Having already calmed the Stormers, avoided being bitten by the Sharks, and evaded a goring from the Bulls, the All Blacks headed to Ellis Park for the first test in a four match series against the Springboks billed as rugby’s greatest rivalry.

When I was young the tales of Boks and Blacks were bordering on the mythical. With no social media-hey we only had black and television !- there was no way of watching these giants of the game until they came on a winter tour of these islands, when it was made crystal clear that the stories we were told by our fathers and grandfathers were not mythical at all. The sheer sight of these players getting off the plane sent shudders down your spine.

But here we are in the twenty-first century and the prospect of any contest between these two teams still sets the pulses racing.

Many global greats have set foot on the hallowed turf of Ellis Park, and with all due respect to Whitney Houston and The Rolling Stones it is probably the wonderful double act of Pienaar and Mandela that stole the world’s hearts, along with the Boeing 747 pilot who stopped a few from beating with a low-level fly over prior to that incredible Rugby World Cup final in 1994.

Despite having had their scrum demolished by the green machine New Zealand went into the sheds at half time just one point behind and somehow ahead in the try stakes by two to one.

The old cliche a game of two halves could never have been more appropriate than at Ellis Park today.

Three second half tries from All Blacks, a change in their scrum fortunes, and a Springbok backline that despite dominating the aerial battle looked clunky and error strewn, resulted in a memorable and convincing win for the men from the land of the long white cloud

Stay tuned for part two of the four match series in Cape Town next Saturday.

As a child, my media entertainment was somewhat limited. Television only had two channels, BBC and ITV, and both were broadcasting in black and white, or grey depending on how old your television was.

The other great form of entertainment was the radiogram, a record player and radio built into a wooden cabinet to disguise these decadent items as a piece of furniture. It was this wooden wonder that provided me with my first experience of this wonderful mystical rugby entity, the Triple Crown.

I was six years old in 1965 when Wales won my first Triple Triumph, and to mark the event my parents bought a long playing gramophone record that celebrated this achievement, with excerpts of match commentary and male voice choirs.

This LP was played to death by me, hearing the dulcet tones of commentator Alun Williams describing Terry Price’s drop goal against Ireland lives with me to this day, “The ball comes to Price who will drop at goal, it’s a good one, it’s a very good one, and it’s over !”.

For the record, if you’ll pardon the pun, Wales won the Triple Crown by scoring the same number of points against all three teams. England (14-3) Scotland (14-12) and Ireland (14-8). Only defeat in Paris prevented a Grand Slam as Wales were beaten at Stade Colombes (22-13)

Clive Rowlands captained the side with the mercurial David Watkins at fly half, with a back three of Terry Price, Stuart Watkins and Dewi Bebb.

One of Clive’s proudest moments was winning the Triple Crown in 1965. He says: “We missed out on the Grand Slam but won the Triple Crown. It was the first time for 13 years. It’s something very special.”

Denzil Williams from Ebbw Vale one of Wales greatest ever props accompanied a second row of Brian Price and Keith Rowlands, with gnarly Llanelli hooker Norman Gale adding to a pack that didn’t take any prisoners.

Wales next won the Triple Crown in 1969, the start of a golden era that saw them repeat the feat in 1969, 1971 and a record four consecutive years in 1976, 1977, 1978 and 1979.

Our sporting memories often play out in our thoughts and dreams, with a soundtrack, an evocative commentary that is just as vivid as the sporting action itself.

No one said “ONE NIL” with such majesty and theatre as David Coleman did. As young kids, when we played football in the park the first goal of every game was greeted, and celebrated by the scorer providing an adinoidal impression of the great man’s catch phrase.

