Loose Pass

This week we will be mostly concerning ourselves with England's woes, tomatoes and Brian Moore…

Welcome to Loose Pass – our weekly assortment of musings, mutterings, tickled fancies and disjointed thoughts. This week we will be mostly concerning ourselves with England's woes, tomatoes and Brian Moore…

Ah, the Six Nations! It never fails to surprise and delight. Wales's quest for back-to-back Grand Slams is over and suddenly all the talk is of Ireland and – whisper it – 1948. Just when you think you know which way this grand old tournament is heading, it veers off in a dramatic new direction.

Okay, that's not entirely true: some constants remain as steadfast as Euan Murray. The French are as mercurial as ever, the English persist with their love of 13-man rugby, the great Sergio Parisse continues to carry a very mediocre Italian side, and the Scots are still failing to attract fans despite the fireworks that accompanied their duck-breaking win. (Or perhaps that should be 'because of the fireworks…')

Of all these difficult truths, Engand's woes are the hardest to fathom.

Martin Johnson's reaction to his side's tenth yellow card in four games will go down in rugby folklore, but the handicap of playing a quarter of each game with 14 men is but a mere setback compared to his side's inability to deliver simple passes or spot glaring overlaps.

Quite why this should be is a bit of a mystery. This is a Test side picked from a league that is rapidly becoming a byword for expansive, attacking rugby. The weekend's six Guinness Premiership games featured 29 tries, all scored without the help of those perceived to be the country's best players.

So what gives?

There seems to an air of a 'Probables v Possibles' trial match when it comes to watching the current England side. The eagerness of the men on the field to impress the new boss has put a perceivable emphasis on the individual over the collective. Players are attempting to pull rabbits out of hats where an innocuous touch would serve the side better.

It's human nature and it stands to reason. The players have been told that all 15 berths are still up for grabs, and the constant chopping and changing means that they may only get a few minutes to state their case. In such circumstances, they need to produce a show-stopper – something to bring the house down. Talent shows are never won by bass guitarists.

With the tournament all but lost (England are now priced at 500/1 to win), Johnno should turn that frown upside down, tell his chosen boys to calm down, back them to the hilt and tell them to go out there and enjoy themselves. Who knows? They could yet surprise us.

———————————————————————————————————–

Loyal readers of this venerable publication will have noticed that it reserves a special place in its heart for the humble pun.

Yes, it's the lowest form of humour, but it gets us through tedious mid-week team announcements – and what would you do with names like Flood, Burger, Hook, Goode, Waugh, Noon, Halfpenny and Baby? And how about a hooker named Hore?

So it's with admiration tinged with envy that we bow to the Sunday Times and their take on Ireland's 14-13 win at Croke Park: 'Johnson blasts Careless England'. Inspired.

But what we give with one hand we take with the other. The newspaper's marks-out-of-ten feature told us that Nick Easter (8/10) was one of a number of players who had a better game than Brian O'Driscoll (7/10). Talk about egg on their faces. (Geddit?)

———————————————————————————————————–

And on the subject of Ireland's leader…

“Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is knowing not to put it in a fruit salad.”

If that is an answer, what the hell was the question?

Well, since you've asked: “Brian, you are fairly close to England coach Martin Johnson. Tell us something about him. What do you make of him. What were your thoughts on playing with him – and against him?”

Hmmm.

Brian O'Driscoll is obviously limbering up for a political career once he hangs up his boots – his surreal response to this rudimentary pre-match query was a study in the art of avoiding the question.

Or was it?

Can it not be read as a poke at the growing, soccer-sponsored assumption that great players automatically make great coaches? Could Johnno – a prize-winning tomato – be out of his depth in the decidedly fruity world of management?

No? Okay, perhaps we're reading too much into it. He might have simply been collecting a handsome wager from his mates for managing to get the word 'tomato' into a Six Nations press conference.

Or was he predicting – with impressive providence – that the visitors would be playing ketchup in Dublin? (Okay, that's our last pun – promise.)

Whatever he actually meant, it falls to Loose Pass (well, ahem, Wikipedia) to disappoint fans of the great man. As it turns out, a tomato is technically a berry, and he was not, as some assume, quoting Confucius. He was quoting Peter Kay.

———————————————————————————————————–

It's funny what tricks commentary can play.

Loose Pass watched the Dublin encounter in the flesh and came away thinking we had seen quite a game.

Sure, there was precious little running rugby and far too much aerial ping-pong, but there were many finer points to admire.

Firstly, the occasion: two ancient foes meeting at a fantastic, alien venue. Ireland, the only country still in the running for the Grand Slam, hosting wounded England … at Croke Park!

Then there was the absorbing parity at the set-piece, the keenly fought break-down battles, the bizarre implosion of Ronan O'Gara's right boot, the heroics of the injured Brian O'Driscoll, the drama – and stupidity – of England's yellow cards, the visitors' unexpected fightback, and then the cliff-hanger of a finish. Just one point in it at the end! Put that in your Guinness and drink it!

But our balloon was burst by a re-run of the BBC's television coverage – or rather Brian Moore's nuance-murdering take on proceedings. Apparently we had watched an utter hag of a game. Everything about it was awful. Case closed.

Listening to his double-act with the estimable Eddie Butler used to be mildly amusing … in a Victor Meldrew sort of a way. Now it's like sitting at breakfast with your warring parents – softly-spoken mum trying her hardest to maintain a facade of sweetness and light whilst dad splutters forth about life's injustices from behind his copy of the Mail.

Even a slight slip of Butler's tongue was enough to set Pitbull into a curmudgeonly rage, and he kept hold of the Welshman's