Roger Alton

Sadly it looks as though the 2020 Six Nations may have to go down with an asterisk and an explanation that might baffle future scholars — ‘Aborted due to the coronavirus’. Still, after the Wales game we can look back with affection on Owen Farrell at his horribly gobby worst, endlessly getting at Kiwi referee Ben O’Keeffe while dishing out a series of nasty niggly fouls: why does he do it? Then there was Eddie Jones in inimitable fashion blasting away at the laws and of course the ref. You lost a couple of men to foul play, Eddie, I’d keep quiet while the going’s good. I had my ref mic tuned to O’Keeffe throughout the match and he was very fair and clear throughout. ‘It’s still a penalty, Owen,’ he said after one pointless row.

Thankfully, Tyson Fury is as good at boxing as he is terrible at singing. But he really should pick on someone his own size: he’s a colossal 6ft 9in tall and 19st 7lb in weight. And he can punch. And he can weave. And he can feint and dip. And he is unbelievably fast. A three-stone advantage is just not on when the bigger man can fight. Quite often exceptionally big men can’t though. The Russian Nikolai Valuev, now a politician, was known as the Beast from the East when he boxed. He was 7ft tall and weighed more than 23st, the tallest and heaviest world boxing champion there has ever been, but he wasn’t much cop. Primo Carnera was much the same: 6ft 7in and 19st, but pretty moderate. He can punch. And he can weave. And he can feint and dip.

What we have learned in the past few weeks: 1) Don’t play rugby in a howling gale, even though for the Scots that was a balmy early spring day and they really should have beaten England — who, whisper it, are beginning to have a scrum-half problem. Dare we say that Willi Heinz needs more variety to his game? Not 57 different ones, but more breaks and switching direction of play would be welcome. Though I imagine he has heard that gag before. 2) England should scour inner-city schools for raw rugby talent. Ellis Genge, a star of last Saturday’s game, was raised on a Bristol housing estate and has a similar background to Kyle Sinckler, his fellow denizen of the front row.

Not everyone likes the Six Nations — a recent well-received book on the state of rugby union described it as a ‘mean motherfucker’: it is by far the biggest institution in rugby and its revenues easily outstrip the World Cup. But, argues author Mike Aylwin, the Six Nations is run by itself for itself, and the ‘interests of the game’ don’t figure in its remit unless its prosperity is threatened by neglecting those interests. Oh well, you can’t please everybody all the time. Less forensic souls such as myself will always find it a comforting harbinger of spring, and compelling entertainment. The biggest game of this year’s edition is on Sunday. France and England are the only potential winners of the contest.

Anyone still vaguely tempted to subscribe to that lazy and stupid cliché about footballers just being overpaid idiots should have been at the Savoy the other night when the Football Writers’ Association paid tribute to Vincent Kompany, Manchester City’s legendary former captain. The term ‘role model’ is hackneyed, but if ever it was applicable it would be to Kompany, a true giant among men. Literally too: he is physically immense and would have been a very troubling sight for any marauding centre-forward. He speaks six or seven languages, and was a natural leader on and off the pitch.

We don’t half take a lot for granted. We may look up to the Aussies, kowtow to the Americans and look on in awe at the Chinese, but we’re not doing too badly ourselves. To judge from the papers, we’re a nation of fatties who when not pigging out on Pringles on the sofa are waddling down the high street looking for drugs. But it turns out we’re pretty good at sport: cricket World Cup winners, rugby World Cup finalists, women’s football World Cup semi-finalists. It was English teams who contested the Champions League final, after two mesmerising semis when Liverpool thumped Barcelona and Spurs defeated Ajax in the last seconds of added time. At home, Liverpool continue to dazzle under a charismatic manager who has made the Kop his own.

New Zealanders can teach the world a lot about sportsmanship. Steve Hansen after last Saturday’s All Blacks defeat by England in the World Cup semi-final showed the uncomplaining loser can be just as impressive as the triumphant winner. As he put it: ‘Winning’s easy…[but] when you lose… you have to show humility, do it gracefully and be honest about it. Sometimes you have to bite down on your gumshield and suck it up.’ The Springboks have put rugby back several decades. Big, beastly, and brutal, they made the first half of their semi-final with Wales almost unwatchable. Afterwards the Wales hierarchy talked about losing the ‘arm-wrestle’: but why are Wales trying to arm-wrestle?

During the World Cup (remember that?), Virat Kohli, the very model of a modern major cricketer, appealed to Indian fans not to boo the returned Australian players. It would be nice to think that Joe Root might call for something similar over the next few days from the increasingly egregious English supporters. Current boo-boy tactics haven’t worked particularly well so far. Part of the problem has been the sanctification of Edgbaston as if it was the cricketing equivalent of Notre Dame. Now the sight of a lot of pissed-up Brummies dressed as parrots and chanting ‘Championes, championes…’ seems to be England’s contribution to the summer game. Besides anything else, the swing into cricket of practically mind-dead football chanting is just depressing, no?

The name Cameron Delport might not be immediately familiar, but his exploits last week could mean more for the future of cricket than the electrifying events of the World Cup final. Delport is a burly, well-inked British-South African from Durban, and a few days ago he smacked 129 off just 49 balls to steer Essex to victory over Surrey in their T20 Blast encounter at Chelmsford. More specifically, at the Cloudfm County Ground; once the home of Graham Gooch, Keith Fletcher and Nasser Hussain, now happily sponsored by a facilities management business. (I don’t really know what that means either, but it’s what the ‘fm’ stands for. Not a radio station.) Delport is now one of those itinerant T20 players of no fixed abode, but plenty of air miles.

A chum was in Waitrose a year or two back, and was bending down with some difficulty to look at the sandwiches when he realised the sprightly elderly chap next to him, eyeing up the cheese and celery, looked very familiar. It was the greatest tennis player of all time, the one and only Rod Laver, the Rockhampton Rocket himself. They had a pleasant chat, for the Rocket is nothing if not affable, and Laver agreed to call my pal’s tennis coach and say: ‘Hi, it’s Rod Laver here.’ The coach didn’t believe him, of course, but it was true. When you saw the ecstatic reaction of Centre Court last week as Laver, now 80, was presented with a special Wimbledon trophy you realised how lucky we are that he is still with us, and still charming everyone.