When you think of some of the magical moments of sport the commentary is automatically attached to the memory, I bet when you think of Gareth Edwards great try for the Barbarians, against the All Blacks, you hear Cliff Morgan in those glorious tones of his poetically orating  ? “Oh that fellow Edwards” or “Tom David of Wales” “Brilliant by Quinnell”

Those of us of advancing years, who remember the 1966 World Cup final, recall Kenneth Wolsteholme and his now legendary “They think it’s all over, it is now” as clearly as we see Geoff Hurst scoring that final goal as “Some people are on the pitch”

Every hot summer Wimbledon memory of the past, comes with an “Oh I say” from Dan Maskell, a voice quintessentially English, that sounded like strawberries and cream spilling on to a lush green lawn.

There is one name I haven’t mentioned, a certain Scotsman from Hawick, the voice of my young rugby life, Through all the joys and sorrows, Bill McLaren was there either celebrating the good times, with me, or else gently breaking the bad news with a feeling of it will be alright, and that it was only a matter of time before I’d be dancing in the streets of wherever I was living once again.

Yet even some of the greatest have made mistakes, a whole industry grew up on the back of sporting gaffes, particularly from those doyens of the microphone David Coleman and Murray Walker.

But there were plenty more culprits who had their moments and here are just some of my particular favourites.

 
Sure there have been deaths in boxing, but none of them serious. (Alan Minter)

We didn’t underestimate them, they were just a lot better than we thought (Bobby Robson)

Not to win is guttering (Mark Noble)

I didn’t say them things I said (Glenn Hoddle)

For Tony Adams to confess his alcoholism took a lot of bottle (Ian Wright)

This really is a lovely horse, I once rode her mother (Ted Walsh)

Julian Dicks is everywhere , it’s like they’ve got eleven Dicks on the field (Metro Radio)

It’s a great advantage to be able to hurdle with both legs (David Coleman)

We now have exactly the same situation we had at the start of the race, only exactly the opposite (Murray Walker)

I definitely want Brooklyn to be christened ,though I don’t know into what religion yet (David Beckham)

Happy weekend everyone.

In 1969 whilst Bryan Adams “stood on his mamas porch, with his first real six string” the sporting summer that unfolded in these Islands, was certainly a memorable one.

I’m not sure that at eleven years of age, “they were the best days of my life”, but they certainly provided evocative memories I can still recall vividly.

The sun shone all day, and you could leave your doors unlocked, terrorism had only just been invented and you could still play football in the streets.

I’m sure in reality it was totally different, but as the old saying goes nostalgia is not what it used to be.

However, a pint of Guinness cost 8p, and a pint of bitter around 7.5p, which sounds incredible, but when you take into account the average yearly wage amounted to £1,074, then it does put it into perspective .

The average house price came in at £4,375 in 1969, a year that saw Concorde’s maiden flight and the investiture of Charles, as Prince of Wales, in Caernarfon.

In the FA Cup Final, Manchester City beat Leicester City 1-0,at Wembley in front of a 100,000 crowd thanks to a Neil Young goal in the twenty-fourth minute, and whilst Neil was “over the moon” another Neil was actually on it, when on July 21 Neil Armstrong took “one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind”.

The world of cricket saw England win their three match home series against the West Indies,winning two tests and drawing one against a side that included the late great Gary Sobers.

The summer of 1969 witnessed one of those great sporting rarities, a British winner at Wimbledon.

With the relatively modern-day successes of Tim Henman and Andy Murray it is worth recalling that a Brit reaching the second week of Wimbledon was a major cause for celebration in those days.

Ann Jones won the women’s singles title beating Billie Jean King in the final 3-6 6-3 6-2 and the country went berserk.

The men’s competition saw Rod Laver defeat fellow Australian John Newcombe on centre court, 6-4 5-7 6-4 6-4, it was Laver’s fourth and final Wimbledon singles title, and his tenth grand slam title overall.

On 12 July, Tony Jacklin won the British open golf championship at Royal Lytham & St Annes, the first Briton to do so since 1951.

“Jacko” won by two shots from Bob Charles of New Zealand, which earned him the famous claret jug and a cheque for a staggering £4,250.

I remember well my first golfing efforts in 1969, the only time I hit two balls in succession was when I trod on a rake in a bunker.

Another home success came at the British Grand Prix  at Silverstone, on 19 July.

