Neil Jenkins – A Tribute

Back in the 90s, before the game “modernised” and the average international Rugby Union team looked like little more than a stag do, it was a time of folk heroes. There weren’t any really rounded players, no-one you could call complete in the same sense as you would today. They were rugby playing caricatures, known for having one or two traits that would distinguish them from the next player, exceptional in one or two areas but still relatable to anyone who played the game. They still boasted beer bellies and would be spotted drinking heavily in the midst of international tournaments as if it was just another lazy throw-around on a Sunday.

At the start of that glorious decade a young lad with the face of a 40 year old labourer made his debut for Pontypridd. He was noted for being relatively quick, decent ball carrying skills and he could kick the ball a bit. The following year he made his debut for Wales at aged 19 and there was little more, on that debut showing, to add to those few scant observations. That game would have been mostly forgotten in Wales given that it was a 25-6 defeat against the hated English. Yet in this game this player kicked his first three points for his country, the first three points in a tally that would go on to break all the international records. It was Neil Jenkins.

You see, before Johnny Wilkinson came along with his kicking prowess, spawning a series of imitators that would copy his style right down to picking up the blade of grass to check for wind velocity, there was only one kicking machine at international level and he was Welsh. Sure, his prowess came with some negatives. That pace he had at 19 left him quicker than Jordan does one of her husbands, he wasn’t quick-footed and his distribution was reliable but unspectacular. The one thing Jenko, affectionately known as “Pob” by his international teammates, did better than anyone else was ping a ball between the uprights from anywhere on the park, no theatrics necessary either. He didn’t have to think about it.

Which is why I and many others love him so much. His kicking always gave Wales a chance in any game and rival teams knew this. It didn’t matter whether it was the champagne rugby that the fans always bayed for, or the reliance on the trundling pack, which was the reality for most of the time, if he was in the opponent’s half he could make it count. It gained criticism from the rest of the international teams at the time but it would later become a blueprint for England’s success.

OF course, that love wasn’t always there. The number 10 shirt is sacred to the Welsh and whoever wears it immediately draws comparison to the greats. When you’ve had the player lauded as the greatest fly-half to play the game, Barry John, represent your country in that position the boots don’t get any bigger to fill. He never had that sort of flair and it took a while to win over the fans, his style of play more effective if less pleasing on the eye than any of the hall of famers that went before him. One dimensional by contrast, he showed the world kicking was enough to win games.

Just how prolific a kicker he was can never be underestimated. As the game changed around him he did try to keep up, developing his ability to run but it was with his boot he always did the damage. It took him just 28 tests to become the Welsh national points scoring record holder and in the 87 caps he won he added to it in every match. If the first nine years of his career were laying the foundations it would be at the two years he would cement his reputation as the greatest fly-half Wales ever had.

What red-blooded Welshman can forget his kick that foiled England’s five nation victory in ’99, 3 points won right at the death that did nothing for Wales but broke English hearts? It sparked celebrations as if Wales had won the competition even though all it did was pave the way for Scotland to do so. He also showed what a committed player he was at club level, accepting an MBE only if he could still make the kick-off of his game for Cardiff. With the assistance of a helicopter he made it and put in a match-winning performance.

The following year he surpassed the 1,000 point mark, the first player to ever do so and he did it with a sublime display against France in their backyard. As if answering the critics about his lack of versatility he scored in every way possible to cement his place in the record books forever.

Sadly the writing was on the wall. The talismanic player was getting old, his battered body reduced to little more than a muscular leg attached to a failing torso. Unable to start for the British Lions the same year he broke the record, a young pretender called Johnny Wilkinson became the preferred starter in that position. It was the passing of the baton, a moment that confirmed the shift in the way the game was going and the arrival of the next generation of player, the fly-half position forever altered to have to be played the way that Jenkins played it.

Sadly his record couldn’t stand and it was his replacement with the Lions who broke it. For many, this would suggest the latter is the greater player. Not so. He set the records for Wilkinson to break and did it without a golden generation of world beaters around him. He played at a time where anyone with a sports science degree was leered at suspiciously and the words “put something cold on it” was a euphemism for a pint after a match. The game modernised around him and he helped shape that future even as it unfolded. There can be no doubt who the history books will point to as the definitive fly-half of the modern era.

