Ollie Cracknell is renowned for his powerful ball-carrying, tireless work rate, and uncompromising physicality on the field. Born on May 26, 1994, in Leeds, Cracknell qualified to play for Wales through his Llanelli born grandfather.

He represented Wales at under-20 level, making a strong impression early with his aggression and commitment in the back row.

A few days ago after Leicester Tigers defeated Sale Sharks 36-35 in a pulsating match he was called up into the Wales senior squad for the upcoming Autumn Nations Series to replace the injured Taulupe Faletau.

Cracknell began his professional journey with the RGC 1404 academy in North Wales before joining the Ospreys in 2014. Over several seasons in Swansea, he established himself as one of the most consistent flankers in the United Rugby Championship earning a reputation as a player who thrives in the toughest physical battles. His performances for the Ospreys led to a senior Wales squad call-up under Warren Gatland in 2017 although he was not capped.

In 2021, Cracknell moved to the English Premiership with London Irish, where his robust defensive work and relentless tackling quickly made him a fan favourite. Following Irish’s closure in 2023, he signed with Leicester Tigers, continuing to showcase his trademark intensity and leadership in the Premiership’s back-row battles.

Speaking to him in Leicester he love for the club is very evident.

“Tigers have an environment where people improve and that is where I want to be. Knowing I will be somewhere I can improve and learn is a big thing for me.”

“The fanbase Leicester Tigers has is incredible and the history around the club enormous.”

“Tigers is a massive rugby club, you can see that, and I am really excited to be a part of it.”

Off the field he has a passion for ornithology and has ventured way up north to the Isle of Skye to observe birds of prey.

“I’ve been up to Scotland for a couple of family holidays and we saw eagles up there on one of those and I thought they were really interesting and I wanted to see one in the wild,” said the former Osprey.

“When we had we had week off in January sometime ago or February, I went with my dog up to the Isle of Skye in my camper van and saw a golden eagle and white-tailed eagles in the wild.”

Ollie’s call up came as a shock with most folks assuming fellow Tiger Tommy Reffell would get the call, but Wales coach Steve Tandy had other ideas.

Eight years after that initial call up it looks like he will finally get that elusive Welsh cap at the tender age of thirty-one

When I spoke to him that call had not been made

“Every player that goes out there in the Premiership aspires to play international rugby,” he said.

“I want to test myself at the highest level I can, but l’ve got to be patient and play as well as I can.”

Little did he know that call up was just hours away.

The Wales Grand Slam winning side of 1976 was pretty special, it contained names that have gone down in rugby legend as some of the all time greats, they played with a verve and an insouciance the like of which we Welsh pine for in these modern professional times.

So when, on 16 October 1976, Argentina came to town to play a fully laden Wales team, the expectation was one of an inevitable comfortable victory for the star-studded men in red, how wrong could you be.

In the lead up to the international, Argentina had beaten an East Wales side 25-22 at Rodney Parade, and followed it up with a 29-26 win over Cardiff.

An 18-6 victory over Aberavon followed, but four days before the match against Wales, the Pumas were beaten 14-12, at Stradey Park, by a West Wales side that included, Elgan Rees, Clive Griffiths Andy Hill and Geoff Wheel.

A large crowd gathered at the National Stadium for a three o’clock kick off, and to witness a contest within a contest as two of the greatest fly halves ever to grace the game faced each other, Phil Bennett the magical diminutive pale-faced Welshman, and Hugo Porta the Argentinian with the swarthy elegant film star looks, and it turned out to be quite some battle.

The scores were level at half time 6-6, two penalties apiece.

Wales scored two second half tries through Gareth Edwards and Gerald Davies, but as the match progressed the home crowd were about to witness the unthinkable.

George Gauweloose side-stepped JPR Williams forty-five metres out and ran over for an Argentinian try started way back in their own twenty-two.

The sight of JPR being beaten once in a match was a rarity, so when Gonzalez Becca Varela also ran past the great man to score in the corner, after Roy Bergiers had lost the ball in the Pumas twenty-two, there was an air of disbelief in the Cardiff autumn air.