The weather that summer could be best described as changeable, but three days earlier Greenwich had recorded a temperature of 32.8 degrees

However Jackie Stewart, created his own heat wave by lapping the entire field to win the race at a canter, the Scot went on to win the formula one drivers title that year.

In rugby the Wales team that won the 1969 Five Nations Championship headed off to New Zealand in a confident mood a feeling that would evaporate all too soon.

Wales lost both tests to the All Blacks 19-0 and 33-12, but to their credit they beat Australia 19-16 and Fiji 31-11 visiting both countries on their way home, as part of the summer tour.

Swansea was granted city status on 3 July 1969, and to mis-quote Bryan Adams one more time “but when I look back now, that summer seemed to last forever, maybe those were the best days of my life”.

In the old days my summer sport consisted of afternoons that lengthened with the Sun’s shadows, sat in a deck chair listening to the sound of seagulls and willow on leather on the south coast.

I’ve never bought the definition that cricket is just baseball on Valium, and as for watching it, well laziness is not just a physical phenomenon there is a huge mental side to it.

Many youthful summer afternoons were spent at Dean Park, Bournemouth, watching Hampshire play whilst drifting in and out of a relaxing snooze before a Gordon Greenidge Six would land in the tea tent, shattering the cups and saucers, and turning a county championship match in to the soundtrack of a Greek wedding.

You didn’t snooze for long with that Hampshire team, the West Indies star and South African genius Barry Richards opened the batting and there were no safe zones beyond the boundary.

Snoozes were equally limited when Hants were fielding, with the great Malcolm Marshall reigning down. His run up seemed to start somewhere near the pier and any wides or bouncers were likely to do more damage than anything Barnes-Wallace could have invented, they were a heck of a team.

These days the rugby and cricket seasons merge, there was a time when sportsman could play both games and at the top level.

The rugby season ended on May 1 and a new one started on September, and that was the natural order of things.

Keith Jarrett The Welsh wonder kid who beat England single handedly in 1967 as a teenager, also played cricket for Glamorgan.

Wilf Wooler, Vivian Jenkins and Jack and Billy Bancroft all played rugby for Wales and cricket for Glamorgan.

Dusty Hare the England full back played first class cricket for Notts, whilst another England full back, Alistair Hignell was an accomplished cricketer with Gloucestershire.

In the Southern Hempishere the legendary All Black Don Clarke turned out for Auckland, and Sir Graham Henry, yes that one, played cricket for Canterbury.

Brian McKechnie the full back who kicked Andy Haden’s line out dive penalty to beat Wales in 1978, played international cricket for New Zealand,

Heading to the land of Springbok, former captain Morne du Plessis wore the whites of Western Province with distinction.

Other notable names who have excelled at rugby and Cricket are Rob Andrew and Simon Halliday, who played rugby for England and first class cricket for Cambridge and Oxford university respectively.

The names of those that played top class rugby in the winter and cricket in the summer, are too numerous to mention, but sadly there will be no new ones to add to the list, I’m afraid that is the price of professionalism when seasons collide.

The real tragedy is that Malcolm Marshall was taken from us at such a ridiculously young age, those of us who had the privilege to see him play will never forget him.

I’ve spent most of my writing career on the touchlines and press boxes of rugby matches, where the cold damp air smells of deep heat and wet turf, and the collisions echo like minor car crashes. So walking into the Championships at Wimbledon felt, at first, like I’d wandered into the wrong assignment.

There were no roars in the usual sense, no surging wall of noise as bodies met. Instead, a polite ripple of applause, restrained and precise, almost as if the crowd itself had been coached. On No 1 Court, the grass looked impossibly clean, untouched by the kind of pitted greenery associated with my usual contests.

I kept waiting for a scrum to form, but here the battles were quieter, waged in footwork and fractions. And yet, after a while, a kind of warm enveloping familiarity began to creep in.

The tension before a serve isn’t so different from a kicker lining up a decisive penalty. The crowd falls into that same hushed silence. When a rally stretches on, you can feel the momentum swing, just like a phase of play inching toward the try line. It’s territorial, psychological, and relentless in its own way.

