Rob’s Rugby World Cup Weekend 4 Round Up

I’m pretty emotionally drained, and I’m not going to lie — it’s going to be very hard to keep this objective.

One. Might not be the most obvious place to start, but Australia’s defence. We’ve given them plaudits for their attacking play, and for their sterling breakdown work, but good lord, their defence against Wales with 13 men was not of this earth.

First of all, Australia should be annoyed by Genia and Mumm, both of whom gave away mindless penalties, which given the location of them, and the state of the game and warnings from the referee, were always going to result in cards.

Secondly, Wales were their own worst enemies. So often resulting to blunt force trauma in lieu of guile, they were held up on the line repeatedly, and Faletau dropped the ball over the line in a scenario where a player of his ability scores every time. On that subject, ITV, Mr Faletua changed his name from Toby quite some time again, and getting a player’s name right I would have considered a basic function for a TV commentator.

A man who particularly drew my ire was George North, not least because he’s really fucking up my team top try scorer lucky 15. In the situation he found himself in, he needs to back himself for the corner. Having decided against that and to cut in, he absolutely 100% needs to take the ball into contact and present the ball neatly for a quick recycle with the Aussie defensive line. Going for the line with three men covering, I couldn’t believe it.

Likewise, Wales constantly trying to milk a penalty try from a scrum which was simply never going to be given with Joubert allowing the ball to be played if the ball was at the back of the scrum. Now, that’s not how I would interpret the laws, but he made it pretty clear, and Wales’ failure to adapt or use the scrum as a platform against a four man backline while winding the clock down beggars belief.

But that is to take nothing away from Aussie. Their line speed in defence throughout the game was ferocious; it seemed to double when men down. Defending is exhausting. You are not in control of the pace of the game. You need to keep communicating with one another — hard when your lungs are burning and you’re gasping for air. You need to stay organised; do you compete for the ball? Counter ruck? Fan out? Then put your body on the line again. Australia stayed incredibly organised, they absolutely smashed into Wales and they competed at breakdowns very intelligently. It also showed, for a team who but a year ago was filled with a bunch of lash heads who gave nary a fuck, a terrific level of bravery and a wonderful team spirit.

I wasn’t sure last week because of how rapidly England fell apart in the second half, but this Australian outfit is pretty damn serious, and ‘m struggling to see who’ll beat them right now.

Two. In 2015, my team top try scorer lucky 15, looking in the bag with Watson’s brace, has been ruined because NICK EASTER scored a hat trick *scrunches up bet slip and lobs it out the window*

That’s all I have to say on England this week, and for this tournament. I’m a busy man. I love rugby but I draw the line at spending my Saturday night watching a dead rubber against a load of plumbers.

Three. Ireland made me a bit emotional this weekend (a lot more on that later), which also makes it a good time to reflect as the group stages come to an end on what has been an absolutely glorious World Cup.

The Tier 2 nations have genuinely warmed the very cockles of my dead dark cynical heart. Japan beating South Africa is a moment that will live forever, but overall well beyond just making up the numbers, and while still being quite far off being able to move beyond it, they have really made it such an incredible tournament. From Romania and the pitchside proposal, Georgia vs Namibia which was one of the most endearingly shite games I’ve ever seen (eagerly helped by George Clancy, the worst referee in world rugby) with it’s 65 minute first half, Fiji who gave England, Wales and Australia runs for their money and finally the Samoan whirlwind that refused to quit even after Laidlaw’s late break. Rugby union is a growing game and seeing the tier below the top coming on so so much, it’s just fucking smashing lads.

I am under no illusions; rugby union is a pretty niche sport really. And what a weird one too. A load of chunky blokes all smack the living fuck out of one another, then all go and get lashed up afterwards. As the game becomes more and more professional, and the players become well oiled athletes more like tanks charging at each other, it mayhaps loses a little of the endearing amateur age. But for purists like me, the tier 2 nations remind us what rugby is all about — working together and giving it all for your fucking mates. Oh, and when your prop is retiring and you’ve scored a try in the last minute, letting him take the conversion.

Four. Scotland got further than England, which undoubtedly bring much joy to the Scottish fans reading (hi DC and Jake). Scotland are a much better unit under Vern Cotter (Joe Schmidt’s mentor), but their limited game approach against South Africa was foolish and I can not see a team who shipped so many tries to Samoa giving Australia much resistance.

More worryingly for Scotland, they’ve been losing at half time in every game bar Japan, who were coming off a 3 day turn around. Aussie might be out of sight by the break.

In the consolation stakes however, 2 gay friends who were watching the game with me, breaking down all sexual stereotypes, declared Scotland the fittest team in the tournament, and a source of many potential husbands. “Much fitter than Wales” was the consensus, Jamie Roberts aside.

