, the spokesman wore a beard, I seem to remember, but he was
equally terse in what he had to say and timid in the way he said it. The latest
champion of the airways, Entwwistle, was from the same finishing school.

 

I have a feeling that, under the cover
of darkness, the BBC’s first eleven spend all their time nursing each other’s
pension-pots and keeping their noses clean. The deluge of antiques, quizzes, and
cookery programmes, plus endless walk, cycle, drive and railway travelogues,
plus interminable repeats of all the above, is understandable: they need the
licence fees we pay to keep those pension-pots bubbling. The oddness of their
appearances is also understandable. They seldom get out into the daylight, they
almost never talk to ordinary people, and dealing with problems is something
for which they have religiously refused to prepare themselves.

 

The Jimmy Savile phenomenon makes it
clear that for the best part of three decades the BBC ran a vast industry
featuring a huge number of vulnerable young people who were almost entirely at
the mercy of show-biz movers and shakers of uncertain moral integrity, without
there being even the semblance of a system for safeguarding the moral welfare
of those young people. It is unbelievable, and it shows how all-consuming is a
passion for pension-pots. I wonder if anybody is charged with responsibility
for keeping the lottery on the straight and narrow.

 

So much for “the management”.  Over and above, at the very apex of this
disgraceful pyramid, we find Lord Patten, for whom I have never had any
particular respect. Oleaginous and self-serving, he has risen to heights,
political and academic, which would suggest that he is a paragon of virtue and
talent. In fact I suspect he is simply smooth, ingratiating and quite sharp. I
remember him as the last Governor of Hong Kong, 
announcing that he was going to establish fundamental rights and liberties
in that city, which would bring the Chinese to their knees when they took over.
One or two people actually believed him. Meanwhile far away in Beijing, the
Chinese rulers smiled and joked about “this silly little Englishman.” They
dealt with his legacy with the contempt which it deserved. If the BBC is to be
straightened out, the departure of his lordship would be appropriate.

 

 

TENNIS

With respect, I am pretty certain that
Djokovic and Nadal (when he is fit) make Federer nervous. Consequently he gets
impatient, in a hurry to impose himself. He hurries. He loses the point. Too
often he loses the match. It is sad, because this mindset is quite unnecessary.
 Federer still plays a game that is
significantly superior to that of his two closest rivals. He can afford to relax,
and to use his exquisite skills and considerable power to bring his opponents
to their knees in his own good time. Roger, stop hurrying.

 

What’s in it for us the viewers? Just
this: in his thirties Federer may well feel like taking life a little bit
easier. This suggests the possibility of several more years of less sweat and
more magic. In the second half of his career, if he will only re-think his attitude,
he may become even more watchable than he has been up to now. What a feast for
the public.

 

I wonder if we can get the word to the
Swiss Master. Fear nobody. Take pride in every subtlety and nuance of your
game. Stretch yourself artistically, take your time. Enjoy. Win. 

Or to put it another way: those unforced
errors are the acts of a man in a hurry to get it over. You have no need to
hurry. Toy with the opposition. The court is your kingdom. Your comfort  zone. Relax. Have fun.

 

THE TOTE

In retrospect, there were no heroes in
the saga of the sale of the Tote, and not for the first time the racing
industry reminded itself that teamwork is a word which it simply does not
understand.  There were, however, two
outstanding disappointments. The first was the chairman of the BHA who seemed
to fall short in his attempt to ensure that the Tote remained the property of
the racing industry.  The second was the
Prime Minister. With the amount of “racing” that features in his background, he
must have known that the Tote was created, largely through the efforts of
Winston Churchill, to provide racing with access to income from betting. He
must also have known that no public money ever went into the Tote. These facts
should have made it a no-brainer that the Tote should be given to the racing industry
free, gratis and for nothing. I can only imagine that he didn’t want to look
like a toff prime minister giving preferential treatment to a “toff” sport.
Anyone who will betray a great British industry, simply because of concerns
about his own public image,  is very
unlikely to emerge as the Winston Spencer Churchill of our days. I must confess
that I am not impressed by Mr Cameron.

 

CRICKET

Our cricket correspondent was about to
issue a tirade against Kevin Pietersen. Whereupon he immediately scored 185
runs (or thereabouts) in India. Inevitably we had to sack our man, who proved
by no means contrite. His last words as he slammed out of the office were: “you
mark my words, that young man is now’t but trouble.”

 

I tend to agree. Time will tell.