Some Appetiser!

Well, perhaps I didn't expect to enjoy it that much!

Yes, it was an inexperienced and tired Leicester side that would be flattered by the description "2nd String". Yes, the developmental philosophy embraced by most participants makes these LV Cup matches as close to dead rubbers as Anglo-Welsh encounters can be.

Let's say all that first, because it's no hyperbole to continue that the Ospreys' B-listers turned in the most exciting display by any Ospreys side for a couple of seasons now. That their 8-try evisceration of the hapless Tigers took place in conditions that would functionally excuse a 3-3 draw, only makes it the more impressive. It was a thrilling display of "heads-up" rugby, a lesson in playing fast and loose and without fear. Names that have been prompting Ospreys fans to ask "who?" when they appear on the Magners League benches, will now be the talk of the clubhouse. Ashley Beck, Kristian Phillips, Jason Tepuric and Matthew Morgan might be tempted to send their senior team-mates a showreel DVD of this match for Christmas.

As a curtain-raiser for today's international it could hardly have whetted the appetite more fulsomely. And so, as we turn our thoughts there, another of the "Who?" brigade is promoted to Saviour-In-Chief of Welsh Rugby. That George North has appeared from nowhere is nothing new for Welsh fans. Neither will be the deflation when he fails to beat South Africa single-handed. How he copes with the near-inevitable comedown this evening will most likely be the measure of the man. Not that measurements are something he is lacking...

A good chance for Wales today, then - "on paper", as we like to say. But the weight of History is great, and paper is very thin. Let's hope for the forwards to improve on their already impressive form, and for the return of Lee Byrne at full-back to allow James Hook to prove what we all know, but have started to forget.

An Untried Allegiance

This evening, the Ospreys will play their first ever home fixture at The Brewery Field, Bridgend.

When the Celtic Warriors regional franchise meekly assumed the mammaries-uppermost position, some of South Wales' oldest rugby communities were left bereft of first-class representation on the field. Most of the sympathetic noises gravitated towards the old talent foundry of Pontypridd, a club more well adapted to the role of the martyr. The house that had produced JPR and Rob Howley, amongst others, nonetheless carried less caché with Welsh rugby romantics. Its slip into obscurity occurred with a comparative whimper.

Perhaps the Warriors never convinced as a coherent "region". When they expired, the Bridgend club fell under the expanded Ospreys franchise; an attachment even more seemingly arbitrary than the previous one. The town's membership of the imagined community of "Ospreylia" is notional, at best. Tonight, however, should provide the clearest idea yet of the extent to which this new loyalty has been embraced.

The occasion is hardly auspicious; the LV cup is being played out by under-strength teams in a confused and uninvolving format. It would be stretching the truth to claim that winning it was amongst any team's principle ambitions. That said, there's always added spice when English teams visit, and they don't come much spicier than the Leicester Tigers. Add in the return of a certain ex-Ospreys scrum-half in opposition, and things get so "spicy" that the metaphor may collapse under the strain...

So, off down the M4 with me to sample the hospitality of my regional brethren. I hope they like what they see. I'm sure I will.

Not so near, yet not so far...?

So; it could have been worse, then...

On the face of it, being upbeat about another home defeat feels like a retrograde step. Of course, in the long term, being outscored by three tries to one at home is unacceptable.

But watching a horribly depleted Wales side compete as they did with a rampant Australia, it would take a fair old commitment to negativity in order not to feel at least mildly encouraged.

Yes, Australia were far superior in attacking play, and worthy winners as a result. But then some purists, and not just Welsh ones, will opine that no side producing such a comically inept scrummaging display should be awarded a moral victory. At one late point where Wales put in to a defensive 5m scrum, the BBC commentators were moved to suggest that they might attempt the pushover... it really was that bad. Wales were warned pre-match that David Pocock would boss the breakdown, and yet the inexperienced Sam Waburton made a decent fist of things there. Even in the lineout, Wales appeared to have the measure of their opponents, which is a rare sight indeed.

Behind the scrum, though, things were pretty desperate. Although the scratch-built three-quarter line must take its share of praise for containing their rampaging opponents in defence, in attack Wales had simply nothing worth speaking of. With the top playmaker stranded at full-back in a game that was short on tactical kicking, the midfield was a creativity desert. A badly off-form Stephen Jones, a tiring Tom Shanklin and "dependable" but uninspiring Andrew Bishop made few mistakes, but neither could they make anything happen with a decent share of possession. On the wings, Shane Williams and new boy Will Harries seemed only present to make the dissapointing attendance figures look more respectable.