Five. Another week, another casual but spluttering romp for New Zealand. Still not much to comment on, and I doubt we’ll see a challenge next week because…

Six. France. For maybe 40 minutes (and the preceding two days), I was in terror that my hubris regarding France was going to come back and bite me. First half Ireland were very guilty of making plenty of small, niggling errors stifling our momentum. However, it was soon clear that all France had was to be as physical as possible. Once Ireland rode that, they had literally nothing. Michalak was at his flaky worst, and even the great Dusatoir was knocking on under absolutely zero pressure at all. All my emotional outpouring on Ireland I’m trying to temper by the fact that France are ATROCIOUS. Four years of Philip Saint Andrew has left them uncoached, unfit and another bad adjective that begins with u. As the Irish grew in confidence and rallied around their injuries, France disintegrated. This was Ireland’s fourth biggest ever win over France, and but for the emotions and a few dropped passes, it could’ve turned into an absolute riot. France have not beaten Wales or Ireland since the last World Cup.

Before the game I was considering if Nathan White is the worst player to ever play for Ireland (I decided Tony Buckley edges it); he came on and ate the French scrum alive. Nathan White. A 35 year old Kiwi who plays for Connaught. The very definition of a journeyman. France are in desperate trouble; a situation I don’t see a rectification for whilst PSA is in charge and the French league is stacked with aging foreign superstars on megabucks.

Finally, I saw this on PlanetRugby by poster YerMan

“When South Africa (85.15) played Japan (72.06) the rating points gap was 13.09.

When New Zealand (92.89) play France (79.10) in the Quarter Finals the gap will be 13.79

France beating New Zealand would be a bigger upset than Japan beating South Africa”

Seven. The Ireland section starts now. You can close the window if you like. If you’ve gotten this far I’ve already got the page view in my stats and that’s all I live for.

First of all, the injuries. I’ve been gently ribbing my Welsh pal about the amount of injuries they’ve amassed. I do not believe in a sentient deity that interferes in human affairs, but at around the 50 minute mark I was having doubts about my atheism. Maybe there was a God, and rather than love and forgiveness and all that shite, he’s really about levelling the playing field when you take the piss out of your mates.

In a link worthy of a newspaper journo, there was only one god on that pitch, and he left in agony. Paul O’Connell has been a colossus for Irish rugby. As a man who has played a lot of his haphazard rugby at lock (except for the time I was in charge and picked myself at 8 every week despite being the worst ball carrier on earth), he was an inspiration, an icon. As soon as he didn’t rejoin the defensive line I knew something was wrong — nothing would prevent Paulie from getting up and making a tackle. Watching him try to walk off then collapse again, it broke my heart guys. Llama, Toner and Ryan are all marvellous players, but for pure inspiration, Paulie has no compare

Sexton worries me. Not just missing the man who is clearly the general of the team and one of the premier stand offs in the world, but it’s being called a groin injury. I’m not sure why a groin injury would cause him to vomit his guts up on the pitch. I am seriously worried it was a head injury and with Sexto’s (as BOD called him on the telly) history of concussions I have great fears for the consequences for his career. Joe said he was fine, but then Joe also reckons O’Brien won’t get cited.

Finally it’s just been announced that O’Mahony will be out of the rest of the World Cup. I’m often a critic of him; he’s ill disciplined, and his faux Scrappy Doo “lemme at em” act wears mighty thin. But for the 50 minutes he was was on the pitch yesterday, he was outstanding. He will be a massive loss. With a cloud hanging over Sean O’Brien, Ireland will probably call up Rhys Ruddock to cover for both Paulie and P’OM. We wait nervously on Sexton. Jared Payne has already gone home, and is a massive loss for our backline too.

Eight. Right, objectivity out the window now. Ireland. I have never been prouder. That was the greatest Irish performance of my life. Sure there have been bigger victories by scoreline (England at Croker) or silverware (Wales in 2009), but given the stakes, given the opposition (a good recent record hides an appalling long term history and love of wilting in front of French teams for generations), the losses in the heat of battle and the sheer ferocity of the game (it was a quarter final in all but name), I was overcome when Nigel Owens blew for full time. Jamie Heaslip was asked after the game about how brutal the game was, as he sat there with blood still running from his nose.

Eight years ago I went to Paris on my own to go to Ireland France at the Stade de France to watch this exact fixture. I had a spare ticket, and despite a man counting out the biggest bundle of 50 euro notes I’d ever seen (it was 2007, the banks hadn’t collapsed yet), I refused to rip off a fellow rugby fan and to his astonishment I only accepted face value. Which helped cover off paying 28 euro for a beer in a bar near the Gare du Nord — in Paris never sit on the terrace and when they ask small or large, large is a 28 euro stein. I then sat there as they absolutely humped us. Ireland barely got out of their half all game and were lucky to get to 3. I couldn’t even get locked as inside the ground you could only get alcohol free lager; not that that stopped a few Irish lads unaware from trying.

Then that night I kept getting woken up by my girlfriend calling me from some festival about how her tent had blown away. Barely slept a wink. I had the next couple of days in Paris, but alone and with a rudimentary amount of French despite a B at GCSE, I was quickly going out of my mind with loneliness. I went for a massive walk, but due to a packing error I brought a pair of boxer shorts that were far too small and absolutely shredded my inner thighs. I had ended at the Eiffel Tower, but surprisingly there was a massive fucking queue. Despondent, and in the pre smartphone age unable to google where to buy vaseline in Paris (though in fairness, I’d be reticent to do that now), I clamped down on a bench looking at the tower.

