Not too bad. Realistically...

The dust has been settled.

The Never-in-Doubt-Once-the-Game-Started final match of the 2008 Wales Grand Slam Campaign is a week old now so I thought I’d write something about it. You see, the idea of this blog is to:
i) state the glaringly obvious, or
ii) state the obscurely irrelevant
Now, screens upon screens of analysis and hyperbole have been written about it all and I have, almost deliberately, skirted the compulsion to write something ecstatic. I have, instead decided to try and be all New-Coaching-Team-Pragmatic-y about it all i.e. low key but smiley and yet, somehow, determined and self-confident and knowing. I am on the verge of succeeding…

However, it would be remiss of me to let a few tales or observations go unwritten.

I went to the game. I had missed out last time against the Irish in 2005 because Mr Moffet’s wife had overestimated her ability to get me a pair of tickets (honestly!). I ended up watching the game in the Albany (Doh! Really? – Ed.) with Big Col and Rhi. It was all splendid up until the point when a fuse blew rendering the pub TV and beer-less with 20 mins to go. Thankfully, I live 78 paces from the SA tap in the lounge bar and so we only missed about 2 mins (I had a little trouble with switching the house alarm off). So, this year, when offered a ticket by Rob The Head, I snapped it up despite our being on an economy drive to enable The Wife to stay off a few months extra to look after Darling Ruby. I built up a fair few Browny P's before mentioning that I may, ahem, have, possibly, kind-of, got hold of one ticket and the so The Wife most graciously agreed to my going. Bless her – she really is a treasure. I love her so.

So, into the Willlennium Stadium early enough to get a few ales at the G.O.Edwards bar and take in the atmosphere. Well, I won’t go into details, but with 15mins to kick-off I had taken in enough atmosphere that I had need of the loo. And not the Standing Up type, either. Righto – international Saturday, 70 thousand thirsty fans, 2 cubicles per tier and I, wonder of wonders, found a perfectly clean toilet, with paper and no fag burns on the seat, with a dry floor and a lock that worked. Looking back on it, I am still amazed and so will here diverge from my usual terse sensationalist-free style and include an exclamation mark AND a question mark next to each other. Ready?

?!

(Easy - Ed.)

I strode to my seat a new man. It was a seat in the second row of the lower tier, just behind two young lads obviously being taken to The Big Game by their grandparents. The boys were no more than 9 0r 10, I should say and decked out appropriately and excited. Well, the Pished Up Valley Commandos next to me were exemplary as regards language and only let slip one ‘F#ckin ‘ell, ref’ in the whole game. Even that ejaculation was apologised for post haste. “Hey, they’ve got to learn,” said Gramps, with a smile. So, that was nice. But, throughout the game our particular section had been patrolled by what can only be described as a High-Vis Jacketed Jobsworth Supervisor Steward Git. He had a look on his face like a bulldog licking wee off a nettle. He had been very curt about some JohnnyFrogs standing at the end of the aisle during the team warm-ups, threatening their innocent enthusiasm with expulsion from the ground. He had gestured imperiously at someone who had dared lean over the barrier to wave at a passing camera. You get the idea? Well, at the end of the match when the players were going up onto the podium to receive the plaudits of a pretty ecstatic crowd and their medals, Mr Jobsworth leant over the barrier and tapped Grandma on the shoulder. Oh, leave it mate (I thought), whatever it is, come on – they’re with their grandkids on a fantastic day, they’ve been exemplary and lovely, just bugger off and find something els… But wait. He only smiled, didn't he, put his hand out, didn't he and gave the little lads a small clump of grass and earth from the pitch, didn’t he? Well, I was a bit emotional before that but, blimey, that set the tears flowing. What I lovely gesture, I thought. He put his fingers to his lips in a conspiratorial manner and, resetting his face to ‘Officious, Level 6’ toddled off.

Steward 84, on aisle, 312, I salute you.

I won’t say much about the game except that we could handle anything that they had but they couldn’t handle that or what we then threw at them. And, forget all the glory-boy nonsense of the backs, the thing that made the hairs on the back of neck stand up with the rest of me and my throat roar with pride, was when we shunted their attacking scrum all over the shop and drove them off their ball late in the second half.

Imperious.

I think that we have a right to look forward to measuring ourselves against the Southern Teams now, both in the summer and the Autumn tests. No longer is it hit-and-hope rugby, no – more now a measured and systematic improvement. We may do ok but we will, I’m sure, get better with every game under these new cheps.

One last thing. Isn’t it nice to see a Welsh team confident in taking the ball into contact, secure in the knowledge that it is highly probable it will be retained?

Oh, aye, things aren’t too bad.