As the match entered injury time, Argentina were leading 19-17, with seconds left to play Wales were awarded a penalty, following a high tackle on JPR Williams, which Phil Bennett converted to give Wales a 20-19 win.

Gareth Edwards rates the Pumas fly half, Hugo Porta, as one of the true greats of the game.

“Hugo gave Terry Cobner, Trevor Evans and Mervyn Davies the runaround that afternoon, Merv named him as the best fly half he had ever played against.” 

The match is still hugely revered in Argentina, indeed in 2016 the governing body arranged a massive gala de rugby to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of this memorable game.

Autumn is supposed to be the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, according to John Keats. Luckily for him, the great romantic poet was not involved with Welsh rugby.

For Wales, the turmoil continues. The season of mellow fruitfulness appears to be just a precursor to another winter of discontent, with little prospect of it being made glorious summer by the son of York or indeed anyone else involved in Welsh rugby at this moment in time.

But despite everything, we still sing, even if our voices are sotto voce. That is the tragedy and the beauty. We still rise. We still believe. Because the passion and love for Welsh rugby is not built on World Cups or Grand Slams, it is built on the first time a child clutches a rugby ball in the rain. It is built on stories told by grandparents of great victories over England, of Phil Bennett sidestepping through ghosts. It’s built on community, identity, and an unyielding belief that no matter how dark the tunnel, the dragon will roar again.

What we are witnessing is not the death of Welsh rugby but its reckoning. A time of painful truth. It must change fundamentally, structurally, spiritually. The old ways, the old arrogance, must be let go. We need leadership with integrity, not just nostalgia. We need investment, not just in stadiums, but in people in girls’ teams, in schools, in grassroots coaches who build more than players.

The soul of Welsh rugby hasn’t died, but it has been bruised, perhaps more deeply than ever. It limps where it once soared, wrapped not just in bandages, but in bureaucracy, disillusionment, and financial fragility.

With Argentina, Japan, New Zealand and South Africa to visit next month the only realistic prospect of a victory is the match against Japan, but the visitors from the land of the rising scrum will not fear the contest having beaten Wales in the drawn series in Japan during the summer.

If it is asking too much to expect the Dragon to roar, can we please just experience a little fire, heat and warmth to lighten up the dark winter days ahead.

Cymru am byth.

There are figures in sport who transcend the game. Not because they chase glory or hoist trophies aloft, but because they bring integrity, courage, and humanity to the heart of the contest. Nigel Owens was never the player scoring the match-winning try. He wasn’t the captain lifting silverware, Yet he earned a different kind of respect—quieter, deeper, lasting.

To watch Nigel Owens referee was to witness something rare: a man who didn’t just control the game, but elevated it. His whistle wasn’t just a signal of order—it was a symbol of fairness. His voice with a proud Welsh lilt, became a familiar and reassuring sound across stadiums and living rooms worldwide.

He had a gift, not just for reading the game, but for understanding players. When a scrum teetered on chaos, or tempers flared beneath the posts, he stepped in, not just as an official, but as a calm presence. His famous words, “This is not soccer,” weren’t just witty—they were a reminder of the standards the game demanded, and the respect he expected.

But what truly sets Nigel Owens apart isn’t just what he did on the pitch. It’s who he chose to be off it.

In a world where conformity often seems safer, Owens stood tall and proud as one of the first openly gay men in professional rugby. He carried that truth not as a burden, but as a beacon for every young player or fan who ever felt they didn’t belong in the game they loved. His courage didn’t just break boundaries it built bridges.

When he refereed his final international match, it wasn’t just the end of a career. It was the closing chapter of an era defined by authenticity, empathy, and class. There will be other great referees. But there will never be another quite like Nigel Owens.

Rugby was better with him in the middle. The game will go on, as it always does. But every time a whistle blows and order is restored to chaos, every time a ref earns the respect of the crowd, players, and pundits alike, there will be echoes of Nigel Owens in the silence after the whistle.

And that, in the end, is the measure of a legacy, not the noise you make, but the space you leave behind.

In rugby, the referee is often the invisible hand, guiding, disciplining, upholding the spirit of the game. But Nigel was never just another whistle on the field. He was a force of nature in the middle of it all. Calm in the storm of a Six Nations decider. Unshaken in the face of a roaring Eden Park crowd. Fair, firm, and unmistakably himself.

