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 is hosting 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.

The Count of Monte Cristo is fundamentally a story about revenge. It follows Edmond Dantès, a young sailor who is betrayed by jealous friends, falsely imprisoned for treason at Château d’if an island fortress just off the coast of Marseille visible from the Vélodrome Stadium where this weekend the 2026 Top 14 semi-finals were held.

Revenge was a theme carried into the action on the field over Friday and Saturday night. Although it is renowned as a dish best served cold, the Mediterranean temperatures made that impossible.

Despite the 9pm kick off’s temperatures in the 30s provided the meteorological backdrop for two battles to decide who would head north to the final in Paris next Saturday.

As the metro unloaded its Friday evening cargo of commuters at Gare Saint-Charles they were replaced by the colourful, jovial, and extremely vocal supporters of Toulouse and Racing 92 taking the sixteen-minute ride to the beautiful stadium that despite being the round ball home of Olympique Marseille is no stranger to rugby matches of the highest order.

Whilst the Pastis was flowing in Vieux Port Toulouse faced Racing 92 in a massively one-sided encounter.

Racing took the lead after three minutes with a penalty, their 3-0 lead created an all too brief moment of optimism for the ciel et blanc after which Toulouse rampaged through the blue and white wafer thin defence scoring five first half tries giving them a 38-3 half-time lead.

In perfect symmetry, Toulouse scored another five tries in the second half as they remorselessly demolished and disheartened their opposition, who to their credit produced two consolation tries of their own in the last ten minutes of the match. But a 71-17 scoreline says it all.

Despite the absence of Thomas Ramos, Toulouse showed their knock-out pedigree with half backs Dupont and Ntamack in top form with the latter landing 19 points from the boot.

Saturday night saw Montpellier face Stade Francais in a much closer affair than the previous evening’s match.

The capital city slickers have developed a hard edge and are a far cry from the pampered pink Parisians of old. However, despite outscoring Montpellier in the try scoring stakes their discipline let them down resulting in Miotti kicking five penalties for ‘Les Cistes’ which along with one from Coly proved to be Stade’s undoing.

This tight contest swung on a disallowed Joe Marchant try for Paris that could have gone either way, such are the small margins at this level.

So Montpellier head to Paris next Saturday for the final against hot favourites Toulouse.

Paris dazzles with grand boulevards, world-famous monuments, and the restless energy of a city that never stops reinventing itself. It is a city of lights, art, and ambition, where history and modern life meet at every corner.

Pau, by contrast, unfolds at a gentler pace. Nestled beneath the Pyrenees, it offers sweeping mountain views, leafy promenades, and an atmosphere of quiet elegance. If Paris is a symphony played at full volume, Pau is a melody carried on the mountain air.

Both cities were hosting the Top 14 barrages last weekend the winners of which would head to Marseille to face the already qualified semi finalists Toulouse and Montpellier.

Saturday night saw a packed Stade du Hameau attempt to serenade the men in green to victory and maintain their unbeaten home record.

But it was not to be. In a pulsating contest Racing 92 inspired by scrum half Léo Carbonneau came out on top 33-31 despite being out scored in the try department by four tries to three. Eighteen points from the boot of Antoine Gilbert were just enough to end Pau’s dreams.

Twenty four hours later some 794 kilometres north at Stade Jean Bouin in the affluent 16th arrondissement Pink Parisians Stade Francais demolished La Rochelle.

La Rochelle were outplayed in every facet of the game by the home side who with set piece dominance ripped the visitors defence to shreds.

Quicker in thought and deed than their opponents Stade Francais scored seven tries to a solitary effort from La Rochelle.

So the Top 14 now heads to Marseille for next weekend’s semi finals. On Friday night Toulouse face Racing 92 whilst Montpellier play Stade Francais on Saturday.

So after 26 weeks of league action, the Top 14 in France reaches the business end of the season.

Last night’s final round of league matches revealed the teams that will compete in the knockout stages.

The Top 14 knockout stage, features the six highest-ranked teams from the regular season. The teams that finish 1st and 2nd earn a direct place in the semi-finals, 

Teams placed 3rd to 6th must first compete in the barrages (play-offs), with 3rd hosting 6th and 4th hosting 5th in single-elimination matches.

The winners of these play-off games advance to the semi-finals, where they face the top two seeds on neutral ground. 

The two semi-final winners then contest the Top 14 Final, with the victor crowned French rugby champion and awarded the famous and extremely large Bouclier de Brennus.

Toulouse and Montpellier finished 1st and 2nd so head straight to the semi-finals which will be held in Marseille on Friday 19 and Saturday 20 June. Their opponents will be determined by the winners of:

Saturday 13 June: Pau v Racing 92

Sunday 14 June: Stade Francais v La Rochelle

The semi-finals will therefore be

Friday 19 June: Toulouse v Pau/Racing 92

Saturday 20 June: Montpellier v Stade Francais/La Rochelle 

Perhaps the biggest shock is the fact that back to back European Champions Bordeaux failed to reach the knock-out stages, ending their season in 8th place.

A season that started way back on 6 September 2025 still has a fair way to run before the final in Paris on Saturday, June 27.

In other matters, Vannes will be playing in the Top 14 next season after defeating Provence in yesterday’s ProD2 final in Toulouse. 