With Mike Phillips at 9 also looking a ghost of his true self, it's hard to recall a less exciting Welsh backline. Coming on late to replace Phillips, Ritchie Rees signifcantly improved matters, scored a well-deserved try, and must surely now start against South Africa next week.

It was left to Australia's young backs to light up the afternoon, with Kurtley Beale the obvious star on display (ill-advised moustache notwithstanding). That's hard to swallow, but then the coaching team are clutching at fairly substantial chunks of driftwood when they point to the list of attacking selections that were denied to them. This was as close to a 2nd XV as Wales have had to field for a while, and stronger outfits have performed less creditably in recent memory. Nothing to get excited about, perhaps; but reason enough to keep the cyanide pills in the locker for another week, at least.

Anyone here play rugby...?

Another October, another procession of Welsh crocks. Yet again, Wales will take on "the Best in the World" this autumn without the services of many of the best in Wales. Ryan Jones, Jamie Roberts and Lee Byrne represent the "spine" of the Welsh team in more than a metaphorical sense. With wing Leigh Halfpenny joining the sick list, any semblance of full-strength is gone. For strike runners, Wales will have to look to players such as Chris Czekaj, Will Harries and Aled Brew; fine prospects all, but a sparse handful of caps and a fair few seasons of international neglect between them. They will, quite rightly, see the autumn series as a marvellous opportunity. Unfortunately, Wales' opponents will have reason to feel the same.

Not that the usual suspects were in the finest of fettle before the gremlins came a-calling. Mixed results in the early Heineken Cup rounds were followed by disastrously flat performances in the Magners League by the Ospreys and the Cardiff Blues. Only the Scarlets in the Welsh squad have anything to be proud of... and it's not much.

There has been noticeably less talk from the coaches this year about "finding out where we are", and that's a small mercy. That mantra has rung increasingly hollow as we endure annual confirmation of our perpetual inferiority. We know where we are by now; the trick lies in doing something about it. Whether these "friendlies" really help squad development is a moot point, especially considering the effect on morale of regular home defeats. But they're not going to go away, so perhaps it is better, in the long term, to play them with inexperienced or fringe players? Either to enhance the depth of squad experience or - forgive the cynicism - to spread the pain a little more thinly?

12,437 Reasons to be Cheerful

At last, a decent-sized crowd at the Liberty Stadium on Friday night, to watch the Ospreys take on London Irish in the Heineken Cup. What they got for their efforts was not a classic, but it was worth the money nonetheless.

In truth, the féted Aviva Premiership leaders brought precious little to the party, beyond a laudable attacking mindset. The home defence has withstood far more robust challenges, and - the irritatingly familiar interception try excepted - never looked like being breached. In attack, though, the Ospreys were again lethargic and laboured, all the more frustrating when thrown into relief by moments of brilliance. Shane Williams' roof-raising solo score was actually only his second most impressive break of the night, while James Hook's release of an angled Tommy Bowe in the opening minutes carried the whiff of sorcery.

Brief moments of inspiration perhaps, but they were more than enough to see off an oddly out-of-sorts opposition. Irish fly-half Ryan Lamb missed a succession of routine kicks at goal which could have kept his side in the hunt, and despite their relief, home fans saw a chilling echo of the failure of Dan Biggar at Toulon the previous week. For his part, Biggar had gone a long way to repairing his damaged reputation in the first half, before being forced off early in the second. Some hearteningly broad shoulders in evidence, there.

(PLUG ALERT!!! All of this was documented by the Twitter feed @ospreyslive , active for all Ospreys home games this season.)

Due to the annoyance of the bonus point system (I'll spare you that rant) the Ospreys are already behind Munster in the group table. With a parsimonious defence but a profligate attack, it's difficult to see where subsequent bonus points are going to come from. But, with the English Top Guns ably spiked, confidence shouldn't be a problem now.

Open the Boks: Take The Money!

One win. One draw. Twenty-One defeats.

There's no flattering angle to take on Wales' international record against South Africa. It's the most comprehensive domination in test rugby. Even Scotland have a considerably better record against the Springboks than Wales.