From gritty local derbies in Llanelli to the thunderous clash of World Cup titans at Twickenham, he brought the same honesty and humour to every match. Whether managing a messy scrum between South Africa and New Zealand, or defusing tensions in a fiery France v England test, he never lost control of the game or of his principles.

Players listened to him not because they had to, but because they wanted to. There was clarity in his calls, warmth and humour in his reprimands, and wisdom in his restraint.

“You don’t like it? Then go and play another game.”

“I am the referee, not your coach.”

“This is not soccer.”

Those weren’t just soundbites for highlight reels they were statements of principle Nigel Owens got respect not through punishment, but presence. His authority came not from the whistle, but from his authenticity.

But beyond the laws and lineouts, it was the man himself who inspired most.

In a sport where strength is celebrated in tackles and mauls, Owens redefined bravery. He spoke openly of his mental health struggles. Of his battle with bulimia. Of the loneliness of hiding who he truly was in a world that wasn’t always ready to accept him.

Nigel Owens showed them — and us — that you can be true to yourself and still command a stadium’s respect. That you can be vulnerable and still be strong. That you can be different and still be one of the best.

When he officiated his 100th international match — a test between France and Italy in the 2020 Autumn Nations Cup it was more than a milestone. It was a testament to a career defined by excellence and courage. A celebration not just of one man, but of the values that rugby should always stand for.

Now retired from the international game, you’ll find him on his farm, in the rolling hills of West Wales, tending to his prize Hereford’s and speaking with the same sincerity that once stilled scrums and settled nerves. Rugby has moved on, as it must. But Nigel Owens leaves a space in the centre of the pitch that will never quite be filled.

At first glance, rugby and opera couldn’t seem more different. One is fast, physical, and brutal. The other is slow, precise, and expressive. One is played in stadiums, often in the rain and mud. The other unfolds on stages lit by chandeliers and carried by orchestras. But beneath the surface, they’re not opposites, they are parallels.

Both are about performance. Both demand absolute commitment and both are driven by emotion, story, and the need to connect with an audience.

In rugby, the field is a stage. The players know eyes are on them. Every pass, tackle, or decision carries pressure. It is not just about winning, it is about showing heart, resilience, and skill in front of thousands of onlookers.

In opera, the singer takes the stage with a different kind of vulnerability. The voice must be perfect, the timing exact. But more importantly, the emotion must be real. You can’t fake a heartbreaking aria any more than you can fake a match-winning try.

What most people don’t see in either world is the training. The hours even years of practice. The pain, the sacrifices. In rugby, it’s the early mornings, the bruises, the physical toll. In opera, it’s vocal exercises, language study, constant repetition, and the pressure of perfection.

Opera tells its stories through music and emotion. The pain of love, the weight of loss, the joy of reunion, all delivered through voices that carry centuries of tradition.

Rugby tells stories too. Not with words, but with action. The underdog fight. The comeback. The heroics. Every match has its own emotional tale. A team on the ropes, digging deep. A player playing through pain. A moment of brilliance that changes everything. Both forms remind us of what it means to feel, to struggle, to overcome adversity.

There’s a ritual to both. In rugby, the anthem, the haka, the roar of the crowd. In opera, the hush before the curtain rises, the collective breath before the first note. The audience is never just a bystander, they’re part of the spectacle.

Fans of each carry deep loyalty, shared language, and reverence for history. A great performance lives on, whether it was a famous aria or a legendary match.

But what truly links rugby and opera is emotion. Raw, honest, sometimes overwhelming. They both ask their performers to feel deeply and to express that in a way others can share. And they both ask something of us, to show up, to watch, to listen, to care.

Rugby and opera might speak in different languages, but they both speak to the same part of us. The part that loves the story. That respects effort that wants to be moved.

They show us what’s possible when passion meets discipline. When physical strength or vocal power is guided by something more, the drive to connect, to move, to matter.

In the end, whether it’s a note that gives you chills or a last-minute score that makes you leap off your seat, it’s the same thing, the thrill of being part of something that reaches deep into the soul and takes you for that split second out of the troubled world we live in.