Despite all of this, he still remains an unassuming figure. The son of a scrap dealer, a working class hero and a true sporting great, he is a million times easier to love and respect than a private schoolboy from Surrey. Let the latter have the record. The Welsh know who the greatest is.

Why Can’t Footballers Have Opinions?

Another furore over Twitter. An investigation looms. A young professional footballer faces a hefty fine, or perhaps even worse, over expressing an opinion that breaks no laws. If this sounds like a bullet point of several stories that have run over the past few months, that probably because it is. Yet, ultimately what is it about footballers that should preclude them from expressing an opinion publicly? Why is it that they are subjected to a higher level of censorship than Joe Public?

The latest storm in an e-cup revolves around Nathan Ecclestone, a 20 year old player who has only made nine appearances for his club, Liverpool. Despite the fact he is far from high profile, a possible future star at best, he has 39,000 followers who all seem intent on hearing what he has to say on a daily basis. What pressure then to entertain. The life of the average 20 year old is far from interesting and there is a tedious mundanity about the grind of being a professional foorballer. It can’t all be mobile phones up arses, roasting drunk girls, crashing sportscars. For some it’s wake up, train hard, go home, wait to see if your name appears on the Saturday team sheet.

But of course you still have opinions, so why not share them? After all, this is probably the one good thing about the internet. While politicians and hysterical tabloids will tell you it’s nothing more than a delivery vehicle for child porn and terrorist activity, it is primarily used for the rapid exchange of information and opinions. It’s what we all use it for.

And footballers are no different. Yet whenever a footballer, or indeed any high profile sporting celebrity, chooses to express an honest opinion about their industry that might deviate from the one commonly held by the public, the uproar doesn’t go away until someone has been forced into action or an apology. Whether it’s Paul Dalglish expressing his distaste at Howard Webb being made an MBE, Glenn Johnson pointing out Paul Merson might have had a bit of a gambling problem, Wojciech Szczesny suggesting that maybe Man Utd get the rub of the green in big decisions, it’s not long before it’s being investigated.

Mind you, at least those all revolve around their sport. Now it seems that footballers can’t even have opinions about politics or world events. Forget Carlton Cole casting aspersions on the legitimacy of the average Ghanian’s right to be in this country, Ecclestone’s offending tweet about September 11th reads “I ain’t going to say attack don’t let the media make u believe that was terrorist that did it. #OTIS”, the acronym at the end standing for “only The Illuminati succeed.”

Nathan is a 20 year old footballer, not a political analyst, not an eminent historian, not a seasoned journalist. He, like many others, clearly believes there’s more to the September 11th attacks than meets the eye. Many won’t have done much more than light reading on the matter as they don’t fall into any of those alternative careers. Regardless, the internet is awash with conspiracy theories that range from the vaguely plausible to the ridiculous. Flag-sucking patriots may find some of them offensive, families of the victims might not enjoy such speculation about the factors behind the deaths of their loved ones but freedom of speech is protected in the west, prized above almost all other freedoms.

Why then have Liverpool had to release a statement reading “The club takes this matter extremely seriously and senior club officials have informed Nathan Eccleston that we are undertaking an investigation into the circumstances surrounding these postings and will decide on an appropriate course of action.” What exactly does the investigation entail? Has it now become some form of professional misconduct to state your views about anything that may be construed as vaguely controversial outside of your work place? Evidently it has and most clubs are now looking at imposing a Twitter ban, a ridiculous measure.

Of course, here’s the real reason why this matter always manages to grab people’s attention – the petty jealousy of the mindless fools that make up the followers. They sit there, like some form of cyber-Stasi, waiting for someone to say something they disagree with. Then, en mass, they decry it as being wrong, as being unprofessional, as being offensive. The next move is to find who they can complain to, where to send that e-mail, which newspaper to contact. It all happens so quickly that before the footballer can delete the tweet in question, the damage is already done.

The thought process of the average moron that engages in this activity is quite transparent. Footballers earn exorbitant wages for kicking a ball. My job requires more hard work than theirs and I get less money. This is not fair. In that case they should be held up to a much higher standard of behaviour… Plus they’re role models to children, so yeah, if they step out of line in any way, fuck them. Take their money away, take their sponsors away, force them into humiliating public contrition. This slightly redresses the balance because I’m free to do all of the things I demand they don’t.

