Welsh rarebit causes mayhem in Montrose
— Blackadder Goes Forth
This one looks worrying from the off. Wales start like Vautour — apologies, I’m still on Cheltenham Mean Time — and after 11 minutes, are 9-0 ahead, with Leigh Halfpenny three kicks from three, along with a terrific chip-chase-catch Jack O’Shea or Aeroplane O’Shea or one of those would be proud of. It’s 13 minutes in, he’s four from four and Ireland are zero for zero. Bang bang on the door, baby.
The visitors are half a second slower in thought, half a yard slower in action. They spill balls, muff restarts and are being destroyed in the air. Welsh ferocity is “massive”, says Ralph Keyes.
“These are worrying times,” Ryle Nugent agrees. Cut to a lady in an fluorescent acid-green wig looking worried in the stand. It may be the 12-point arrears. It may just be the daft wig.
Somehow Ireland go in at half-time trailing only 15-9, a small mystery. The panel are worried and they’ve every right to be. The stakes are high. A Grand Slam is on the line, with all due respect to Scotland in Murrayfield next week (ie not very much respect).
George Hook declares Johnny Sexton is not controlling the game and posits Ireland have ended up double-bluffing themselves. “All the talk about them being sterile: they should be kicking the ball more, not less,” he argues. Conor O’Shea gives Wales credit for their excellence and Shane Horgan laments the visitors’ ineffectiveness under the dropping ball. “‘Dominate the air’ is one of Ireland’s mantras under Joe Schmidt.”
A second half dominated by Schmidt’s boys, with 65% possession, turns on an absorbing, exhausting sequence 15 minutes in. The men in green go through phase after phase and besiege the Welsh line. The hosts have all hands to the pump and are missing only a kitchen sink. It is Rorke’s Drift all over again, or the battle of Verdun without the heavy guns, and it is draining just to watch. Eventually Capt Warburton, Field Marshal Petain et al lift the siege and the game’s dynamic is irrevocably altered.
“What a momentum-shifter,” exclaims Ralph.
Afterwards the panel, more in sorrow than in anger, draw a couple of conclusions. One is that the Schmidt honeymoon is over; no bad thing to happen at this stage in a World Cup year, Shane points out philosophically. Another is that Ireland lack experience in midfield, understandably so given the void left by O’Driscoll and Darcy. “You need bosses at 12 and 13,” Shane adds; Jared Payne and Robbie Henshaw are “following legends”.
But oh, that missed opportunity at the gates of Verdun! The panel replay some of the battle and Conor identifies the critical moment. Ireland have an overlap on the right with Tommy Bowe and Simon Zebo literally screaming for the ball; well, windmilling their arms anyway. But nobody in the trenches looks around to spot the cavalry on the flank — that inexperience again — and instead Ireland bish-bash-bosh away, fruitlessly, down the centre.
The accusations of a creativity deficit have proven well founded. Ireland keep driving down the middle and keep getting smashed back. “We’re going directly where they are strong,” Conor laments. It’s straight out of Blackadder, and as if to emphasise the similarity General McGurk, sitting comfortably back in HQ, mutters something about how the Irish forwards and wingers should be communicating on “a mobile telephone”. He presumably meant a field telephone. Either way, there’s a man really down with the kids.
All is far from lost. The Grand Slam may be gone — and Grand Slams, Conor muses, “are sacred” — but there’s a championship to be decided next Saturday and Tom is already visibly trying to restrain himself from parsing the possibilities and points differences.
Conor: “You love your points differences!”
Tom does not demur. It’s easy to visualise him five days hence doing his impression of John Bowman or Pat Kenny on election night, results coming in from all angles and the table being constantly updated. It’ll be a blast.
Everything — or almost everything — to play for still, then. Just as long as Scotland don’t decide to turn into Vautour too.
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