I watched a player chase down a ball that had no right to be returned, sliding, stretching, refusing to concede the point. That, I recognised immediately. Different kit, different code, different weather, but the same refusal to yield.

By mid-afternoon, in the blistering heat, I’d stopped comparing the two sports and started appreciating the unique theatre of this particular one.

At Wimbledon, the tennis may feature plenty of aces, but the only thing getting served faster than the tennis balls is your credit card.

The famous strawberries and cream are still one of the tournament’s bargains, but order a Pimm’s to wash them down and you’ll start wondering whether you’ve accidentally bought shares in the All England Club. Fancy a bottle of water? At those prices, it seems the Evian has been filtered through Roger Federer’s tears.

By the time you’ve added a sandwich and a drink, you’ll be checking Hawk-Eye to see whether your bank balance is still in the black.

I witnessed bubbly and Pims instead of pints, applause instead of hymns and arias, but the same essential drama. Sport, it turns out, doesn’t need the crunch of a tackle to carry weight. Sometimes it’s held in the silence between shots, in the bated breath of captivated and engrossed onlookers.

The skill and dexterity of the players however was overshadowed by the fellow spectators sat alongside me in number one court who were juggling food and drink whilst applauding simultaneously, only Rafa Nafal’s looping top spin forehand comes close to topping the magnificence of such coordinated brilliance.

Whatever the sport the constant theme engrained in its execution is that every dream is worth chasing, every challenge can be overcome, and every moment holds the promise of something extraordinary. It teaches us to believe, to persevere, and to celebrate both victory and resilience on and off the grass.

But its greatest gift is the chance to share those moments with someone you love. Together, every cheer becomes louder, every setback becomes easier to bear, and every moment of laughter becomes a memory long after the final whistle has blown or the covers stretch across the courts in the setting sun.

Now where is my credit card ?

If there were a World Cup for flattering powerful men, Gianni Infantino might already be polishing the trophy.

The FIFA president has become so adept at appearing beside heads of state that one wonders whether he sees himself as football’s chief executive or its chief diplomat.

Wherever political power gathers, Infantino rarely seems far behind beaming for the cameras with the enthusiasm of a man who has mistaken access for achievement.

His relationship with Donald Trump has become the latest exhibit in this travelling gallery of political proximity. Of course, the United States hosted the 2026 World Cup, and any FIFA president would be expected to work with the White House. Nobody seriously disputes that. The question is why professional cooperation so often appears wrapped in such conspicuous admiration.

Diplomacy is supposed to involve maintaining enough distance to protect an institution’s independence. Infantino’s version sometimes resembles a masterclass in enthusiastic deference.

Critics have not accused him merely of being pragmatic; they have questioned whether he has become too eager to celebrate political power for its own sake.

The pattern is familiar. Before Trump, there were warm relationships with leaders in Qatar, Saudi Arabia and elsewhere. Different flags, different ideologies, different controversies but remarkably consistent smiles. The message appears refreshingly uncomplicated: governments may come and go, principles may be debated, but FIFA’s president is always ready for another gormless grin and a handshake.

It is almost as though Infantino believes football’s greatest asset is not its billions of supporters but its ability to orbit power. Every summit becomes a stage. Every state visit becomes another opportunity for carefully choreographed symbolism. Every photograph whispers the same message: look who I’m standing next to.

The irony is difficult to ignore. FIFA routinely lectures the football world about unity, inclusion and keeping politics out of sport. Yet its own president often appears irresistibly drawn toward the political spotlight. Football, it seems, should stay out of politics unless politics offers excellent television coverage and a prominent place in the front row.

Defenders insist this is simply how global sport works. World Cups require governments. Governments require diplomacy. Fair enough. But diplomacy does not demand applause. It does not require the tone of a grateful courtier addressing a generous monarch. Institutions earn respect by demonstrating independence, not by appearing dazzled by those who temporarily occupy positions of power.