These people try and edge the spheres of their non-compatible, irrelevant arguments towards the discussion surrounding the endless Twitter controversies. The only discussion that is worth having is whether or not you believe profession dictates your right to freedom of speech. What you earn, what you do, who you are just shouldn’t come into it and all the bleating sermonising about what’s the “right” thing to do does not alter that.

While I have no doubt that Ecclestone had no idea his tweet would cause such consequences it at least might finally lead to something comprehensive being decided on the issue. Clearly, if clubs and the FA start to impede the rights of players to express political views it won’t take long for a legal team to overturn it. And when that happens the floodgates will finally be open. This oppressed profession will be free at last, free to spout their stupefyingly ill-informed views, free to speculate wildly about what it all means and free to moan about the way a game panned out the same as any fan can. Would that really be so terrible?

I have no idea how it got to the stage where clubs can take it upon themselves to investigate the political sympathies of players. If you do think this is correct picture this scenario – next time you’re shuffling papers in your office nine to five you get a tap on the shoulder. It’s your boss. They haul you into the free room, the plastic furniture laminated with the tears of the dismissed. Someone has sent them a screenshot of you saying something negative about Israel and how they should get out of Palestine. What have you got to say for yourself?

Cosmic Forces, Newcastle Versus Villa & The Children Of Pardew

It was judgement day in the house, the twice a season moment when the relationship gets strained. As an estranged Geordie living in Birmingham having shacked up with a Villa fan there was the possibility that it would add an extra element of spice to the fixture. Instead, it has become an exercise in diplomacy, a constant forced grin fixed to my face and having to mumble platitudes to the other half as the game goes on, only to get dagger stares when I accidentally yelp “Have it you cunts” when we bang in that vital goal.

The penalty for defeat is worse than another three points surrendered in a season that screams impending mid-table mediocrity. It will be a week of that kind of smug consolation that women do so well… “Don’t worry about it baby. You’ll get a result next week” with a smirk on her face that can freeze over even the warmest heart. Do the players even know what is at stake here?

The game itself was always destined to be a boring one. It had earlier been tweeted by the MOTD production that Aston Villa would pretty much always be the last match and it’s easy to understand why, The McLeish brand of anti-football is now well documented and his shameless slither across to Villa from Blues is probably the most disgusting thing I’ve seen in the modern game. Having been forced into watching Villa a few times this season I can honestly say it’s never been pleasant viewing. Like a flair vacuum, the McLeish ethos simply sucks the life out of any team he presides over, making me wonder exactly what a training session comprises of.

“Ach, no… Ye passed it forward laddie… That’ll never do”

And while Villa fans have my deepest sympathies, the same sympathies extended to me when it was announced we’d be taking on Alan Pardew, this brand of cloggery isn’t welcome when my beloved team come to town.

We’ve hardly been setting the world alight ourselves, our last match seeing us get humbled by the mighty Q.P.R. as we trundled to a 0-0 draw. The week before that we had to rely on Leon Best being hypnotised into believing he was Messi to come up good against Fulham. I know we’re unbeaten and I know we’re riding up in the Champions League spots but a long, long season awaits, make no mistake about it.

The good news was that Pardew, who declared Shola “Sho Stopper” Ameobi to be one of the bets professionals he’d worked with, finally realised he is shit and dropped him for a player that almost single-handedly kept West Ham up in the form of Demba Ba. He was the one bit of business that excited me in our transfer dealings that seemed content to make us twinned with some shit team in France. Having come off the bench to turn the screws on Fulham with his pace and power he has to be preferred to a player who is only remarkable for the fact he’s stuck around so long. Probably because no-one else wants him.

I wanted to hate Pardew when he came in but all things considered he’s probably the perfect manager to work under a chairman who is as demented as he is overweight. Pardew is “the company man”, that middle-tier manager in the office who continues to apply for promotion while endlessly being passed over for younger candidates. He’s solid and steady so it’s probably understandable that the team we’ve become reflects that. But Newcastle fans get restless with such consistency. We want the terrifying highs, the giddy lows, the constant tabloid inches. We’re simply not used to anything else.

