Sports journalism

I spent the whole of Saturday watching Rugby. First I watched Wales outplay Ireland at Croke Park. Then I watched as England and Scotland give Rugby Union an d the Six Nations a bad name at Murrayfield. Finally, I rounded off the day with a Premiership match between Gloucester and London Irish.
Almost six hours of continuous telly watching invariably makes me grumpy. But my grumpiness was stoked up considerably by the dross I had to watch - and listen to - on the BBC.
Wales versus Ireland was no classic. In fact, given the dire nature of the first half the Gaelic Sports Association might have felt vindicated in their decision to ban Rugby Union from Croke Park for all those years. Fortunately, the rugby improved considerably after half time. Unhappily, the same could not be said for the commentary of Nick Mullins. If ever there was a commentator who needed to be taken to one side, beaten soundly and then forced to listen to tapes of Bill McLaren commentating on Rugby or Richie Benaud on cricket, it is surely Mr Mullins.
His non-stop verbalising almost ruined the game. If he wasn't explaining, for the most part incorrectly, what caused a breakdown leading to a scrum, lineout or penalty, he was filling any tiny breaks in the soundtrack with factoids of unrivalled vacuuity. At simes, he sounded so much like the bloke that does the voice-over to the National Lottery draw that I fully expected him to tell us just how many times Ronan O'Gara had been selected by Guinivere this season.
From Dublin, we moved to Edinburgh where Brian Ashton produced a game plan of such mind-numbing stupidity for England that they managed to get beaten by the weakest team in the Six Nations. Admittedly, Jonnny Wilkinson had probably his worst game in an England shirt. But, the fact that Toby Flood followed his example and kicked any and all posession straight down the throats of the Scottish back three would seem to indicate that they were doing it to the coach's orders. That it wasn't the right strategy should have been patently obvious to everyone concerned after about fifteen minutes. Phil Vickery didn't react, but he at least has the excuse that he spends most of his time with his head shoved up other people's arses. Neither Wilkinson or Flood tried to vary the approach or try anything as outlandish as move it through the Backs' hands. Given that they are considered two of the more tactically-aware players in the team, this would seem to indicate that they were sticking very strictly to an agreed game-plan. So, that just leaves the coaches, all three of them, watching the game from the stands.
Hang on though. I only saw two coaches. Brian Ashton and the forwards coach, John Wells. And they weren't talking to each other. In fact, from the body language you could have, quite reasonably, assumed that they were supporting different sides. Where Mike Ford, the third member of the triumvirate was, is anybody's guess. Perhaps he was in the changing rooms polishing up his application to join Gatland and Edwards in Wales?
Whatever, the team and the game drifted. The Scots gratefully accepted the ball from England's wayward kicking and returned it with more accuracy, generally probing deep into England's territory in the process. When Ashton did decide something had to be done, it was as if he had been taking lessons from Gordon Brown. The changes were eye-catching in that he removed both his captain and chief play-maker at the same time but they achieved nothing of note. The fact that Charlie Hodgson - another player noted for his intelligence - kicked the ball, and England's last chance for meaningful posession, away with just thirty seconds remaining on the clock indicates that he was also sticking to the same dis-credited game plan.
Ashton has been bad for England. His approach is amateurish at a time when Rugby is becoming ever more professional. Had it been Wasps and not England involved, you can bet your boots that Cipriani would not have been caught out in the same way. Wasps, in the shape of Ian McGeechan and Shaun Edwards would have very clear policies in place; curfews even. As would have England during the Clive Woodward era. By contrast, Ashton leaves everything vague and wooly and then throws a hissy fit when Cipriani misinterprets or misjudges the boundaries.
After England had given the Jocks another twelve months' worth of celebration, I switched over to Sky Sports to watch Gloucester play London Irish at Kingsholm. What a revelation. The game was played in exactly the same conditions as the two Six Nations contests. The rain slashed down. The wind drove it almost horizontally and the pitch looked as if a flock of native porkers had been rooting around on it. No matter. Passes were made and caught. Kickers took account of the conditions and restricted themselves to clever little grubbers and chip kicks into open spaces. James Simpson Daniel used the dodgy conditions underfoot to slice throught the London Irish centres. The conditions became part of both team's experimentation. They were not used as an excuse for arid conservatism and lack of ambition. In fact, the game was a refreshing antidote to the turgid stuff that had been served up in the name of International rugby ealier in the day.
And, to cap everything else, the commentary by Will Greenwood and someone whose name I have, shamefully, forgotten, was sharp, incisive without being intrusive and thankfully devoid of Nick Mullins and his statistically fixated colleagues at BBC Sport.