I recall being picked up and waved like a flag by a giant, delirious stranger when Ed Morrison blew the final whistle on the 26th of June, 1999. In the inaugural match at the Millennium Stadium, Wales had not only won - they had comprehensively dispatched Gary Teichmann's side, the visitors even suffering the indignity of running in a late "consolation" try as they went down 29-19. The reigning world champions were not at full strength, true - but they had still been widely expected to deal with Graham Henry's upstarts in traditional fashion. It was a seismic result - but the aftershocks stubbornly refused to come. Normal service was quickly resumed.

No surprise, then, that 1999 should feature prominently in previews of tomorrow's money-spinning friendly at the same venue. Never mind that the Boks have won here five times since; the talk is all about their lack of preparation, their three new caps, the "development" feel of their match 22...

Yeah, right...

Wales are themselves under-powered, with four Lions missing. We may feel the need to move on from a reliance on Shane Williams, but the fact remains that the absentee wing is the one Welsh player that South African defenders genuinely fear. Similarly, there will be warm glows amongst the Bok forwards at the absence of Gethin Jenkins and Martin Williams from the lineup. If this is a clash of the understudies, then that cuts both ways.

None of that, however, gets Wales off the hook. They must win this game, plain and simple. If they are to be taken seriously abroad - starting with New Zealand this month - then under-strength visitors to Cardiff must be repulsed, regardless of circumstance, and regardless of history. Moral victories and heroic downfalls no longer cut the mustard with most Welsh fans, and thank goodness for that. Wales face a simple Boolean. A one-point defeat would be abject failure; a one-point victory, pass with distinction. Their second-best-ever (a draw) will not do at all.

It's time for another earthquake...

Sour Grapes

A third Grand Chelem in a decade is not to be sniffed at, and France were this season's best Six Nations team by a distance.

Are you ready for the "But..."?

But... Gods, they were boring! Controlled aggression in Scotland, followed by a clinical demolition of Ireland in Paris, seemed to show a ruthless streak allied to their usual flair; and if that flair had seemed rather subdued this time... well, that wouldn't last, right?

Wrong. France proceeded to strangle a Wales side that played 100% of the rugby on display, winning with interceptions and penalty goals. Mightily impressive once more, but - whisper it - a bit dull? Where was the élan? Where was the gallic swagger? Well, we got some at last - against Italy. Big deal. Finally, a previously timid and directionless England side stepped up for the slaughter in Paris. Surely this was the cue for the show to finally start?

...12-10?!?!

England - Martin Johnson's England, for Pete's sake - showed all the ambition, all the passion, and scored the only try of the game, a peach from New White Hope Ben Foden. France scored one scruffy drop-goal and three penalties. England won the second half 3-0.

Even from an armchair in Swansea - a vantage from which watching England lose never seems to get old - it felt like one final English push upfield, ending the French party with a Wilko special, would have been no more than natural justice.

We rightly praise teams for pragmatism; for knowing the right time to concentrate on playing rugby, and the right time to focus on stopping the opposition from doing likewise. But we could frankly do without teams who choose safety first, second and third. France had a license to cut loose against an England side who, for all their bravery, could not possibly have resisted them had they done so. They chose not to do so. No, it wasn't England forcing France back into their shells - they withdrew there of their own accord. Always in complete control, they deliberately opted for negativity.

Congratulations, France. But shame on you, too.

They'll Be Dancing in the Streets of Heaven Tonight...

Bill McLaren.

Long before I even liked rugby, Bill's voice was one of those atmospherics of well-being that eminated from the tinny speakers in the corners of my life. Like Oliver Postgate or Raymond Baxter, it was a voice that spoke of all being well with the world. That little safe place where your overburdened adult ego dashes to in a crisis? Bill McLaren is in mine.

Phrases like "great ambassador" may creak with over-use, but that's not Bill's fault. He was an ambassador of decency and goodwill not just for rugby, but for sport as a whole. Every purrring syllable spoke of his fraternal nature and, above all, his superhuman command of impartiality. Able to conduct himself with dignity even when his own son-in-law scored for Scotland, he was willing to join with you in your euphoria as your own team triumphed, even when against his beloved homeland.

His sad passing at the well-deserved age of 86 is really an epitaph for an era which died when he retired in 2002. But Death, be not proud; I just checked into my little safe place, and Bill McLaren is still there.