Beneath the floodlights, they ran not only for victory, but for every girl who once whispered, “Is there a place for me here?”

The roars at Twickenham were more than a cheer, it was a breaking of silence, a chorus declaring: You belong. You always have.

Grass stained knees, scarred hands, hearts unyielding, they carried the weight of generations who played unseen, who were told wait, who were told NO !

This time, the stadiums were full, the cameras stayed, the world leaned closer. And in that closeness something shifted, perception, possibility, the horizon itself.

From packed terraces to village clubs a new story is written: not as an afterthought, but as the headline.

Legacies bloom in muddy boots, in the laughter of young teams, in clubs where doors swing wider, where space is carved for all who wish to enter.

The final whistle crowned champions, but the truest victory was this: That a generation watched, believed, and began to dream louder than the world had ever allowed before.

Mike Pearce September 2025

Twickenham glowed under a soft autumn sun, its stands brimming with history and hope. On the edge of south-west London, the Allianz Stadium’s 82,000 seats were packed, every voice, every flag, every heartbeat a part of something larger than sport.

England, the tournament hosts and favourites, unbeaten champions-in-waiting, faced a determined Canada, a side made strong by grit, by unexpected victories, and by the belief that they could shake the rugby establishment.

For England, this was redemption: memories of past finals lost, of near misses, of falling short when the weight of expectation was heaviest. For Canada, it was an opportunity to crown their underdog story with glory, to show the rugby world that their commitment, their spirit, could bridge gaps of experience and pedigree.

This was more than a match. It was a statement: that women’s rugby had come of age. The record-setting crowd, the sold-out Twickenham, the roar of the stands spoke of something transformed.

There was an early scare for England as Canada struck first through winger Asia Hogan-Rochester,

Ellie Kildunne responded with a wonderful weaving solo try of her own creating a roar that almost lifted the Emirates A380 flying overhead, turbulence was definitely a possibility.

Amy Cokayne, Abbie Ward, and Alex Matthews added tries to give England a commanding 26-8 halftime lead. 

In the Second half Canada gained some momentum when England’s Hannah Botterman was shown a yellow card. Hogan-Rochester scored again for Canada, stirring hopes of a comeback, but Matthews’ second try sealed the game and the World Cup for England.

This final will serve as both inspiration and foundation. And for the sport globally, the 2025 final will be a reference point, a moment of unity, where the women’s game’s potential shone in full.

French rugby lost one of its quiet giants on Tuesday when Jean-Louis Bérot died tragically at the age of 78. His death the result of a fall while hunting in the Landes countryside he loved so dearly stunned not only his hometown of Dax, but the wider rugby family across France.

Born on 28 July 1947, Bérot grew up in a part of France where rugby is not just a sport, but a culture and a way of life. From the start, he embodied the values of his region: resilience, humility, and a fierce passion for the game.

He began his career with US Dax, before moving on to Stade Toulousain, where his versatility as both a fly-half and scrum-half made him invaluable. He returned to Dax in 1973, never straying far from his roots. For Bérot, rugby was never about glory; it was about representing his people.

Between 1968 and 1974, Bérot wore the jersey of France 21 times. He faced the mighty All Blacks, toured South Africa and Australia, and competed in the Five Nations Championship.

In 1974, against Ireland, with the game hanging in the balance, Bérot stepped up and landed a penalty from over 40 metres out, on an awkward angle, deep into injury time to earn France a victory.

Bérot was never one to chase headlines. He carried his victories, and his disappointments, with the same quiet dignity.

When his playing days ended, he poured his energy back into his club and his town. He coached US Dax in the late 1970s and 1980s, later serving as an administrator and also as president of its omnisports organisation.

Away from rugby, Bérot trained as a physiotherapist and created the Thermes Bérot, a thermal spa in Dax that became a cornerstone of the local community. To many, he was not just a former international star, but a trusted professional, a neighbour, and a friend.

US Dax, spoke of “immense sadness” and promised to honour him with a tribute at their stadium. Former teammates, opponents, and fans remembered a man who combined rare talent with humility, intelligence, and kindness.