2 elderly Ireland fans approached and asked if I minded if I sat with them. Given the only English conversation I’d had that day was with a lady in Quik Burger to order my Freddie Michalak meal, I eagerly accepted. They were from Cork, like my mum, so we had a good old gas about that, the game etc. I remarked that Ireland seem capable of inventing new and innovative ways in which to break my heart, and that I think we would destined to achieve nothing — this of course was also the year of Clerc’s last minute try. The lady replied that maybe, or maybe not. The hope, the dream is the only reason we bother with any of this. All for one fleeting moment. That maybe one day, they’ll do something worthy of note, and we’ll be proud. And that was my overwhelming feeling yesterday, as I held back some melodramatic tears in my living room. I was just so fucking proud of the boys, you know.

Shorn of its leadership corp, the replacements came in and upped the ante. Sean O’Brien, who will definitely be cited and probably miss the rest of the tournament, had his Ballack game. Knowing he’d let the boys down, he had a monstrous games. He drove at the line, he turned over ball for fun, including a great moment where he got pinged for what I felt was a legitimate turnover only to modify his approach and steal the ball clean a few moments later. Every time I think of how good he was though I’m disappointed by him though. Don’t get me wrong, Pape is a dirty player and I’d love to deck him, but you don’t. You keep your discipline.

However, Chris Henry I thought was exceptional when he came on and will cover brilliantly. Rob Kearney took his try very cleverly, and stepped in to take over the Garryowens from Madigan whose kicking isn’t as good. Heaslip led from the front, and while his ball carrying continues to not be good enough, he was brilliant at the breakdown.

And a word for two maligned players. I was disappointed that Henderson didnt get the nod to start, but Toner was excellent. He ran the line out, and carried decently. Rory Best is for my money one of the most underrated players in world rugby, and bar one overthrow that blotted his copybook, he had one of his best ever games in green. Turning over the ball, his traditional feral rucking and tackles galore, he is a key Ireland player.

But there was also a changing of the guard, several younger players stepping up to the mark. Not least, THE LLAMA IAIN HENDERSON, who marked the game as the start of barring injuries a solid decade as Ireland’s first choice number 5. His involvement in the game opened France up so much as his powerful carrying sucks defenders in creating gaps. And I could watch his tackle on le Roux forever, channeling his fellow Ulsterman Stephen Ferris. Robbie Henshaw really arrived as a very serious test player. He showed elements of his BODness, not just when stepping past Basteraud leaving him for dead, but in his vital turnover at the end of the first half when O’Connell was down injured. I feel Jack McGrath is totally outplaying Healy at the moment, and would be my choice to start against Argentina. The leaders of tomorrow, today.

My only nitpick would be we were slightly profligate — notably Earls who was given a try on a plate by a rejuvenated Tommy Bowe. I must apologise to my cat who I scared from my room with my screaming at that juncture.

I think the toll taken probably means we won’t win the tournament. Schmidt was keen to stress the desire to play Argentina was more for the extra day of rest; we will need every hour of it. Argentina are no pushover, but this is a real chance to get to that elusive semi final. For now though, I will simply enjoy a victory of guts in the face of adversity, of skill, of planning and preparation, and of sheer bloody minded belief in yourself.

I ended up marrying tent girl, just FYI. She is incredibly tolerant of my shouting at rugby games.

Nine. Speaking of believing in yourself, the last mention goes to Ian Madigan. Mad Dog often gets a hard time because he’s not Jonathan Sexton. He’s had a torrid time under Matt O’Connor at Leinster since Schmidt left. Munster and Ulster fans cite Leinster bias at him being the first back up to Sexton over Keatley or wee PJ. Then 25 minutes on the clock in an absolute ding dong of a game against France, he’s’ thrown into the cauldron.

And he was magnificent.

He wasn’t perfect. He still tries to force things when they’re not really on. That intercept pass he threw made me as close to a man vomiting up his own heart as any fellow human has managed. And he managed to spoon a kick out on the full, which I called out loud before his boot had even connected in it.

Madigan often gets criticised because he isn’t Sexton. He isn’t this ice cold warrior with the ball on the string who can seem to order events by force of will. He’s an impulse player who wants to run and pass and score tries. He often fails when trying to reign himself in. Yesterday he was successful because he didn’t try to be Sexton, he just played his natural game.

In many ways, he was key to our success in the match. His flatter passing meant Henshaw and SOB were getting the ball on the gain line and were able have far more of an impact.

Madigan also gets grief because he’s a big auld hipster and seems a bit too cool for school. He must have been under so much pressure yesterday, and seeing him crying at full time completely broke me. I’m welling up at my bloody desk now thinking about it. It was a really wonderful moment for a player who stepped up when his team needed him most.

Every dog has his day, even the mad ones.

Ten. Nigel Owens tweeting if anyone knew where to get a haircut in Cardiff. You live there you daft lovely bastard.