Perhaps this is the defining feature of the Infantino era. FIFA no longer merely governs football; it performs power. The president’s calendar increasingly resembles that of an international statesman, while the game’s recurring problems governance, transparency, player welfare and competitive integrity often struggle to command the same public attention.

History is usually kind to administrators who leave behind stronger institutions than they inherited. It is less generous to those remembered mainly for cultivating the powerful. If Gianni Infantino wants to be seen as the guardian of the world’s game rather than its most enthusiastic political networker, he may eventually need to discover that the most valuable seat in football is not the one closest to a president.

After all, the real VIPs are not in the presidential box. They are the billions of supporters who pay to watch the game not the performance in the hospitality suite.

Imagine my delight at being asked to cover a Fiji home game in the inaugural Rugby Nations Championship.

Time to dig out the factor 50 and my shades for this bucket list assignment, my mind racing with a mixture of excitement and disbelief,

Fiji, Where the ocean breathes in shades of turquoise and light, where the islands rise like dreams from the Pacific’s embrace. Palm trees whisper to warm trade winds, and sunsets melt slowly into coral horizons.

Here, time softens, laughter travels on the tide, and every wave carries a story of welcome, of wonder, of paradise remembered long after the journey ends. What they didn’t tell me was the match was being played in Cardiff. 

Fiji decided to forgo home advantage for the opening Nations Championship fixtures, so instead of Suva the Fijian capital the match was being played in a country where tropical is defined as three successive days without rain.

But hey, at least it was Cardiff in July and to be fair there was a miniature palm tree in a bucket outside Café Nero at Leckwith retail park.

The match was being played at Cardiff City Stadium situated in the middle of the afore mentioned shopping emporium and the weather was temperate, as Wales breathes in between heatwaves.

A disappointing crowd of 16,456 echoed the mood surrounding the game in Wales but with the other attractions of Wimbledon, the British Grand Prix and the DFS sofa sale it was not a big suprise

Wales, defending ……..an unbelievable two match unbeaten run stretching back to March, were determined to start their Nations Championship opener with a win before heading overseas to even tougher challenges against Argentina and South Africa.

A six try bonus point victory underlined Wales’ continuing improvement, and the maturity they displayed in both execution and discipline proved very encouraging.

Fiji scored after just 2 minutes, setting alarm bells ringing and despite missing 32 first half tackles, Wales went into half-time level at 10-10.

Two tries in the opening five minutes of the second half gave Wales the buffer of a 22-10 lead. They were savvy enough not to get sucked into Fiji’s enticing offer of an open running game and scrum and line out dominance continually relieved pressure and produced scores at vital times in the contest.

So Wales’ unbeaten run stretches out to the dizzy heights of three matches and as the miniature palm tree outside Café Nero received an early afternoon watering there was a general feeling of contentment amongst those heading to the Sandpiper for a refreshing beverage.

The road to the Top 14 final is a very long and winding one, even Paul McCartney could not imagine the length of the elite division season in France.

It began on 6 September 2025, and it ended on Saturday night almost ten months later at Stade de France.

The long and winding road continued at the weekend as finalists Montpellier and Toulouse headed north from the hotbed of French rugby to the capital city.

For Toulouse, the journey was 689 kilometres to be precise, 4 hours and 35 minutes by train.

Montpellier’s trek stretched 749 kilometres, a shorter TGV hop that takes 3 hours and 31 minutes.

Toulouse’s journey may be long but is a very familiar one, they have won the Top 14 title for the last three years and twenty-four times overall.

As the current heatwave continued to engulf Europe, 35 degree temperatures at the 9pm kick off time proved sapping for players and spectators alike in the concrete laden area of Saint-Denis.

From the opening exchanges, Toulouse turned up the rugby thermostat. Hooker Peato Mauvaka crossed twice, while captain Antoine Dupont, once again the heartbeat of the club, added another to send the Toulouse faithful into raptures. Romain Ntamack’s assured boot completed a commanding first-half performance as Toulouse stormed into a 25–6 lead.