His passing is a reminder that even the strongest fall, but the spirit they leave behind continues to inspire. In Dax, in Toulouse, and in every corner of France where rugby is played, the name Jean-Louis Bérot will remain spoken with respect, gratitude, and love.

You cannot help but feel desperately sorry for France and New Zealand, a semi-final loss is the cruellest of defeats, with not even the luxury of being able to slink off quietly into the sunset to lick one’s wounds.

For the semi-final losers, there is also the ordeal of having to prepare for the match that no one wants to play in, the dreaded 3rd/4th place off.

These days the optics have slightly sweetened the bitter pill with a change of name to that of Bronze medal match, but ultimately no term can hide the fact that all it decides is who finishes the higher loser.

An 82,000 crowd will fill Twickenham next Saturday to watch this match as a 12.30 warm up to the main screening, the Women’s Rugby World Cup Final between England and Canada.

The 2025 tournament has seen the warm summer days of September drift slowly into a fully leaf blown Autumn as the daylight diminishes, and the central heating gets perilously close to activation, a sign in our house that the annual thermostat wars are about to begin.

Central heating was not required at Aston Gate on Friday night, however, as Canada and New Zealand faced each other.

In this much anticipated contest, the red-hot maple leaf blowers scattered the Black Ferns to the four winds.

It was a performance for the ages from Canada who dominated from first kick to last except for a ten-minute Black purple patch in the second half when New Zealand scored two tries. By this time, Canada had built up such a commanding lead that it was all too little too late.

Sophie de ‘too darn’ Goode strode this match like a colossus, she was top tackler, top carrier and the scorer of a try three conversions and a penalty.

Her Father, Hans, could only dream of such an occurrence during his playing days as a big, hard, old-fashioned second-row with Cardiff.

The second semi-final on Saturday afternoon saw England take on France at the same venue.

For France, there were tears before the match and indeed after the final whistle. The tears of emotion and national pride rolling down the cheeks during ‘La Marseillaise’ mixed with the Bristol drizzle, but after a bruising eighty minutes they were replaced by tears of disappointment and missed chances after suffering a ninth Rugby World Cup semi-final defeat.

France gave England a real battle but butchered at least three first half try scoring opportunities as they dominated possession following an early English try from Ellie Killdune after just 5 minutes.

The Red Roses went into the half-time break with a 7-5 lead against the run of play. However, a feeling that England would grind out a victory in the second half was brought to bear after they out scored France four tries to two.

For England there will be relief that a poor performance was not capitalised on by the French, and for the French themselves they will look on this game as a missed opportunity.

So we head to Twickenham next weekend for two matches. Firstly that dreaded bronze medal encounter France v New Zealand at 1230 and at 4pm the 2025 Women’s Rugby Cup Final between the haves and the have-nots, England and Canada. It promises to be quite a day.

The bookmakers will be sleeping peacefully in their beds tonight. But to be perfectly honest, you didn’t have to be Nostradamus to forecast the semi-final line up for the 2025 Women’s Rugby World Cup.

Despite the predictability of the outcomes, the four quarter-finals held in Exeter and Bristol continued to excite and entertain the record crowds that continue to turn up in their thousands to enhance and lighten up this tournament.

However, if the outcomes were predictable, No one would have forecast that South Africa would be level with New Zealand at half-time (10-10) or that the Black Ferns would have to make 249 tackles before eventually running out 46–17 winners.

Comfortable wins for England, New Zealand (eventually) and Canada contrasted with the one match that encompassed the magical ingredient of jeopardy-Ireland v France.

With Dublin weather arriving in Exeter, Ireland totally dominated the first half with the wind and rain at their backs building up a 13-0 lead.

18 unanswered points from France in the second half gave them victory despite a nervous final few minutes with the women in green throwing the kitchen sink at a defence that made 273 tackles.

Three yellow cards for France meant they played 30 minutes down to fourteen players, and their involvement in an alleged biting incident will no doubt dominate proceedings in the coming days.

As ever it is to the victor the spoils and two compelling matches on Friday and Saturday will determine the 2025 Women’s Rugby World Cup finalists. I have a feeling neither the bookmakers nor the late great Nostradamus will be unduly troubled.