Heading the other way are Montauban, relegated from the Top 14 after achieving just one win in a gruesome season that saw them accumulate 7 points. 

Provence will now face second from bottom in the Top 14 table Perpignan, the winner awarded a place in the Top 14 for the 2026/27 season.

The final Top 14 league table

When Jade Konkel laced her boots for the last time, it wasn’t just the end of a career. It was the quiet closing of a chapter I had the privilege of witnessing up close both with a notebook in hand, and with the easy familiarity of friendship.

I have watched her from press boxes and the depths of Surrey Sports Park battling in the snow, wind and rain, from muddy touchlines where the cold seeps into your bones, to stadium seats buzzing with anticipation before a Six Nations kick-off. I have watched her in the player’s tunnel, jaw set, eyes forward. I have watched her in the scrum, where there are no cameras close enough to truly capture the strain, the technique and the raw will.

And I have watched her after the final whistle, bruised and bloodied a smile cutting through the fatigue, always more interested in how the team performed than in any individual praise.

For more than a decade, Jade didn’t just carry the ball she carried expectation, possibility and belief. As a journalist, I wrote about her metres made, her tackles landed, and her tries.

I described the collisions, the work rate, the way she anchored a pack. I searched for the right phrasing to explain why her presence mattered so much to Quins and indeed Scotland.

But statistics never quite captured it. There is something visceral about watching Jade at work when you understand what is truly happening in those dark, grinding exchanges. The scrum is not glamorous. It is pressure, pain and precision. And Jade made it her art form.

When scrums held firm against heavier packs, when it edged forward with quiet authority, you could feel the psychological shift ripple through a match. I learned, over years of covering her, to watch for the small tell tale signs.

As a journalist, I admired her consistency she gave absolutely everything in every game she played. As a friend I admired her, and still do, as a human being.

When she became one of the first openly gay women to represent Scotland in rugby, it was reported as a milestone in what it meant for visibility in sport, for inclusion, for young players searching for someone who was like them in elite competition. But she wasn’t trying to be groundbreaking. She was simply being herself. The courage was in the ordinariness of it. In the refusal to compartmentalise who she was for the sake of comfort or convention.

I’ve witnessed the unseen parts too, the all too regular rehab sessions that seem endless, the frustration of countless injuries, the mental toll of professional sport where contracts are short and expectations long. Rugby careers are brutal in their brevity. Bodies absorb so much so that the jersey can be worn with pride. Retirement, when it comes, is never just about stepping off the pitch. It’s about renegotiating identity.

For someone whose life has been structured around training cycles, selection announcements, and matchday rituals, that shift is seismic. And yet, if there’s one thing I know about Jade, it’s that her impact was never confined to eighty minutes.

Teammates leaned on her. Younger players measured themselves against her standards. Coaches, the good ones, and they weren’t all good, trusted her implicitly. She was the cornerstone, the player every side needs and one who is often only truly appreciated until they’ve gone.

From the press box or the Touchline I often tried to find new ways to describe her and her game. Powerful. Relentless. Industrious. None ever felt sufficient. Because what set her apart wasn’t just physicality it was a presence. A steadiness. A refusal to yield.

Now, looking back not as a journalist but as someone who has shared conversations, coffees, frustrations and celebrations, the memories feel layered. The roar of the crowd blends with quieter moments.

Somewhere in Scotland or indeed Surrey, a young number eight will crouch for her first scrum and believe, perhaps without realising why, that she belongs there. She will benefit from the ground Jade helped break, from the standards she set, from the visibility she embodied.

I was lucky enough to chronicle her career. Luckier still to call her a friend.

The boots may be hung up now. The collisions may cease. But the imprint remains, in the culture of the team, in the pathways carved wider, in the belief that women’s rugby is stronger for having had her at its heart.

As a journalist, I can say she helped change the game. As a friend, I can say she changed lives. And that feels like the greatest legacy of all.

Thank you Jade.

They know a thing or two about producing mouth-watering products on the banks of the Garonne but this particular Bordeaux vintage also travels very well as was shown further south on the edge of the Nervión river in Bilbao.

The reigning Investec Champions Cup holders Union Bordeaux Bègles to give them their full title dispatched the River Liffey challengers Leinster with a display that will result in a few hangovers this morning as celebrations and commiserations continue to ebb and flow much like those beautiful waterways.

With temperatures above thirty degrees, red-hot Bordeaux demolished Leinster with their five first half tries giving them a 35-7 half-time lead despite the Irishmen taking the lead with an O’Brien try after just six minutes.

Three Bordeaux tries in 10 first half minutes were the killer blow, and Leinster had no answer to the broken play carnage caused by the French side.

Man of the match brilliant Basque Maxime Lucu controlled the game magnificently, scoring a first half try and receiving a ludicrous second half yellow card for making contact with the mullet of Joe McCarthy simultaneously with his shirt collar. Hair pulling was apparently deemed to be the sin binning offence.

A try from McCarthy himself whilst Lucu was in the bin was the best Leinster could muster with an extra man advantage.

Lucu’s two penalties after leaving the ‘naughty step’ added gloss to the scoreline and despite Leinster’s efforts in limiting Bordeaux to six second half points and scoring two tries themselves, this was a comprehensive win for the now back to back European champions.

Bordeaux are a joy to watch and in the boiling Basque sunshine they lit up this final, they are a very special team indeed.