The team lacks invention too and the compact midfield is incapable of supplying Demba Ba in the same way that even West Ham could. Check Tiote is rapidly becoming the next David Batty, unaware of the art of forward passing and good only for a yellow card. Since his goal against Arsenal, which was rewarded with a massive deal and contract, he’s started leading a sedentary lifestyle in midfield. When you couple that with Obertan – a player that has less awareness than Milan Baros, all head down and running in a straight line – and Cabaye, a player whose most spectacular thing about him is his name, you’re not going to create a lot of chances. Probably something that is highlighted by Leon Best being our top goalscorer with three.

A lot of pressure rests on Jonas Guttierez but it’s clear that he is also struggling to find his best form in this new look team. When he first came to the club he was described as “electrifying”. When we went to into The Championship he was “electric”. Now he’s being described as “tricky” and he struggled to make the most of a Villa defence that can be generous despite McLeish being billed as some sort of ginger defensive mastermind.

It’s not as if we’ve got a solid defence ourselves. While it’s clear that our foreign players actively benefitted from the season in The Championship, adapting to the physicality and bringing it back up to the prem, we’ve still got problems. As demonstrated in this game we can’t deal with pace, we can’t deal with strength and we like to be the architects of our own downfall. This was ably demonstrated this game by Steven Taylor, the most disloyal “loyal” player in the game (kissing the badge one minute, transfer requests the next, his agent linking him with Barcelona and a host of other clubs that would never touch him before contract negotiations) when he almost gave away a goal. He made up for it by putting it out for a corner when it was going wide anyway.

We could also use a reliable keeper. Aston Villa have got ours. Ah, Shay… How I miss you. His performance in this game showing that Villa got themselves a keeper that is capable of winning matches on his own, something he’d have done for us more often if we’d actually had defenders instead of applicants for clown college. This is the keeper that somehow managed to keep clean sheets despite playing behind the brothers of destruction Boumsong and Bramble, players that put in as many tackles on each other as they did opposition attackers. I felt his absence more acutely each time Tim Krul came to play out a backpass and winced.

So yes, our team is very much a product of Pardew. Average, steady, opportunistic. There’s no-one exceptional in any position but, I suppose, it is better than having a blend of players too good for the club being made to feel that fact every day by having to play with the bungling and inept. It’d just be nice if I believed that he could be inspiring. Clearly he can’t. His soft whispering voice before the game and at half time clearly put the players into a coma that it took twenty minutes to wake up from each time. Not even Paul McKenna can do that.

What did I learn about Villa? Well, obviously I’ve had the misfortune to watch them a few times this season because of the connection with her indoors. I honestly believe McLeish will do to this team what he did to Birmingham and Villa fans need to be wary of that before backing their man. He simply doesn’t know how to play in a manner that will see an abundance of chances and that wastes the attributes of the best players in the Villa squad. He will have to rely on the form of players like Agbonlahor.

He was the main talking point around the Villa half of Birmingham, whether or not he should be starting for England. As much as he worked our defence he’s not an international class player. He has pace and he’s getting better and holding the ball up but ultimately that’s all he can do. The interview with him on Football Focus before the match showed he lacks the brain power to add much more to his repertoire.

The reality he is that he has come to the forefront simply because Darren Bent has taken so many steps backwards. He doesn’t look anything like the player he was last season and missed a sitter that would have surely wrapped the game up. In previous fixtures this season he’d been caught offside often, his eagerness getting the better of him, or perhaps a lack of concentration. Against Newcastle he played deep and seemed to be disinterested. Worrying times because when he gets like this he’s normally setting himself up for a big money move, much like he did to enable him to move to Villa, a club that were battling relegation as opposed to the team he left that were challenging for Europe.

A draw was a fair result all round, even if we could have nicked it and it looks like we’ll be finishing above Villa this season on this evidence. Certainly our brand of slow and steady seems to be less problematic than the one McLeish is forcing down the throats of the Villa faithful. The result puts Newcastle fourth in the table, a massive over-exaggeration of the footballing side we are, but it’s still a sign of a progress of sorts even if the glory days of the Keegan era remain a distant dream.

As for the relationship with the missus? She and I left the bar and I was allowed to put my arm around her. Indeed, I didn’t mind touching her at all. We were still friends and neither of us had lost anything. The draw was completely fair and the only result that could have created this pleasant outcome. It won’t always be like this but maybe, just maybe, some cosmic force wants this relationship to work out.