Then came an unexpected hiatus. Dark clouds gathered overhead, lightning flashed in the distance, and the match was suspended as a summer storm swept across the capital. It was as though nature itself had paused to admire the spectacle before allowing the drama to continue.

Montpellier emerged from the interruption with renewed belief. Tries from Justo Piccardo and Léo Coly breathed life into the contest, reducing the deficit and setting the stage for a tense finale. Yet true champions are defined not only by brilliance in attack but by resilience under pressure. Toulouse’s defence, disciplined and resolute, withstood every late assault until the final whistle confirmed their triumph.

The 28–20 victory is more than another trophy for their cabinet. It is a testament to their excellence, and a culture that has become synonymous with success. Four consecutive Top 14 titles put this Toulouse side among the greatest ever assembled in French rugby, a team that continues to blend flair, steel, and ambition with humility.

As the Brennus Shield was lifted beneath freshening, clearing skies, the symbolism was impossible to ignore. Storms may come, challenges may rise, but Toulouse remain the beacon of French club rugby. For another season, the crown belongs to the rouge et noir.

The long and winding road finally hit a cul-de-sac in the early hours of a muggy Sunday morning, once the pot holes have been repaired we all go again for the 2026/27 version in just a few weeks time.

“It always leads me here, lead me to your door”.

The North Star, has guided travelers for centuries. Located almost directly above the North Pole, it appears fixed in the night sky while other stars seem to move around it. Sailors, explorers, and adventurers have relied on it to find their way when traveling across oceans and deserts.

Beyond its practical use, the North Star symbolizes hope, guidance, and direction. Its steady light reminds us that even in darkness, there is always a point of reference to help us find our path.

In Wales our North Star had similar properties, hope, guidance and direction that gave us cause for optimism even on the darkest of nights.

This afternoon George North drew the curtain on his glittering career as the Barbarians took on Wales at the Allianz Stadium, Twickenham.

The giant wing-cum-centre announced his retirement from the professional game in April but laced up his boots up one last time going up against the nation for whom he won 121 caps and scored 47 tries.

It was the first and last time that the Wales great has represented the Baa-Baas and it was a fitting farewell for the 34-year-old. 

North said: “It’s always been a dream of mine to play for the Barbarians so to be invited for a game at Twickenham, against Wales was just incredible. 

“I have been so privileged to enjoy the career that I have had, and I have so many unforgettable memories from Wales and friendships to last a lifetime. So to go out against my country, with some of my friends and teammates playing is so special. 

“To also be able to play alongside some of the best and most exciting players in the world, and to enjoy that famous Barbarians spirit is something I couldn’t turn down. 

During a career that has spanned 16 years, North helped Wales to four Six Nations titles, including two Grand Slams, and twice toured with the British & Irish Lions.

Following stints with Scarlets, Northampton Saints and Ospreys, he has spent the last two years with Provence in France’s ProD2.

With Mediterranean temperatures at Twickenham more Menton than Middlesex he felt quite at home.

There are few teams in sport as romantic, and enduring as the Barbarians. They exist as an idea that has survived since 1890 and continue to capture the imagination of rugby lovers around the world.

From the outset, the Barbarians were different. They had no home ground, no season to grind through, no trophies to chase. Instead, they lived on invitation both in who they played and who they selected. To wear the black-and-white jersey is not something you apply for it is something bestowed. Skill matters, but so does character. To be a Barbarian is to embody the spirit of rugby. George is the embodiment of the Barbarian ethos.

In stifling heat Wales minus their non-Welsh based players were victorious by 33 points to 31.

George, selected on the Barbarian bench, entered the fray with 46:43 on the clock. Two minutes he crashed through for a try. He added another on 70 minutes and with the last kick of the game converted Arata’s try.

He looked as sharp and beautifully athletic as he always has giving us a reminder of his glory days with Wales and the Lions, it was a fitting farewell.

The skies will be that bit darker without our North Star, but wonderful memories of the rugby supernova will leave an inextinguishable light and an indelible path for others to follow.