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Des Boot - he knows the score |
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back 10 February 2000 |
W hat is it about the Welsh and bowls ? Of all the sports and all the competitions in all the world, the Welsh just have to choose bowls as the one in which they bestride the world like a colossus - a bespectacled colossus, in nice slacks, sharply ironed polo shirt and sensible shoes, but a colossus nonetheless. Once again, the World Indoor Bowls Champion is a Welshman - a man by the name of Robert Weale. The day after his success at Great Yarmouth, a planned interview with the Radio 5 DJ Nicky Campbell went a bit pear-shaped when the unflappable Scot found himself on the other end of a berserk nationalistic diatribe from merry prankster John Rabaiotti from Swansea, who, for reasons known only to himself and a select band of psychiatrists, had decided to pass himself off as shy mild-mannered Robert Weale. A tad taken aback by the anti-English rants and the appeal for more "sexy groupies" in bowls, Campbell was well and truly tucked up - the full scale of the hoodwink only occurring to Radio 5 staff when the real Robert Weale phoned up to begin his interview. T he frankly disappointing World Cup performances and the disastrous start to the Six Nations have placed the alleged rebirth of Welsh rugby in sombre perspective. Such was the guileless and clueless performance against the magnificent Bleus, the Welsh team might as well have had question marks on their backs instead of numbers 1 to 15. Graham Henry may well be the most savvy coach working in the Northern Hemisphere, but he seems to have difficulty in imparting a coherent gameplan upon his bemused charges. Bob Dwyer's inflammatory comments about the expanding girth of the Flying Lardini Brothers ( Scott and Craig ) may have been designed to agitate rather than elucidate, but the suspicion grows that the team have forsaken stealth, speed and intuition for bulk, power and systems. Three defeats in a row now, and without a ready supply of oval-shaped cannon balls placed at the feet of Neil Jenkins, Wales look punchless and puffed-out. The comprehensive pasting allowed Des to concentrate on his favourite topic - the state of the Arms Park pitch. Leaving aside the grossly intrusive sponsors' logo on the halfway line ( is nothing sacred anymore for Chrissake ? ) the pitch looked quite good for thirty seconds or so. Until, that is, somebody actually put a stud into it, and it was revealed to have the firmness and consistency of chocolate cake; a light breeze across the top and the divots start flying about as if the ground was being peppered by divebombing Messerschmitts. The parlous state of the playing surface is a joke, an embarrassment and about three blades short of a national scandal; and it may well threaten the Union's grandiose plans to host a panoply of sporting finals. Can you imagine the FA Cup Final / European Cup Final being played on a surface that cuts up like soggy blotting paper within minutes of a game starting ? Somebody somewhere has a lot of explaining to do. T he increasingly shambolic and tedious takeover of Cardiff City ( will they, won't they, does anyone give a flying fart anymore ? ) has already precipitated the sacking / resignation of under-pressure manager Frank Burrows. Local bookmakers are taking no more bets on the identity of his successor after a series of large wagers were placed on ex Huddersfield boss Peter Jackson. Jackson may be the gamblers' choice but the People's Choice is undoubtedly the great John Benjamin Toshack. Sadly, hell will freeze over before John Toshack sets foot inside the manager's office at Ninian Park, and that's not just because the club could barely afford to pay JB's dry cleaning bills. In one of very many crass blunders perpetrated by a heinously incompetent Cardiff City board in the 1970s, Tosh was royally snubbed when he offered his services to the club as player manager. Tosh shrugged his shoulders, and sauntered down to the Vetch where he masterminded Swansea's giddy rise from fourth to first division. What a long strange circular trip it would have been for Tosh though, travelling from Canton via Sloper Road to Anfield, the Bernabeu and then back to his old stamping ground. Cardiff City fans can but dream. V eteran goalstopper Neville Southall seems hellbent on continuing his career until the Grim Reaper flashes him the red card whilst he's between the sticks. No sooner had he collected his P45 from Torquay United after a below-par performance against bottom club Chester City, than Heavy Bevy Nevvy had upped sticks and moved to Premiership club Bradford City, reuniting with old mucker Terry Yorath, and finding himself on the subs' bench in last Saturday's stirring triumph against Arsenal. After a record-breaking number of club and country appearances, the only title eluding our Neville is the World's Largest Goalkeeper Award, currently held by Billy 'Fatty' Foulke, the 22 stone behemoth who terrorised strikers in the 1900s.
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